A soft, balmy air brushed the blossoms of the eucharis lilies, and
swept over the delicate green maidenhair fern growing under the shade
of the verandah of the Principal's house. Out in the broad sunshine
the blue ipomea, the morning glory of the Indian garden, opened its
mass of azure blooms and spread a gorgeous mantle over the bamboo
trellis that supported it.
The plump rounded figure of Mrs. Hulver, Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper,
appeared on the raised verandah, followed by the butler. She was a
widow and had been married three times, a fact that no one of her
acquaintance was permitted to forget.
Her father was a British soldier of Scotch birth; and her mother a
Eurasian. In her youth Maria had some pretensions to good looks. It
was the prettiness of youth so often seen where the blood of the east
and the west is mixed. Her small regular features and olive complexion
could make no claim to beauty in her mature middle age, when her figure
had lost its delicate proportions and gained in amplitude. The eyes
alone were unaltered. She had her Scotch father's grey eyes with his
keen glance. Nothing escaped them, as the servants knew by experience;
and when they failed to elucidate a domestic mystery her inherited
shrewdness came to her assistance.
At the age of sixteen a marriage was made for her by her mother, who
chose a prosperous and not over-scrupulous overseer in the Public Works
Department named William Delaine. He was more than double the age of
his bride; and had lived long enough to put together a nice little
property in houses and land. There were no children, and when he died
ten years later he left everything to his widow.
Her second marriage was to an Englishman, whose regiment was stationed
at Bangalore. Corporal William Smith was a reserved man of a
thoroughly British temperament, endowed with a rugged honesty that
despised any sort of evasion of the truth in speech or action.
Uncompromisingly straightforward he did much to carry on the early
training of Maria's mind begun by her father. She was very happy with
William Smith in a placid way, and bore him a son who was educated in
the barrack-school and in due time drafted into the drummer-boy corps
attached to the regiment. Later the boy enlisted and followed in the
footsteps of his father. William Smith was about to take his pension
and return to England when he was struck down with malarial fever; and
for the second time in her life Maria became a widow.
Her third husband was an Irish soldier who had been pensioned and
elected to remain in the country. He also bore the name of William.
Being of a good-natured domesticated disposition, Hulver cast his eyes
round the large domiciled European and Eurasian community in Bangalore
for a suitable wife. Mrs. William Smith seemed in every way the woman
to fill the position. She was of the right age, unencumbered by
children except for the one son who was provided for. In addition she
owned a nice little property which, with his pension, would make life
easy and comfortable.
A little hitch at one time seemed likely to upset his plans. It was a
matter of religion. Hulver was a Roman Catholic. Maria belonged to
the English Church. He made an effort to bring her over to his side,
but she stood firm; and sooner than lose so desirable a partner he
joined her Church. They were very happy, but unfortunately he did not
live long, and for the third time she was widowed. After his death she
found life very dull. She determined to take a situation as
housekeeper and advertised in one of the big Indian daily newspapers.
Eola Wenaston, who came out with her brother on his appointment as
Principal of the College of Chirapore, saw the advertisement and
engaged her. The arrangement proved highly satisfactory to both.
During Dr. and Miss Wenaston's six months' holiday in England Mrs.
Hulver occupied one of her own houses at Bangalore. The enforced
idleness was not at all to her mind, and she welcomed their return with
unmixed joy.
In her holiday she replenished her wardrobe by the aid of a tailor.
The new muslins and white drill frocks were cut exactly on the old
pattern--a skirt that gave plenty of room and spread like a bell over
her feet; a bodice that showed no fashionable bulge in sleeve or
shoulder but confined her figure decently and comfortably. White linen
collar and cuffs and neatly fastened waistband completed her daily
costume. On Sunday Mrs. Hulver was another person. Her silks "stood
alone," as she herself expressed it; and the flowers of her bonnet
would have covered half a market stall had they been real.
Mrs. Hulver stood on the top step under the large portico, her clean
white skirt extended with starch, her hands folded and a severe
expression on her face. Ramachetty, the butler, a middle-aged
under-sized native with an apologetic manner, fidgeted behind her in
evident discomfort. She addressed him in English over her shoulder.
The native tongue was perfectly familiar; it had been her own in her
mother's house; but she chose English as being more in keeping with her
dignity as a housekeeper and it assisted to maintain her character as
an Englishwoman, which she was not.
"Call the gardener," she said, with a clear enunciation and very little
Eurasian accent. From her father and two of her husbands she had
picked up a curious mixture of expressions.
Probably the summons was expected; for the gardener appeared from
behind the bungalow with the abruptness of a jack-in-the-box.
"Tell him to bring the pots of roses here."
Out came a fat forefinger that pointed to the spot and remained
pointing. Ignoring the fact that the gardener understood English the
butler translated the order into the language of the country. The man
hurried away, and by the aid of an assistant brought twelve large pots
of roses. They were solemnly placed in a row under the portico on the
spot to which the finger pointed. Seven of the plants bore double pink
blossoms. The remaining five had crimson flowers of the kind known as
the China rose, a stock upon which the Indian gardener buds the better
class of plant. There was an ominous silence during which Mrs. Hulver
looked from the roses to the gardener and back again at the roses.
Then she spoke.
"Two years ago our missie bought twelve pink _France_ roses with a
sweet smell. How is it that five of them have turned red and lost
their smell."
The gardener chattered fast in his own tongue. He explained that
during the absence in England of the master and the missie there had
been strange kind of weather. The weather had poisoned the flowers and
made them turn colour and lose their scent. This preposterous
statement was too much for Mrs. Hulver's dignified patience. She
abandoned her high-class English and let herself go in the native
tongue.
How dared he tell her such a tale! Whoever heard of the weather
changing the colour of flowers? Was it the rain or the sun? It was
neither; the mischief was done in the night, stoutly maintained the
gardener. Then, as she kept an incredulous silence, he asked
querulously, if it was any stranger than that carriages should run
along the road without horses, and messages be sent without messengers.
Were the English to be the only wonder-workers? Could not the gods of
India----? She cut him short. While he chattered she had framed her
line of conduct.
"There is no wonder about the business except that the master keeps
such a budmash on the premises. If the plants had been properly
watered and tended in the master's absence, the weather would not have
affected them. It is only neglected plants that are affected by bad
weather." She paused to allow her grey eye to rest upon him; and he
shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under her scrutiny. "Do
you hear, gardener? They must be nursed back to their proper
condition. There will be a fine of one rupee for each pot. As soon as
they recover, the fine will be returned; but until the twelve roses
bear proper double pink flowers with full, good smell the money will be
stopped out of your pay. Each pay-day before giving the wages I shall
come and look at the roses."
The fat finger was withdrawn. Mrs. Hulver turned slowly round and
sailed back into the bungalow.
"What were you scolding the gardener for?" asked Eola, after she left
the breakfast-room and sought the house-keeper to consult with her on
the day's menu.
"I had to talk to him, miss. He has been misbehaving himself while I
have been away. Five of those _France_ roses that you are so fond of
are missing, and China plants put in their places."
"My beautiful _La France_ roses gone!" cried Eola, with regret. "I
suppose he let them die by neglecting to water and has put others in
the pots thinking we should not discover the loss."
"Not he! the spalpeen! He has changed them--sold the good ones and
stolen some common plants to fill up with."
"What did he say for himself when you accused him of it?"
"That's just what I didn't do miss; I took care not to make any
accusation. As William--that was my second--used to say, 'Think all
you like but keep your thoughts to yourself if you want to get even
with a bad man.' I kept my thoughts to myself; and when the gardener
had the impudence to tell me that the weather had turned the roses from
pink to red, I said that if he didn't nurse them back to their right
colour you would fine him. They will all return," she continued
confidently; "You will have your dozen favourites in a few weeks' time."
Eola was accustomed to Mrs. Hulver's methods of ruling the
establishment, and knew better than to interfere, although she did not
approve of mulcting her servants of their pay.
"Supposing he has sold them; what will you do then?"
"He'll steal them back or buy them back for a small sum. Trust him for
finding out a way to save himself from a big fine such as we shall
insist on! As William--that was my first--used to say (he was
country-born and knew the native): 'Give them a chance of straightening
things, and they'll do it as soon as they know that you've found them
out; and they will respect you all the more for obliging them to be
honest.'"
"If the gardener is dishonest perhaps it would be better to dismiss him
and get another."
"Gardeners in these parts go with the houses; and like husbands you've
got to put up with them. Besides, it is my experience that you may
change and change, whether it's a servant or a husband, and find
yourself no better off and no worse off in the end, provided you don't
have extraordinary bad luck. They're as like in their separate ways,
both servants and husbands, as the cocoanut trees. The only difference
you can see in the cocoanut trees is the way they stand. One will lean
to one side and another to the other side, and no two will lean just
alike. As William--that was my third--(he was born in Ireland) used to
say: 'Maria, me dear! God made us men as we are; and if it weren't for
the trials that we bring ye, ye'd just grow yer wings and fly away; and
then, bedad! where should we poor men be widout ye?' He had a nice
pleasant way with him, but it was balanced by his fondness for drink;
for _that_ was the way he leaned."
Eola brought the conversation back to the business of the morning and
began to discuss the lunch and dinner. Ramachetty and the cook were
called, and the orders for the day given. She sat down at her writing
table and entered the daily marketing account in the book kept for that
purpose. The butler stood at her elbow on the right and Mrs. Hulver
took up her position on the left. There was never any deviation from
this little domestic ritual.
The butler proceeded with his list of purchases; firewood, ghee,
soup-meat, mutton, potatoes, fish, eggs, naming the price of each.
Once Mrs. Hulver coughed, and he corrected himself, taking off half an
anna. At another item she moved from one foot to the other, but
remained silent. He paused, and as the warning note of the cough was
not sounded, he passed on to the next entry, letting the overcharge,
which was very small, stand.
"Carrots, two annas," he continued.
"Carrots!" ejaculated Mrs. Hulver sharply.
"Carrots, two annas," repeated the butler, sticking manfully to his
story.
"Fetch them!"
The cook who was waiting behind the butler ran off to the kitchen and
returned with four limp dry roots which he exhibited with many
misgivings.
"Six-day-old carrots," commented Mrs. Hulver, with fine scorn. "They
were entered in the account last Friday. Cross off 'carrots, two
annas,' please, miss."
The butler accepted the correction without another word, and proceeded
to the end of his list. Eola would willingly have dispensed with some
of the details, but Mrs. Hulver was inexorable.
"It must be done, miss," she had said in reply. "As long as you can
hold a pen you must take down the daily account. If by any chance you
were ill then I should be obliged to do it; but Ramachetty and I shall
remain better friends if I have nothing to do with the bookkeeping."
"You have something to do with it, Mrs. Hulver. You check his attempts
at cheating."
"I keep them down to reasonable proportions. As William--that was my
second (he was a very straight-minded man)--used to say: 'Keep others
honest and they'll keep you up to the mark.'"
When the accounts were finished and the butler and cook dismissed, Eola
turned to her housekeeper.
"Mrs. Hulver!" she said.
"Yes, miss."
There was a slight pause, during which Eola turned back again to the
writing-table. The pen was still in her hand and wet with ink. In
absence of mind she dotted the margin of the account book, her thoughts
far away.
"Yes, miss," repeated Mrs. Hulver, whose grey eyes searched Eola's face.
"Ah! yes! What was I going to say? Oh! I know. I wanted to tell you
that we have a visitor coming."
Mrs. Hulver was not so easily deceived. Miss Wenaston had not
forgotten the subject of her communication, and the news she was about
to impart was no news to her housekeeper.
"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Hulver, innocently.
"Dr. Wenaston has invited Mr. Alderbury to come and stay here a few
days. He has business in Chirapore. Will you see to the spare room.
I brought out new curtains and chintz to re-cover the sofa and chairs.
Set the dirzee to work at once."
"It shall be begun this very day. I was only thinking about it
yesterday afternoon when I came in from the town. It's more than a
month since you came back, miss; and those curtains have been lying by
ever since you unpacked them. As William--that was my first--used to
say (he was a great man for show, being a Eurasian and a good deal
darker than me): 'When you've got fine feathers, don't hide them.'
What brought the spare room to my mind was Mr. Alderbury's name. I
heard that it would be likely that he would be coming to Chirapore
before long."
"Did you?" asked Eola, looking round at her housekeeper in surprise.
"I suppose you heard it in the bazaar. I don't know how these things
get about, but in this country nothing is sacred from bazaar gossip.
What do they say?"
"The business of the Reverend Mr. Alderbury is connected with Ananda,
the son of Pantulu Iyer, a rich native of this town. Perhaps you know
the story. If so, I'd better be going as there is lots to be done this
morning, and the dirzee is never in the way when he is wanted."
Mrs. Hulver spoke with an injured tone and a misjudged expression on
her smooth round olive face. She was an inveterate gossip, and her
visits to the shops and market were prompted as much by curiosity to
hear the news as to verify the butler's charges. Nothing hurt her more
than to imply a knowledge of this weakness.
She had a little sitting-room that opened into the back verandah. The
door was seldom shut in the daytime. From a point of vantage in the
doorway she superintended the tailor, and kept an eye on all that went
on in the back verandah. She made as though she would seek her room
with as little delay as possible. Eola, repentant that she had hurt
her feelings by remarks about the bazaar gossip, softened in her manner
and begged to hear the news.
"Do tell me, Mrs. Hulver, what they say. I have not heard anything
except that Mr. Alderbury is coming by the Doctor's invitation. My
brother only spoke of his visit this morning when he received Mr.
Alderbury's reply to the invitation. The Principal was late in getting
home from his ride, and had to hurry over breakfast to be in College in
time."
The housekeeper was mollified and the dirzee forgotten in her eagerness
to relate the news that was already thrilling the town.
"The story goes in the bazaar that Pantulu's son has turned Christian,
and the whole family is in a great taking about it. They don't know
what to do."
"Is that all? There is nothing much in that. Of course it is a good
thing when a native becomes a Christian; but in these days it is not a
matter to make a fuss about."
Mrs. Hulver regarded her seriously. She had expected to create
something of a sensation by the announcement, but Eola took it as a
trifle hardly worth mention.
"Begging your pardon, miss, there is a great deal in it to create a
fuss; and what is more the whole town is working itself up into a
ferment over it. They say that they have never had a caste man go
Christian before. The Christians have always been pariahs and they
have no caste to matter. As William--that was my third--used to say:
'Change your clothes; change your food; change your house if you like;
but to change your religion is the very divil;' and he knew; for he'd
been a Roman Catholic and he turned Protestant to marry me."
"How did you manage to persuade him?" asked Eola, her mind once more
adrift.
Mrs. Hulver was always ready to talk incidentally of her late spouses.
At the same time she never lost sight of the subject that caused the
digression.
"He wanted me to change my religion; but I was firm. I told him that
if he couldn't take me as I was he might go without me. I could get on
without him. Besides it was only right that he should be the one to
change, being the gentleman; it is the gentleman that ought to give way
to the lady all the world over."
"And he fell in with your suggestion?"
"It was the bit of property that did it, though he didn't admit it,"
replied Mrs. Hulver confidently, the shrewdness of her Scotch ancestry
peeping out. "He was drawn to me by two strings, myself for one, and
my little fortune for the other. As William--that was my first, him
that left me the property--used to say: 'It's money that gives you the
pull when the balance is even.' But as I was telling you; this son of
Pantulu Iyer has gone and changed his religion and stirred up a bees'
nest of buzzing in the town."
"Was it Mr. Alderbury's doing?"
"No; he had nothing to say in the matter; it was all done without his
knowledge. Pantulu sent his son to England to finish his education;
and while he was there, so the tale goes, he saw a very bad accident.
One of these elevators, these flying men," she explained, as she noted
a puzzled expression on Eola's face, "fell at his very feet and struck
down his friend, a native gentleman who was walking with him." Already
the story had gathered fiction in its passage from mouth to mouth.
"The elevator was killed on the spot; but the friend had time to make a
last request, and it was that Ananda should become a Christian. He
never said a word to his people, but got it done on the quiet and
registered and everything. It gave his father a terrible shock; it
nearly killed the poor old gentleman when his son came back and told
him what had happened. He is a very rich man and would give a crore of
rupees to have the mischief undone. But as William--that was my
second--used to say: 'Mind your doing, because as a rule there's no
undoing.' In this case there can't be any undoing. Once a Christian
always a Christian, unless you want to burn."
"I remember Ananda and his friends in London," said Eola, "I was at
that very meeting and saw the man fall. Coomara was not killed by the
aviator, but in a railway accident as he was returning to town."
"Anyway he was killed," replied Mrs. Hulver. "His death affected his
friend and made him feel so bad that he turned Christian. The poor
young man is having a very rough time with his people. They are
determined to knock the Christianity out of him; and it will be a
pretty stiff fight if he has any spirit. It is said in the bazaar that
Mr. Alderbury is coming in from the district to see if he can smooth
matters down a bit. As William--that was my third--used to say: 'Let's
have peace if it's possible; but if it must be war, let's fight to the
finish! and make it a good one!'"
"He didn't practice what he preached; he gave in," remarked Eola,
unable to resist poking fun at her devoted housekeeper.
Mrs. Hulver smiled broadly, and was quite ready with her answer.
"You see, miss, there was the lady in the case, meaning me, I can't
deny but what William, my third, found the change of religion
troublesome. It meant new habits and a new grip of the thing. He was
never satisfied, and always had the feeling that he had played the
turncoat. The trouble was at Christmas time when his weakness overtook
him. His leaning was towards whisky, being an Irishman. It was
expensive whilst it lasted. As William--that was my second--used to
say (he was a teetotaller): 'One vice will cost more than twenty
virtues.' In his old religion my third used to go to his priest when
the fit was over, and get square with himself by a proper penance; but
when he changed he didn't quite know where he was with himself."
"You should have made him give it up altogether," suggested Eola.
"It was born and bred in him, and he couldn't have given it up to save
his life. As William--that was my first--used to say when I complained
of his Eurasian ways: 'You mustn't expect a wild goose to lay a tame
egg.' William my third could no more help being weak at Christmas than
a child can help over-eating itself."
"Didn't it worry you to have him break out?"
"No, I don't know that it did," replied Mrs. Hulver, placidly. "It had
its advantage. As William--that was my first--used to say when he and
his contractor settled their accounts: 'Everything has its advantage if
you know where to look for it.'"
"What advantage could your husband's bout of drinking have for you?"
asked Eola, glancing at her in mild wonder.
"It gave me my chance of speaking. When he recovered and could listen
to reason, even though his poor head ached badly, I had the opportunity
of letting him have a bit of my mind, and of telling him some home
truths I never could have put before him at any other time. Now with
William, my second, it was different. He was always ready to come up
to attention at a moment's notice. Stiff and straight, he lived by
rule; and the whole time I was with him I never once got the chance of
emptying my mind." Her voice had a distinct ring of regret in it as
she made the confession. "I tried it two or three times; but the
moment I began he rose from his chair and drew himself up haughty and
proud, just like his colonel when the men came to the orderly room with
their complaints. He heard what I had to say in a dead silence, that
sort of cooled you down, and all he replied was: 'I'll look into the
matter, Maria, and see what can be done;' and there it ended. With
William, my third, it was a real pleasure to rate him. He was such a
gentleman in his repentance and his apologies. But as I was telling
you, miss, about this poor young man, Pantulu Iyer's son. I can
sympathise with him in his change of religion as I sympathised with
William, my third. It will take some time before he will get even with
himself in his new faith."
"The cases are not on all fours, Mrs. Hulver."
"No; they are at sixes and sevens if all I hear is true. As
William--that was my second--used to say: 'Keep things straight and
you'll be master; but let them get at sixes and sevens and they will
master you.' He made a great study of his fellowmen and was full of
wise sayings. I felt very lonely when he died."
"What did he die of?"
"Microscopes; the doctor said he swallowed some when he was out route"
(she called it rowte) "marching. They were in the water that he drank
by the roadside. They gave him fever which carried him off in three
weeks, and left me a widow for the second time."