It is a considerable time since my husband’s regiment (“The Snapshots”)
was stationed in Kulu, yet it seems as if it were but yesterday, when I
look back on the days we spent in India. As I sit by the fire, or in the
sunny corner of the garden, sometimes when my eyes are dim with reading
I close them upon the outer world, and see, with vivid distinctness,
events which happened years ago. Among various mental pictures, there
is not one which stands forth with the same weird and lurid effect as
the episode of “The Red Bungalow.”
Robert was commanding his regiment, and we were established in a pretty
spacious house at Kulu, and liked the station. It was a little off the
beaten track, healthy and sociable. Memories of John Company and traces
of ancient Empires still clung to the neighbourhood. Pig-sticking and
rose-growing, Badminton and polo, helped the resident of the place to
dispose of the long, long Indian day--never too long for me!
One morning I experienced an agreeable surprise, when, in reading
the Gazette, I saw that my cousin, Tom Fellowes, had been appointed
Quartermaster-General of the district, and was to take up the billet at
once.
Tom had a wife and two dear little children (our nursery was
empty), and as soon as I had put down the paper I wired to Netta to
congratulate and beg them to come to us immediately. Indian moves are
rapid. Within a week our small party had increased to six, Tom, Netta,
little Guy, aged four, and Baba, a dark-eyed coquette of nearly two.
They also brought with them an invaluable ayah--a Madrassi. She spoke
English with a pretty foreign accent, and was entirely devoted to the
children.
Netta was a slight young woman with brilliant eyes, jet-black hair, and
a firm mouth. She was lively, clever, and a capital helpmate for an
army man, with marvellous energy, and enviable taste.
Tom, an easy-going individual in private life, was a red-hot soldier.
All financial and domestic affairs were left in the hands of his wife,
and she managed him and them with conspicuous success.
Before Netta had been with us three days she began, in spite of my
protestations, to clamour about “getting a house.”
“Why, you have only just arrived,” I remonstrated. “You are not even
half unpacked. Wait here a few weeks, and make acquaintance with the
place and people. It is such a pleasure to me to have you and the
children.”
“You spoil them--especially Guy!” she answered with a laugh. “The
sooner they are removed the better, and, seriously, I want to settle
in. I am longing to do up my new house, and make it pretty, and have a
garden--a humble imitation of yours--a Badminton court, and a couple of
ponies. I’m like a child looking forward to a new toy, for, cooped up
in Fort William in Calcutta, I never felt that I had a real home.”
“Even so,” I answered, “there is plenty of time, and I think you might
remain here till after Christmas.”
“Christmas!” she screamed. “I shall be having Christmas parties myself,
and a tree for the kids; and you, dear Liz, shall come and help me. I
want to get into a house next week.”
“Then pray don’t look to me for any assistance. If you make such a
hasty exit the station will think we have quarrelled.”
“The station could not be so detestable, and no one could quarrel with
_you_, you dear old thing,” and as she stooped down and patted my
cheek, I realised that she was fully resolved to have her own way.
“I have yards and yards of the most lovely cretonne for cushions, and
chairs, and curtains,” she continued, “brought out from home, and never
yet made up. Your Dirzee is bringing me two men to-morrow. When I was
out riding this morning, I went to an auction-room--John Mahomed, they
call the man--and inspected some sofas and chairs. Do let us drive
there this afternoon on our way to the club, and I also wish to have a
look round. I hear that nearly all the good bungalows are occupied.”
“Yes, they are,” I answered triumphantly. “At present there is not
_one_ in the place to suit you! I have been running over them with my
mind’s eye, and either they are near the river, or too small, or--not
healthy. After Christmas the Watsons are going home; there will be
their bungalow--it is nice and large, and has a capital office, which
would suit Tom.”
We drove down to John Mahomed’s that afternoon, and selected some
furniture--Netta exhibiting her usual taste and business capacity. On
our way to the club I pointed out several vacant houses, and, among
them, the Watsons’ charming abode--with its celebrated gardens, beds of
brilliant green lucerne, and verandah curtained in yellow roses.
“Oh yes,” she admitted, “it is a fine, roomy sort of abode, but I hate
a thatched roof--I want one with tiles--red tiles. They make such a
nice bit of colour among trees.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find many tiled roofs in Kulu,” I answered; “this
will limit you a good deal.”
For several mornings, together, we explored bungalows--and I was by
no means sorry to find that, in the eyes of Netta, they were all more
or less found wanting--too small, too damp, too near the river, too
stuffy--and I had made up my mind that the Watsons’ residence (despite
its thatch) was to be Netta’s fate, when one afternoon she hurried in,
a little breathless and dusty, and announced, with a wild wave of her
sunshade, “I’ve found it!”
“Where? Do you mean a house?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. What moles we’ve been! At the back of this, down the next turn,
at the cross roads! Most central and suitable. They call it the Red
Bungalow.”
“The Red Bungalow,” I repeated reflectively. I had never cast a thought
to it--what is always before one is frequently unnoticed. Also it had
been unoccupied ever since we had come to the station, and as entirely
overlooked as if it had no existence! I had a sort of recollection that
there was some drawback--it was either too large, or too expensive, or
too out of repair.
“It is strange that I never mentioned it,” I said. “But it has had no
tenant for years.”
“Unless I am greatly mistaken, it will have one before long,” rejoined
Netta, with her most definite air. “It looks as if it were just waiting
for us--and had been marked ‘reserved.’”
“Then you have been over it?”
“No, I could not get in, the doors are all bolted, and there seems
to be no chokedar. I wandered round the verandahs, and took stock of
the size and proportions--it stands in an imposing compound. There
are the ruins at the back, mixed up with the remains of a garden--old
guava trees, lemon trees, a vine, and a well. There is a capital place
at one side for two Badminton courts, and I have mentally laid out a
rose-garden in front of the portico.”
“How quickly your mind travels!”
“Everything _must_ travel quickly in these days,” she retorted. “We
all have to put on the pace. Just as I was leaving, I met a venerable
coolie person, who informed me that John Mahomed had the keys, so I
despatched him to bring them at once, and promised a rupee for his
trouble. Now do, like a good soul, let us have tea, and start off
immediately after to inspect my treasure-trove!”
“I can promise you a cup of tea in five minutes,” I replied, “but I am
not so certain of your treasure-trove.”
“I am. I generally can tell what suits me at first sight. The only
thing I am afraid of is the rent. Still, in Tommy’s position one must
not consider that. He is obliged to live in a suitable style.”
“The Watsons’ house has often had a staff-tenant. I believe it would
answer all your requirements.”
“Too near the road, and too near the _General_,” she objected, with a
gesture of impatience. “Ah, here comes tea at last!”
It came, but before I had time to swallow my second cup, I found myself
hustled out of the house by my energetic cousin and _en route_ to her
wonderful discovery--the Red Bungalow.
We had but a short distance to walk, and, often as I had passed the
house, I now gazed at it for the first time with an air of critical
interest. In Kulu, for some unexplained reason, this particular
bungalow had never counted; it was boycotted--no, that is not the
word--_ignored_, as if, like some undesirable character, it had no
place in the station’s thoughts. Nevertheless, its position was
sufficiently prominent--it stood at a point where four ways met. Two
gateless entrances opened into different roads, as if determined to
obtrude upon public attention. Standing aloof between the approaches
was the house--large, red-tiled, and built back in the shape of the
letter “T” from an enormous pillared porch, which, with some tall
adjacent trees, gave it an air of reserve and dignity.
“The coolie with the keys has not arrived,” said Netta, “so I will
just take you round and show you its capabilities myself. Here”--as
we stumbled over some rough grass--“is where I should make a couple
of Badminton courts, and this”--as we came to the back of the
bungalow--“is the garden.”
Yes, here were old choked-up stone water-channels, the traces of walks,
hoary guava and apricot trees, a stone pergola and a dead vine, also
a well, with elaborate tracery, and odd, shapeless mounds of ancient
masonry. As we stood we faced the back verandah of the house. To
our right hand lay tall cork trees, a wide expanse of compound, and
the road; to our left, at a distance, more trees, a high wall, and
clustered beneath it the servants’ quarters, the cook-house, and a long
range of stables.
It was a fine, important-looking residence, although the stables were
almost roofless and the garden and compound a wilderness, given over to
stray goats and tame lizards.
“Yes, there is only one thing I am afraid of,” exclaimed Netta.
“Snakes?” I suggested. “It looks rather snaky.”
“No, the rent; and here comes the key at last,” and as she spoke a fat
young clerk, on a small yellow pony, trotted quickly under the porch--a
voluble person, who wore spotless white garments, and spoke English
with much fluency.
“I am abject. Please excuse being so tardy. I could not excavate
the key; but at last I got it, and now I will hasten to exhibit
premises. First of all, I go and open doors and windows, and call in
the atmosphere--ladies kindly excuse.” Leaving his tame steed on its
honour, the baboo hurried to the back, and presently we heard the
grinding of locks, banging of shutters, and grating of bolts. Then the
door was flung open and we entered, walked (as is usual) straight into
the drawing-room, a fine, lofty, half-circular room, twice as large
and well-proportioned as mine. The drawing-room led into an equally
excellent dining-room. I saw Netta measuring it with her eye, and she
said, “One could easily seat thirty people here, and what a place for
a Christmas-tree!”
The dining-room opened into an immense bedroom which gave directly on
the back verandah, with a flight of shallow steps leading into the
garden.
“The nursery,” she whispered; “capital!”
At either side were two other rooms, with bath and dressing-rooms
complete. Undoubtedly it was an exceedingly commodious and well-planned
house.
As we stood once more in the nursery--all the wide doors being open--we
could see directly through the bungalow out into the porch, as the
three large apartments were _en suite_.
“A draught right through, you see!” she said. “So cool in the hot
weather.”
Then we returned to the drawing-room, where I noticed that Netta was
already arranging the furniture with her mental eye. At last she turned
to the baboo and said, “And what is the rent?”
After a moment’s palpable hesitation he replied, “Ninety rupees a
month. If you take it for some time it will be all put in repair and
done up.”
“Ninety!” I mentally echoed--and we paid one hundred and forty!
“Does it belong to John Mahomed?” I asked.
“No--to a client.”
“Does he live here?”
“No--he lives far away, in another region; we have never seen him.”
“How long is it since this was occupied?”
“Oh, a good while----”
“Some years?”
“Perhaps,” with a wag of his head.
“Why has it stood empty? Is it unhealthy?” asked Netta.
“Oh no, no. I think it is too majestic, too gigantic for insignificant
people. They like something more altogether and _cosy_; it is not
cosy--it is suitable to persons like a lady on the General’s staff,”
and he bowed himself to Netta.
I believe she was secretly of his opinion, for already she had assumed
the air of the mistress of the house, and said briskly, “Now I wish to
see the kitchen, and servants’ quarters,” and, picking up her dainty
skirts, she led the way thither through loose stones and hard yellow
grass. As I have a rooted antipathy to dark and uninhabited places,
possibly the haunt of snakes and scorpions, I failed to attend her,
but, leaving the baboo to continue his duty, turned back into the house
alone.
I paced the drawing-room, dining-room, the nursery, and as I stood
surveying the long vista of apartments, with the sun pouring into the
porch on one hand, and on the green foliage and baked yellow earth of
the garden on the other, I confessed to myself that Netta was a miracle!
She, a new arrival, had hit upon this excellent and suitable residence;
and a bargain. But, then, she always found bargains; their discovery
was her _métier_!
As I stood reflecting thus, gazing absently into the outer glare, a
dark and mysterious cloud seemed to fall upon the place, the sun was
suddenly obscured, and from the portico came a sharp little gust of
wind that gradually increased into a long-drawn wailing cry--surely
the cry of some lost soul! What could have put such a hideous idea in
my head? But the cry rang in my ears with such piercing distinctness
that I felt myself trembling from head to foot; in a second the voice
had, as it were, passed forth into the garden and was stifled among the
tamarind trees in an agonised wail. I roused myself from a condition
of frightful obsession, and endeavoured to summon my common sense and
self-command. Here was I, a middle-aged Scotchwoman, standing in this
empty bungalow, clutching my garden umbrella, and imagining horrors!
Such thoughts I must keep exclusively to myself, lest I become the
laughing-stock of a station with a keen sense of the ridiculous.
Yes, I was an imaginative old goose, but I walked rather quickly back
into the porch, and stepped into the open air, with a secret but
invincible prejudice against the Red Bungalow. This antipathy was not
shared by Netta, who had returned from her quest all animation and
satisfaction.
“The stables require repair, and some of the go-downs,” she said, “and
the whole house must be recoloured inside, and matted. I will bring my
husband round to-morrow morning,” she announced, dismissing the baboo.
“We will be here at eight o’clock sharp.”
By this I knew--and so did the baboo--that the Red Bungalow was let at
last!
“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Netta triumphantly, as we were
walking home together.
“It is a roomy house,” I admitted, “but there is no office for Tom.”
“Oh, he has the Brigade Office.--Any more objections?”
“A bungalow so long vacant, so entirely overlooked, must have
_something_ against it--and it is not the rent----”
“Nor is it unhealthy,” she argued. “It is quite high, higher than your
bungalow--no water near it, and the trees not too close. I can see that
you don’t like it. Can you give me a good reason?”
“I really wish I could. No, I do not like it--there is something about
it that repels me. You know I’m a Highlander, and am sensitive to
impressions.”
“My dear Liz,” and here she came to a dead halt, “you don’t mean me
to suppose that you think it is haunted? Why, this is the twentieth
century!”
“I did not say it was haunted”--(I dared not voice my fears)--“but
I declare that I do not like it, and I wish you’d wait; wait only a
couple of days, and I’ll take you to see the Watsons’ bungalow--so
sunny, so lived in--always so cheerful, with a lovely garden, and an
office for Tom.”
“I’m not sure that _that_ is an advantage!” she exclaimed with a
smile. “It is not always agreeable to have a man on the premises for
twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four hours!”
“But the Watsons----”
“My dear Liz, if you say another word about the Watsons’ bungalow I
shall have a bad attack of the sulks, and go straight to bed!”
It is needless to mention that Tom was delighted with the bungalow
selected by his ever-clever little wife, and for the next week our
own abode was the resort of tailors, hawkers, butchers, milkmen,
furniture-makers, ponies and cows on sale, and troops of servants in
quest of places.
Every day Netta went over to the house to inspect, and to give
directions, to see how the mallees were laying out the garden and
Badminton courts, and the matting people and whitewashers were
progressing indoors.
Many hands make light work, and within a week the transformation of
the Red Bungalow was astonishing. Within a fortnight it was complete;
the stables were again occupied--also the new spick-and-span servants’
quarters; Badminton courts were ready to be played upon; the verandah
and porch were gay with palms and plants and parrots, and the
drawing-room was the admiration of all Kulu. Netta introduced plants in
pots--pots actually dressed up in pongee silk!--to the station ladies;
her sofa cushions were frilled, she had quantities of pretty pictures
and photos, silver knick-knacks, and gay rugs.
But before Netta had had the usual name-board--“Major Fellowes,
A.Q.M.G.”--attached to the gate piers of the Red Bungalow, there had
been some demur and remonstrance. My ayah, an old Madrasi, long in my
service, had ventured one day, as she held my hair in her hand, “That
new missus never taking the old Red Bungalow?”
“Yes.”
“My missus then telling her, _please_, that plenty bad place--oh, so
bad! No one living there this many years.”
“Why--what is it?”
“I not never knowing, only the one word--_bad_. Oh, my missus! you
speak, never letting these pretty little children go there----”
“But other people have lived there, Mary----”
“Never long--so people telling--the house man paint bungalow all so
nice--same like now--they make great bargain--so pleased. One day
they go away, away, away, never coming back. Please, please,” and
she stooped and kissed my hand, “speak that master, tell him--_bad_
bungalow.”
Of course I pooh-poohed the subject to Mary, who actually wept, good
kind creature, and as she did my hair had constantly to dry her eyes on
her saree.
And, knowing how futile a word to Tom would prove, I once more
attacked Netta. I said, “Netta, I’m sure you think I’m an ignorant,
superstitious imbecile, but I believe in presentiments. I have a
presentiment, dear, about that Bungalow--_do_ give it up to please and,
yes, comfort me----”
“What! my beautiful find--the best house in Kulu--my _bargain_?”
“You may find it a dear bargain!”
“Not even to oblige you, dear Liz, can I break off my agreement, and I
have really set my heart on your _bête noire_. I am so, so sorry,” and
she came over and caressed me.
I wonder if Netta in her secret heart suspected that I, the Colonel’s
wife, might be a little jealous that the new arrival had secured a far
more impressive looking abode than her own, and for this mean reason I
endeavoured to persuade her to “move on.”
However, her mind must have been entirely disabused of this by a lady
on whom we were calling, who said:
“Oh, Mrs. Fellowes, have you got a house yet, or will you wait for the
Watsons’? Such a----”
“I am already suited,” interrupted Netta. “We have found just the
thing--not far from my cousin’s, too--a fine, roomy, cheerful place,
with a huge compound; we are already making the garden.”
“Roomy--large compound; near Mrs. Drummond,” she repeated with knitted
brow. “No--oh, surely you do not mean the Red Bungalow?”
“Yes, that is its name; I am charmed with it, and so lucky to find it.”
“No difficulty in finding it, dear Mrs. Fellowes, but I believe the
difficulty is in remaining there.”
“Do you mean that it’s haunted?” enquired Netta with a rather superior
air.
“Something of that sort--the natives call it ‘the devil’s house.’
A terrible tragedy happened there long ago--so long ago that it is
forgotten; but you will find it almost impossible to keep servants!”
“You are certainly most discouraging, but I hope some day you will come
and dine with us, and see how comfortable we are!”
There was a note of challenge in this invitation, and I could see with
the traditional “half-eye” that Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Fellowes would
scarcely be bosom friends.
Nor was this the sole warning.
At the club a very old resident, wife of a Government employé, who had
spent twenty years in Kulu, came and seated herself by me one morning
with the air of a person who desired to fulfil a disagreeable duty.
“I am afraid you will think me presuming, Mrs. Drummond, but I feel
that I _ought_ to speak. Do you know that the house your cousin has
taken is said to be unlucky? The last people only remained a month,
though they got it for next to nothing--a mere song.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of these places, and read of them, too,” I replied,
“but it generally turns out that someone has an interest in keeping it
empty; possibly natives live there.”
“_Any_where but there!” she exclaimed. “Not a soul will go near it
after night-fall--there is not even the usual chokedar----”
“What is it? What is the tale?”
“Something connected with those old mounds of brickwork, and the well.
I think a palace or a temple stood on the spot thousands of years ago,
when Kulu was a great native city.
“Do try and dissuade your cousin from going there; she will find her
mistake sooner or later. I hope you won’t think me very officious, but
she is young and happy, and has two such dear children, especially the
little boy.”
Yes, especially the little boy! I was devoted to Guy--my husband, too.
We had bought him a pony and a tiny monkey, and were only too glad to
keep him and Baba for a few days when their parents took the great step
and moved into the Red Bungalow.
In a short time all was in readiness; the big end room made a
delightful nursery; the children had also the run of the back verandah
and the garden, and were soon completely and happily at home.
An inhabited house seems so different to the same when it stands
silent, with closed doors--afar from the sound of voices and footsteps.
I could scarcely recognise Netta’s new home. It was the centre of
half the station gaieties--Badminton parties twice a week, dinners,
“Chotah Hazra” gatherings on the great verandah, and rehearsals for
a forthcoming play; the pattering of little feet, servants, horses,
cows, goats, dogs, parrots, all contributed their share to the general
life and stir. I went over to the Bungalow almost daily: I dined, I
breakfasted, I had tea, and I never saw anything but the expected and
the commonplace, yet I failed to eradicate my first instinct, my secret
apprehension and aversion. Christmas was over, the parties, dinners
and teas were among memories of the past; we were well advanced in
the month of February, when Netta, the triumphant, breathed her first
complaint. The servants--excellent servants, with long and _bonâ fide_
characters--arrived, stayed one week, or perhaps two, and then came and
said, “Please I go!”
None of them remained in the compound at night, except the horsekeepers
and an orderly; they retired to more congenial quarters in an adjoining
bazaar, and the maddening part was that they would give no definite
name or shape to their fears--they spoke of “It” and a “Thing”--a
fearsome object, that dwelt within and around the Bungalow.
The children’s ayah, a Madras woman, remained loyal and staunch; she
laughed at the Bazaar tales and their reciters; and, as her husband was
the cook, Netta was fairly independent of the cowardly crew who nightly
fled to the Bazaar.
Suddenly the ayah, the treasure, fell ill of fever--the really
virulent fever that occasionally seizes on natives of the country,
and seems to lick up their very life. As my servants’ quarters were
more comfortable--and I am something of a nurse--I took the invalid
home, and Netta promoted her understudy (a local woman) temporarily
into her place. She was a chattering, gay, gaudy creature, that I had
never approved, but Netta would not listen to any advice, whether with
respect to medicines, servants, or bungalows. Her choice in the latter
had undoubtedly turned out well, and she was not a little exultant,
and bragged to me that _she_ never left it in anyone’s power to say,
“There--I told you so!”
It was Baba’s birthday--she was two--a pretty, healthy child, but for
her age backward: beyond “Dadda,” “Mamma,” and “Ayah,” she could not
say one word. However, as Tom cynically remarked, “she was bound to
make up for it by and by!”
It was twelve o’clock on this very warm morning when I took my umbrella
and topee and started off to help Netta with her preparations for the
afternoon. The chief feature of the entertainment was to be a bran pie.
I found my cousin hard at work when I arrived. In the verandah a great
bath-tub full of bran had been placed on a table, and she was draping
the said tub with elegant festoons of pink glazed calico--her implement
a hammer and tacks--whilst I burrowed into the bran, and there interred
the bodies of dolls and cats and horses, and all manner of pleasant
surprises. We were making a dreadful litter, and a considerable noise,
when suddenly above the hammering I heard a single sharp cry.
“Listen!” I said.
“Oh, Baba is awake--naughty child--and she will disturb her brother,”
replied the mother, selecting a fresh tack. “The ayah is there. Don’t
go.”
“But it had such an odd, uncanny sound,” I protested.
“Dear old Liz! how nervous you are! Baba’s scream is something
between a whistle of an express and a fog-horn. She has abnormal lung
power--and to-day she is restless and upset by her birthday--and her
teeth. Your fears----”
Then she stopped abruptly, for a loud, frantic shriek, the shriek of
extreme mortal terror, now rose high above her voice, and, throwing
the hammer from her, Netta fled into the drawing-room, overturning
chairs in her route, dashed across the drawing-room, and burst into the
nursery, from whence came these most appalling cries. There, huddled
together, we discovered the two children on the table which stood in
the middle of the apartment. Guy had evidently climbed up by a chair,
and dragged his sister along with him. It was a beautiful afternoon,
the sun streamed in upon them, and the room, as far as we could see,
was empty. Yes, but not empty to the trembling little creatures on the
table, for with wide, mad eyes they seemed to follow the motion of
a something that was creeping round the room close to the wall, and
I noticed that their gaze went up and down, as they accompanied its
progress with starting pupils and gasping breaths.
“Oh! _what_ is it, my darling?” cried Netta, seizing Guy, whilst I
snatched at Baba.
He stretched himself stiffly in her arms, and, pointing with a
trembling finger to a certain spot, gasped, “Oh, Mummy! look, look,
_look_!” and with the last word, which was a shriek of horror, he fell
into violent convulsions.
But look as we might, we could see nothing, save the bare matting and
the bare wall. What frightful object had made itself visible to these
innocent children has never been discovered to the present day.
Little Guy, in spite of superhuman efforts to save him, died of brain
fever, unintelligible to the last; the only words we could distinguish
among his ravings were, “Look, look, look! Oh, Mummy! look, look,
look!” and as for Baba, whatever was seen by her is locked within her
lips, for she remains dumb to the present day.
The ayah had nothing to disclose; she could only beat her head upon the
ground and scream, and declare that she had just left the children for
a moment to speak to the milkman.
But other servants confessed that the ayah had been gossiping in the
cook-house for more than half an hour. The sole living creature that
had been with the children when “It” had appeared to them, was Guy’s
little pet monkey, which was subsequently found under the table quite
dead.
At first I was afraid that after the shock of Guy’s death poor Netta
would lose her reason. Of course they all came to us, that same
dreadful afternoon, leaving the birthday feast already spread, the bran
pie in the verandah, the music on the piano; never had there been such
a hasty flight, such a domestic earthquake. We endeavoured to keep the
mysterious tragedy to ourselves. Little Guy had brain fever; surely it
was natural that relations should be together in their trouble, and I
declared that I, being a noted nurse, had bodily carried off the child,
who was followed by the whole family.
People talked of “A stroke of the sun,” but I believe something of the
truth filtered into the Bazaar--where all things are known. Shortly
after little Guy’s death Netta took Baba home, declaring she would
never, never return to India, and Tom applied for and obtained a
transfer to another station. He sold off the household furniture, the
pretty knick-knacks, the pictures, all that had gone to make Netta’s
house so attractive, for she could not endure to look on them again.
They had been in _that_ house. As for the Red Bungalow, it is once
more closed, and silent. The squirrels and hoo-poos share the garden,
the stables are given over to scorpions, the house to white ants. On
application to John Mahomed, anyone desirous of becoming a tenant will
certainly find that it is still to be had for a mere song!
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