creation could look at without some degree of interest, and Colonel
Dunstan being guileless of harm, has expressed his admiration of her in
the most open manner. She is a graceful, fairy-like creature, of two
or three-and-twenty, in the flush of youth and beauty, and yet with
sufficient knowledge of the world to render her the most charming
companion. She has a complexion like a rose leaf, a skin as white
as milk, large limpid hazel eyes, a pert nose, a coaxing mouth, and
hair of a sunny brown. Fancy such a woman alighting suddenly in an
out-of-the-way, dull, dried-up little hole of a station like Mudlianah,
and in the midst of some twenty inflammable British officers! You might
as well have sent a mitrailleuse amongst them for the amount of damage
she did. They were all alight at the first view of her, and hopelessly
burned up before the week was over. She is devoted to her Jack, and
has in reality no eyes nor thoughts except for him; but he has become
a little used to her charms, after the manner of husbands, and so she
flirts with the rest of the regiment indiscriminately, and sheds the
light of her countenance on all alike, from the colonel downwards. The
wives of the 145th Bengal Muftis have received Mrs Lawless but coldly.
How can they look into her heart and see how entirely it is devoted to
her husband? All they see is her lovely, smiling face, and contrasting
it with their own less beautiful and somewhat faded countenances, they
imagine that no man can be proof against her fascinations, and jealousy
reigns supreme in the 145th with regard to Cissy Lawless.
Ethel Dunstan has no need to fear a rival in her colonel’s heart, because
she possesses every atom of his affection, and he has proved it by years
of devotion and fidelity, but when a woman is once jealous of another,
she forgets everything except the fear of present loss. Colonel Dunstan
is vexed when he comes in that morning from regimental duty to find his
wife pale and dispirited, still more so to hear the tart replies she
makes to all his tender questioning.
‘Are you not well, my darling?’ he asks.
‘Quite well, thank you; at least as well as one can be in a hole like
Mudlianah. Charlie! where have you been this morning?’
‘Been, dear? Why, to mess and barracks, to be sure! Where else should I
have been?’
‘There are plenty of houses to call at, I suppose. What is the use of
pretending to be so dull? You made a call late last night, if I am not
much mistaken!’
‘Last night! What, after mess? I only went home with Jack Lawless for a
minute or two.’
‘Did you go home with Mr Lawless?’
‘Yes; at least—he didn’t walk home with me exactly; but he came in soon
afterwards.’
‘Of course she was in bed?’
‘Oh no, she wasn’t. She was as brisk as a bee. We talked together for a
long time.’
‘So I have heard! In the garden,’ remarks Mrs Dunstan pointedly.
‘Yes! Was there any harm in that?’ replies her husband. ‘Our talk was
solely on business. Is anything the matter, Ethel, darling? You are not
at all like yourself this morning.’
But the only answer Mrs Dunstan gives him is indicated by her suddenly
rising and leaving the room. She is not the sort of woman to tell her
husband frankly what she feels. She thinks—and perhaps she is right—that
to openly touch so delicate a matter as a dereliction from the path of
marital duty, is to add fuel to the flame. But she suffers terribly,
and in her excited condition Colonel Dunstan’s open avowal appears an
aggravation of his offence.
‘He is too noble to deceive me,’ she thinks, ‘and so he will take refuge
in apparent frankness. He confesses he admires her, and he will tell me
every time he goes there, and then he will say,—
‘How can you suspect me of any wrong intention when I am so open with
you?’
‘Business indeed! As if he could have any business with a doll like
Mrs Lawless. It is shameful of her to flirt with married men in this
disgraceful way.’
Yet Mrs Dunstan and Mrs Lawless meet at the band that evening, and smile
and bow to and talk with one another as if they were the best friends
in the world; but the colonel is prevented by duty from doing more than
arrive in time to take his wife home to dinner, and so Ethel’s heart is
for the while at rest. But during dinner a dreadful blow falls upon her.
A note is brought to the colonel, which he reads in silence and puts into
the pocket of his white drill waistcoat.
‘From Mr Hazlewood, dear?’ says Ethel interrogatively.
‘No, my love, purely on business,’ replies the colonel, as he helps
himself to wine. But when the meal is concluded he walks into his
dressing-room, and reappears in his mess uniform.
‘Going to mess, Charlie?’ exclaims his wife, in a tone of disappointment.
‘No, my darling—business! I may be late. Good-night!’ and he kisses her
and walks out of the house.
‘Business!’ repeats Mrs Dunstan emphatically; and as soon as his back is
turned, she is searching his suit of drill. Colonel Dunstan has not been
careful to conceal or destroy the note he received at dinner. It is still
in his waistcoat pocket. His wife tears it open and reads:—
‘DEAR COLONEL,—Do come over this evening if possible. I have
had another letter, which you must see. I depend upon you for
everything. You are the only friend I have in the world. Pray
don’t fail me.—Ever yours gratefully,
‘CISSY LAWLESS.’
‘Cat!’ cries Mrs Dunstan indignantly, ‘deceitful, fawning, hypocritical
cat! This is the way she gets over the men—pretending to each one that
he is the only friend she has in the world—a married woman, too! It’s
disgusting! Miss MacQuirk is quite right, and some one ought to tell poor
Jack Lawless of the way she is carrying on. And Charlie is as bad as she
is! It was only to-day he told me as bold as brass that that creature’s
eyes are so innocent and guileless-looking they reminded him of little
Katie’s—and not ten minutes afterwards, he said my new bonnet from
England was a fright, and made me look as yellow as a guinea. Oh! what
is this world coming to, and where will such wickedness end? I wish that
I was dead and buried with poor mamma.’ And so Mrs Dunstan cries herself
to sleep, and when her husband comes home and kisses her fondly as she
lies upon the pillow, he decides that she is feverish, and has not been
looking well lately and must require change, and remains awake for some
time thinking how he can best arrange to let her have it.
In the middle of that night, however, something occurs to occupy the
minds of both father and mother to the exclusion of everything else.
Little Katie, their only child, a beautiful little girl of three years
old, is taken suddenly and dangerously ill with one of those violent
disorders that annually decimate our British possessions in the east.
The whole household is roused—Dr MacQuirk summoned from his bed—and
for some hours the parents hang in mental terror over the baby’s cot,
fearing every minute lest their treasure should be taken from them. But
the crisis passes. Little Katie is weak but out of danger, and then the
consideration arises what is the best thing to facilitate her recovery.
Dr MacQuirk lets a day or two pass to allow the child to gain a little
strength, and then he tells the colonel emphatically that she must be
sent away at once—to England if possible—or he will not answer for her
life. This announcement is a sad blow to Colonel Dunstan, but he knows it
is imperative, and prepares to break the news to his wife.
‘Ethel, my dear, I am sorry to tell you that MacQuirk considers it quite
necessary that Katie should leave Mudlianah for change of air, and he
wishes her, if possible, to go to England at once.’
‘But it is _not_ possible, Charlie. We could never consent to send the
child home alone, and you cannot get leave again so soon. Surely it is
not absolutely necessary she should go to England.’
‘Not absolutely necessary, perhaps, but very advisable, not only for
Katie, but for yourself. You are not looking at all well, Ethel. Your
dispirited appearance worries me sadly, and in your condition you should
take every care of yourself. I hardly like to make the proposal to you,
but if you would consent to take Katie home to your sister’s, say for a
twelvemonth, I think it would do your own health a great deal of good.’
But Colonel Dunstan’s allusion to her want of spirits has recalled all
her jealousy of Mrs Lawless to Ethel’s mind, and the journey to England
finds no favour in her eyes.
‘You want me to go away for a twelvemonth,’ she says sharply, ‘and pray
what is to become of you meanwhile?’
‘I must stay here. You know I cannot leave India.’
‘You will stay with Mrs—, I mean with the regiment, whilst I go home with
the child.’
‘Yes. What else can I do?’
‘Then I shall _not_ go. I refuse to leave you.’
‘Not even for Katie’s sake?’
‘We will take her somewhere else. There are plenty of places in India
where we can go for change of air; and if you _cared_ for me, Charlie,
you would never contemplate such a thing as a whole year’s separation.’
‘Do you think I _like_ the idea, Ethel? What should I do left here all by
myself? I only proposed it for your sake and the child’s.’
‘I will not go,’ repeats Mrs Dunstan, firmly, and she sends for Dr
MacQuirk and has a long talk with him.
‘Dr MacQuirk, is it an absolute necessity that Katie should go to
England?’
‘Not an absolute neeceessity, my dear leddy, but, from a mee-dical point
of view, advisable. And your own hee-alth also—’
‘Bother my health!’ she cries irreverently. ‘What is the nearest place to
which I could take the child for change?’
‘You might take her to the heels, Mrs Doonstan—to the heels of
Mandalinati, which are very salubrious at this time of the year.’
‘And how far off are they?’
‘A matter of a coople of hundred miles. Ye canna get houses there, but
there is a cairs-tle on the broo’ o’ the heel that ye may have for the
airsking.’
‘A castle! that sounds most romantic? And whom must we ask, doctor?’
‘The cairs-tle is the property of Rajah Mati Singh, and he bee-lt it
for his ain plee-sure, but he doesna’ ceer to leeve there, and so he
will lend it to any Europeans who weesh for a change to the heels of
Mandalinati.’
‘Rajah Mati Singh! That horrid man! There will be no chance of seeing
him, will there?’
‘No, no, Mrs Doonstan! the Rajah will not trouble ye! He never goes near
the cairs-tle noo, and ye will have the whoole place to yersel’ in peace
and quietude.’
‘I will speak to the colonel about it directly he comes in. Thank you for
your information, Dr MacQuirk. If we must leave Mudlianah, I shall be
delighted to stay for a while at this romantic castle on the brow of the
hill.
‘Yes,’ she says to herself, when the doctor is gone, ‘we shall be alone
there, I and my Charlie, and it will seem like the dear old honeymoon
time, before we came to live amongst these horrid flirting cats of women,
and perhaps some of the old memories will come back to him and we shall
be happy, foolish lovers again as we used to be long ago before I was so
miserable.’
But when Colonel Dunstan hears of the proposed visit to the Mandalinati
hills, he does not seem to approve of it half so much as he did of the
voyage to England.
‘I am not at all sure if the climate will suit you or the child,’ he
says, ‘it is sometimes very raw and misty up on those hills. And then
it is very wild and lonely. I know the castle MacQuirk means—a great
straggling building standing quite by itself, and in a most exposed
position. I really think you will be much wiser to go to England, Ethel.’
‘Oh, Charlie! how unkind of you, and when you know the separation will
kill me!’
‘It would be harder, just at first, but I should feel our trouble would
be repaid. But I shall always be in a fidget about you at Mandalinati.’
‘But, Charlie, what harm can happen when you are with us?’
‘My dear girl, I can’t go with you to the castle.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because business will detain me here. How do you suppose I can leave the
regiment?’
‘But you will come up very often to see us—every week at least; won’t
you, Charlie?’
‘On a four days’ journey! Ethel, my dear, be reasonable. If you go to
Mandalinati, the most I can promise is to get a fortnight’s leave after a
time, and run up to see how you and the dear child are getting on. But I
don’t like your going, and I tell you so plainly. Suppose you are taken
ill before your time, or Katie has another attack, how are you to get
assistance up on those beastly hills? Think better of it, Ethel, and
decide on England. If you go, Captain Lewis says he will send his wife at
the same time, and you would be nice company for each other on the way
home.’
‘Mrs Lewis, indeed! an empty-headed noodle! Why, she would drive me crazy
before we were half-way there. No, Charlie; I am quite decided. If _you_
cannot accompany me to England, I refuse to go. I shall get the loan of
the castle, and try what four weeks there will do for the child.’
And thus it came to pass that Mrs Dunstan’s absurd jealousy of Mrs
Lawless drives her to spend that fatal month at the lonely castle on the
Mandalinati hills, instead of going in peace and safety to her native
land. For a brief space Hope leads her to believe that she may induce Mrs
Lawless to pass the time of exile with her. If her woman’s wit can only
induce the fatal beauty to become her guest, she will bear the loss of
Charlie’s society with equanimity. But though Cissy Lawless seems for a
moment almost to yield, she suddenly draws back, to Mrs Dunstan’s intense
annoyance.
‘The old castle on the hills!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you and Colonel
Dunstan really going there? How delightfully romantic! I believe no end
of murders have been committed there, and every room is haunted. Oh, I
should like to go, too, of all things in the world! I long to see a real
ghost, only you must promise never to leave us alone, colonel, for I
should die of fright if I were left by myself.’
‘But I shall not be there, I am sorry to say,’ replies the colonel. ‘My
wife and Katie are going for change of air, but I must simmer meanwhile
at Mudlianah.’
Pretty Cissy Lawless looks decidedly dumfoundered, and begins to back out
of her consent immediately. ‘I pity you,’ she answers, ‘and I pity myself
too, for I expect we shall have to simmer together. I should like it of
all things, as I said before, but Jack would never let me leave him. He
is such a dear, useless body without me. Besides, as you know, colonel, I
have business to keep me in Mudlianah.’
Business again! Ethel turns away in disgust; but it is with difficulty
she can keep the tears from rushing to her eyes. However, there is no
help for it, and she must go. Her child is very dear to her, and at all
risks it requires mountain air. She must leave her colonel to take his
chance in the plains below—only as he puts her and the child into the
transit that is to convey them to the hills, and bids her farewell with a
very honest falter in his voice he feels her hot tears upon his cheek.
‘Oh, Charlie, Charlie, be true to me! Think how I have loved you. I am so
very miserable.’
‘Miserable, my love, and for this short parting? Come, Ethel, you must be
braver than this. It will not be long before we meet again, remember.’
‘And, till then, you will be careful, won’t you, Charlie, for my sake,
and think of me, and don’t go too much from home? and remember how
treacherous women are; and I am not beautiful, I know, my darling; I
never was, you know,’ with a deep sob, ‘like—like Mrs Lawless and others.
But I love you, Charlie, I love you with all my heart, and I have always
been faithful to you in thought as well as deed.’ And so, sobbing and
incoherent, Ethel Dunstan drives away to the Mandalinati hills, whilst
the good colonel stands where she left him, with a puzzled look upon his
honest sunburnt face.
‘What does she mean?’ he ponders, ‘by saying she is not beautiful like
Cissy Lawless, and telling me to remember how treacherous women are, as
if I didn’t know the jades. Is it possible Ethel can be jealous—jealous
of that poor, pretty little creature who is breaking her heart about
her Jack? No! that would be too ridiculous, and too alarming into the
bargain; for even if I can get the boy out of the scrape, it is hardly a
matter to trust to a woman’s discretion. Well, well, I must do the best I
can, and leave the rest to chance. Ethel to be jealous! the woman I have
devoted my life to! It would be too absurd if anything the creatures do
can possibly be called so.’
And then he walks off to breakfast with the Lawlesses, though his heart
is rather heavy, and his spirits are rather dull for several days after
his wife starts for the castle on the hill. Ethel, on the other hand,
gets on still worse than her husband. As she lies in her transit, swaying
about from side to side over the rough country roads, she is haunted
by the vision of Charlie walking about the garden till the small hours
of the morning, hand in hand with Cissy Lawless, with a mind entirely
oblivious of his poor wife and child, or indeed of anything except his
beautiful companion. Twenty times would she have decided that she could
bear the strain no longer, and given the order to return to Mudlianah,
had it not been for the warning conveyed in the fretful wailing of her
sickly child—his child—the blossom of their mutual love. So, for Katie’s
sake, poor Ethel keeps steadfastly to her purpose, and soon real troubles
take the place of imaginary ones, and nearly efface their remembrance.
She is well protected by a retinue of native servants, and the country
through which she travels is a perfectly safe one; yet, as they reach
the foot of the hills up which they must climb to reach the celebrated
castle, she is surprised to hear that her nurse (or Dye), who has been
with her since Katie’s birth, refuses to proceed any further, and sends
in her resignation.
‘What do you mean, Dye?’ demands her mistress with a natural vexation,
‘you are going to leave Katie and me just as we require your services
most. What can you be thinking of? You, who have always professed to be
so fond of us both. Are you ill?’
‘No, missus. I not ill, but I cannot go up the hill. That castle very bad
place, very cold and big, and bad people live there and many noises come,
and I want to go back to Mudlianah to my husband and little children.’
‘What nonsense, Dye! I didn’t think you were so foolish. Who has been
putting such nonsense into your head? The castle is a beautiful place,
and you will not feel at all cold with the warm clothes I have given you,
and we have come here to make Miss Katie well, you know, and you will
surely never leave her until she is quite strong again.’
But the native woman obstinately declares that she will not go on to the
Mandalinati hills, and it is only upon a promise of receiving double pay
that she at last complainingly consents to accompany her mistress to
the castle. Ethel has to suffer, however, for descending to bribery, as
before the ascent commences every servant in her employ has bargained
for higher wages, and unless she wishes to remain in the plains she is
compelled to comply with their demands. But she determines to write and
tell Charlie of their extortion by the first opportunity, and hopes
that the intelligence may bring him up, brimming with indignation, to
set her household in order. Her first view of the castle, however,
repays her for the trouble she has had in getting there. She thinks
she has seldom seen a building that strikes her with such a sense of
importance. It is formed of a species of white stone that glistens like
marble in the sunshine, and it is situated on the brow of a jutting hill
that renders it visible for many miles round. The approach to it is
composed of three terraces of stone, each one surrounded by mountainous
shrubs and hill-bearing flowers, and Ethel wonders why the Rajah Mati
Singh, having built himself such a beautiful residence, should ever
leave it for the use of strangers. She understands very little of the
native language, but from a few words dropt here and there she gathers
that the castle was originally intended for a harem, and supposes the
rajah’s wives found the climate too cold for susceptible natures. If
they disliked the temperature as much as her native servants appear to
do, it is no wonder that they deserted the castle, for their groans and
moans and shakings of the head quite infect their mistress, and make
her feel more lonely and nervous than she would otherwise have done,
although she finds the house is so large that she can only occupy a
small portion of it. The dining-hall, which is some forty feet square,
is approached by eight doors below, two on each side, whilst a gallery
runs round the top of it, supported by a stone balustrade and containing
eight more doors to correspond with those on the ground floor. These
upper doors open into the sleeping chambers, which all look out again
upon open-air verandahs commanding an extensive view over the hills and
plains below. Mrs Dunstan feels very dismal and isolated as she sits
down to her first meal in this splendid dining-hall, but after a few
days she gets reconciled to the loneliness, and sits with Katie on the
terraces and amongst the flowers all day long, praying that the fresh
breeze and mountain air may restore the roses to her darling’s cheeks.
One thing, however, she cannot make up her mind to, and that is to sleep
upstairs. All the chambers are furnished, for the Rajah Mati Singh is a
great ally of the British throne, and keeps up this castle on purpose
to ingratiate himself with the English by lending it for their use; but
Ethel has her bed brought downstairs, and occupies two rooms that look
out upon the moonlit terraces. She cannot imagine why the natives are so
averse to this proceeding on her part. They gesticulate and chatter—all
in double Dutch, as far as she is concerned—but she will have her own
way, for she feels less lonely when her apartments are all together. Her
Dye goes on her knees to entreat her mistress to sleep upstairs instead
of down; but Ethel is growing tired of all this demonstration about what
she knows nothing, and sharply bids her do as she is told. Yet, as the
days go on, there is something unsatisfactory—she cannot tell what—about
the whole affair. The servants are gloomy and discontented, and huddle
together in groups, whispering to one another. The Dye is always crying
and hugging the child, while she drops mysterious hints about their never
seeing Mudlianah again, which make Ethel’s heart almost stop beating, as
she thinks of native insurrections and rebellions, and wonders if the
servants mean to murder her and Katie in revenge for having been forced
to accompany them to Mandalinati.
Meanwhile, some mysterious circumstances occur for which Mrs Dunstan
cannot account. One day, as she is sitting at her solitary dinner with
two natives standing behind her chairs, she is startled by hearing
a sudden rushing wind, and, looking up, sees the eight doors in the
gallery open and slam again, apparently of their own accord, whilst
simultaneously the eight doors on the ground floor which were standing
open shut with a loud noise. Ethel looks round; the two natives are
green with fright; but she believes that it is only the wind, though the
evening is as calm as can be. She orders them to open the lower doors
again, and having done so, they have hardly returned to their station
behind her chair before the sixteen doors open and shut as before. Mrs
Dunstan is now very angry; she believes the servants are playing tricks
upon her, and she is not the woman to permit such an impertinence with
impunity. She rises from table majestically and leaves the room, but
reflection shows her that the only thing she can do is to write to her
husband on the subject, for she is in the power of her servants so long
as she remains at the castle, where they cannot be replaced.
She stays in the garden that evening, thinking over this occurrence and
its remedy, till long after her child has been put to bed—and as she
re-enters the castle she visits Katie’s room before she retires to her
own, and detects the Dye in the act of hanging up a large black shawl
across the window that looks cut upon the terrace.
‘What are you doing that for?’ cries Ethel impetuously, her suspicions
ready to be aroused by anything, however trivial.
The woman stammers and stutters, and finally declares she cannot sleep
without a screen drawn before the window.
‘Bad people’s coming and going at night here!’ she says in explanation,
‘and looking in at the window upon the child; and if they touch missy she
will die. Missus had better let me put up curtain to keep them out. They
can’t do me any harm. It is the child they come for.’
‘Bad people coming at night! What on earth do you mean, Dye? What people
come here but our own servants? If you go on talking such nonsense to me
I shall begin to think you drink too much arrack.’
‘Missus, please!’ replies the native with a deprecatory shrug of the
shoulders; ‘but Dye speaks the truth! A white woman walks on this terrace
every night looking for her child, and if she sees little missy, she will
take her away, and then you will blame poor Dye for losing her. Better
let me put up the curtain so that she can’t look in at window.’
END OF VOL. II.