A NEW LIFE.
The Holroyds arrived at Mangobad, with unexpected punctuality, and
Belle was in raptures with her new home--her _own_ house--a spacious,
well-situated bungalow, replete with every comfort. There was a German
piano, a pony and cart, a cheval glass, a sewing machine, new jail
carpets and matting, pretty curtains and furniture, and ornaments, a
verandah filled with plants, and birds; and a tribe of respectable
black-whiskered servants, with unimpeachable “chits” awaiting her good
pleasure.
Truly nothing had been forgotten; this bungalow had undoubtedly been
fitted up by a lover.
Belle danced about, and clapped her hands, gesticulated, and ran from
room to room like a child of six. Little did she guess that all these
delightful, thoughtful preparations--had been made for another person.
For several days after her arrival, she was excessively busy, unpacking
and shaking out her dresses and beautifying the drawing-room, with
rapid and tasteful fingers. A palm in this corner, a screen in that,
a graceful drapery here, a bow of ribbon there, photographs, fans and
cushions abounded--in a short time the room was transformed as if by
magic, but its mistress’s zeal was evanescent. Once a thing was done
there was an end of it; the palms might wither, the draperies gather
dust, for all she noted. She detested sustained effort. However,
everything was in its pristine freshness, when her visitors began to
make their appearance.
Captain La Touche was naturally the first to call upon his friend’s
bride. He drove up in his dog-cart, dressed in his most recent Europe
suit, and brimming over with curiosity and _bonhomie_.
Mem Sahib gave “salaam” and he was shown into the drawing-room, and
there waited for a considerable time, whilst he heard sounds of someone
skirmishing with drawers and wardrobe doors, in the next apartment.
He was full of pleasant anticipations of a girl of nineteen, tall and
slim, with beautiful, Irish grey eyes, even in her cheap, blurred
photograph she had a sweet face!
But who was _this_? that pulled back the purdah and came tripping into
the room. A pretty little brunette, with a Frenchified dress and an
artificial smile. He rose and bowed, waiting expectantly for another
figure--that was surely yet to come.
“I know you so very well by name,” said Belle, offering a pair of tiny
(somewhat bony) hands. “My husband is always talking of Captain La
Touche.”
Then this was the bride; he was in the presence of Mrs. Holroyd!
At first he was so utterly confounded, that he could only sit down
and stare into the crown of his hat. Belle attributed his evident
embarrassment to the dazzling effect of her own charms, and immediately
set to work to converse in her gayest strain, in order to put him at
his ease. She was the first person who had ever thought it necessary
to attempt this feat with Captain La Touche! As she chatted with her
usual fluency, he listened and looked. Truly, this is no shy girl of
nineteen, but a woman ten years older, with a knowledge of the world,
and a pleasant confidence in her own powers. He noted the elaborate
elegance of her dress, the vivid beauty of her dark, animated face;
but, despite their long lashes, her eyes had a hard expression, and her
thin red lips spoke of cruelty, and temper.
However, he dissembled his feelings (like the immortal stage ruffian),
and talked and flattered and laughed, in his most irresistible company
manner.
Belle, on her side, was agreeably impressed by her suave and
good-looking visitor. She remembered that he had given them a handsome
wedding present, and was inclined to be more cordial than brides
usually are, towards their husband’s bachelor friends. He discoursed of
the station, she of her passage out. He asked how she liked her house,
and she enquired if there were any balls coming off, and if the ladies
of Mangobad were young and pretty!
“You must judge for yourself,” he returned diplomatically, “you have
brought us out one young lady, Miss Gay--Miss Rose Gay.”
“Yes, and she ought to be called Miss Nosegay,” returned Belle smartly.
“You never saw such a feature out of _Punch_.”
“Is she, then, not pretty?” he enquired with arched brows.
“Pretty, poor girl!” throwing up her hands, “her face is so hideous
that I am sure it must hurt her!” and she laughed, and evidently
expected her visitor to do the same, but he merely smiled and said, “At
any rate she is very clever.”
“Of course she is, like all ugly people; she is _said_ to be very
clever and good-natured; for my part, I loathe good-natured girls.”
Mrs. Holroyd was outspoken, and not very amiable; this sharp tongue
might prove a dangerous element in a small station. Presently he rose
and took his leave. As he was quitting the room, his eye fell on a
large photograph of Betty. Belle noticed his glance, and hastening to
take it up, said:
“Oh, you are looking at my cousin--my dearest friend; she is a darling,
not a beauty, as you may observe, but quite charming. I wish you could
see her. I wish she was here.” Captain La Touche sincerely echoed
the wish, as he bowed himself out, and walked down the hall. He had
never been so completely mystified in all his life. His friend had
distinctly told him, that he was going to marry Betty--and who was
Betty’s substitute?
On the steps of the porch he met George, who had just ridden home from
the ranges.
“I see you have been making your salaams,” said he with well-affected
nonchalance.
“Yes,” acquiesced his comrade. But for the life of him he could not
utter another word. He looked hard at his friend, his friend looked
hard at him, and, from what he read in Holroyd’s eyes, he dared not
ask the question that was burning on his tongue, so he got into his
dog-cart in silence, and drove himself away.
Mrs. Holroyd’s next visitor was the Collector, her namesake, Mr.
Redmond. She knew that he was a rich, eccentric widower, just the
sort of person that would repay a little cultivation, just the sort of
person to invite her out to camp, and to give her diamonds and ponies,
for was he not Betty’s uncle? She intended to make great capital out
of her cousin, stand in her place and stroke his grey hair, and smooth
his withered cheek, and call him “Uncle Bernard,” but all these pretty
little schemes were projected before she had _seen_ Mr. Redmond. He
was one of the relatives with whom old Brian had quarrelled most
rancorously, and his offer to provide for his brother’s orphan had
been rudely scorned. In those days Mrs. Redmond was alive, and as she
was not very enthusiastic about her husband’s niece, the matter had
dropped. But now Mr. Redmond paid an early visit to the bride, not so
much to do her honour, as to enquire about Betty. Bernard Redmond,
Esq., C.S., was a tall, square-shouldered man, with grizzled, sandy
hair, a somewhat saturnine expression, and a masterful individuality.
He was intellectual and deeply read, open-handed, hospitable and
eccentric, was well aware that he was considered “peculiar,” and took
an unaffected delight in acting up to his reputation. In spite of his
so-called odd opinions, he was extremely popular, for he gave a good
dinner, and unimpeachable wine, played quite a first-class rubber,
and was a sound authority on horseflesh. Mr. Redmond brooked no
contradiction, was autocratic, and extraordinarily outspoken--traits
that grew upon him year by year, and were fostered and nourished at
Mangobad, where he ruled not only the district, but the station, and
was to all intents and purposes its “uncrowned king.”
Belle’s pretty smiles and speeches, her graceful attitudes, and waving
hands, were absolutely wasted on this cynical person with the cold grey
eyes. He listened patiently to her chatter, and her views of life,
mentally exclaiming “Good Lord! What a fool this woman is!” for the
tone of her conversation jarred on him considerably; there was a great
deal too much about Mrs. George Holroyd. Nevertheless he received a
glowing description of his niece, in which description Belle painted
herself as Betty’s adviser, sister, and benefactress, and then he put
one or two somewhat sharp questions--questions are a natural weapon in
malignant hands.
“I remember your father,” he said: “he died when I was a youngster,
about eight and twenty years ago. I suppose you were quite an infant at
that time.”
“Quite,” she returned somewhat sharply.
“Betty is nineteen,” he continued; “she has two hundred a year; pray,
what becomes of her income?”
“I cannot tell,” faltered Belle. “My mother knows” (she truly did).
“And I gather that she is at Noone acting as your mother’s sick nurse?”
“She _lives_ with mamma,” replied Belle, reddening.
“Ha--Hum!” rubbing his chin reflectively. Then putting on his glasses,
and staring round, “I should not have known this house.”
“No, I suppose not,” complacently. “Pray, what do you think of my room?”
“Shall I really tell you what I think. Eh, honestly and without humbug?”
“Please do,” prepared for some charming compliment.
“I think it just like a bazaar, with all these pictures, and ribbons,
and cushions, and fans. I cannot help looking for the tickets, and
expecting to hear you ask me to put into a raffle.”
“Mr. Redmond,” exclaimed Belle, intensely affronted. “It is very
evident that you have not been in England for some years, and possibly
then you may not have been in a _drawing-room_, or else I believe you
are as great a bear as old Brian.”
“To be sure I am,” he returned with a delighted laugh. “I have often
regretted the loss I have been to the diplomatic service! Don’t you
know that manners run in our family?”
“The want of them you mean,” indignantly. “This room is got up in the
very latest fashion.”
“Like its mistress?” with a cool, deliberate stare.
“Yes. _I_ attempt to be civilised!”
“And of course I know that I am miserably behindhand. A poor old
mofussilite! Pray what’s that thing?” pointing to “Mossoo,” who was
coiled up in a chair. “Animal, vegetable or mineral?”
“It’s my dog--a thoroughbred French poodle. I brought him with me.”
“The latest fashion in poodles--I suppose. Eh?” focussing “Mossoo” with
his glass. “I wonder what the dogs out here will take him for! How do
you like India?”
“Extremely--I don’t wish ever to go home; I hope I shall live and die
out here! I love it better and better every day.”
“You have only been out five weeks; wait till you have been out for
five years, and you have heard the brain fever bird, and felt the hot
winds, and seen a few snakes and scorpions! India is not a country; it
is a climate.”
“Thank you! I am not afraid of your horrors; I shall go to the hills,
and I intend to enjoy myself in hills and plains, and to like India
immensely. I suppose _you_ were out here long before the Mutiny?”
“The Mutiny! Good gracious, my dear madam,” exclaimed her visitor
(whose one vulnerable point happened to be his age, and flattered
himself that he did not look a day older than forty). “For what do you
take me? Long before the Mutiny! Why I have only twenty-seven years’
service.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not know; but I daresay climate tells on
people--you _look_ old.”
“Thank you,” he responded quickly. “I see that you understand the
art of delicate flattery. Ah!” as a note was handed to her. “You
have already begun to experience the real curse of India--chits, yes,
ma’am--chits are the curse of India, and I will leave you to enjoy your
epistle alone; it is sure to be asking for something; your company at
a dull dinner; the loan of a pattern, or of a saddle; or a bottle of
wine; or a dose of medicine!”
“Not at all,” rejoined Belle, casting her eyes over it. “It is from Mr.
Lovelace, sending snipe, and asking me to play tennis. I am afraid you
take a gloomy view of life, and people in general.”
“I take a gloomy view of _some_ people, I must confess,” and then
he got up rather abruptly and made his adieux, and Belle had a
disagreeable consciousness, that she had failed to make a good
impression. Visions of diamonds, and ponies, faded back into cloudland,
and she laughed aloud, as she pictured herself daring to pat this
gruff outspoken connection on the head, much less to stroke his
severe, sarcastic-looking face! As he whirled away, he remarked to his
hot-tempered pony: “She is like you, Judy, a Tartar, if ever there
was one! She will want a tight curb and a strong hand over her. Poor
Holroyd. Unfortunate devil!”
Belle’s other visitors were more appreciative, and they came, all
the ladies in the Station, in their latest Europe bonnets, and all
the inquisitive young men, in their neatest ties and boots, and they
were charmed with the bride--the latter especially. She had such
splendid eyes, and so much to say for herself, and was so unaffected
and agreeable. Why Mrs. Calvert and Miss Gay had not been _half_
loud enough in her praises! They had not prepared them for such an
acquisition to Mangobad. True, when one or two enthusiastic subalterns
at the Club had been eloquent on the subject of the lady’s charms of
person and manner, in the hearing of the Collector, he had merely
grunted, and shrugged his shoulders, and called for a glass of
“Kummel,” but he was a regular old Diogenes, and no one minded his
opinion, excepting on such matters as horses, whist, and wine.
Belle’s letters home were full of her delightful new life, and her
supreme happiness, and Mrs. Redmond read them to her friends, in a
voice that shook with emotion. Her plans had succeeded far beyond her
most sanguine hopes. In spite of what the Bible said, the wicked
did prosper! After all, she had only done evil that good might come,
and good _had_ come. She did not fail to impart Belle’s effusions to
Betty--who listened with a white but smiling face--to Maria, and to
Miss Dopping; accounts of tiffin parties, dinners, and dances, given
for her as a bride, and what she had worn, and how her dress had
fitted, and who had taken her in, and what people had said; also minute
descriptions of her legion of servants, her house, her piano, her
ponies, and her plate (a splendid and enlarged edition of the above was
soon in circulation in the village), but there was scarcely an allusion
to her lord and master. He was constantly on duty; he seemed to have an
immensity to do; he looked ill, and had quite lost his spirits; he took
no care of himself, and she intended to carry him off to some gay hill
station for a complete change.
“It was not Belle’s custom to talk of anything that was near her
heart,” explained her mother. “She is extremely anxious about him, I
can see, but her feelings are not on the surface.”
“Nor anywhere else,” muttered Miss Dopping; then aloud: “It strikes me
that she seems a good deal _more_ anxious about getting the creases out
of her velvet dress! However, I am glad you are pleased. If she was my
daughter, I’d rather hear less about her clothes and more about her
husband.”
* * * * *
Belle’s triumphs had not been much over-rated. She was quite the
latest novelty, and the acknowledged beauty of the station. Young
men were proud to be her partners in ball-room or tennis court. She
was vivacious, amusing and accomplished; and her pretty dresses and
her pretty speeches disarmed her would-be rivals. She took the place
by storm as on board the _Nankin_, and no entertainment was complete
without Mrs. Holroyd! She acted, she sang at penny readings, she
composed people’s fancy dresses, she played the harmonium in church,
and was secretary to the tennis club. In fact, as old Sally Dopping
would have said, “She had a finger in every pie.” Her restless spirit,
and excitable temperament, supplied her with sufficient energy to
revolve in one untiring whirl from morn till midnight. She was always
_en course_. She drove to the club before breakfast to read the papers
and gossip; early in the afternoon, she went forth again, regardless of
the sun, a syce holding an umbrella over her head, and “Mossoo” sitting
sedately in the cart beside her, to tiffin parties, teas, or tennis;
then there were rehearsals for concerts, theatricals, choir practice,
moonlight picnics and balls. For these latter Belle filled in her
programme (in ink) days previously.
Home was the place where she slept, and breakfasted, and sometimes
dined, but home was not where she “lived” in the true sense of the
word. In it she expected no happiness for herself, and made none for
others. Pleasure was her god, and to this she carried the sacrifice of
her life. With constant gaiety came an incessant hunger, a craving for
more. Not content with Mangobad she sighed for other fields to conquer;
she went to this station, and to that, for the annual “Week,” to
Lucknow for the cup-races, to Allahabad for balls, bearing her husband
in her train. Gay, vivacious, pretty, a born actress, a matchless
dancer, Belle, as she playfully expressed it, “took” extremely well.
George gratified all her whims, patiently hung about ball-room doors
till the early hours of the morning, carried her wraps, cashed her
cheques, went her messages, and gave her freely and liberally of
everything--except his company. For the first time in her existence,
Belle was absolutely contented. This really _was_ life--a life well
worth living, a glorious realisation of all her hopes. But would it
last?