IN THE VERANDAH
BEFORE the station clock had chimed six the following morning, every
soul in the Wilkinsons' bungalow was astir. The portly head of the
house, clad in lily-white drill, and mounted on a lily-white charger,
had ambled off at daybreak, to preside over the cantonment rations.
In the long west verandah, the bamboo blinds were already down in
order to keep out the blinding glare, and behind these "chicks" the
entire family was assembled. Three podgy, pasty-faced children were
solemnly playing at bazaar, and buying, selling, and chaffering, in
ludicrous but unconscious imitation of their elders. The fourth was a
mere spectator in the arms of the fat ayah who with her understudy kept
order among the infants. Occasionally a shrill exclamation, a whimper,
or a howl, arose from their corner, but taking them _en masse_, Beany,
Pinky Tod, and Baba were unemotional and well-behaved infants. They ate
well, slept well, and conducted themselves sedately. Nevertheless, it
must be confessed that they were not fair to see, but then we all know
that it is better to be good than beautiful. A painful illustration of
this axiom was beside them, in the shape of their half-sister Angel,
who with puckered brows and compressed lips, was labouring away at
a handsewing machine, and turning out yards of faultlessly hemmed
frills. She was pretty, all the ladies said so—indeed, she said so
herself—but even the dog boy was aware that Missy Angel was not good,
did not want to be good, and made no secret of the terrible fact.
Angel assured her brothers that it was a thousand times nicer to be
wicked. She would not eat cold curry, she refused to go to bed at seven
o'clock, she laughed at her kind papa, and sang when the ayahs scolded
her.
Not far from Angel squatted the dirzee, a thin, grave-eyed man in
spotless white clothes and turban. He was holding a piece of muslin
between two of his toes, and cutting down a neatly marked crease with
a pair of gigantic scissors. This was Kadir Bux, a capable workman,
and Mrs. Wilkinson's much coveted treasure. Nor was Mrs. Wilkinson
herself idle, although she reclined on a long cane lounge, propped up
with cushions. She was intently occupied in trimming a smart evening
bodice. One glance proved sufficient, to assure us that the lady was
clever with her fingers, for she turned and twisted the lace with the
audacious familiarity of a practised hand. It is said, that could
they but discover it, everyone is endowed with a special gift; there
are thousands of mortals who go through life unconscious of their own
capacities, but Mrs. Wilkinson was one of those more fortunate beings
who had found her metier, and gloried in its exercise. She was an
accomplished milliner and a really firstclass dressmaker. In all the
province there was not a woman who could put in a sleeve, tie a bow, or
hang a skirt as well as Angel's mamma. Once upon a time—and that time
not very distant—Mrs. Wilkinson had been a beauty, but continuous hot
seasons on the plains, harassing money cares, and indifferent health
had combined to filch her of her good looks. There were hard lines
about her mouth, her cheeks had fallen in, and her complexion—only
appeared in the evening. Of course, in early morning _deshabille_ we do
not expect to see a lady at her best. Still, her carelessly arranged
hair was abundant, her features were delicate, and her blue eyes had
not yet lost the power of their spell. Black-lashed, plaintive blue
eyes, what had they not achieved for their owner? How much she owes
to them. What difficulties surmounted, what favours granted—what
friends! They resembled in potency some fabled talisman; their mistress
had but to wish, look, and possess. Fortunately, Mrs. Wilkinson's
ambition was of a moderate character. She merely desired to be the
best-dressed woman in her circle, that is to say station, and hitherto
her pre-eminence had been supreme.
"The Mrs. Wilkinson who dresses so well," enjoyed a fame that went
beyond the bounds of her own province, and had even been echoed in much
maligned Madras.
Just at present this celebrity, her eldest born, and her faithful
dirzee were labouring hard in order to maintain this far-reaching
reputation. The scene in which they slaved was no bad imitation
of the workroom of some smart dressmaker. Chairs were piled with
materials, the matting was littered with scraps of lace, muslin, and
calico; patterns and fashion-plates lay scattered around, and in the
foreground was a wicker dress-stand, surmounted by an exact model
of Mrs. Wilkinson's own graceful figure—a costly but indispensable
possession. At this moment it was attired in an elaborate white ball
skirt and low satin bodice, and at a little distance appeared to be one
of the party in the verandah.
To slave for days, nay weeks, at her sewing machine, to cut up,
contrive and piece, scanty materials; to ponder for hours over
patterns, confer with an unimaginative native, cope with failures,
and plunge into debt, were a few of the drawbacks to Mrs. Wilkinson's
pre-eminence. But inconvenience, anxiety, and self-denial were
forgotten when she appeared in an incomparable "success," conscious of
triumph, aware that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and that even
in church she absorbed the attention of half the congregation. It is
true that certain rivals, women with ungrudging husbands, replenished
their wardrobes from London and Paris. Nevertheless, with even these,
this talented artiste was able to compete, for she was endowed with the
gift of wearing, as well as of designing, her matchless toilettes. Her
figure was slender and graceful, and in a smart evening gown, with just
the least little touch on her cheeks, Mrs. Wilkinson still held her own
in a ballroom; her dancing was perfection, and, next to dress, her sole
passion.
As for the lady's past, despite her craze for dress and dancing, it was
extraordinarily monotonous, and uneventful.
* * * * *
Miss Lena Shardlow, a charming but penniless orphan, had arrived at
Simla, some years before this story opens, on a cold weather visit to
distant relations, who invited her out, in the benevolent hope that
Lena's pretty face would prove her fortune. If, as they afterwards
declared, she had played her cards properly, Lena might have married
a member of Council; it was true that he had already seen the grave
close over two wives, also that he was neither young nor comely, but he
could offer Lena a splendid position as his wife, and a fine pension as
his widow. The girl had many admirers—indeed, she was the success of
the season. Among these admirers was Tony Gascoigne, a feather-brained
junior subaltern in the Silver Hussars. Tony was handsome and well
connected, but reckless and impecunious. In an evil moment a brother
officer had advised him "not to make a fool of himself with the little
Shardlow girl," and the warning proved immediately fatal. He married
her within six weeks—her friends were not present at the ceremony—and
brought his lovely bride down to Umballa in insuppressed triumph.
Sad to relate, this triumph proved but short-lived—it was cruelly
slain in the regimental orderly room, and died by the hand of Tony's
commanding officer. Colonel St. Oriel had a strong prejudice against
married subalterns, and a married subaltern of a year's standing was
only surpassed by the notorious miscreant who had actually joined his
regiment with a wife and a perambulator.
It was whispered in the mess, that when "the old man" received cards
and cake, he had actually gnashed his teeth. At any rate, the proud
bridegroom was sent on detachment within twenty-four hours. A year
later, when Tony and his wife were on leave in the hills, one wet
black night, his pony lost his hind legs over the brink of a slippery
khud, and Tony's book of life was closed at page twenty-three. He left
a widow and a puny infant in a cheap bungalow, not a hundred yards from
the scene of the tragedy. He also left many debts. At first poor Mrs.
Gascoigne was stunned, then inconsolable, although her kind neighbours
came forward to her assistance in a fashion peculiar to India. For
weeks she remained in cloister-like seclusion, waiting for the monsoon
to abate, before returning to England, where it would be her fate to
live on distant relations and a pension of thirty pounds a year. Ere
three months had elapsed, it was noticed that Major Wilkinson, of the
Commissariat, despatched baskets of tempting fruit and rare flowers
to a certain retired bungalow. These, as days went by, he boldly
followed in person, and long before the year was out, an engagement was
announced, and all the world of Dalhousie declared, that little Mrs.
Gascoigne had done remarkably well for herself and her child. Major
Wilkinson was neither young nor dashing, he had also the reputation of
being "careful with his money." On the other hand, he was a sensible
man, with savings in the Bank of Bengal, and a small property in New
Zealand. The middle-aged Major was unmistakably in love with the pretty
blue-eyed widow, but, to impart a secret, he had never exhibited the
smallest enthusiasm for her offspring, and now that he had four sturdy
olive branches of his own, indifference had developed into unconcealed
aversion. Perhaps (for he was a model parent) he may have been a little
jealous of his step-daughter's airy grace and high-bred features.
Angel was an aristocrat to the tips of her shocking sand-shoes, whilst
his own beloved progeny were undeniably _bourgeois_—stumpy, stolid,
heavy children, whose faces recalled the colour and contour of a cream
cheese. Although Colonel Wilkinson scaled sixteen stone, he was an
active, bustling man—indeed some people considered him "fussy"—an
excellent organiser and administrator in his official capacity, whilst
at home in the domestic circle he saw to everything himself, thus
relieving his Lena of all housekeeping cares. He checked the bazaar
accounts, gave out the stores, oil and fodder, ordered the meals and
hectored the servants—he even instructed the ayah, and harried the
milkman—the only person over whom he had no control was the dirzee.
Consequently Lena had nothing to do but compose costumes, amuse
herself, and look pretty. In her heart of hearts, Angel, her firstborn,
was her mother's favourite child, but no whisper of this weakness
ever escaped her lips. She was too painfully aware, that Richard was
excessively jealous of the claims of his family, whom he idolised.
Of course Angel ought to have been sent home, no one was more alive to
this duty than her parent, but unhappily Mrs. Wilkinson had no private
income; she was compelled to ask for every rupee she expended, and
it was with difficulty she obtained a slender sum for the children's
clothes. As for her own toilettes, her husband liked to see her in
pretty gowns, he was proud of them, and of her, but when it came
to paying—oh! that was another affair altogether. Every bill she
presented to him entailed a battle—or at least an argument, and what
of those bills, those frightful bills, she dared not let him see?
If Colonel Wilkinson growled savagely when called upon to disburse for
Angel's meagre wardrobe, how could her mother hope for a substantial
cheque to defray her outfit, passage, and education? Much as Colonel
Wilkinson disliked the child, he had not the heart to open his purse
strings and provide for her removal to another home and hemisphere.
Angel was naturally intelligent, and had picked up the art of reading
and writing, without perceptible labour. The occasional lessons of an
Eurasian schoolmistress had introduced her to the multiplication table,
and the outlines of history and geography. She spoke Hindustani with
the facility and correctness of an Indian-born child. She could sing
the "Tazza Ba Tazza," and dance like a nautch girl, and the servants
alternately bullied and feared her. They were all somewhat distrustful
of "Missy Angel." She knew too much—she was too wise.
As Angel sat on the floor of the verandah, her sharp white face bent
intently on the needle, her thin arm tirelessly turning the handle
of the sewing machine, her thoughts were not with her task. She was
wondering why the ayah's sister happened to wear a jacket of similar
stuff to the piece which was sliding through her hands? Stolen of
course—how, and when? Oh, what a pig Anima was; and it was late, and
Philip had not come. Had he forgotten his promise, he who never forgot
a promise? She rose stealthily, and went to a "chick," pulled it a
little aside and peered out. Nothing to be seen but the brick-coloured
compound, the sandy drive, the cork trees, a quiver in the heated air.
"Missy Angel, what you doing?" screamed the ayah, "what you looking
for? Go back and sit down."
Angel returned to her post with noiseless steps, but as she resumed her
task, she held up the muslin towards the ayah, and said:
"You see this, Anima? Some is stolen. I was only looking for the thief.
Do _you_ know her?"