MRS. DAWSON'S DRESSES
THE hot weather was in full possession of Ramghur, and, as a natural
consequence, the station became deserted. Various bragging individuals,
who had announced their determination to "face it this year," had at
the first boom of its artillery—that fierce midday blast,—closed
their bungalows, distributed their pets and flowers, lent their cows,
and carriages, among their friends, and departed precipitately to
cooler regions. It was a sickly season; already the bazaar prediction
had been more than justified. Only those whom duty or poverty chained
to the cantonment were to be found at their posts, and these were to
be seen, very late or very early, driving about the dusty roads, with
haggard white faces.
It is a well-established fact, that one hot weather endured in
company draws people more nearly together than a dozen cold seasons.
There is a general relaxing of stiffness, a putting off of armour,
a reliance on one another, and a liberal exchange of sympathy—and
secrets;—undoubtedly a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind. For
example, if a cynic happened to remark what friends two sharply
contrasting ladies had become, "Oh, they spent a hot weather together
in Kalipore," would be accepted as an unanswerable reply. Moreover,
it is undisputed, that some of the best matrimonial prizes have been
snatched out of the heat of the plains, by maidens who clung to their
parents, and braved the consequences. Thus, they occasionally made
the acquaintance of some bored and solitary bachelor, who, failing to
obtain leave, presently consoled himself with a wife.
The band of the Native Cavalry,—Mr. Shafto's Regiment,—played thrice
a week in the club gardens, and then the pale remnant of Europeans
(and many brilliant Eurasians) assembled to what the natives term "eat
the air" and exchange the contents of letters from the hills, and the
delinquencies of their domestics.
Everywhere beyond the gardens the atmosphere was that of a brickkiln.
Within, among the trees, shrubs, and glistening foliage plants, the
nostrils were greeted by the smell of hot earth, and a recently watered
greenhouse,—that is an aroma peculiar to India. In the early morning,
immediately after sunrise, the club was at its best; thronged with
members who came to study the telegrams, glance at the papers, and pick
up any stray crumbs of local news. It was thus that the youngest Miss
Brewer first allured Mr. Pontefract into conversation on the subject
of "a fire in the Bazaar." Hitherto he had thought of her (if he ever
did think of her) as a plain, heavy young woman, who could neither ride
nor dance, but just lob over the net at tennis. Now he discovered,
thanks to the hot weather, that she was a surprisingly taking girl,
with a good deal in her, including brains. She talked well (and shared
his views on the subject of the club soda-water, and Sunday tennis);
moreover, she was a devout listener.
Between listening and talking, the moments flew; at last, the
increasing heat, and the clamour of the coppersmith bird, awakened
the pair to the fact that it was seven o'clock, and much too late an
hour to be abroad; and then, as Miss Brewer's pony carriage boasted
a hood, she offered a seat to her new acquaintance, and enjoyed the
pleasure and triumph of conveying the rising civilian to his own door.
She carried him off in every sense of the word, in fact—she was a
particularly "taking" girl. This drive was the prelude to greater
events—to meetings at dawn, to walks after dark, to little dinners,
little presents,—and an engagement. Yes, it was quite true, Tilly
Brewer, the unprepossessing, the dowdy, was about to marry the best
_parti_ in Ramghur; and when the young ladies in the hills heard the
tidings, they each and all registered a mental vow to remain below
next season. It is so easy to make such resolutions when you are in a
perfect climate.
The talk of the engagement created an agreeable break in the long
monotonous days, and mere acquaintances exhibited quite an affectionate
interest in Tilly's trousseau, presents, and prospects.
However, early in May, another topic cropped up which entirely eclipsed
the marriage preparations, and afforded food for incessant discussion
until the end of the rains; in fact, the story of "Mrs. Dawson's
dresses" created such an uproar and commotion, that it got into some of
the local papers, and every one of the letters home.
Mrs. Dawson, the Judge's wife, was a prim, spare woman of a certain
age—and, it was said, uncertain temper. She had a cool, stiff manner,
and an air of critical aloofness that seriously discounted her
popularity. This lady was Mrs. Wilkinson's most serious rival in the
matter of dress, and if her taste was less artistic, and her ideas
lacked courage, she employed a court milliner, and owned a long purse.
It must be admitted that her toilettes were both varied and expensive.
"Stiff and old-maidish," was Mrs. Wilkinson's verdict—for she never
soared to that lady's daring transformations, and condemned her
dazzling triumphs as "theatrical and loud." Twice a year Mrs. Dawson
received a large box or two from home, containing a fashionable outfit
for the approaching season, and the envious pangs the arrival of these
treasures occasioned Mrs. Wilkinson, no one—no, not even her closest
friend—had ever guessed.
A consignment of costumes had recently arrived per ss. _Arcadia_, and
Mrs. Dawson invited all her neighbours to inspect them. The dresses
were to be on view for two succeeding afternoons, but their owner
omitted to despatch a little note to Mrs. Wilkinson. She would see all
the toilettes later on in public, and, meanwhile, as she might steal
some of the novel ideas, and was quite capable of carrying away a
Paris pattern "in her eye," the poor lady was cruelly excluded. Late
one evening Mrs. Rattray dropped in on Mrs. Wilkinson, _en route_ from
the exhibition. She was a lively, fair woman, with an immense stock of
superfluous enthusiasm. As soon as she had found a seat, and unfurled
her fan, she began,
"Well, my dear, I've never seen such frocks as she has got this time."
"No," cried her hostess eagerly; "you have been to the show—do tell me
all about them. I am dying to know what the dresses are like. French,
of course—she said so."
"Yes," drawing a long breath. "There is a grey _crêpe de chine_ and
silver, like the moon in a mist, with very long, tight sleeves, and
a sort of double skirt—it's a dream. There is a lemon satin with
Egyptian embroidery and a long train, a black silk canvas with lace
sleeves, piece lace—_you_ could easily copy that; and there is a
lovely mauve tea-gown, with a yoke of point d'Alençon, and knots of
black velvet with long ends, to which I lost my heart—it's quite my
style—but she never lends a pattern, you know."
"Yes," agreed her listener, "we all know that."
"Then there are hats, and toques, and feathers, and silk petticoats. I
never saw so many pretty things all at once. I think she got some smart
cousin to choose them, for they are not in the same style as her usual
dresses—really, you won't know her."
Further details, descriptions, and even sketches, prolonged the
interview for more than an hour. Meanwhile Angel sat growing in a
corner, totally unnoticed, but absorbing every word of the conversation
with a curious expression on her little elfish face.
"I must say, it is most marked, her not inviting you," said Mrs.
Rattray, as she rose at last. "Several people noticed it, and Mrs.
Gordon was wondering why you had not come; 'the show was so much in
your line.' Of course, I did not tell her why you stayed away; at any
rate, you will see one of the frocks on Sunday, a white Chinese silk,
much too young for Mrs. Dawson; I'm sure she is long past forty. Well,
good-bye, dear, I knew you'd be dying to hear all about the exhibition,
so I just ran in to tell you." And then Mrs. Rattray bustled out to her
victoria, leaving her stricken hostess to digest her news as best she
might. Alas! what were two or three pretty muslins, or even a new lilac
foulard, against Mrs. Dawson's battle array, gowns direct from Doucet
and Rouff? Oh, money must tell in the end! and, burying her face among
her sofa cushions,—for she was weak and run down,—Mrs. Wilkinson wept
long and bitterly, she who but five minutes ago had been all animation
and smiles.
Two mornings later, Mrs. Rattray encountered Mrs. Dawson in the club
library. Greatly to her surprise, the latter accosted her at once; for,
as a rule, she merely bestowed a cool nod.
"Have you heard about my dresses?" she began excitedly.
"But you forget that I have inspected them," said the other; "I never
saw anything half so exquisite, or so——"
"Exquisite no longer!" broke in Mrs. Dawson with a catch in her voice;
"what do you think? I had some friends to my little show yesterday, all
the gowns laid out in my bedroom, just as when you came,—and then we
went into the drawing-room to tea. After they had left, I sent for the
ayah, intending to help her to fold the things, and put them in tissue
paper." Here she paused for breath, and seemed curiously agitated.
"Why, yes, of course," assented Mrs. Rattray. She stood with her hands
on the back of a chair, facing the narrator, and wondering at her
emotion. It was something novel to see Mrs. Dawson, of all people, thus
mentally dishevelled.
"When I went into my room with a light," she resumed, "I found that all
my beautiful things had been cut to pieces—into little—little bits!"
"What!" cried Mrs. Rattray, raising her voice till it was almost a
scream.
"Yes, every one of them, and done most systematically—nothing escaped,
not even my poor feather fan, nor a hat, or a blouse. The ayah kept
crying, 'Look, look, look,' till I was sick of looking. Sleeves were
hacked out of dresses, great pieces slashed out of the bodices, skirts
cut right across, in all directions; even the artificial flowers were
torn to pieces, and the fingers snipped off my evening gloves." She
paused, and there was a dead silence, for Mrs. Rattray could find no
words adequate to the occasion. She simply stared, with her topee
pushed back, from her forehead, and her lips wide apart.
"And—the grey _crêpe_?" she stammered out at last.
"A rag now. The lemon satin only fit for patchwork. There is not
even enough left to make a sofa cushion. It was all done in about
half-an-hour—and with a huge pair of dirzee's scissors."
"But who did it?" cried her listener, breathlessly. "Have you no
suspicions?"
"No, that is the strange part of it; not a soul was seen or heard
about the premises. All the doors in the verandah were wide open, the
chokedar was on duty, and he saw no one."
"Then what does the ayah say?" inquired Mrs. Rattray judicially.
"Oh, she vows it was an evil spirit, and if she had not been idling
in her godown, but had come in directly the visitors had left,
this frightful affair would not have happened." Here Mrs. Dawson's
voice became husky; however, she soon recovered her self-possession,
and continued, "Nothing was taken—no, not even an inch of
ribbon—everything is there. So it was no thief. My husband will have
it that it was Captain Moore's monkey."
Mrs. Rattray drew a long breath. At last she inquired, with studied
deliberation:
"And what is your own opinion?"
"I believe it was the work of some one who knew more about clothes than
a dumb animal," responded the victim of the outrage; "and yet, it is
like a monkey's trick, so unnecessary, and so mischievous."
"So wicked, I call it," cried Mrs. Rattray. "I must say you are bearing
it marvellously well. It is more than I could do. I have no fortitude."
"What is the good of worrying? The thing is done; no amount of worrying
will restore my pretty frocks, and I cannot afford to replace them for
some time; that lemon satin cost forty guineas, and I'd be ashamed to
tell you what I paid for the lilac tea-gown."
"You have no clue?" reiterated Mrs. Rattray.
"Unfortunately, I have not even that small consolation. Monkey or
demon, it left no trace. Well now, I must be going—the sun is getting
so strong I have a dreadful headache as it is."
And Mrs. Dawson went sadly down the steps, crawled into her carriage,
and was driven away.
But Mrs. Rattray lingered yet awhile, despite the temperature, in order
to discuss the tragedy with Mrs. Jones. Ere they separated, she said,
"How pleased Mrs. Wilkinson will be! She will have it all her own way
now."
"Yes," assented her companion, "she lives to dress, and dresses to
live—it is only her clothes that hold her to earth. She is a mere
shadow. Don't you think she looks frightfully ill, and that it is
disgraceful that Colonel Wilkinson has kept her and the children down
for three hot weathers? I declare it is next door to murder, and if she
dies he ought to be hanged."
"She wants a change badly," admitted Mrs. Rattray, "but this news will
act as a restorer, equal to two months' hill air."
"Colonel Wilkinson is a shameless screw," resumed the other; "everyone
knows that he puts away half his pay monthly, that he never subscribes
to anything—'poverty and a large family' his cry—and that poor
Mrs. Wilkinson finds it almost impossible to get him to give her a
twenty-rupee dress."
"I think Mrs. Dawson might have asked her to her show; leaving one out
is always so pointed."
"But it was intended to be pointed. Mrs. Dawson was so afraid of having
her gowns copied," pleaded her friend.
"Not much to copy now, is there?" retorted Mrs. Rattray; "and is it not
strange that they have no suspicions, and no clue?"
"No, neither the one nor the other," rejoined Mrs. Jones, shaking her
head solemnly. But Mrs. Jones was mistaken; there _was_ a clue had Mrs.
Wilkinson's ayah suffered it to pass from her hands.
For one whole morning the dirzee's scissors were nowhere to be found,
and a dirzee, minus his scissors, is as a dragon without his horse.
Kadir Bux called upon all his gods to witness that he had left them in
his basket the previous day. Who, then, had taken them? At last, after
much loud talk, and an exhaustive search, the scissors were discovered
under a fashion book in the drawing-room, and, behold! there was a tiny
scrap of lemon satin stuck fast between the blades.
Then the ayah, who had unearthed them, looked Angel straight in the
eyes, and cried, "O child of the devil!"
But she put the tell-tale scrap into the cook-house fire,—and held her
tongue.