TOBY JOY.
Letter from Mrs. Brande, Allahabad, to Pelham Brande, Esq., Shirani:--
“DEAR P.
“She arrived yesterday, so you may expect us on Saturday. Send Nubboo
down to Nath Tal Dâk Bungalow on Thursday, to cook our dinner, and
don’t allow him _more_ than _six_ coolies and _one_ pony. Honor seems
to feel the heat a great deal, though she is thin, and not fat like
me. At first sight, I must tell you, I was _terribly_ disappointed.
When I saw her step out of the railway carriage, a tall girl in a
crumpled white dress, with a hideous bazar topee, and no puggaree--her
face very pale and covered with smuts, I felt ready to burst into
tears. She looked very nervous and surprised too. However, of course
I said nothing, she wasn’t to know that I had asked for the _pretty
one_, and we drove back to the Hodsons’ both in the very lowest
spirits. She was tired, the train had broken down, and they had all
to get out and walk miles in the middle of the night. After a while,
when she had had her tea, and a bath, and a real good rest, and
changed her dress, I declare I thought it was another person, when she
walked into the room. I found her uncommonly good-looking, and in five
minutes’ time she seemed really pretty. She has a lovely smile and
teeth to match, and fine eyes, and when she speaks her face lights up
wonderfully. Her hair is brown, just plain brown, no colour in it, but
very thick and fine. I know you will be awfully disappointed in her
complexion, as you were such a one for admiring a beautiful skin. She
has not _got any at all_.
“Just a pale clear colour and no more, but her figure is most
beautiful. Indeed, every time I look at her I notice something new;
now the nape of her neck, now her ears--all just so many models. She
is, of course, a little shy and strange, but is simple and easily
pleased; and, thank goodness, has no _grand airs_. I took her to
Madame Peter (such stuff her calling herself Pierre) to order some
gowns for dinner parties. I thought of a figured yellow satin and a
ruby plush, she being dark; but she would not _hear_ of them, and all
she would take was a couple of cottons. I can see she wants to choose
her own clothes, and that she would like to have a say in _mine_ too;
and knows a good deal about dress, and fashions, and is clever at
milinery (I always forget if there are two ‘L’s,’ but you won’t mind).
She says she is fond of dancing and tennis, but cannot ride or sing,
which is a pity.
“She has brought a fiddle with her, and she _plays_ on it, she tells
me. It reminds _me_ of a blind beggar with a dog for coppers, but the
Hodsons say it is all the go at home; they admire Honor immensely.
“I suppose Mrs. Langrishe’s girl has arrived. I hear she is no taller
than sixpence worth of half-pence, but the _biggest flirt_ in India.
“Yours affectionately,
“SARABELLA BRANDE.
“P.S.--I hope Ben is well, and that he will take to her.”
Honor had also written home announcing her arrival, dwelling on her
aunt’s kindness, and making the best of everything, knowing that long
extracts from her letter would be read aloud to inquiring friends.
She felt dreadfully home-sick, as she penned her cheerful epistle.
How she wished that she could put herself into the envelope, and find
herself once more in that bright but faded drawing-room, with its deep
window-seats, cosy chairs, and tinkling cottage piano. Every vase and
bowl would be crammed with spring flowers. Jessie would be pouring out
tea, whilst her mother was telling her visitors that she had had a nice
long letter from Honor, who was in raptures with India, and as happy as
the day was long!
She took particular care that her tears did not fall upon the paper,
as she penned this deceitful effusion. It was dreadful not to see one
familiar face or object. This new world looked so wide, and so strange.
She felt lost in the immense bedroom in which she was writing--with
its bare lofty walls, matted floor, and creaking punkah. A nondescript
dog from the stables had stolen in behind one of the door chicks. She
called to it, eager to make friends. Surely dogs were dogs the whole
world over!--but the creature did not understand what she said, simply
stared interrogatively and slunk away. She saw many novel sights, as
she drove in the cool of the evening in Mrs. Hodson’s roomy landau,
along the broad planted roads of Allahabad, and watched the bheesties
watering the scorching white dust, which actually appeared to steam
and bubble; she beheld rattling ekkas, crammed with passengers, and
drawn by one wicked-looking, ill-used pony; orderlies on trotting
camels; fat native gentlemen in broughams, lean and pallid English
sahibs in dog-carts. It was extremely warm; the so-called “evening
breeze” consisted of puffs of hot wind, with a dash of sand. Most of
the Allahabad ladies were already on the hills.
Mrs. Brande was far too well-seasoned an Anglo-Indian not to
appreciate the wisdom of travelling in comfort. She had her own
servants in attendance, and plenty of pillows, fans, ice, fruit, and
eau-de-Cologne; far be it from _her_ to journey with merely a hand-bag
and parasol!
Honor in a comfortable corner, with several down cushions at her back,
and a book on her knee, sat staring out on the unaccustomed prospect
that seemed to glide slowly past the carriage windows. Here was a
different country to that which she had already traversed: great tracts
of grain, poppies, and sugar cane, pointed to the principal products
of the North West. She was resolved to see and note everything--even to
the white waterfowl, and the long-legged cranes which lounged among the
marshes--so as to be able to write full details in the next home letter.
As they passed through the Terai--that breathless belt of jungle--the
blue hills began to loom largely into the view. Finally, the train
drew up at a platform almost at the foot of them, and one phase of the
journey was over.
Honor could not help admiring her aunt, as she stepped out with an air
that betokened that she was now monarch of all she surveyed (she was
encased in a cream-coloured dust-cloak and topee to match, and looked
like an immense button mushroom). She briefly disposed of clamouring
coolies, gave orders to her attendants in vigorous Hindustani, and
led the way to the back of the station, where were a collection of
long open boxes--each box had a seat, and was tied to two poles--and
all were assembled in the midst of a maddening din and accents of an
unknown tongue.
“We go in these jampans,” explained Mrs. Brande, briskly. “Get in,
Honor, and I’ll pack you up; tie on your veil, put your rug over your
knees, and you will be very comfortable.”
But Honor felt quite the reverse, when she found herself suddenly
hoisted up on men’s shoulders, and borne rapidly away in the wake of
her aunt, who seemed perfectly at home under similar circumstances.
For some time they kept to a broad metalled road lined with great
forest trees, then they went across a swing-bridge, up a narrow steep
path, that twisted among the woods, overhanging the rocky bed of an
almost dry river. This so-called bridle-path wound round the hills
for miles, every sharp curve seemed to bring them higher; once they
encountered a drove of pack ponies thundering down on their return
journey to the plains, miserable thin little beasts, who never seem to
have time to eat--or, indeed, anything to eat, if they _had_ leisure.
Mrs. Brande and her party met but few people, save occasionally some
broad-shouldered coolie struggling upward with a huge load bound on his
back, and looking like a modern Atlas. Once they passed a jaunty native
girl, riding a pony, man fashion, and exchanging gibes and repartees
with her companions, and once they met a European--a young man dressed
in flannels and a blazer, clattering down at break-neck speed, singing
at the top of his voice, “Slattery’s Mounted Foot”--a curly-headed,
sunburnt, merry youth, who stopped his song and his steed the moment he
caught sight of Mrs. Brande.
“Hallo!” he shouted. “Welcome back! Welcome the coming. Speed,” laying
his hand on his heart, “the parting guest.”
“Where are you off to?” inquired the lady imperiously.
“Only to the station. We are getting up grand theatricals; and in
spite of coolies, and messages, and furious letters, none of our
properties have been forwarded, and I began to suspect that the Baboo
might be having a play of his own, and I am going down to look him up.
Am I not energetic? Don’t I deserve a vote of public thanks?”
“Pooh! Your journey is nothing,” cried Mrs. Brande, with great scorn.
“Why, I’ve been to Allahabad, where the thermometer is 95° in the
shade.”
“Yes, down in all the heat, and for a far more worthy object,” glancing
at Honor. “You may rely on me, I shall see that you are recommended for
a D.S.O.”
“What an impudent boy you are!” retorted the matron; and half turning
her head, she said to her companion, “Honor, this is Mr. Joy--he is
_quite_ mad. Mr. Joy, this is my niece, Miss Gordon, just out from
England” (her invariable formula).
Mr. Joy swept off his topee to his saddle-bow.
“And what’s the news?” continued Mrs. Brande. “Has Mrs. Langrishe’s
niece come up?” she asked peremptorily.
“Yes, arrived two days ago--the early bird, you see,” he added, with a
malicious twinkle of his little eyes.
“I don’t see; and every one knows that the worm was a _fool_. What is
she like?”
“Like a fairy, and dances to match,” replied Mr. Joy, with enthusiasm.
“Come, come; what do you know about fairies? Is she pretty?”
“Yes, and full of life, and go, and chic.”
“Cheek! I’m not surprised at _that_, seeing she is Mrs. Langrishe’s own
niece.”
“Chic is a French word, don’t you know? and means--well, I can’t
exactly explain. Anyway, Miss Paske will be a great acquisition.”
“How?”
“Oh, you will soon be able to judge for yourself. She acts first class,
and plays the banjo like an angel.”
“What nonsense you talk, Toby Joy! Whoever heard of an angel playing
anything but a ’arp.”
“By the way, Miss Gordon,” said Toby, turning suddenly to her, “I hope
you act.”
“No; I have never acted in my life.”
“Oh, that is nothing! All women are born actresses. Surely, then, you
sing--you have a singing face?”
“I am sorry to say that, in that case, my face belies me.”
“Well, at any rate,” with an air of desperation, “you could dance in a
burlesque?”
“Get away!” screamed Mrs. Brande. “Dance in a burlesque! I am glad her
mother does not hear you. Never mind him, Honor; he is crazy about
acting and dancing, and thinks of nothing else.”
“All work and no _plays_, make Jack a dull boy,” he retorted.
“Who else is up?” demanded Mrs. Brande, severely.
“Oh, the usual set, I believe. Lloyds, Clovers, Valpys, Dashwoods,
a signalling class, a standing camp, a baronet; there is also a
millionaire just about half way. You’ll find a fellow called Waring at
Nath Tal Dâk Bungalow--he was in the service once, and has now come in
for tons of money, and is a gentleman at large--very keen about racing
and sport. I expect he will live at our mess.”
“Then he is not married?” said Mrs. Brande, in a tone of unaffected
satisfaction.
“Not he! Perish the thought! He has a companion, a young chap he takes
about with him, a sort of hanger-on and poor relation.”
“What is he like? Of course I mean the millionaire?”
“Oh, _of course_,” with an affable nod; “cheery, good-looking sort of
chap, that would be an A1 hero of a novel.”
Mrs. Brande glanced swiftly at Honor, and heaved a gentle sigh of
contentment as she exclaimed--
“Well, I suppose we ought to be moving on.”
“Yes, for you will find the bungalow crammed with Tommies and their
wives. Give the millionaire my love. Au revoir, Mrs. Brande. _Au
revoir_, Miss Gordon. You’ll think over the burlesque, and help us in
some way, won’t you?” and with a valedictory wave of his hand he dashed
off.
“He is a harmless lunatic, my dear,” explained the aunt to her niece,
as they were carried forward side by side. “Thinks of nothing but
play-acting, and always in hot water with his colonel; but no one is
ever really angry with Toby, he is such a mere boy.”
“He must be three and twenty, and----”
“Look at the baggage just in front,” interrupted Mrs. Brande,
excitedly. “These must be Captain Waring’s coolies,” and to Honor’s
amazement she imperiously called a halt, and interrogated them sharply.
“Yes, for a sahib--two sahibs at Nath Tal,” grunted the hill men.
“What a quantity,” she cried, shamelessly passing each load in
solemn review. “See what a lovely dressing-bag and a tiffin-basket.
I believe”--reckoning--“no less than five portmanteaus, all solid
leather, Captain C. Waring; and look at the gun-cases, and that big box
between two men is saddlery--I know the shape.”
“Oh, Aunt Sara, do you not think we ought to get on?” urged her
companion. “We are delaying his men.”
“My dear child, learn to know that there is _nothing_ a coolie
likes better than being delayed. There is no hurry, and I am really
interested in this young man. I want to see where he has been, where he
has come from.” In answer to an imperative sentence in a tongue unknown
to Honor, a grinning coolie turned his back, on which was strapped a
portmanteau, for Mrs. Brande’s deliberate inspection.
It proved to be covered with labels, and she read aloud with much
unction and for Honor’s benefit--
“Victoria--that’s New South Wales--Paris, Brindisi, Bombay, Poonah,
Arkomon, Calcutta, Galle, Lucknow. Bless us and save us, he has been
staying at Government House, Calcutta, and been half over the world!
See what it is to have money!” and she made a sign to her jampannis to
continue her journey. Presently they passed two more coolies, lightly
loaded with a rather meagre kit; these she did not think it necessary
to question.
“Those are the cousin’s things,” she explained contemptuously, “M. J.,
the hanger-on. Awful shabby, only a bag, and a couple of boxes. You
could tell the owner was a poor man.”
Honor made no reply. She began to have an idea that she had seen this
poor young man before, or were two cousins travelling together for
travelling’s sake, a common feature in India. It would not surprise her
much were she to find her companion of that three-mile walk awaiting
his slender baggage at Nath Tal Bungalow.
As Mrs. Brande was borne upwards, her spirits seemed to rise
simultaneously with her body. She was about to make the acquaintance
of a millionaire, and could cultivate his friendship comfortably,
undisturbed by the machinations of her crafty rival. She would invite
him to be her guest for the two days they would be journeying together,
and by this means steal a nice long march (in every sense of the word)
on Mrs. Langrishe!