Her own people

by B. M. Croker

Dominga—the Lal Billi, or Red Cat—was a power in her own family—a power which stood behind the throne ever since she had been a passionate infant, a delicate child, and a precocious little girl, in a long pig tail. Her mother adored her, and denied her nothing. Before she had cut her second teeth, Dominga knew exactly what she wanted—and secured it; and when at the age of twelve years (having mastered the knowledge of many curious things), she had clamoured to be sent like Pussy to a hill school, there to complete her education, her wish was immediately gratified.

Mark the difference between the sisters! Good-natured, giggling Pussy had left the establishment with a very small mental equipment. She could write a love-note,—with many ill-spelt adjectives, lavishly underscored; she could dance, crochet, do her hair, and make delicious cocoanut toffee; but she was as ignorant in her way as any Pahareen (hill woman), toiling under her load of baggage up the Ghât. But Pussy left behind her, as she went down, not a few devoted friends and many weeping eyes. Dominga, when it came to her turn to depart, not one; but she carried away a supply of information sufficient to flavour her conversation, and enable her to pose as "well informed." She wrote a fine hand, had worked hard at her singing, and imbibed some knowledge of history. Not only could she fix the date of the battle of Hastings, but of the battles of Pavia, Malplaquet, and Bunker Hill. She enjoyed reading realistic descriptions of the time of Nero, and the sack of Rome; the massacre of St. Bartholomew, and the Reign of Terror. Her taste leaned to horrors, and she would have gone miles at any time to witness (surreptitiously) an execution! Dominga had her secrets—one was a whole live ambition! she ardently desired to shake off Manora and all her family, and to go forth into the world, there to shine alone. Although amazingly talkative, she was extremely reserved as to her own plans; no one guessed at her aim—an aim she never once permitted herself to lose sight of—its name was "emancipation."

At sixteen years of age, her doting mother had summoned Dominga from school, and she was launched upon society at a railway ball (the same at which Monty had proposed for Blanche). Dom was a born flirt, extremely lively, and indeed so vivacious that she invariably created a sensation. She imagined that it was "smart" and "up-to-date" to be loud and noisy (an enemy at Naini Tal had told her this thing); consequently, she ruined her best prospects by establishing a reputation for being rowdy, and bad form. She threw things at supper, and sat on the edge of a refreshment table, dangling her legs, screaming repartees, and making an uproarious clamour. Thus she brought herself into immediate notice and ill-repute. But shrewd Dominga had long discovered that this pose was a calamitous mistake—a false step she could never repair. She had actually gone out of her way to destroy her own social chances. Then she was frightfully handicapped by the Jones family—not merely by Blanche and Monty, but by his horde of connections, and she was compelled to foregather with the party when her mother was unable to accompany her—and they were such a crew! Oh, if she could only get a fresh start now! This girl Verona was so quiet and ladylike—she had such an air of dignity, she was sure to be taken up by the cantonment. Doors, at which she had figuratively waited and whined in vain, would be thrown wide, and she was determined to enter them by clinging to her sister's skirts.

Dominga had a second secret—a declared, and not impossible, lover—in a certain Mr. Charles Young, a subaltern in the Muffineers; he was a merry, round-faced boy, known to his friends as "Baby Charles," and he humbly worshipped the Red Chandos. To tell the truth, they were privately engaged. The fact was never suspected, for it was a well-established tradition that no one took "D.C." seriously. She had been flaring about Rajahpore for five years, and was all very well to flirt or dance with, but to bring into a regiment—no, thank you! At a whisper of the news the commanding officer would have bundled Baby Charles out of the place—to a hill depôt—a garrison class—anywhere, rather than submit one of his subalterns to the claws of the Lal Billi. The pair had been engaged for six happy weeks; they posted notes to one another in "Mrs. Beeton's Household Management"—a volume in the Club Library—and they sat together holding tender conversation on the Club roof, which was flat and unfrequented—few ever ascended there—whilst Mrs. Chandos waited, and wondered, in the family victoria. She was not in the secret, and fondly believed her fair daughter to be detained in the reading-room.

Although Dominga was not in love, she was satisfied with her prospects. Charlie was young, and poor, and rather stupid, but he was an English officer—his father was an old retired General. If nothing better offered, she intended to marry him, and thus make her escape from Manora—shaking its dust for ever from off her feet.

Once married and presented to the regiment as Mrs. Charles Vavasour-Young, she resolved to enact the rôle of officer's wife, to the best of her ability. She was young, she was lively, she was—unless all men were liars—handsome. She could sing and dance like a professional, and would have a glorious time and go far. Meanwhile, Blanche, in her dingy little bungalow, and Lizzie Trotter, and Ada Diaz would die of sheer envy and jealousy—this reflection afforded Dom a species of intoxicating rapture. It was surprising that Dom had never been in love, although her flirtations were notorious and countless; and she could have married Tom Trotter, Alonzo Diaz, and a stout Eurasian doctor (Edinburgh M.B.); also, she would have married, had he been willing, Brian Salwey, but she had made up her mind that, unless she could "better herself," she was determined to compel her mother to give her money and her countenance, and to try her fortune on the Calcutta stage.

Dom's lithe, seemingly boneless figure had been supreme in skirt dancing at the school; her dancing had a charm, which her singing lacked. She represented the very poetry of motion, and seemed to drift before the eye like some exquisite summer cloud.

There was a good deal of the Chandos blood in Dominga—unhappily she had inherited some of the characteristics of her cousin Sydney, and, like him, she was secretive and false. She was also endowed with his brains, his irresistible will, his wheedling tongue, and his red hair. To her mother's side she was indebted for her indolence and love of soft luxurious ease.

Not a trustworthy or attractive character—is it? and yet some would declare, if they saw the graceful Red Cat, coiled up on her corner of the verandah, the indictment to be a libel, and that Dom was nothing more than a vivacious, shallow, impulsive creature.

Truly she was a curious mixture, this slim Eurasian, with the patrician profile—and the dark marks in her filbert nails. Her mind was as restless as the ocean, her body was indolent and self-indulgent—which of the two would rule her life? Which god would Dominga follow—ease or ambition? Ambition; for ambition often carried luxury in her train.