Her own people

by B. M. Croker

These were her mother and Dominga. Since Dominga's elopement had been so successfully frustrated, she had fallen into a state of lassitude and lay for hours motionless, and, so to speak, torpid, coiled up with closed eyes in her long cane chair. When the all too terrible sun had sunk below the plains across the river, and the soft blue haze of an Indian evening had taken its place, she would wander alone about the untidy garden, muttering to herself incessantly (as if rehearsing some important conversation). She still wrote many letters; these the Dak runner now no longer carried fearfully through the high elephant grass, or the thorny Dak bushes of the Terai, but they travelled in full state on His Majesty's mail tonga, and were delivered by a postman in orthodox uniform at a certain hill club. The hot weather had seemingly the power of relaxing the stiff social bonds peculiar to the cool season. Most women cast aside curling pins and corsets and wore muslin wrappers, and their hair "plain." Men abandoned formality with waistcoats and collars, and Mr. Lepell frequently walked over to smoke a pipe with his sub-manager. On these occasions Mrs. Chandos never appeared; she was incessantly occupied with business, and besides this, Tom Lepell was one of the two men in the whole world whom she not only hated but feared. Mrs. Cavalho constantly trotted across to sit and gossip with Mrs. Lopez on a little plot of scorched grass in the garden; here, under the stars which shone between the bare branches of the cork trees, the two old women talked for hours; talked of their youth and their good days, before they had become a pair of derelicts moored beside the Jurra river. Pussy and Verona occasionally joined them, and listened with unaffected interest to tales of visions, and warnings, of life, love and death, and many other curious matters. In the dim, soft light Mistress Cavalho's old face seemed to assume a different expression—perhaps Youth himself came to her in the dusk, along with his tender recollections? Her eyes looked large and brilliant, the lines of her features appeared faultless. She had a low, sweet voice, and there was something in the personality of Felipa Cavalho that was inexpressibly soothing and restful.

Now and then one of the girls wandered alone about the thirsty, sunburnt garden, accompanied by her own reflections. Pussy's mind was entirely occupied by Alonzo—when would she meet him? What would he think of her new yellow hat? and Verona, too, had musings sacred to her own heart. Her thoughts frequently turned to Salwey, as she paced the narrow "kunker" paths. She had not seen him for a long time! He never came up to Manora now! No doubt, he had outgrown his foolish fancy. After all, was it not precisely what she desired? Yet, even as Verona assured herself that all was for the best, she was conscious of an inward pang, and of a half-stifled sigh. She was aware of something blighting in the atmosphere—an enervating, creeping influence, which made her feel languid, callous and numb. Was this merely a temporary lassitude—the effect of the pitiless hot weather? or—horrible thought!—was it the native element developing in her veins, stealing into her heart and claiming her for its own at last?

Occasionally Verona joined her father and Mr. Lepell as they sat and smoked together on the verandah, but on these occasions Pussy yawned and went to bed, for she found their conversation much too dull. Their theme was of the shop—of mango wood fuel, of rab and goor, and contracts and transport, and new machinery. But Verona, who had not her sister's easy faculty for sleep, remained languidly interested, and still more interested when her father asked his guest in a casual tone:

"By the way, what has become of Salwey? I've not seen him about lately?"

"Oh, he is out in the district; the hot weather is his busy time," was the reply.

"Why?" enquired the girl; "I thought during the hot weather everyone remained at home in a state of torpor."

"Not every one, especially a police officer," rejoined Mr. Lepell. "The hot weather is the idle time in this circle. When the crops are cut, and tillage awaits the rains, people have no occupation; they sit round the village 'Chabootra' and smoke and talk and quarrel; they brood over old feuds, they argue over wrestling matches and cock fights and land, and they kill one another with lathies or reaping hooks. I can assure you they keep Salwey and his men pretty well on the run. We have four murderers lying in Rajahpore jail at this moment. I say, young lady, you are looking pulled down. Why don't you accept my wife's pressing invitation, and join her in the hills?"

"If Verona were to see the hills she would never return here," declared her father with a melancholy smile.

"It is very kind of Mrs. Lepell to ask me, but the rains may come any day, Nani says, and it is not worth while to move."

"There is no sign of the south-west monsoon yet," argued Mr. Lepell, "with all due deference to Mrs. Lopez. By the way, I often notice your mother driving to the city at the hottest time of the day. She must be a veritable salamander!"