The rainy season still continued, though the violence of the monsoon had abated; everything in the shape of vegetation was now so refreshed and resuscitated, that one might almost imagine they could see the plants sprouting, hear the sap running, and the leaves unfolding in the tropical surroundings of Panjeverram. The great banyans had renewed their youth; ferns, arums, bamboos, plantains, glistened and dripped and grew; the sun-baked yellow plains were now a vivid green, dotted with lean appreciative herds, yet the actual atmosphere of the place was steamy, and enervating. Flying ants, snakes, and other crawling objects, were all, in their several ways, obtrusively active,—and the land brought forth frogs!
As the two Smith boys were at college, and only came home for week-ends, Mallender, and Mrs. Dixon, had the house more or less to themselves. In the mornings, he exercised the horses, or waded after teal and snipe in the marshy land that lay within a couple of miles to the west; after dinner, he and Mrs. Dixon foregathered in the den; she sewed and mended, whilst he smoked, or read. Occasionally he read aloud interesting local events, or what his companion specially enjoyed—accidents and tragedies. She was a fluent talker, and thus this couple so curiously thrown together, wiled away the moist sultry evenings.
Mallender rather enjoyed listening to Mrs. Dixon's long-drawn tales; they diverted a somewhat embittered mind from its own affairs. He learnt, that she had married at sixteen a sergeant in her father's regiment, "the Roifles," and gone home with him to the depôt then. There he had ill-treated her, led her a miserable life, and ultimately drank himself to death. Subsequently—and as is so usual in similar cases—she had again become the wife of a sergeant, and once more a sergeant in "the Roifles," a good man, who had made her very happy; but they had buried all their children; one in Bellary and three in Kamptee. Then her husband fell ill, and was sent to Madras Hospital, to be under special doctors,—and there he died, leaving her all his savings. Soon after she became a widow, every single penny was lost in the failure of a House or Bank, and she was almost destitute; the regiment was good to her, but of course she had to turn to and work, so she put a humble-like advertisement in the paper, and Major Smith engaged her at once; it was a few weeks after Mrs. Smith died, and Mota was an infant.
"Oh, and hadn't I work to rear her!" she exclaimed, "among these divils of milkmen—such milk for a baby, just blue with water. I had the cow milked afore me, so there could be no deceit, and still and all, her milk was like skim; one day I came round the corner unexpected, and there was the chap, after me seeing him milk, and him going to the butler with the can—hadn't he the great turban off his head—yards of it—soaking and heavy with water, and wasn't he squeezing it into the milk for the dear life? See now, ye never could be up to them blacks! After that, we had our fine Nellore cow, and I milked her with my own two hands, till the child had cut her teeth."
"I believe you have been here nearly nine years," said Mallender.
"I have so, and it's me own fault, that I'm not married out of it. Some of the fellows suspicion I have big savings—but I'll not stir a toe out of the house till I'm no longer wanted, and at fifty-five year of age, if I were to marry again, I'd be a nice old fool! Anyway, my savings is for the boys."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Dixon."
"Ye see, I'm fond of them, especially Pedro; there's a real gentleman for ye, and so loving; if you was to put your eyes on sticks, that fellow could not tell a lie! I'm wishful, I had some eddication for the children's sakes; I can talk Tamil and Telagu, but I only went to the regimental school, and was never to say smart. Sewing and housekeeping, and keeping order and decency, is just all I'm good for."
"I think it's pretty well," observed her companion.
"I taught Mota her reading, writing and sewing, but latterly we had a young woman from Madras three days a week, with a high character as governess; she was just a streel of a young thing, and found the child mighty wild, and could make no hand of her, unless I sat with them at the lessons. Mota is terribly imparious for a little girl of nine, and that has never seen no company. Now and then, we do go in to Madras for shopping, and to the band, and every couple of Sundays, we make out church at Monaghary, but the Major he won't have no visitors whatever; not even children, much less the parson. Faix, it's a queer sort of life, is not it?" and she looked across at her companion for confirmation; but he suffered the pause to lapse without comment. "Well," she added—drawing a long sigh, "every cripple has his own way of walking!—and it's not for the likes of me, to interfere."