“If you are going to Luckmee, you will be quite close to your aunt Jane at Rajapore, and only think how delightful that will be for you!” but I was by no means so confident of this supreme future joy. Rajapore is a large mixed military and civil station; Luckmee is on the same line of rail, a run of a couple of hours; a small and insignificant cantonment, which looks up to Rajapore as its metropolis, and does all its shopping there. No, I did not find it at all delightful, being within such easy hail of Aunt Jane. She made unexpected descents—as a rule, early in the morning—driving up from the station in a rickety “ticca gharry,” to spend what she called “a good long day.” First of all, she went over the bungalow precisely as if it was to let furnished, and she was the incoming tenant; then she cross-examined me closely, read my home letters, looked at my bazaar account, sniffed at my new frocks, snubbed my friends, and departed by the last train in the highest spirits, leaving me struggling with the idea that I was still a rather troublesome schoolgirl in short frocks and a pig-tail. Now and then I returned the visit—by command—drove with Aunt Jane in her state barouche, in which she sat supported by a pair of rather faded Berlin wool cushions, great eyesores to my critical English taste, which largely discounted the fine carriage, big bay walers, fat coachman (an Indian Jehu of any pretension must be corpulent), the running syces, and splendid silver-mounted chowries or yâk tails.
I also was present at various heavy tiffins and dinners, in the capacity of deputy assistant hostess and niece. I had come in now, to wait upon Aunt Jane and “take leave,” as she was just off to England, and had imperatively summoned me to report myself ere she started. I found the great square white bungalow externally gay with Bignonia vinusta, internally in the utmost confusion. The hall was littered with straw and bits of newspapers, the drawing-room was full of packing-cases, half the contents of the cellar were paraded on the floor, and dozens of tins of “Europe” stores were also on review, all being for sale. Aunt Jane was seated at a writing-table, revising lists with a rapid pen.
“You discover me,” she exclaimed, offering a plump cheek, “sitting like Marius among the ruins of Carthage.”
I was dumb. I had no idea until now that Marius was a stout little elderly woman, wearing a shapeless grey wide-awake and blue spectacles.
“I feel almost fit for the poggle khana (mad-house),” she continued. “Just look here! Here is my list of furniture, come back from making the round of the station, and all that has been taken is a watering-pot, six finger-glasses, and a pie-dish!” (The truth was that people were tired of my aunt’s lists.) “And here are dozens of servants clamouring for chits—and a man waiting to buy the cows. I wish to goodness some one would buy your uncle’s shikar camel,”—reading aloud from list,—“‘young, strong, easy trot and walk, with saddle, Rs. 200.’ Your uncle is going to chum with Mr. Jones. He does not intend shooting this season—even he finds it an expensive pursuit,” this in a significant parenthesis. “I’ve not put away the ornaments, nor sold off my stores, nor packed one of my own things.”
I muttered some sympathetic remark, but I knew that Aunt Jane enjoyed these “earthquakings” immensely. She was constantly uprooting her establishment, and taking what she called “a run home.”
“And you go on Monday?” I inquired.
“Yes, child; though I don’t believe I shall ever be ready. Your mother, of course, will want to know how you are? I must candidly tell her that you are looking dreadfully pasty. Ah! I see you have got a parcel.”
“Only a very little one,” I pleaded apologetically.
“Well, well, I suppose I must try and take it; and now what are your plans?”