“That’s the place for you!” said Ronnie, who had been reading the note over my shoulder, “she’s a rare good sort, and you’ll be out of the way of prying eyes and the talk. Lord! how people will talk! Old Mother Lakin is one of the best. You can get her to bring you up and see me of an evening. And now I must go back to Carr; he is bound to be starving for his breakfast. He or another officer will have this room, so tell your old ayah to hurry up and pack. Well, Eva,” and his voice shook, as he put his hand suddenly on my shoulder and looked me straight in the face, “I must say this is beastly hard on you.” Then he kissed me with burning hot lips, and swung back into the sitting-room.
In order to prepare for Ronnie’s guard, Mary ayah and I worked vigorously for hours, and put together and packed my multitude of belongings. This task accomplished, I interviewed Michael and the cook, wrote business letters to Cursetjee and Spencer, and when Mrs. Lakin called she found me ready to accompany her. As we drove out of the compound I turned to look back on the bungalow with its cork tree avenue and veranda veiled in creepers, for three months the abode of happiness, and the theatre of so many experiences: the scenes with Balthasar, with Brian, and with Ronnie.
Kind Mrs. Lakin did not attempt to make conversation as we rolled along side by side behind a shabby coachman and an ancient screw, but from time to time she pressed my hand with silent and comforting sympathy.
On the steps of his house Colonel Lakin received me as if nothing particular had happened and I was a visitor whom he delighted to honour. My room was prepared, and oh, how comfortable! Such large down pillows, such deep roomy chairs and a delightful sofa. Most of the furniture, I subsequently learned, had been bought from Deschamps in Madras, when Colonel and Mrs. Lakin started housekeeping, and since then had travelled hundreds—I may say thousands—of miles over the Madras Presidency. On this inviting couch I lay down to rest, worn out between emotion and the loss of sleep. Dusk had come and I must have enjoyed more than the traditional forty winks, when the ayah announced:
“Mem sahib Soames.”
The heavy chick was thrust aside and Mrs. Soames entered without apology. The moment I saw her I sprang up.
“My dear child,” she began, “I simply had to come and see you.” She put her arms round my neck and kissed me. “I am just heart-broken, though, after all, what am I to you?”
We sat down together on the sofa, and she held my hand in hers.
“Ronnie must have been mad, poor boy; but gambling is like a disease, it is in the blood. My grandfather had it, and only for the mercy of my mother’s fortune we would certainly have all been in the workhouse. Ronnie is the last young man I’d have dreamt of getting into such trouble. I would have fetched you the moment I heard of——” and she stammered “of—of——” then wisely abandoned the detail. “James, although he likes you immensely, said it would be better if you were not in our lines. You could not help seeing and hearing things that might jar and pain you. So dear Mrs. Lakin is quite the right person to receive you, but Eva—you believe, don’t you, that I am always your sincere and loving friend?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I am quite sure of that.”