I believe this statement satisfied the company. With one consent they very naturally attributed my melancholy and reserve to a love affair that had gone wrong, which idea after all had a substantial basis—my love affair had gone wrong—but, unfortunately, that was only a part of my trouble. It is an undeniable fact that all womenkind are interested in affairs of the heart, and my new acquaintances accorded me their unspoken sympathy. For this I had no doubt to thank their natural kind-heartedness, but perhaps my generosity in the matter of advice and patterns may have had a little weight. In future, however, Mrs. de Castro was no longer submitted to the “question torture.” I was received as an acknowledged member of her set, and she was left in peace. I made myself as useful to my landlady as possible; read her the Bangalore Herald from end to end, wrote her notes, played draughts and trimmed her Sunday toque. Considering our respective ages, education and station, we really got on together amazingly well. She had been most loyal to me. I can never forget how once, when Mrs. Cotton touched upon my tragedy, and began: “They do say there’s an English officer in the jail—such a handsome fellow too——” she cleverly turned the subject with a fresh and startling scandal. I had impressed upon her that if any of the military people—who of course were aware of my brother’s fate—came to dream of my presence in Bangalore I would depart within the hour. I was quite sure, I added, that if they did know they would be only too kind to me, but their kindness, however well meant, I should not yet be able to endure. My wound was still so raw that I shrank from even a touch of sympathy.
The dâk-wallah’s arrival with his big brown wallet invariably excited my interest. From time to time he brought me letters from Mrs. Lakin. On one occasion her dispatch was so heavy as to require five annas postage, as it enclosed others. One was from Captain Hayes-Billington, to tell me that his wife had passed away. It was apparently written in great distress, the thin cheap paper blistered with tears:
“She asked me to be sure and let you know; Dulcie was always fond of you. Ever since she came down here she has been failing, and by degrees just faded away out of life. She was glad to go—but I am heart-broken.”
Mrs. Lakin, who was my constant correspondent, announced in her letter that they were leaving Secunderabad immediately:
“My dear, such an uprooting after thirty years in India! I cannot bear to think of how our poor household gods will be scattered. Some, such as the Deschamps furniture, I intend to take home; some I shall send to the girls. One of them will give the old chestnut horse a stall and a feed. I have endowed my ayah and butler with a cow apiece, and distributed my poultry among the women in the lines—but what am I to do about your letters? I enclose two. How are your correspondents to find you? Here it is generally believed that you have returned to London; even Mrs. Soames is off the scent. She intends when the regiment does go home to look up your relatives and discover your whereabouts.”
Mrs. de Castro was always gratified when I had a letter from “Miss Lucy,” as she still called her. The letter invariably contained kind messages to “Jane.”
“It seems only the other day since she came out to India,” she remarked (when I told her the news), “and now she’s going home for good. I remember her, such a slim young lady with lovely blue eyes and curly hair. It was not long before Mr. Lakin fell in love with her. He was only a lieutenant in a Madras Native Infantry regiment, but in spite of all her father and mother could say (and they said a lot) she would have him; and they took a little bungalow at thirty rupees a month at St. John’s Hill. Well, the match didn’t turn out so badly after all. Colonel Lakin will have a good pension, and after their long spell out here they’ll enjoy themselves in England.”
Before Mrs. Lakin returned to “enjoy herself in England” she enclosed me another letter, which was from Brian. It said:
“My darling Eva,—You are making me miserable. I cannot understand why you do not write to me, and I have no idea where you are, so send this to care of your good friend Mrs. Lakin. Probably you are hiding in some little hill station, for the hot weather will by this time be upon you. But why hide from me? Why not trust me as I trust you? I had an anonymous epistle from Secunderabad recently, announcing that you had been seen driving all over the place in Balthasar’s motor, and that it was well known that you had actually left the place in his company. I need not tell you that I didn’t believe one word of this. I put the poisonous letter in the fire and would have liked to do the same with the writer! You will probably have seen the announcement of my father’s death in the papers; he passed away a fortnight ago; to the last we had hopes. My mother is completely broken down, and I have no end of family matters to get through. Only for my mother’s health, and most urgent business, I would go out to India in the place of this letter. Last week I motored over to Torrington, thinking that I might glean news of you, but I was astonished to find that you were as much in their black books as your brother. I wonder what you have been doing, Eva? I asked the question point blank, but as our engagement has never been given out, they evidently thought me guilty of unpardonable cheek, and implied that their family affairs were no business of mine—they let me see it too! They are taking the court martial, etc., terribly to heart, and are going abroad for six months with the idea of living the whole thing down. If they didn’t make so much of it themselves, other people would soon let it drop. I hear from Secunderabad from time to time; the general impression there seems to be that you are in England. I am told that the Lakins are coming home, so that I can no longer write to you to their address. Surely you will answer this!
“Your, as always, devoted and faithful
“Brian.”