“You may well ask! It’s a type you don’t come across in England. A woman who is kept secluded from the world in her husband’s house, who lives and dies there, and never uncovers her face when out-of-doors, and never sees or speaks to any man but her husband, or her father, or her sons.”
“Poor creatures! Are there many of them in India?” she asked with an air of deep compassion.
“Yes, thousands; they lead an uncommonly dull life, I fancy, these domestic prisoners. Even when she drives out, the grand lady has all the carriage blinds pulled down, just as the common woman sits behind the drawn curtains of an humble ekka. When they travel by rail, as they do on a pilgrimage, there is such a fuss; they are carried into the station in a dooly, and when they get into their compartment there is quite a high screen round them. It is so funny, and most of them are hideous old hags, as ugly as sin; but I suppose they like the commotion.”
“Don’t they ever peep? I’m sure I should,” she said with a merry, girlish laugh.
“If you were young and pretty you would not get the chance. There is generally some lynx-eyed old grandmother, who is worse than ten jailors. As she was kept down in her youth, and shut away from all the delights of the world, she now avenges herself on others. She rules the Zenana with a rod of iron. You have everything to learn about India, I suppose?”
“Yes, I know nothing about housekeeping and servants or anything; I should be greatly obliged to you if you would give me a few hints.”
There was nothing Mrs. Sharpe liked better; it made her so important. “Get a piece of paper and a pencil, my dear, and I’ll give you no end of information; there is nothing like beginning the right way. Of course,” as the girl sat down, pencil in hand, “much depends on your presidency. I suppose it will be Bengal?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered with hesitation.
Mr. Raymond had drawn near in a stealthy way he had, and was leaning against a boat, listening. They could not see him, but he stood facing me, and not an expression of his escaped me.
“Well, you must first secure a good house, with large and lofty rooms, and a pucka roof; not a thatched house—be sure of that. Then you will want a whole retinue of good servants. Your husband will please himself, but I prefer Hindoos; Mahomedans are such fanatics and thieves, and have such an undisguised contempt for our sex. You will require a good khansamah, and cook under him, a bearer, two khitmagars, an ayah—an old woman for choice. Your number of syces depends on your horses.”