I could divine years of patience and repression under this plain tale, but also a power that would be dynamic when the authentic voice called. That was her charm—gentleness in strength—a sweet serenity.
“What were you afraid of?”
“Of growing old and missing what was waiting for me out here. But I could not get away like other people. No money, you see. So I thought I would come out here and teach. Dare I? Would they let me? I knew I was fighting life and chances and risks if I did it; but it was death if I stayed there. And then—Do you really care to hear?”
“Of course. Tell me how you broke your chain.”
“I spare you the family quarrels. I can never go back. But I was spurred—spurred to take some wild leap; and I took it. Six years ago I came out. First I went to a doctor and his wife at Cawnpore. They had a wonderful knowledge of the Indian peoples, and there I learned Hindustani and much else. Then he died. But an aunt had left me two hundred pounds, and I could wait a little and choose; and so I came here.”
It interested me. The courage that pale elastic type of woman has!
“Have you ever regretted it? Would they take you back if you failed?”
“Never, to both questions,” she said, smiling. “Life is glorious. I’ve drunk of a cup I never thought to taste; and if I died tomorrow I should know I had done right. I rejoice in every moment I live—even when Winifred and I are wrestling with arithmetic.”
“I shouldn’t have thought life was very easy with Lady Meryon.”
“Oh, she is kind enough in an indifferent sort of way. I am not the persecuted Jane Eyre sort of governess at all. But that is all on the surface and does not matter. It is India I care for-the people, the sun, the infinite beauty. It was coming home. You would laugh if I told you I knew Peshawar long before I came here. Knew it—walked here, lived. Before there were English in India at all.” She broke off. “You won’t understand.”