Interference

The Holroyds arrived at Mangobad, with unexpected punctuality, and Belle was in raptures with her new home—her own house—a spacious, well-situated bungalow, replete with every comfort. There was a German piano, a pony and cart, a cheval glass, a sewing machine, new jail carpets and matting, pretty curtains and furniture, and ornaments, a verandah filled with plants, and birds; and a tribe of respectable black-whiskered servants, with unimpeachable “chits” awaiting her good pleasure.

Truly nothing had been forgotten; this bungalow had undoubtedly been fitted up by a lover.

Belle danced about, and clapped her hands, gesticulated, and ran from room to room like a child of six. Little did she guess that all these delightful, thoughtful preparations—had been made for another person.

For several days after her arrival, she was excessively busy, unpacking and shaking out her dresses and beautifying the drawing-room, with rapid and tasteful fingers. A palm in this corner, a screen in that, a graceful drapery here, a bow of ribbon there, photographs, fans and cushions abounded—in a short time the room was transformed as if by magic, but its mistress’s zeal was evanescent. Once a thing was done there was an end of it; the palms might wither, the draperies gather dust, for all she noted. She detested sustained effort. However, everything was in its pristine freshness, when her visitors began to make their appearance.

Captain La Touche was naturally the first to call upon his friend’s bride. He drove up in his dog-cart, dressed in his most recent Europe suit, and brimming over with curiosity and bonhomie.

Mem Sahib gave “salaam” and he was shown into the drawing-room, and there waited for a considerable time, whilst he heard sounds of someone skirmishing with drawers and wardrobe doors, in the next apartment.

He was full of pleasant anticipations of a girl of nineteen, tall and slim, with beautiful, Irish grey eyes, even in her cheap, blurred photograph she had a sweet face!

But who was this? that pulled back the purdah and came tripping into the room. A pretty little brunette, with a Frenchified dress and an artificial smile. He rose and bowed, waiting expectantly for another figure—that was surely yet to come.

“I know you so very well by name,” said Belle, offering a pair of tiny (somewhat bony) hands. “My husband is always talking of Captain La Touche.”

Then this was the bride; he was in the presence of Mrs. Holroyd! At first he was so utterly confounded, that he could only sit down and stare into the crown of his hat. Belle attributed his evident embarrassment to the dazzling effect of her own charms, and immediately set to work to converse in her gayest strain, in order to put him at his ease. She was the first person who had ever thought it necessary to attempt this feat with Captain La Touche! As she chatted with her usual fluency, he listened and looked. Truly, this is no shy girl of nineteen, but a woman ten years older, with a knowledge of the world, and a pleasant confidence in her own powers. He noted the elaborate elegance of her dress, the vivid beauty of her dark, animated face; but, despite their long lashes, her eyes had a hard expression, and her thin red lips spoke of cruelty, and temper.

However, he dissembled his feelings (like the immortal stage ruffian), and talked and flattered and laughed, in his most irresistible company manner.

Belle, on her side, was agreeably impressed by her suave and good-looking visitor. She remembered that he had given them a handsome wedding present, and was inclined to be more cordial than brides usually are, towards their husband’s bachelor friends. He discoursed of the station, she of her passage out. He asked how she liked her house, and she enquired if there were any balls coming off, and if the ladies of Mangobad were young and pretty!

“You must judge for yourself,” he returned diplomatically, “you have brought us out one young lady, Miss Gay—Miss Rose Gay.”

“Yes, and she ought to be called Miss Nosegay,” returned Belle smartly. “You never saw such a feature out of Punch.”

“Is she, then, not pretty?” he enquired with arched brows.

“Pretty, poor girl!” throwing up her hands, “her face is so hideous that I am sure it must hurt her!” and she laughed, and evidently expected her visitor to do the same, but he merely smiled and said, “At any rate she is very clever.”

“Of course she is, like all ugly people; she is said to be very clever and good-natured; for my part, I loathe good-natured girls.”

Mrs. Holroyd was outspoken, and not very amiable; this sharp tongue might prove a dangerous element in a small station. Presently he rose and took his leave. As he was quitting the room, his eye fell on a large photograph of Betty. Belle noticed his glance, and hastening to take it up, said:

“Oh, you are looking at my cousin—my dearest friend; she is a darling, not a beauty, as you may observe, but quite charming. I wish you could see her. I wish she was here.” Captain La Touche sincerely echoed the wish, as he bowed himself out, and walked down the hall. He had never been so completely mystified in all his life. His friend had distinctly told him, that he was going to marry Betty—and who was Betty’s substitute?

On the steps of the porch he met George, who had just ridden home from the ranges.

“I see you have been making your salaams,” said he with well-affected nonchalance.

“Yes,” acquiesced his comrade. But for the life of him he could not utter another word. He looked hard at his friend, his friend looked hard at him, and, from what he read in Holroyd’s eyes, he dared not ask the question that was burning on his tongue, so he got into his dog-cart in silence, and drove himself away.

Mrs. Holroyd’s next visitor was the Collector, her namesake, Mr. Redmond. She knew that he was a rich, eccentric widower, just the sort of person that would repay a little cultivation, just the sort of person to invite her out to camp, and to give her diamonds and ponies, for was he not Betty’s uncle? She intended to make great capital out of her cousin, stand in her place and stroke his grey hair, and smooth his withered cheek, and call him “Uncle Bernard,” but all these pretty little schemes were projected before she had seen Mr. Redmond. He was one of the relatives with whom old Brian had quarrelled most rancorously, and his offer to provide for his brother’s orphan had been rudely scorned. In those days Mrs. Redmond was alive, and as she was not very enthusiastic about her husband’s niece, the matter had dropped. But now Mr. Redmond paid an early visit to the bride, not so much to do her honour, as to enquire about Betty. Bernard Redmond, Esq., C.S., was a tall, square-shouldered man, with grizzled, sandy hair, a somewhat saturnine expression, and a masterful individuality. He was intellectual and deeply read, open-handed, hospitable and eccentric, was well aware that he was considered “peculiar,” and took an unaffected delight in acting up to his reputation. In spite of his so-called odd opinions, he was extremely popular, for he gave a good dinner, and unimpeachable wine, played quite a first-class rubber, and was a sound authority on horseflesh. Mr. Redmond brooked no contradiction, was autocratic, and extraordinarily outspoken—traits that grew upon him year by year, and were fostered and nourished at Mangobad, where he ruled not only the district, but the station, and was to all intents and purposes its “uncrowned king.”

Belle’s pretty smiles and speeches, her graceful attitudes, and waving hands, were absolutely wasted on this cynical person with the cold grey eyes. He listened patiently to her chatter, and her views of life, mentally exclaiming “Good Lord! What a fool this woman is!” for the tone of her conversation jarred on him considerably; there was a great deal too much about Mrs. George Holroyd. Nevertheless he received a glowing description of his niece, in which description Belle painted herself as Betty’s adviser, sister, and benefactress, and then he put one or two somewhat sharp questions—questions are a natural weapon in malignant hands.

“I remember your father,” he said: “he died when I was a youngster, about eight and twenty years ago. I suppose you were quite an infant at that time.”

“Quite,” she returned somewhat sharply.

“Betty is nineteen,” he continued; “she has two hundred a year; pray, what becomes of her income?”

“I cannot tell,” faltered Belle. “My mother knows” (she truly did).

“And I gather that she is at Noone acting as your mother’s sick nurse?”

“She lives with mamma,” replied Belle, reddening.

“Ha—Hum!” rubbing his chin reflectively. Then putting on his glasses, and staring round, “I should not have known this house.”

“No, I suppose not,” complacently. “Pray, what do you think of my room?”

“Shall I really tell you what I think. Eh, honestly and without humbug?”

“Please do,” prepared for some charming compliment.

“I think it just like a bazaar, with all these pictures, and ribbons, and cushions, and fans. I cannot help looking for the tickets, and expecting to hear you ask me to put into a raffle.”

“Mr. Redmond,” exclaimed Belle, intensely affronted. “It is very evident that you have not been in England for some years, and possibly then you may not have been in a drawing-room, or else I believe you are as great a bear as old Brian.”

“To be sure I am,” he returned with a delighted laugh. “I have often regretted the loss I have been to the diplomatic service! Don’t you know that manners run in our family?”

“The want of them you mean,” indignantly. “This room is got up in the very latest fashion.”

“Like its mistress?” with a cool, deliberate stare.

“Yes. I attempt to be civilised!”

“And of course I know that I am miserably behindhand. A poor old mofussilite! Pray what’s that thing?” pointing to “Mossoo,” who was coiled up in a chair. “Animal, vegetable or mineral?”

“It’s my dog—a thoroughbred French poodle. I brought him with me.”

“The latest fashion in poodles—I suppose. Eh?” focussing “Mossoo” with his glass. “I wonder what the dogs out here will take him for! How do you like India?”

“Extremely—I don’t wish ever to go home; I hope I shall live and die out here! I love it better and better every day.”

“You have only been out five weeks; wait till you have been out for five years, and you have heard the brain fever bird, and felt the hot winds, and seen a few snakes and scorpions! India is not a country; it is a climate.”

“Thank you! I am not afraid of your horrors; I shall go to the hills, and I intend to enjoy myself in hills and plains, and to like India immensely. I suppose you were out here long before the Mutiny?”

“The Mutiny! Good gracious, my dear madam,” exclaimed her visitor (whose one vulnerable point happened to be his age, and flattered himself that he did not look a day older than forty). “For what do you take me? Long before the Mutiny! Why I have only twenty-seven years’ service.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not know; but I daresay climate tells on people—you look old.”

“Thank you,” he responded quickly. “I see that you understand the art of delicate flattery. Ah!” as a note was handed to her. “You have already begun to experience the real curse of India—chits, yes, ma’am—chits are the curse of India, and I will leave you to enjoy your epistle alone; it is sure to be asking for something; your company at a dull dinner; the loan of a pattern, or of a saddle; or a bottle of wine; or a dose of medicine!”

“Not at all,” rejoined Belle, casting her eyes over it. “It is from Mr. Lovelace, sending snipe, and asking me to play tennis. I am afraid you take a gloomy view of life, and people in general.”

“I take a gloomy view of some people, I must confess,” and then he got up rather abruptly and made his adieux, and Belle had a disagreeable consciousness, that she had failed to make a good impression. Visions of diamonds, and ponies, faded back into cloudland, and she laughed aloud, as she pictured herself daring to pat this gruff outspoken connection on the head, much less to stroke his severe, sarcastic-looking face! As he whirled away, he remarked to his hot-tempered pony: “She is like you, Judy, a Tartar, if ever there was one! She will want a tight curb and a strong hand over her. Poor Holroyd. Unfortunate devil!”

Belle’s other visitors were more appreciative, and they came, all the ladies in the Station, in their latest Europe bonnets, and all the inquisitive young men, in their neatest ties and boots, and they were charmed with the bride—the latter especially. She had such splendid eyes, and so much to say for herself, and was so unaffected and agreeable. Why Mrs. Calvert and Miss Gay had not been half loud enough in her praises! They had not prepared them for such an acquisition to Mangobad. True, when one or two enthusiastic subalterns at the Club had been eloquent on the subject of the lady’s charms of person and manner, in the hearing of the Collector, he had merely grunted, and shrugged his shoulders, and called for a glass of “Kummel,” but he was a regular old Diogenes, and no one minded his opinion, excepting on such matters as horses, whist, and wine.

Belle’s letters home were full of her delightful new life, and her supreme happiness, and Mrs. Redmond read them to her friends, in a voice that shook with emotion. Her plans had succeeded far beyond her most sanguine hopes. In spite of what the Bible said, the wicked did prosper! After all, she had only done evil that good might come, and good had come. She did not fail to impart Belle’s effusions to Betty—who listened with a white but smiling face—to Maria, and to Miss Dopping; accounts of tiffin parties, dinners, and dances, given for her as a bride, and what she had worn, and how her dress had fitted, and who had taken her in, and what people had said; also minute descriptions of her legion of servants, her house, her piano, her ponies, and her plate (a splendid and enlarged edition of the above was soon in circulation in the village), but there was scarcely an allusion to her lord and master. He was constantly on duty; he seemed to have an immensity to do; he looked ill, and had quite lost his spirits; he took no care of himself, and she intended to carry him off to some gay hill station for a complete change.

“It was not Belle’s custom to talk of anything that was near her heart,” explained her mother. “She is extremely anxious about him, I can see, but her feelings are not on the surface.”

“Nor anywhere else,” muttered Miss Dopping; then aloud: “It strikes me that she seems a good deal more anxious about getting the creases out of her velvet dress! However, I am glad you are pleased. If she was my daughter, I’d rather hear less about her clothes and more about her husband.”

Belle’s triumphs had not been much over-rated. She was quite the latest novelty, and the acknowledged beauty of the station. Young men were proud to be her partners in ball-room or tennis court. She was vivacious, amusing and accomplished; and her pretty dresses and her pretty speeches disarmed her would-be rivals. She took the place by storm as on board the Nankin, and no entertainment was complete without Mrs. Holroyd! She acted, she sang at penny readings, she composed people’s fancy dresses, she played the harmonium in church, and was secretary to the tennis club. In fact, as old Sally Dopping would have said, “She had a finger in every pie.” Her restless spirit, and excitable temperament, supplied her with sufficient energy to revolve in one untiring whirl from morn till midnight. She was always en course. She drove to the club before breakfast to read the papers and gossip; early in the afternoon, she went forth again, regardless of the sun, a syce holding an umbrella over her head, and “Mossoo” sitting sedately in the cart beside her, to tiffin parties, teas, or tennis; then there were rehearsals for concerts, theatricals, choir practice, moonlight picnics and balls. For these latter Belle filled in her programme (in ink) days previously.

Home was the place where she slept, and breakfasted, and sometimes dined, but home was not where she “lived” in the true sense of the word. In it she expected no happiness for herself, and made none for others. Pleasure was her god, and to this she carried the sacrifice of her life. With constant gaiety came an incessant hunger, a craving for more. Not content with Mangobad she sighed for other fields to conquer; she went to this station, and to that, for the annual “Week,” to Lucknow for the cup-races, to Allahabad for balls, bearing her husband in her train. Gay, vivacious, pretty, a born actress, a matchless dancer, Belle, as she playfully expressed it, “took” extremely well. George gratified all her whims, patiently hung about ball-room doors till the early hours of the morning, carried her wraps, cashed her cheques, went her messages, and gave her freely and liberally of everything—except his company. For the first time in her existence, Belle was absolutely contented. This really was life—a life well worth living, a glorious realisation of all her hopes. But would it last?