A Bottle in the Smoke: A Tale of Anglo-Indian Life

by Janet Milne Rae

  CHAPTER V.

  In a quarter of Madras where dwelling houses were not separated by somany acres of garden ground as in the more fashionable suburbs, therestood, at the corner of a shady road, a white wooden gate. It was afeature rare in the Belgravia of the town where peeling chunam postswith rusty iron sockets were often the only traces of the departed gate;one of the changing tenants having probably demanded that it should bedispensed with, another that it should be replaced, to be assured by theobsequious landlord that the order would be executed at once, though thegate in question was most likely broken up for firewood or eaten bywhite ants, the polite Mussulman not having the remotest intention ofreplacing it, however much he might assure successions of tenants thatthe gate was on its way to be fitted to the old posts.

  But what mattered such traces of dilapidation to those often changinginmates? Were not pleasant homes, trim gateways, verdant lawns, awaitingthem across the sea when the requisite number of rupees had beenamassed, the years of service expired, and the exile only a memory?

  Within the precincts of this white gate, however, no change of ownershad interrupted its careful tendance for many a year. No period ofrankness had intervened in the trim compound. Under the tall greypillar-like stems of the cocoanut-tope behind the bungalow, the grass,by means of much watering, was almost as green as an English lawn.Shapely tamarinds, dark mango, and neem trees brooded over the gardenwhere a wealth of old-fashioned flowers grew and prospered, sheltered byvarious ingenious contrivances from the scorching rays of the sun andthe devastation of the monsoon. Green colonnades of broad-leavedplantains, with their curious spikes of fruit, made a dividing linebetween the flower-beds and the well-kept vegetable garden at the end ofwhich, beside the tank, a _picotta_ was mounted, where an agile coolieswung on the primitive pump, propelling the water from below and sendingit along a labyrinth of little intersecting mud-channels percolating thethirsty earth.

  The visitor, who was now opening the white gate, had sprung from hisbandy at the entrance to the avenue, evidently electing to walk towardsthe house, a proceeding as novel as it was distasteful to the syce, whosat sulky and inanimate on his perch for some moments before he decidedto seek the shelter of a shady nook on the road. In fact, he had beenled to expect from Dorai Cheveril's butler--the result of crumbs of newspicked up from the breakfast table--that he was to have a succession oflively doings; a call at Government House to begin with, then a round ofgay compounds where there would be many of his own species to fraternizewith. But this 'Morpeth house,' he knew, did not offer suchpossibilities.

  No feature of the carefully-tended garden escaped Mark Cheveril's keeneye as he made his way to the peaceful bungalow. Its verandah lookedinvitingly cool even in the noontide glare, overhung as it was bygraceful creepers. The visitor thought he might see his new friendseated in its green recesses, but all seemed empty and silent. He wastoo recent an arrival to know that bells and knockers are conspicuous bytheir absence from an Indian abode. All beyond the verandah was open,revealing vistas of cool darkness within, but he decided that to enterunannounced would hardly be permissible even in this land of openhospitality. Recalling that Mrs. Fellowes had told him Mr. Morpeth was alonely bachelor, he came to the conclusion that both he and the servantsmust be absent, and was turning to go when he heard a sign of life. Arich baritone voice broke the silence. Mark could detect in its timbrethe speaking voice of the old East Indian, who, since his arrival inMadras, had twice cast his spell upon him. The air he was singing wasmelodious, and the words fell with clear cadence on the still noontide:

  "Light of those whose dreary dwelling Borders on the shades of death, Come and all Thy love revealing, Dissipate the clouds beneath."

  Mark listened fascinated. It seemed to him like a solemn invocation, apassionate prayer uttered by the lonely man. The echo of those simplewords was to come back to him in after years, recalling the day he stooda young hopeful civilian at the entrance of his life in the land, newand wonderful to him, listening to the cry of the old pilgrim who hadborne the burden and heat of that land all his years, and whose dearestaim had been to bring light to some of those "dreary dwellings"bordering on the shadow of death.

  The singing ceased, and Mark mounted one or two of the flatentrance-steps, deciding to make his way through the open doors andannounce himself. But the old man's sense of hearing was quick.

  "I thought I heard a step," he said, coming from the darkness within, awelcoming smile on his face. "My boys are all away at rice and siesta,no doubt."

  "I hope I'm not intruding, Mr. Morpeth. I thought I should like to beginmy calls by taking advantage of your kind invitation to come and have atalk with you."

  "A kind and gracious thought, Mr. Cheveril. You come to cheer a lonelyold man."

  "But you have many interests, many solaces, Mr. Morpeth. I heard yousinging like a true musician as I reached your verandah. In fact, I mustplead guilty to eavesdropping. Both the air and the words were new to meand held me."

  "Yes, it's a favourite of mine. But you from England must be familiarwith all Charles Wesley's hymns?"

  "I fear you credit me with more knowledge about many good things than Ican lay claim to, Mr. Morpeth. Hymnology has not been much of a studywith me."

  "Ah, but you must make the acquaintance of Charles Wesley. There is realpoetry in his hymns, much more than in his brother John's. They have abeautiful haunting power which the others lack. I was glad to find thatpearl among English deans--Stanley--acknowledging this in one of hisbooks lately. But what am I thinking about, Mr. Cheveril? This is notthe hour to linger in the verandah! Come and seek the coolness of myhomely den here."

  Mr. Morpeth led the way into the drawing-room of the house which hadbeen fitted up as a library. In the rows of teakwood dwarf-bookcases,raised from the ground by carved lions _couchants_ high enough above thematting to protect them from the ravages of white ants, were well-filledshelves of books. A case from home lay half unpacked on the floor. Aroomy writing-table with well-filled pigeon-holes showed traces ofmanifold labours. The furnishing of the room evidently belonged to aperiod when it was possible to get good wood, before so many of thegreat forest trees were cut down. The polished chunam of the walls toldof days when coolies were plentiful and lent the strength of theirsinewy arms to rub the shell-lime till it gleamed like marble, even inthe light of day.

  "What a delightful room!" exclaimed Mark. "It looks more English thananything I've seen here, and yet you've never been----" He pausedwithout finishing his sentence as he glanced at the brown-skinned man.

  "Never been in England? No, and I fear I never shall be, though it usedto be my dream in the years when I was too poor to carry it out. Yet Isee now there came a time when I ought to have gone to England--butregrets are vain," he added, and a look of trouble stole into his eyes.

  Habituated from his childhood to respect the English as a superior race,David Morpeth had suffered himself to be perhaps unduly crushed by thataristocracy of colour which he had so long reverenced. He had bent theknee before the prejudice against those of mixed blood, conscious ofhaving neither the will nor the power to contend against it. His lifetherefore had flowed into other channels. A solitary man, he hadattached himself to the domiciled community with all the fervour of atrue vocation. But for occasional friendly souls like Mrs. Fellowes, hehad hitherto experienced a great loneliness. He had begun life inCalcutta attached to a wealthy merchant firm, and by virtue of his highcharacter, was eventually received as a valued partner. When he retiredfrom active business, he elected to make his home in an old family housein Madras which had long been let, and around which was a colony of hisown people.

  Freyville, Vepery, soon became a centre of kindly offices for theEurasians. David Morpeth would indeed have been welcomed in othercircles, but, as Mrs. Fellowes had explained to Mark that morning, hehad given himself body and soul to the despised race.

  Mark Cheveril had been quick to note the chivalry of his heart, and itfound an echo in hi
s own.

  "Mrs. Fellowes told me you are so immersed in work for our people thatyou don't even take a holiday to the hills."

  "Ah, you see I have a large family to look after, but there is goodcheer in the work. You must not believe all you hear about theinevitable degradation of the mixed race."

  "I should be the last to believe anything of the kind. It would be adeath-knell to my hopes of helping them, but I must be a learner forsome time to come."

  "Ah, but a sympathetic one! That makes all the difference! It is thecruel inveterate prejudice against the whole class that has led to theirdegradation. They have accepted the verdict passed on them by the pureraces, and it has crushed them. Their tendency is to look down on manuallabour, and yet in industrial callings they cannot hold their own withthe inhabitants of the soil. The poor among them have sunk so low,wearing out hopeless lives in wretched crowded dens. Often only a shedwith a mat as covering suffices for a home. They have neither physicalnor mental energy to strike out careers for themselves. Inevitablepauperism we have, of course, as in England, and it is often encouragedby indiscriminate giving that plays into the hands of loafers, many ofthem pure Europeans who will not work, preferring to become beggars.It's easy enough to throw a bone to a dog and be done with it, and thewell-wishers of our people are well to watch with jealous eye thosetrouble-hating Europeans, ay, even among the clergy, who would salvetheir consciences by merely giving alms."

  "Yes, Mrs. Fellowes told me she used to be one of those till youenlightened her."

  "And now she proves a priceless helper to a class that troubles me evenmore than the loafers, and for which neither you nor I can do anything,"said Mr. Morpeth, with a frank smile. "Those scores of young women wholive sordid, useless, aimless lives, the daughters perhaps of decent,hard-working fathers. Those girls ought to be earning a livelihood, butfalse notions of 'shabby gentility'--shall we call it?--impels them tolounge about all day with the proverbial idle hands which the Evil Onefinds so handy. From poor warrens of homes they come forth bedecked intawdry finery that they spend their lives in sticking together. Faugh,it makes one ill to see them lolling about their pandals and ogling atpassers-by," Mr. Morpeth added, with a truly British shrug of hisshoulders which brought a smile to Mark Cheveril's face. "It is theseeyesores," he went on, "that Mrs. Fellowes and one or two like-mindedhelpers have tackled. Some of them don't even know how to write or addup a sum, though they are full-grown women, and their powers of readingare so lame that many among them cannot read the simplest story withease or pleasure, though, I understand, some are great readers anddevour 'yellow backs.' Mrs. Fellowes has instituted sewing classes, andwe are beginning to have higher ambitions. We mean to get them bred asprinters. The compositor's trade seems specially suited for women; andMrs. Fellowes has great plans of having them properly trained as ladies'nurses, and is already trying to enlist the Medical Staff on theirbehalf. Then we have a little pet scheme of getting the moredeft-fingered apprenticed to watchmakers and jewellers. We think theymight be in requisition for the zenanas where jewellery is so allimportant."

  "But what about the young men? Is it only the women who have sunk tosuch a state of do-nothingness?"

  "Ah, it is in them my hope lies! They are my sons," said Mr. Morpeth,with an eager smile. "To make them more manly, more truthful, to maketheir souls--that is what I live for now! You may guess then," he addedslowly, fixing his eyes on Mark, "how glad an hour struck for me thismorning when you made yourself known as one brave enough to come to therescue!"

  "As a humble volunteer only. But I recognise the claim, and here I am! Iwas going to ask you, surely there are many among the Eurasians whoought to make their way into various services? I have wondered, forinstance, why they should be debarred from the army ranks?"

  "And many of them have hereditary connection with the British Army too!I confess it has always seemed to me that connection should be fostered.The ranks of the Native Infantry are of course impossible. They couldnot live as sepoys. Some have distinguished themselves as lawyers,doctors, magistrates, and are in receipt of incomes that would astonishtheir forefathers. But, alas, many of these try to repudiate theirconnection with the despised race; from them we often get only sneeringwords and black looks."

  "Base, I call that! But all the more honour to the chivalrous helper!"

  "Well, I often think if they could only see what a short-sighted policytheir attitude is, even from a selfish point of view, I should notencounter the opposition I do when I seek posts for really capable youngmen. Why, they often prefer natives in offices! In fact, it is thedeclared policy of the Imperial Government that appointments should bereserved only for pure Indians. A false policy to my mind, and one thatin the end will not strengthen the British Raj! But I must not preachsedition to a Covenanted member of the Service! I am forgetting myself!"

  "By no means; your point of view is valuable to me. I seekenlightenment. It does seem the irony of fate that such a state ofmatters should exist. I feel it is a good omen, Mr. Morpeth, that Ishould so early in my day have met with an inspirer like you. I shallnot be able to give you the help I might had I not been going toPuranapore. But whatever I can do is at your service. You must let mehelp you with your various organisations. My income is much more thansufficient for my personal wants," said Mark, as he rose to go.

  "Well, rupees are needed, as Mrs. Fellowes will tell you. She is anexcellent beggar! But I hold now what I value more than silver andgold," said David Morpeth, as the young man laid his hand in his. "Thatis the clasp of a friendly hand. May it prove a hand that shall undoheavy burdens, loose the bands of wickedness, to let the oppressed gofree, and break every yoke, as the prophet calls on us to do in a voicethat rings through the ages!"

  As Mark Cheveril looked into the face of the lonely man, he felt thespell of the beauty of holiness, and was more glad than ever that he hadmade his first call on one so stimulating, though his name was not onMr. Alfred Rayner's visiting list.

  As he waited at the white gate while Mr. Morpeth's butler was signallingto the drowsy syce to bring up the carriage, Mark was accosted by ayoung woman who had evidently been hanging about the neighbourhood ofthe cactus-hedge which skirted the compound. She was a weedy-lookinggirl, with a slender swaying figure dressed in tawdry finery, but herface was undeniably pretty.

  "One of Mrs. Fellowes' _protegees_, no doubt," Mark decided, and wasabout to step into the carriage when the girl said breathlessly, keepingher eye fixed furtively on the white gate evidently in fear lest themaster of the house should put in an appearance:

  "I'm awfulee sorry to trouble you, sir, but I saw you in a loveleemail-phaeton with Mr. Alf Rayner last night, and when I spied yousteppin' in here I thought I should make so bold as to ask where he'slivin' now--Alf, I mean?"

  Mark felt distinctly surprised at this familiar mention of his friend'shusband, all the more as he recalled Mr. Rayner's remarks concerning thedomiciled community to which this girl evidently belonged.

  Perceiving his hesitation, the girl hastened to explain:

  "You see, sir, I've been away in Calcutta for months and months, so I'ma bit behind in news of my friends."

  "Then Mr. Rayner is your friend?"

  "He's all thatt," responded the girl, with a giggle which at oncedecided Mark that he was probably dealing with an impostor who mightgive trouble to his hostess.

  "I don't feel at liberty to give you the address you ask. But if youknow Mr. Morpeth, or Mrs. Fellowes, they will no doubt see you," addedMark hesitatingly.

  "Ho, so you think I'm 'a case,' do you? You want to hand me over tothem, I see! Don't you trouble! I'll find Mr. Rayner on my own account,"said the girl, tossing her head as she went off with rapid steps.