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

by Janet Milne Rae

  CHAPTER XII.

  The houses of the English official residents in Puranapore were all infairly close neighbourhood, though each was surrounded by its own amplecompound. They were mostly thatched bungalows with deep verandahs. TheJudge's house was the only "up-stair" house, as the natives call a houseof two storeys. It was also the largest in the station, being usuallyappropriated by the Collector; but Mr. Worsley, being solitary, hadgiven it to the Goldrings, and elected to live in a small flat-roofedbungalow, grey and colourless, with a pillared verandah unrelieved bycreepers like those which adorned Mrs. Samptor's entrance. TheGovernment office stood a little further down the road, a group of greystone buildings of the Georgian period, surrounded by a grove ofcocoanut palms. At one end a great banyan tree, with its branchesgrowing downwards on the brown grass and its dense foliage of glossygreen, made a chosen retreat for the various native witnesses and thepolice peons in attendance at the Court House. There they squatted, atebetel-nut, and chattered in their native Tamil; while a group of crowsperched near listened to all with their heads to one side, always readyto pounce on any food within their reach.

  The ancient town itself was quite a mile distant from the Europeanquarter, not even a mud village intervened, so the English residentswere more divided than usual from the native population. To none wasthis topographical isolation more welcome than to the Collector.

  "It is, in fact, my reason for preferring to camp in this sleepyhollow," he explained to his new Assistant as they walked homewardsafter Mrs. Samptor's tea-party. "You don't know what a relief it is tobe out of reach of all the tom-toms and shrill street cries and theconstant hum of the bazaars, not to speak of the vile odours."

  "I quite took a liking to the scent of the charcoal fumes of the littlenative villages studded about the Madras roads," said Mark.

  "I loathe them and all Indian scents--even the scent of the garlandsthey bedeck one with at their _tomashas_ are odious to me, and I hastento seek relief in a cheroot. But I confess I have a liking for myKutchery on horseback. One can mow down a lot of cases, listen to scoresof grievances in the open, under a good spreading tree. Everything comesbefore one on tour, you will find. In fact, we are reckoned a kind ofterrestrial providence, expected to redress every grievance from amurrain among the cattle to a rival claim on a water-spout in thebazaar. Our territory includes many thousand square miles. It's no joke!But being obliged to itinerate is, after all, the saving grace of acivilian--it's a sort of vagabondage which I like--or did before thespring went out of me," added the Collector with a gloomy air. "Take myadvice, Cheveril, choose the Revenue in preference to the Judicial sideof the civilian's life. I can see it will suit you best. I believe ourgood little Judge there would grow several inches taller if he went ontour, and was not so devoted a slave to his cases and abstracts and hisblue books. Much of that red-tape business will be your bitter portionfor some time to come, young man, I warn you!"

  "My apprenticeship, no doubt! I expect these files are useful tobeginners, though they seem to spell drudgery later on."

  "Very neatly put, they do spell drudgery with a vengeance! They oughtnot to be piled on the shoulders of Indian officials as they are. Infact, they're more often like the lash of the slave-driver than decentbusiness. I wish some of our young reformers would organise a bigbonfire of them--say simultaneously throughout the length and breadth ofIndia--a sort of red-tape mutiny! But remember, some men live and moveand have their being in those said files! They are poetry to Goldring,for instance, and to some of the younger men, I notice. I suspect it isthe old sinners like me that chafe most against that side of the work."

  "Well, I'm curious to know what my experience of it all will prove,"said Mark. "I don't think I'll ever find much poetry in files, though,after all, it depends on their subject-matter."

  "Yes, tragical enough tales are often compressed into blue books, andcomedies too, for that matter. You'll find things go on verymethodically in our Revenue Office down there, Cheveril. I've got someexcellent Mahomedan clerks who do their part like clock-work. I confessI prefer them to Hindus. They are more manly for one thing, and one getsa shade nearer to some understanding of them than with the subtle thoughchildish Hindu. But I am in the minority here. The doctor is alwaysshaking his head over the Mussulman population in the town, declaringthey have the upper hand. Well, I own as far as Moideen is concerned, hehas the upper hand of me. There he is anxiously looking out for us, incase we are going to be late and his dinner should fall short of theperfection he aims at."

  "What a commanding figure he is, I noticed him whenever I drove up toyour door. So he is a Mahomedan! He certainly contrasts favourably withmy Hindu, who has got a cringing air I don't like."

  "There's no cringing in my major-domo! He once rather affronted me yearsago. A lady, rather an old campaigner, happened to be dining with us,and thought Moideen had spilt wine on her dress. Pointing it out to theman, she said witheringly: 'You ape!' For once Moideen, who was then inthe dew of his youth, forgot his manners. Beating his breast and withflashing eyes he shouted: 'I not one ape, I one man!' It was anunpleasant moment, I really feared the furious Mussulman might do thelady some injury. But age and experience have sobered him. He hasdeveloped into the most perfect of servants. I've no doubt he caterswell for himself as well as for me, as Mrs. Samptor sometimes attemptsto hint, but I suddenly become stone deaf. There are some truths onecan't afford to listen to. 'Where ignorance is bliss, _et cetera_!'"

  "Don't you think there's a good deal of fallacy in that couplet, Mr.Worsley? It's like pulling the blinds down when one's garden is beingravaged by a black goat--like the culprit Mrs. Samptor was chasing thisafternoon."

  "Just a case in point! For my part, I much prefer having the blinds downto scrambling up a tree to fight with a goat as that little lady did.Yet I admire her pluck! Well, here we are, Cheveril, in my den where Ikeep the blinds down metaphorically as well as literally as much aspossible," said the Collector, as he walked up the broad grey steps ofhis bungalow which looked a more cheerful abode when brilliantly litthan in the daytime. "Moideen knows I'm a lover of light. He illuminatesfor me every night as if I were a light-keeper."

  The dingy dining-room was transformed, lit up by tall candelabra; thecandles all shaded by glass. The table glittered with exquisitely keptold English silver plate, flowers artistically arranged, glancingcut-glass, spotless English damask; "no country tablecloths my masterhaving," Moideen was wont to boast to the other boys of the station. "Imaking list to best shops in London, no bazaar bobbery here."

  But not all the handsome table appointments, the perfect cooking, thefaultless waiting of Moideen and his satellites could banish from theyoung Assistant's mind the thought that his chief was a weary,disenchanted man, and all the talk of the evening only served to deepenthat impression.

  Next morning, when he stood in the writing-room, into which thedrawing-room of the house had been converted, and where Mr. Worsleyalways sat, he noticed that on the shelves for books there was an entireabsence of any kind of literature, only a few old magazines andnewspapers, and some rows of blue books, though according to his avowalon the previous evening, these were his special detestation. Some bookson sport there were, but not a single volume of poetry, history, or evena novel. Mark felt glad to remember that his own boxes were bringing afairly liberal supply of mental food, and that he had arranged for thedue arrival of his favourite magazines. How good it would be if theCollector came to find in his bungalow a source of pleasure which wascertainly absent from his own! What a happiness that would prove,thought Mark, as he paced up and down the verandah after early tea!

  Moideen presently appeared with soft tread and searching eye to bringhim the unwelcome news that "Master not done sleep last night, fevercoming, not able to get out of bed this day." He also brought thesuggestion that the young Assistant should find his own way to theGovernment Offices. This Mark was nothing loth to do, though he feltsorry to be without his chief on his first day of initiation.

/>   The inevitable office-bandy was in attendance, and after five minutesdrive he stood within the grey portals, and was welcomed by the Judge,who showed him round, and introduced him to the subordinates of hisdepartment. Soon he was seated at his table ready to begin work.

  Several Hindus were waiting for an interview. All of these seemed towish to see the Collector, and showed disappointment at his absence. Onevisitor was announced, however, who, Mark noticed, showed no regret atthe chief's absence, but looked with keen interest at himself such asnone of the others had evinced. Glancing at his card, he read the name"Zynool Sahib." Surely, thought Mark, I have heard that name before!Yes, he was the Puranapore client whom Rayner had mentioned. The man hadevidently heard of him from that source also, and was now come to takethe measure of the new Assistant. Beady twinkling black eyes peered outfrom bulging flesh, the coarse red lips were so thick that they showedeach curve in spite of the dense bushy beard and moustache. Over onecolossal shoulder was flung a green cashmere shawl, richly embroidered.The folds of his white turban looked a work of art compared to theswathes of muslin which enveloped the heads of the Hindu visitors. Hewas evidently a person of importance in his own eyes, a man of substanceprobably, but not seemingly a favourite, Mark decided, observing thatthe Hindus, who still lingered in the hope of seeing the Collector,exchanged ominous glances on his appearance, and one after another madetheir exit by another door, showing that they declined any contact withthe new-comer.

  There was a malicious twinkle in Zynool Sahib's eyes when he remarkedthat after all they were obliged to re-enter by the main door throughwhich he had come to secure their sandals, which native courtesydemanded should be left at the entrance.

  Mark's quick eye noted that the present visitor's feet were encased inwhite stockings and shining patent leather shoes, which he retained. Itwas a very small bit of dumb show, but the young man felt immediatesympathy with the humbler owners of the sandals, and turned with aslight sense of prejudice to listen to the owner of the plethoric voice.

  Zynool Sahib expressed himself in pompous English of a sort, and madepolite inquiries as to "His Honour the noble Collector," begging thatexpressions of his regret for his illness should be conveyed to him,and hoping that he would be well enough to grant his "humble slave" anaudience one lucky day before long. He then assured Mark in flowingperiods that he was desirous of becoming, from this day henceforth, the"humble slave of the present company," as he designated the youngAssistant. Mark thanked him rather coldly, and began to wonder what theman's morning mission really was, when suddenly it was revealed to him.

  "What am I saying?" jerked Zynool, shaking his bushy beard. "I amstoopid as an owl! This truly is my best lucky day, and not another! Fordoes not this lucky day give me the acquaintance of one who it isrevealed to me is the friend of my patron, my guiding star, who but theLa'yer Rayner, Pleader, High Court of Madras? I humbly beg on my bendedknees," he added, which expression, be it understood, was symbolical, asMark perceived with relief, fearing that otherwise it might fall to himto assist to raise the mass of flesh from the ground.

  "I beg on my prostrate knees," he repeated, bending forward and claspinghis fat hands together, "that your Honour will embody La'yer Rayner inyour own redoubtable person to me, your humble slave, and willhenceforward defend me from all the plots and persecutions of my townenemies who buzz about me like evil flies, who are many and strong asthe sands of the sea. And for this end your humble slave will nowproceed to touch your palm."

  Fixing his beady eyes on Mark he slowly drew out a well-filled silkenpurse through whose meshes pieces of gold glittered. He bent low beforethe Assistant's chair and laid the purse by his side on the table. Theyoung civilian flushed, then turned pale. He had heard of the offeringof bribes by natives, but surely it was early in his day for such anincident to happen! Did he look such a vulnerable person, he askedhimself with a sense of dismay. Rising from his chair, he folded hishands behind his back, and said in a tone of repressed anger: "Put thatpurse in your pocket instantly. Englishmen don't take bribes!"

  The Mussulman's amber face assumed a blacker hue. For a moment he stoodas if he felt himself trapped, then licking his red lips quickly, hisbeady eyes shot fiery glances at the young man as he muttered in reply:"No, but half-castes do!"

  It was the first bearing of the cross which Mark Cheveril had toundergo. He waxed a shade paler, and seemed about to speak, then hechecked himself and silently pointed to the door.

  The man's demeanour instantly changed.

  "Pardon your humble slave! He has been misled," he stammered. "By holyMahomet, I'll make the dog that misled me pay for this!"

  Mark still pointed silently to the door. Zynool cast one long searchingglance upon him, regarding him evidently with roused curiosity from topto toe. Then, salaaming profoundly, he sighed noisily and waddled outwith a baulked expression on his cunning face.