Chapter VI: Little Foes

ALICIA was up in time to see the travellers off; with her own hands she filled the provision-basket, and helped Robin to pack her father’s portmanteau. She was resolved to show herself to be a capable, energetic missionary Mem. All her idle days were over: Alicia had grand designs in her head. She looked so bright, animated, and happy as she bade the travellers good-bye, that Robin, as he walked beside his father’s tattu, laughingly observed, “I think that our pretty exotic is taking root already, and promises to climb up bravely. To get so soon over the loss of a piano, the breaking of bottles, and the smashing of porcelain, shows a spirit worthy of Harold’s bride.”

What was one of the principal causes of Alicia’s cheerfulness on that Friday morning may be seen from a letter which she wrote to a sister in England on the following Monday.

“_February 28, 1868._

“DEAREST LIZZIE,—I promised to give you a full and particular
description of my new home at Talwandi; but I would rather delay
so doing till I have brought some order out of chaos, some
beauty out of confusion. Everything is now in the rough. I am
going to be so busy, so desperately busy, that I am not at all
sorry that my father-in-law and Robin are away on a preaching
tour. I want to give them a grand surprise on their return, and
a surprise also to my Harold, who is so dreadfully busy all day
long with his native boys or his translations that he has no
time to consider whether he lives in a palace or a wigwam.

“But first I must tell you what I think of Harold’s father,
though I have seen but little of him as yet. Mr. Hartley is
tall, but stoops slightly, as if from weakness. He is pale and
thin and somewhat wrinkled—less from age, I think, than from
toil. Harold has certainly a likeness to his parent; but, oh! I
trust that my noble-looking husband, whose form is so erect,
whose step so elastic, may never have such a worn-out
appearance, such a faint voice, as the veteran worker. I feel a
very great respect, almost reverence, for my new father; but he
inspires me with something a little like awe. Mr. Hartley is
almost too polite, for in the courtesy which he shows to me as a
lady he seems half to forget that I am his daughter. I should
like him to clap me on the shoulder and call me ‘Pussy,’ as dear
papa used to do. Mr. Hartley _will_ rise when I enter the room,
nor resume his chair until I am seated, though I would often
prefer standing or running about. The dear man listens with such
courtesy to what I say that I dare hardly open my lips lest I
should utter something silly. Then I feel that Mr. Hartley lives
in a sphere so very much higher than my own, that I am humbled
and a little constrained by his presence. Perhaps when I know
him better this feeling may wear away. At present, my father
appears to me something too high and spiritual for earth—like
the rainbow which we admire but cannot touch. Yet Robin is as
playful as a kitten with his father, who evidently enjoys his
fun. Harold regards his parent with much veneration and love. It
is beautiful to see the confidence and affection existing
between father and sons.

“To quit this subject, I must tell you of the grand work which I
started last Friday, almost as soon as the travellers had left
us. My Harold knows nothing about it; I only said to him as he
went off to the school which he holds (in a mango grove, I
believe), ‘Please give Nabi Bakhsh and Mangal strict orders to
obey me in whatever I tell them to do.’ ‘I am sure that I may
trust my little queen with despotic power,’ replied Harold,
smiling. ‘Your subjects shall obey your commands, if you can
make them understand them.’

“No sooner had my husband left me than I ordered a big bowl, or
rather my basin, full of paste, and flew off to my work in my
own little home. Foreseeing, like a prudent housewife, that
nothing elegant could be procured at Talwandi, I have brought a
quantity of the loveliest wall-paper that ever I saw—pale lilac
ground, as smooth as satin, with a pattern of roses twining over
a trellis of gold. Nothing can be more tasteful, or more suited
to make ‘Paradise’ (as I have named our little bungalow) a sort
of fairy bower. I had Nabi Bakhsh and Mangal to help me in the
work of papering my room; for though I have brought a huge
brush, I could not do all the pasting myself. I could, however,
trust nothing that required common sense to my assistants: for I
found Mangal putting my roses upside down; and when I bade Nabi
Bakhsh hang my pictures on some brass nails which Robin had
fixed in the wall, I saw the drawing representing our church so
placed that the tower and trees hung downwards, suspended, as it
seemed, from the sky! Of course, it was absurd to begin to hang
up pictures before I had papered the room; but I did so because
it gave me such pleasure to see them whenever I glanced up from
my work. Nor could I resist the pleasure of filling the
book-shelves (also Robin’s kind thought) with my very prettiest
books.

“How I laboured that day! how I swung my big brush, and dashed
the paste over the brick-work! You would have laughed, Lizzie,
to have seen your Ailie perched on a ladder, now stopping to
look down to direct or scold her assistants, now dabbing paste
on the ugly bare wall, which was not graced with even a coating
of whitewash. I worked and worked till hands were tired and head
was throbbing and eyes aching from looking up. Then I stopped to
admire my rosy bower, and went on again with fresh vigour. I
pasted away as long as the light lasted, and then, not wishing
Harold to see the work incomplete, I left my huge roll of paper
(a good deal lessened in size) on the floor, sent Mangal to look
after cooking the dinner, quitted the house, and locked the door
behind me. No one should enter ‘Paradise’ as long as one brick
remained uncovered in its bare ugliness in that room.

“I was at first—though dreadfully tired—in high glee when Harold
returned. He was tired too, and needed his meal, which Mangal
took ages to prepare. It had never occurred to me that the
khansamar could not cook while he was pasting. When the food
came at last, I took to shivering instead of eating, and my
looks awakened alarm in the mind of my tender husband. Harold
took my hand; it burned with fever, and I was obliged to confess
to a pain in my head. It appeared that I had taken a chill.
Harold was uneasy at my having even a touch of Indian fever so
soon after my arrival. I was condemned to imprisonment and a
strong dose of bitter quinine. Do not be alarmed, dear Lizzie;
mine was only a passing attack, and it gave me the luxury (was
it selfish to enjoy it?) of more of the company of my beloved. I
believe that the school-lads had a holiday on Saturday, for
Harold scarcely quitted my side. I was very much better on
Sunday; but my dear jailer would not let me quit my room, and
gave me a little English service there. It was a happy, peaceful
Sabbath to me. The time when Harold was away holding religious
converse with a young Hindu who reads the gospel, I spent in
learning a good many verses from the Urdu Bible, which, when I
repeated them in the evening, won for me the prized reward of my
husband’s praise. To-day (Monday) I had hoped to go on with my
papering work; but as there happened to be a rough wind, and the
fever had left a cold on my chest, Harold bade me keep one day
more in the house.

“‘I forgot to ask you for the key of our new bungalow,’ said he;
‘pray give it to me now, for we must keep all the doors open
during the daytime, and have a large fire burning within. I had
a tree cut down on purpose to have plenty of wood to burn. I
ought to have seen to this matter before; but give me the key
now, please, my love.’

“Now, for Harold to have had the key would have spoilt the
charming surprise which I was preparing for him. This would
never do; so I begged my husband not to wait for the key, and I
promised to send Nabi Bakhsh to throw open all the doors and
pile up roaring fires. Harold went off to his inquirers, and
I—shall I confess it to you, Lizzie?—I became so much interested
in my studies that I quite forgot my promise. There was no
feeling of cold to remind me that fires may be needed, for the
days are quite warm, to me even hot, though at night the air
becomes fresh. It is now too late to have the doors opened, so I
am spending the twilight, before Harold returns, in writing to
you. I shall be too busy to-morrow pasting and papering to do
more than add a line to tell of the success of my work.

“Harold is later than usual; he is probably having a religious
conversation with Kripá Dé, whom he thinks almost, if not quite,
a Christian in heart. I have only seen the lad once or twice,
but I am exceedingly struck with his appearance. Kripá is as
fair as an Englishwoman, only the complexion has in it no tinge
of colour; it is, I hear, one not uncommon among Kashmiris.
Kripá Dé has a delicacy of feature and grace of—There is the
step of my Harold! no more writing to-day.

“_Tuesday._—O Lizzie, I little thought how this long letter was
to end,—how my bright fancies, my eagerly pursued occupation,
were to bring nothing but disappointment! I have only too much
leisure for writing to-day, and must relieve my mortified spirit
by telling my troubles to you.

“I was almost impatient for Harold to go out to his work, so
eager was I to resume mine. I hurried off to my little house,
after calling to Mangal to prepare a fresh supply of paste, and
asking Nabi Bakhsh to get some one to bring plenty of logs for a
fire (coals are unknown in Talwandi). I knew that I had been
imprudent in not having had a fire lighted on Friday, and that I
had brought fever on myself and trouble on my husband by
neglecting this simple precaution. I will not be so foolish
again.

“Well, to go on with my story. I turned the key in the lock of
my door, pushed it open, and entered the room where I had left
my fancy paper, some on the wall, some on the floor. Yes, I
entered with eager step, and then—stood simply aghast. Ugly dark
damp-marks had completely marred what I, with such labour, had
put up but three days ago; and worse still, my pictures, my
choice pictures, were almost completely spoilt. I felt inclined
to sit down and cry; but to have given such way to my vexation
would have been unworthy of Harold’s wife. It was a comfort, I
thought, that the larger portion of the beautiful wall-paper had
not yet been put up; _that_, at least, should be kept to be used
after the house should have become quite dry. I went up to my
large roll (which, you remember, I had left on the brick floor),
and saw—oh, how shall I describe what I saw with mingled
astonishment and disgust! The paper, with its roses and golden
trellis, was, as it were, _alive_ with odious little white
maggots. It almost sickened me to see them; I could not touch
one of the horrid things. I called loudly for Nabi Bakhsh, and
when he appeared I could only point to the disgusting mass on
the floor. ‘Dimak,’ he said calmly, as if there were nothing
astonishing in the sight. Then Nabi Bakhsh walked leisurely to
the wall, and knocked down a quantity of branching excrescences
of something like mud, in shape a little resembling coral, but
of the colour of mire. This, too, was alive with grubs, and
again the Moslem said, ‘Dimak.’ There is no danger of my ever
forgetting that hateful word.

“As I stood almost petrified with this my first introduction to
white ants, one of the plagues of India, I was startled by the
unexpected entrance of Harold. He had returned for some book,
and seeing the door open had walked in.

“Harold asked no questions; he saw at a glance what had
happened. ‘Call the mihtar [sweeper], and have all this cleared
away at once,’ he said to Nabi Bakhsh. Then gently taking my
hand, my husband led me out into the open veranda. I was too
much agitated to be able to speak. I attempted to smile, but
failed.

“‘I am very sorry to find the white ants in possession already,’
said Harold. ‘We must fight them in this bungalow, as we have
fought them in my father’s. Happily a good supply of tar is
left; some shall immediately be put round the lower part of the
walls, and below the rafters, or the wood-work will become the
prey of greedy little foes.’

“‘The rafters!’ I murmured faintly; ‘would the dimak bring down
our very roof over our heads?’

“‘If we gave them time and opportunity they would do so,’ was
the not consolatory reply. ‘But be assured, my Alicia, that
active measures shall be taken at once.’

“And what was the result of these active measures, Lizzie? I
have just come in from looking at my poor, certainly misnamed,
Paradise. All my pretty paper has been pulled down and cleared
away, and men are putting a funeral band of hideous black all
round the upper part of the walls, along the rafters, and a few
inches above the floor. There is a bespattering of the tar in
unsightly spots even where it is not supposed to be needed. The
whole effect is horrible, and my new bungalow smells like an old
steamer. I do not know whether to laugh or to cry.”

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