Olivia in India - O. Douglas
OLIVIA IN INDIA
O. DOUGLAS
"_When one discovers a happy look it is one's duty to tell one's
friends about it_."
JAMES DOUGLAS in _The Star_.
OLIVIA IN INDIA. By O. DOUGLAS
"Happy books are not very plentiful, and when one discovers a happy
book it is one's duty to tell one's friends about it, so that it makes
them happy too. My happy book is called 'Olivia.' It is by a certain
young woman who calls herself O. Douglas, though I suspect that it's
a pen-name.... Olivia can write the most fascinating letters you ever
read."--JAMES DOUGLAS in the _Star_. "Extremely interesting. To have
read this book is to have met an extremely likeable personality in the
author."--_Glasgow Herald_.
PENNY PLAIN. By O. DOUGLAS
"Penny Plain" is a story of life in a little town on the banks of the
Tweed. Jean Jardine, the heroine--who looks after her brothers in
their queer old house, "The Rigs," and is in turn looked after by
the old servant, Mrs. McCosh (from Glasgow), and Peter, the
fox-terrier--describes herself and her life as "penny plain," but with
the coming of Pamela Reston and her brother (who was what Mrs. McCosh
called "a Lord--no less"), everything is changed. There is love in the
book and laughter. "A very able and delightful book."--_The Times_.
"A delicious novel ... a triumphant success."--"A MAN OF KENT" in the
_British Weekly_.
THE SETONS. By O. DOUGLAS
"Portrayed with the humour and insight of a deep affection."--_The
Times_. "Elizabeth is a delightful creature who radiates the
pages."--_Glasgow Herald_. "To the reading public at large it
will prove a sheer delight."--_Glasgow Times_. "Full of
charm."--_Spectator_. "A delightful romance."--_Aberdeen Journal_.
OLIVIA IN INDIA
BY
O. DOUGLAS
AUTHOR OF "THE SETONS" "PENNY PLAIN" ETC.
1912
CONTENTS
PART I
THROUGH THE GATES OF THE EAST
PART II
FLESHPOTS OF CALCUTTA
PART III
THE SUNBURNED EARTH
PART IV
THE LAND OF REGRETS
THROUGH THE GATES OF THE EAST
_S.S. Scotia, Oct_. 19, 19--.
... This is a line to send off with the pilot. There is nothing to say
except "Good-bye" again.
We have had luncheon, and I have been poking things out of my cabin
trunk, and furtively surveying one--there are two, but the other seems
to be lost at present--of my cabin companions. She has fair hair and a
blue motor-veil, and looks quiet and subdued, but then, I dare say, so
do I.
I hope you are thinking of your friend going down to the sea in a
ship.
I feel, somehow, very small and lonely.
OLIVIA.
_S.S. Scotia, Oct_. 21. (_In pencil_.)
... Whatever you do, whatever folly you commit, never, never be
tempted to take a sea voyage. It is quite the nastiest thing you can
take--I have had three days of it now, so I know.
When I wrote to you on Saturday I had an uneasy feeling that in the
near future all would not be well with me, but I went in to dinner and
afterwards walked up and down the deck trying to feel brave. Sunday
morning dawned rain-washed and tempestuous, and the way the ship
heaved was not encouraging, but I rose, or rather I descended from
my perch--did I tell you I had an upper berth?--and walked with an
undulating motion towards my bath. Some people would have remained in
bed, or at least gone unbathed, but, as I say, I rose--mark, please,
the rugged grandeur of the Scots character--and such is the force of
example the fair-haired girl rose also. Before I go any further I must
tell you about this girl. Her name is Hilton, Geraldine Hilton, but as
that is too long a name and already we are great friends, I call her
G. She is very pretty, with the kind of prettiness that becomes more
so the more you look--and if you don't know what I mean I can't stop
to explain--with masses of yellow hair, such blue eyes and pink cheeks
and white teeth that I am convinced I am sharing a cabin with the
original Hans Andersen's Snow Queen. She is very big and most healthy,
and delightful to look at; even sea-sickness does not make her look
plain, and that, you will admit, is a severe test; and what is more,
her nature is as healthy and sweet as her face. You will laugh and say
it is like me to know all about anyone in three days, but two sea-sick
and home-sick people shut up in a tiny cabin can exhibit quite a lot
of traits, pleasant and otherwise, in three days.
Well, we dressed, and reaching the saloon, sank into our seats only to
leave again hurriedly when a steward approached to know if we would
have porridge or kippered herring! I know you are never sea-sick,
unlovable creature that you are, so you won't sympathize with us as
we lay limp and wretched in our deck-chairs on the damp and draughty
deck. Even the fact that our deck-chairs were brand-new, and had our
names boldly painted in handsome black letters across the back,
failed to give us a thrill of pleasure. At last it became too utterly
miserable to be borne. The sight of the deck-steward bringing round
cups of half-cold beef-tea with grease spots floating on the top
proved the last straw, so, with a graceful, wavering flight like a
woodcock, we zigzagged to our bunks, where we have remained ever
since.
I don't know where we are. I expect Ushant has slammed the door on us
long ago. Our little world is bounded by the four walls of the cabin.
All day we lie and listen to the swish of the waves as they tumble
past, and watch our dressing-gowns hanging on the door swing backwards
and forwards with the motion. At intervals the stewardess comes in, a
nice Scotswoman,--Corrie, she tells me, is her home-place,--and brings
the menu of breakfast--luncheon--dinner, and we turn away our heads
and say, "Nothing--nothing!" Our steward is a funny little man, very
small and thin, with pale yellow hair; he reminds me of a moulting
canary, and his voice cheeps and is rather canary-like too. He is
really a very kind little steward and trots about most diligently on
our errands, and tries to cheer us by tales of the people he has known
who have died of sea-sickness: "Strained their 'earts, Miss, that's
wot they done!" It isn't very cheerful lying here, looking out through
the port-hole, now at the sky, next at the sea, but what it would have
been without G. I dare not think. We have certainly helped each other
through this time of trial. It is a wonderful blessing, a companion in
misfortune.
But where, you may ask, is the third occupant of the cabin? Would it
not have been fearful if she, too, had been stretched on a couch of
languishing? Happily she is a good sailor, though she doesn't look it.
She is a little woman with a pale green complexion and a lot of sleek
black hair, and somehow gives one the impression of having a great
many more teeth than is usual. Her name is Mrs. Murray, and she is
going to India to rejoin her husband, who rejoices in the name of
Albert. Sometimes I feel a little sorry for Albert, but perhaps, after
all, he deserves what he has got. She has very assertive manners. I
think she regards G. and me as two young women who want keeping in
their places, though I am sure we are humble enough now whatever we
may be in a state of rude health. Happily she has friends on board,
so she rarely comes to the cabin except to tidy up before meals, and
afterwards to tell us exactly everything she has eaten. She seems to
have a good appetite and to choose the things that sound nastiest when
one is seedy.
No--I don't like Mrs. Murray much; but I dislike her hat-box more. It
is large and square and black, and it has no business in the cabin,
it ought to be in the baggage-room. Lying up here I am freed from its
tyranny, but on Saturday, when I was unpacking, it made my life a
burden. It blocks up the floor under my hooks, and when I hang things
up I fall over it backwards, when I sit on the floor, which I have to
do every time I pull out my trunk, it hits me savagely on the spine,
and once, when I tried balancing it on a small chest of drawers, it
promptly fell down on my head and I have still a large and painful
bump as a memento.
I wonder if you will be able to make this letter out? I am writing it
a little bit at a time, to keep myself from getting too dreadfully
down-hearted. G. and I have both very damp handkerchiefs under our
pillows to testify to the depressed state of our minds. "When I was at
home I was in a better place, but travellers must be content."
I don't even care to read any of the books I brought with me, except
now and then a page or two of _Memories and Portraits_. It comforts me
to read of such steady, quiet places as the Pentland Hills and of the
decent men who do their herding there.
Is it really only three days since I left you all, and you envied me
going out into the sunshine? Oh! you warm, comfortable people, how I,
in this heaving uncertain horror of a ship, envy you!
_25th_.
(_Still in pencil_.)
You mustn't think I have been lying here all the time. On Tuesday we
managed to get on deck, and on Wednesday it was warm and sunny, and we
began to enjoy life again and to congratulate ourselves on having got
our sea-legs. But we got them only to lose them, for yesterday the
wind got up, the ship rolled, we became every minute more thoughtful,
until about tea-time we retired in disorder. It didn't need the little
steward's shocked remark, "Oh my! You never 'ave gone back to bed
again!" to make us feel ashamed.
However, we reach Marseilles to-day at noon, and, glorious thought,
the ship will stand still for twenty-four hours. Also there will be
letters!
This isn't a letter so much as a wail.
Don't scoff. I know I'm a coward.
_S.S.Scotia, Oct. 27_.
... A fountain-pen is really a great comfort. I am writing with my new
one, so this letter won't, I hope, be such a puzzle to decipher as my
pencil scrawl.
We are off again, but now the sun shines from a cloudless sky on a sea
of sapphire, and the passengers are sunning themselves on deck like
snails after a shower. I'm glad, after all, I didn't go back from
Marseilles by train.
When we reached Marseilles the rain was pouring, but that didn't
prevent us ("us" means G. and myself) from bounding on shore. We found
a dilapidated _fiacre_ driven by a still more dilapidated _cocher_,
who, for the sum of six francs, drove us to the town. I don't know
whether, ordinarily, Marseilles is a beautiful town or an ugly one.
Few people, I expect, would have seen anything attractive in it this
dark, rainy October afternoon, but to us it was a sort of Paradise
regained. We had tea at a cafe, real French tea tasting of hay-seed
and lukewarm water, and real French cakes; we wandered through the
streets, stopping to stare in at every shop window; we bought violets
to adorn ourselves, and picture-postcards, and sheets of foreign
stamps for Peter, and all the time the rain poured and the street
lamps were cheerily reflected in the wet pavements, and it was so
damp, and dark, and dirty, and home-like, we sloppered joyfully
through the mud and were happy for the first time for a whole week.
The thought of letters was the only thing that tempted us back to the
ship.
I heard from all the home people, even Peter wrote, a most
characteristic epistle with only about half the words wrongly spelt,
and finishing with a spirited drawing of the _Scotia_ attacked by
pirates, an abject figure crouching in the bows being labelled "You!"
How I miss that young brother of mine! I ache to see his nubbly
features ("nubbly" is a portmanteau word and exactly describes them)
and the hair that no brush can persuade to lie straight, and to hear
the broad accent--a legacy from a nurse who hailed from a mining
village in Lithgow--which is such a trial to his relatives I have no
illusions about Peter's looks any more than he has himself. A too
candid relative commenting once on his excessive plainness in his
presence, he replied, "Yes, I know, but I've a nice good face." I
sometimes feel that if Peter turns out badly it will be greatly my
fault. Mother was so busy with many things that I naturally, as the
big sister, did most of the training, and it wasn't easy. When I read
to him on Sunday _Tales of the Covenanters_, he at once made up his
mind that he much preferred Claverhouse to John Brown of Priesthill,
an unheard-of heresy, and yawning vigorously, announced that he was as
dull as a bull and as sick as a daisy. One night when I went to hear
him say his prayers, he said:
"I'm not going to say any prayers,"
"Oh, Peter," I said, "why?"
"'Cos I've prayed for a whole year it would be snow on Christmas and
it wasn't--just rain."
"Then," I said very gravely, "God won't take care of you through the
night."
"Put me in my bed," said the little ruffian, "and I'll see;" and I was
awakened at break of day by a small figure in pyjamas dancing at my
bedside, shouting with unholy joy, "I'm here, you see, I'm here," and
it was weeks before I could bring him to a better state of mind.
So much younger than any of us--the other boys were at Oxford when he
was in his first knickerbockers--he was a lonely little soul and lived
in a world of his own, peopled by the creatures of his own imaginings.
His great friend was Mr. Bathboth of Bathboth--don't you like the
name?--and he would come in from a walk with his nurse, fling down his
cap and remark, "I've been seeing Mr. Bathboth in his own house--oh! a
lovely house. It's a _public-house_!"
I'm afraid he was a very low character this Mr. Bathboth. According to
Peter, "he smoked, and he swored, and he put his fingers to his nose
when his mother said he wasn't to," so we weren't surprised to hear of
his end. He was pulled up to heaven by a crane for bathing in the sea
on Sunday. Another of Peter's creatures was a bogle called "Windy
Wallops" who lived in the garrets and could only be repulsed with
hairbrushes. "Whippetie Stoowrie," on the other hand, was a kindly
creature inhabiting the nursery chimney, and given to laying small
offerings such as a pistol and caps or a sugar mouse on the fender. A
strange fancy once took Peter to dig graves for us all in the garden.
It wasn't that he disliked us; on the contrary, he considered he was
doing us an honour. My grave was suggestively near the rubbish-heap,
but he pointed out that it was because the lily-of-the-valley grew
there. One day he came in earthy but determined-looking. "Dodo didn't
send me anything for my birthday," he announced, "so I've _filled up
his grave_."
Now Peter has gone to school and has put away childish things, and the
desire to be a knight like Launcelot. He no longer babbles to himself
in such a way as to make strangers doubt of his sanity; and he
confided to me lately that when he grew up he hoped to lead a Double
Life. He who was brought up in Camelot, he who wept when Roland
at Roncesvalles blew his horn for the last time, now devours
blood-curdling detective stories, vile things in paper covers, which
he keeps concealed about his person, and whips out at odd moments.
What he hates is a book with the slightest hint of a love affair. I
found him disgustedly punching a book with his fist and muttering
(evidently to the hero), "I know you, I know you, you're in love with
her," in tones of bitter scorn. When I begin to speak about Peter I
can't stop, and forget how tiresome it must be for people to listen. I
apologize, but please bear with me when I enlarge upon this brother of
mine; I simply must, sometimes.
How good of you to write such a long letter! Of course I shall write
often and at length, but you must promise not to be bored, or expect
too much. I fear you won't get anything very wise or witty from
me. You know how limited I am. The fairies, when they came to my
christening, might have come better provided with gifts. But then, I
expect they have only a certain number of gifts for each family, so
I don't in the least blame them for giving the boys the brains and
giving me--what? At the moment I can't think of anything they did give
me except a heart that keeps on the windy side of care, as Beatrice
puts it; and hair that curls naturally. I have no grudge against the
fairies. If they had given me straight hair and brains I might have
been a Suffragist and shamed my kin by biting a policeman; and _that_
would have been a pity.
_Later_.
G. and I are crouched in a corner, very awed and sad. A poor man died
suddenly yesterday from heart failure, and the funeral is just over. I
do hope I shall never again see a burial at sea. It was terrible. The
bell tolled and the ship slowed down and almost stopped, while the
body, wrapped in a Union Jack, was slipped into the water, committed
to the deep in sure and certain hope of a blessed resurrection. In a
minute it was all over.
The people are laughing and talking again; the dressing-bugle has
sounded; things go on as if nothing had happened. We are steaming
ahead, leaving the body--such a little speck it looked on the great
water--far behind.
It is the utter loneliness of it that makes me cry!
_S.S. Scotia, Oct. 29_.
... This won't be a tidy letter, for I am sitting close beside the
rail--has it a nautical name? I don't know--and every few minutes the
spray comes over and wets the paper and incidentally myself. _And_
the fountain-pen! I greatly fear it leaks, for my middle finger is
blackened beyond hope of cleansing, and though not ten minutes ago Mr.
Brand inked himself very comprehensively filling it for me, already it
requires frequent shakings to make it write at all. I thought it would
be a blessing, it threatens to become a curse. I foresee that very
shortly I shall descend again to a pencil, or write my letters with
the aid of scratchy pens and fat, respectable ink-pots in the stuffy
music-room.
You will have two letters from Port Said. The one I wrote you two days
ago finished in deep melancholy, but to-day it is so good to be alive
I could shout with joy. I woke this morning with a jump of delight,
and even Mrs. Albert Murray--she of the hat-box and the many
teeth--could not irritate me, and you can't think how many irritating
ways the woman has. It is 10 a.m. and we have just come up from
breakfast, and have got our deck-chairs placed where they will catch
every breeze (and some salt water), and, with a pile of books and two
boxes of chocolate, are comfortably settled for the day.
You ask about the passengers.
We have all sorts and conditions. Quiet people who read and work
all day; rowdy people who never seem happy unless they are throwing
cushions or pulling one another downstairs by the feet; painfully
enterprising people who get up sports, sweeps, concerts, and dances,
and are full of a tiresome, misplaced energy; bridge-loving people who
play from morning till night; flirtatious people who frequent dark
corners; happy people who laugh; sad people who sniff; and one man who
can't be classed with anyone else, a sad gentleman, his hair standing
fiercely on end, a Greek Testament his constant and only companion.
We pine to know who and what he is and where he is going. Yesterday I
found myself beside him at tea. I might not have existed for all the
notice he took of me. "Speak to him," said G. in my ear. "You don't
dare!"
Of course after that I had to, so pinching G's arm to give myself
courage, I said in a small voice, "Are you enjoying the voyage?"
He turned, regarded me with his sad prominent eyes. "Do I look as if
I enjoyed it?" asked this Monsieur Melancholy, and went back to his
bread-and-butter. G. choked, and I finished my tea hurriedly and in
silence.
Nearly everyone on board seems nice and willing to be pleasant. I
am on smiling terms with most and speaking terms with many, but one
really sees very little of the people outside one's own little set. It
is odd how people drift together and make cliques. There are eight in
our particular set. Colonel and Mrs. Crawley, Major and Mrs. Wilmot;
Captain Gordon, Mr. Brand, G., and myself. The Crawleys, the Wilmots,
and Captain Gordon are going back after furlough; Mr. Brand and G. and
I are going only for pleasure and the cold weather. Our table is much
the merriest in the saloon. Mrs. Crawley is a fascinating woman; I
never tire watching her. Very pretty, very smart with a pretty wit,
she has the most delightfully gay, infectious laugh, which contrasts
oddly with her curiously sad, unsmiling eyes, Mrs. Wilmot has a
Madonna face. I don't mean one of those silly, fat-faced Madonnas one
sees in the Louvre and elsewhere, but one's own idea of the Madonna;
the kind of face, as someone puts it, that God must love.
She isn't pretty and she isn't in the least smart, but she is just a
kind, sweet, wise woman. Her husband is a cheery soul, very big and
boyish and always in uproarious spirits. Captain Gordon makes a good
listener. Mr. Brand, although he must have left school quite ten years
ago, is still very reminiscent of Eton and has a school-boyish taste
in silly rhymes and riddles. Colonel Crawley, a stern and somewhat
awe-inspiring man, a distinguished soldier, I am told, hates
_passionately_ being asked riddles, and we make him frantic at table
repeating Mr. Brand's witticisms. He sits with a patient, disgusted
face while we repeat,
"Owen More had run away
Owin' more than he could pay;
Owen More came back one day
Owin' more";
and when he can bear it no longer leaves the table remarking
_Titbits_. He had his revenge the other day, when the ship was rolling
more than a little. We had ventured to the saloon for tea and were
surveying uncertainly some dry toast, when Colonel Crawley came in.
"Ah!" he said, "Steward! Pork chops for these ladies." The mere
thought proved the thing too much, we fled to the fresh air--tealess.
I meant this to be a very long letter, but this pen, faint yet
pursuing, shows signs of giving out. I have to shake it every second
word now.
The bugle has gone for lunch, and G. who has been sound asleep for the
last hour, is uncoiling herself preparatory to going down.
So good-bye.
_S.S. Scotia, Nov. 1_.
... All day we have glided through the Canal. Imagine a shining band
of silver water, a band of deepest blue sky, and in between a bar of
fine gold which is the desert--and you have some idea of what I am
looking at. Sometimes an Arab passes riding on a camel, and I can't
get away from the feeling that I am a child again looking at a highly
coloured Bible picture-book on Sabbath afternoons.
We landed at Port Said yesterday morning. People told us it was a
dirty place, an uninteresting place, a horribly dull place, not worth
leaving the ship to see, but it was our first glimpse of the East and
we were enchanted. The narrow streets, the white domes and minarets
against the blue sky, the flat roofs of the houses, the queer shops
with the Arabs shouting to draw attention to their wares, and, above
all, the new strange smell of the East, were, to us, wonderful and
fascinating.
When we got ashore the sun was shining with a directness hitherto
unknown to us, making the backs of our unprotected heads feel somewhat
insecure, so we went first to a shop where we spied exposed to sale a
rich profusion of topis. In case you don't know, a topi is a sun-hat,
a white thing, large and saucer-like, lined with green, with cork
about it somewhere, rather suggestive of a lifebelt; horribly
unbecoming but quite necessary.
A very polite man bowed us inside, and we proceeded on our quixotic
search for a topi not entirely hideous. Half an hour later we came out
of the shop, the shopman more obsequious than ever, not only wearing
topis, but laden with boxes of Turkish Delight, ostrich-feather fans,
tinsel scarves, and a string of pink beads which he swore were coral,
but I greatly doubt it. We had an uneasy feeling as we bought the
things that perhaps we were foolish virgins, but before the afternoon
was very old we were sure of it. You wouldn't believe how heavy
Turkish Delight becomes when you carry half a dozen boxes for some
hours under a blazing sun, and I had a carved book-rest under one arm,
and G. had four parcels and a green umbrella. To complete our disgust,
after weltering under our purchases for some time we saw in a shop
exactly the same things much cheaper. G. pointed a wrathful finger,
letting two parcels fall to do it. "Look at that," she said. "I'm
going straight back to tell the man he's cheated us." With difficulty
I persuaded her it wasn't worth while, and tired and dusty we
sank--no, we didn't sink, they were iron chairs--we sat down hard on
chairs outside a big hotel and demanded tea immediately. Some of the
ship people were also having tea at little tables, and a party of
evil-looking Frenchmen were twanging guitars and singing sentimental
songs for pennies. While we were waiting a man--an Arab, I
think--crouched beside us and begged us to let him read our hands
for half a crown, and we were weak enough to permit it. You may be
interested to know that I am to be married "soon already" to a high
official with gold in his teeth. It sounds ideal. G. was rather awed
by the varied career he sketched for her. After tea, which was long in
coming and when it came disappointing, we had still some time, so we
hailed a man driving a depressed-looking horse attached to a carriage
of sorts, and told him to drive us all round. He looked a very wicked
man, but it may have been the effect of his only having one eye, for
he certainly had a refined taste in sights. When we suggested that we
would like to see the Arab bazaar he shook his head violently, and
instead drove us along dull roads, stopping now and again to wave a
vague whip towards some building, remarking in most melancholy tones
as he did so, "The English Church"--"The American Mission."