"That was not very complimentary toyou, was it?" said Mayne, turning to Nancy.
"Oh, she didn't intend it in that way," protested the girl. "She says a great deal she does not mean—so do I!" and she laughed. "There are no end of attractions at 'Clouds Rest'; a billiard table, an electric piano, the motor, and a 'mug' cook, and here we have so little to offer. No indeed—I'mnotfishing! but when father has an extra heavy day, and you are idle, I do hope you will not worry aboutus—but just take Finchie at her word, and ride over to 'Clouds Rest.'"
The tennis party had dissolved, dinner was an agreeable memory, and Mayne with his new friends, sat out in the broad verandah, and gazed at a moon,—which, like a pale golden disc, hung midway in the dark blue sky.
The two men were smoking, Sam was circling uneasily round his unheeding mistress, when she suddenly said:
"Do tell me, Captain Mayne, what you think of Mrs. Ffinch—isn't she charming?"
"She seems to be awfully clever, and amusing, and full of go."
"Yes," said Travers, "she manages the whole community with the very best intentions. I can't help feeling a little sorry for her."
"Sorry, father!" exclaimed Nancy, "whysorry?"
"Well, you see, she has no children, no positive home interests; her wonderful talents and exertions, are squandered among strangers. Ffinch has made a fortune—some saytwo—and yet he won't stir. He is rooted in coffee; so poor woman, is she! If he only would take her to London, there backed up by his long purse, she would be in her natural element; an admirable organizer of important functions, bazaars, charity balls, and political receptions; dealing with affairs on a grand scale, instead of running our tuppenny-halfpenny concerns."
"But these, no doubt with success?" said Mayne.
"Well, yes, on the whole—there have been one or two lapses, but a sacrificial goat was always on the spot!"
"Father!" broke in Nancy, "how can you be so horrid? You are talking like an odious cynic. Finchie has done no end of wonderful things—patching up all the quarrels, and getting people into good posts. She is always right—if ever she wants a scapegoat—here amI!"
"Noble child!" Travers ejaculated, and he surveyed his daughter with laughing eyes.
"Captain Mayne," she resumed, "don't you think Captain Calvert good looking?"
"Um—no," then after a doubtful pause, "more the other thing,—since you ask me."
"Bad looking, I suppose you mean. How funny!"
"I understand," said Travers, "that Mephistophelian cast—it does appeal to women and children."
"You have got into the wrong side of your chair, Daddy. What dreadful things you are saying—talking of Finchie's scapegoats, and seeing a likeness to the old gentleman, in Captain Calvert."
"I must confess I am rather surprised to find him in this part of the world," said Mayne, "he is not a sportsman—but a Society man, who likes big functions, the theatre, and cards."
"Oh, it's pretty warm down below just now," replied Travers, "and the Ffinches do their guests uncommonly well. Calvert is a pleasant fellow, and comes over here sometimes for a game of tennis; he and Nancy are pals. Well," rising as he spoke, "to-morrow I must be up and about at five o'clock—so that you and I can shoot in the early afternoon. Nancy child, it is time for bed, and just look how Sam is yawning!"
"Why, Daddy, it's only half-past ten," she protested, but all the same she rose, and having bid Mayne good-night, and folded her father in an overpowering embrace, went away to her own room, attended by her sleepy shadow.
Time at Fairplains flew with what seemed to Mayne, amazing speed; the shooting surpassed his most sanguine expectations; his excursions to the low country had resulted in two fine tigers, and several pairs of noble horns. When Travers was unable to accompany him, Ted Dawson and Andy Meach had come to the front, and shown the stranger capital sport. Mayne found this simple life delightful; a novel perspective and atmosphere; instead of familiar barrack bugles, here he was awoke by the clanging of a gong, summoning the coolies to their labours.
With Mayne it was a case of a happy surrender to his environment; the delicious life-giving air, good wholesome food, and congenial society, all contributed to this condition. He enjoyed listening to playful family arguments and squabbles,—when weary, after a long day's tramp, he lounged at delicious ease, in a comfortable, if shabby old chair; there was generally something piquante and provoking in Nancy's conversation. He and she were now on the most friendly footing; he had given her elaborate instructions in the important art of making a tie; she mended his socks, replaced lost buttons, and had even cut his hair! Also he called her Nancy, and was a little disposed to lecture, and tease her, in big elder brother fashion.
Mayne, however, discovered that there were two distinct Nancies; one of the morning, the other of the afternoon. The earlier young lady was a serious person, with the heavy responsibility of a household upon her shoulders. From chotah hazri till mid-day, she was occupied, first with the cook—a bearded retainer, who had carried her in his arms. The two conferred with the deepest solemnity over menus, the bazaar accounts, and the contents of the store-rooms. Then she visited the poultry yard, and the garden, superintended and helped to fill and trim the lamps, and finally sat down to make or mend. Nancy was an expert with her needle, and frequently extended a kindly hand towards the rags and tatters of "The Corner"; altogether a grave, silent, industrious mistress of Fairplains.
The afternoon Nancy was her opposite; neither grave, nor silent, but an exuberantly irresponsible chattering chit, who broke into song as she went about, in a sweet rather childish voice, waltzed her reluctant parent up and down the verandah, played tennis, rode with boyish pluck and abandon, sat with dangling legs on the ends of tables, talked ridiculous nonsense to the dogs and ponies, and was rarely seen to open a book, or to write a letter.
Mayne, who had no sisters, or girl cousins, mentally adopted Nancy as something of both; but as Miss Travers, and a young lady, it never occurred to him to take her seriously.
The Fairplains guest had been hospitably entertained by all the neighbours; tennis parties at the Hicks', tiffin at "The Corner," and dinner at Clouds Rest—where he was in particular request,—a request that savoured of a command—for Mrs. Ffinch had discovered that she knew his people at home—and her invitations were both frequent, and imperious. Travers was far too busy to dine abroad, Nancy never deserted her parent, and on several occasions Mayne went alone to Clouds Rest to dine and sleep. This abode was more on the lines of an English country house; here were curtains, carpets, elegant modern furniture, and appointments; nothing shabby or ramshackle, in or about the premises, which was staffed with first-rate native servants, had a luxurious "go as you please" atmosphere, and kept late hours. Champagne and caviare, and other important importations were offered at dinner; after the best Havanas came Auction Bridge at high points.
Captain Calvert still lingered in these "Capuan" quarters. One morning, he and Mayne awaited their hostess in the verandah, where breakfast was served; she was an hour late, and Captain Calvert's sharp appetite had undoubtedly affected his temper. After one or two nasty speeches about "damned lazy women," and "rotten arrangements," his remarks became more personal, and he twitted his companion with his mad craze for shikar.
"Upon my soul, I believe you'd go anywhere, even among half-castes and natives, if they were to promise you an extra good bag."
"Perhaps I would—in fact, I'm sure I would," admitted Mayne. "By the way, apropos of natives and shooting—what aboutyourshoot up North? I heard you talking to a Nawab coming out on theMedina, and you put in pretty strongly for an invite."
"Yes—did I?" drawled Calvert, lifting his thin black eyebrows, "I forget—I believe. I—er—wanted to have a look at the country."
"So it did not come off, eh?"
"No, as well as I remember, there was some hitch about dates. Talking of dates," he went on, with a significant glance, "are you putting inallyour leave at Fairplains?"
"I hope so," was the bold rejoinder, "I shall be jolly sorry when it comes to my last week!"
"Ah! Well, yes, the little red-haired girl is not half bad fun,—brown as a coolie, but what delicious feet, and ankles! If she were to sit reversed, with her feet above the table—I see," catching Mayne's furious glance. "Well then, I'll give you another picture. Some day, Miss Nancy will be a handsome woman,—though she's more of a boy, and a tomboy now. She has odd flashes—that set one wondering, and I bet you, will give her husband a lot of surprises!"
"That'll do!—don't let us discuss her any further!" exclaimed Mayne impatiently.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Calvert with a loud laugh, "I apologize! Upon my soul I'd no idea——"
"Thereisno idea," interrupted Mayne. "Miss Travers and I are very good friends. She is one of the straightest and the best. So natural and simple."
"How nice for you!"
"I only wish she was my sister," persisted her champion.
"By Jove,—do you?" drawled Calvert. "Well,Idon't!" and he expelled a cloud of smoke from his thin, well-cut nostrils. "I'm, as you see,—smoking like the Indians,—to appease hunger. Presently I shall take a reef in my belt. I say," after a pause, "look at old Ffinch riding along the hillside.Hebreakfasted hours ago! I can't imagine why he does not chuck all this? Everyone knows he is quite too grossly prosperous—and she, with her talents, and her energy, is thrown away out here."
"Yes," agreed Mayne, "she's awfully clever, and go-ahead."
"A lot of what Americans call, 'Get up and go!' about her," said Calvert. "Wonderful driving force,—and what a woman to talk! She'd make a fine figure of a Sunday in Hyde Park; or taking a hand in some big revolution. Yes"—slowly closing his eyes—"I canseeher in the tumbril," he concluded, with morose vindictiveness.
"I say, what amazing pictures you have in your mind's eye," said Mayne—who was not imaginative, "a cinematograph isn't in it!"
"Oh, here she comes at last!" said Calvert, tossing away his cheroot, and rising, he added with his most courtly air, "Welcome, welcome, dear lady—as the sun upon a darkened world."
Immediately after breakfast, Mayne ordered the cob, and rode away in spite of Mrs. Ffinch's urgent appeals for him to remain, and "spend a nice long day." He felt that at present, he could not endure any more of Calvert's society. What a poisonous tongue,—what a shameless climber; and there was such calculation and method in his schemes. He, by his own confession, made a point of cultivating the right people—chiefly through their womenkind—and cherished well-founded hopes of a comfortable, and prominent post on someone's staff.
He insinuated that he (Mayne) was sponging on the Travers', he read the accusation in the fellow's eyes—(Calvert himself was just the sort to cheat at croquet, and sponge on old ladies).—With regard to his host, he felt blameless. Travers treated him as the son of his old school-fellow; he and Nancy made him one of themselves, and allowed him to share in their interests, jokes, and even secrets.Heknew all about the new habit, that was on its way from England for Nancy's birthday. Here his reflections were put an end to by the sight to Fairplains plantation, the motley pack, and Nancy herself.
That same night after the household had retired, and the premises were supposed to be wrapped in sleep (though some of the servants were gambling in their go-downs) Mayne was aroused by a wild piercing scream. He jumped out of bed, and as he hurried on some clothes, saw a bare-footed white figure, lamp in hand, flash down the verandah shrieking:
"Sam! Sam! A panther has taken him! Daddy—Daddy—hurry!"
Mayne snatched his gun, and rushed out; the light was very faint, but as he ran up the path, he was aware of a choking noise, and a something large bounding along not far ahead. He followed the sound, in among the rocks and bushes, and then suddenly lost it. By this time, the whole place was swarming with men armed with sticks and lanterns, Nancy in a blue garment, and her father half dressed, heading an excited crowd. Alas! the tragic truth had to be faced—Sam wasgone! taken from the door of his mistress's room, and carried off in his sleep, by one of those treacherous devils.
With bobbing lanterns, crashing sticks, and loud harsh shouts, the whole of the rocks were most thoroughly beaten, but without result; of dog or panther there was not a trace. After an hour's exhaustive search, Mayne returned to the bungalow—his lamp had gone out. Here in the verandah he distinguished a sobbing figure; Nancy, alone and in uncontrollable grief. Between her sobs she moaned:
"Oh, my poor darling Sam! Oh, the cruelty—oh, Daddy, what shall I do—what shall I do?" and she suddenly flung herself upon Mayne, and sobbed out in the tone of a child asking for consolation, "Daddy, Daddy, whatshallI do?"
They were the same height, and in the dark, she had mistaken him for her father,—who was still pursuing a hopeless search among the rocks,—but the situation was not the less embarrassing,—especially as the girl clung to her supposed parent, with both arms clasped tightly round his neck, and her face buried in his coat. Suddenly she realized her mistake, and with a violent jerk, drew herself away.
"Why, you're not Daddy!" she gasped out, breathlessly, "I know by the feel of your coat. It's Captain Mayne—I've been—hugging."
"It's all right, Nancy," taking her hands in his. "Poor little girl! I'm just as sorry for you, as ever I can be, and I'll never rest, till I bring you in the skin of the brute that has killed Sam. Here is your father now," and Mayne tactfully withdrew, and abandoned the pair to their grief,—Nancy's the wildest, and most poignant, that he had ever witnessed.
The following day, Francis the butler, mysteriously imparted to Mayne the news, that Sam's collar, and one paw had been found.
"But say not one word to the Missy. We bury in dogs' graveyard; the beast is a big female with young cubs, therefore is she overbold. That dog Sam," and his black eyes looked moist, "I also loved him, too much."
For two days after the loss of Sam, Nancy remained inconsolable; she could neither eat nor rest, her face looked small, her tragic eyes sunken and dim; also she wept for hours,—utterly indifferent to consolation, or chocolates. "The Corner" after the day's work, ascended to sympathize, Mrs. Ffinch descended with a similar kind intention, and expressed shocked concern; but her kissing, endearments, and honeyed words, were a waste of time and breath.
"I shall never get over it, Finchie, never!" moaned the girl, "and I won't rest till the panther has been killed, andskinned. Daddy has offered a reward of thirty rupees,—but so far it is no use."
"Take her out riding—makeher go," commanded Mrs. Ffinch, "she can't sit here all day nursing her grief. Try what you can do, Captain Mayne, take her up to the Meaches, Nellie has returned home, and Major Meach always amuses Nancy."
"I don't think anything would amuse her now," he answered.
"Look at Togo," burst out Nancy, "heknows. All yesterday he lay with his face to the wall—here in the verandah—and he has not touched a morsel since it happened. Oh, my poor Sam!" The name was almost a cry.
"If you and Togo starve yourselves, my dear, what good will that do poor Sam?" inquired the practical visitor, "I'm sure he would not like you to die too. You really must cheer up, for your father's sake. I am awfully sorry myself; as the son of our dear old Dan, Sam was a sort of nephew. We will all give him a great funeral——"
She stopped abruptly as it flashed into her mind that there were no remains. Ultimately her powers of persuasion, proved effectual, and Nancy reluctantly agreed to give her pony some exercise, and not to indulge her emotions in such frantic ungovernable native fashion. Travers was as usual busy among his coolies, and Mayne and Nancy set off alone, and rode over to the Meaches, precisely as Mrs. Ffinch had ordained.
It was a cheerful breezy trip; sometimes the road lay in hollows, winding round a valley, and between blackberry bushes, wattles, ash trees, and wild roses, recalling an English lane; or again, over grassy uplands, with a delightful breeze, driving white clouds overhead.
By and by, Nancy recovered her self-control, and her tongue,—a member that was never long mislaid.
The Meach family lived eight miles from Fairplains, on a poor worn out, and out of the way estate; Major Meach, having spent all he possessed, invested his wife's little fortune in this, so to speak "refuge," and here she and her offspring slaved and struggled, in order to provide their old man of the sea, with everything he demanded in the way of attention, and comfort.
Part of the estate was let to a native, part was worked by Andy, whilst Mrs. Meach and her three pretty daughters kept cows and poultry, and sold eggs and butter among their neighbours. Blanche, the beauty,—thanks to Mrs. Ffinch,—was satisfactorily married; Tom, the youngest son, slaved in an office, and sent all he could spare to his harassed mother who struggled to keep house, and maintain a presentable family, on one hundred rupees a month.
The Misses Meach emerged into the verandah when they heard the glad sound of voices, accompanied by the clatter of hoofs, and Gladys and Nellie joyfully hailed Nancy, who instantly in a strangled voice, claimed their sympathy for her irreparable loss.
"The dear faithful fellow!—how dreadful!" said Nellie. "I remember one time, you went home by the old road, he missed you, and came back here, and lay all night by the chair you had been sitting on."
"Bah! what's a dog!" snarled Major Meach, a preposterously fat man, who now appeared, and with a curt salute to Mayne, sank with heavy violence into a creaking wicker chair. "Lots to be had! We can give you half a dozen—greedy, good-for-nothing brutes!"
Mrs. Meach, a worn, thin woman, with remarkably red hands, and a still pretty face, who had been ordering tea, now came forward to welcome her guests. Poor lady! her life had been, and was, a tragedy. Once a beauty, she was thought to have made a fine match when she married Captain Meach of the Light Lancers,—a man with a nice fortune. The nice fortune, he squandered on himself; and poor Amy Meach, after knocking about the world from garrison town to cantonment, saving, pinching, rearing a family, and keeping up appearances, was now the drudge, and servant, of her selfish and unwieldy tyrant.
Her hope, comfort, and joy, was in her children; possibly some day, she may be in a position to sit down and be served by other people, to read a novel, or even to take a morning in bed!
Everything at Panora seemed cheap and faded,—except the fat helpless old Major, and his three pretty girls. He insisted on keeping up "his position," as he called it; the shabby, timid-looking servants, wore in their turbans, the badge of a regiment that had been only too thankful to get rid of their master!
He, who was a notorious slacker, now posed as a former martinet, and present authority, and his faithful family believed in the fable. The truth was, that but for Mrs. Meach, who was popular, and for whom everyone was sorry, he would not have been "let down," so to speak, without a nasty jar.
The Tyrant liked to fasten on Mayne,—who occasionally escorted Nancy, when she came to see her friends,—and to question him sharply on Army matters, and utter high boastings of "my old regiment—Cavalry—Inever could stand being a mud-crusher!" and as he knew that Mayne was an Infantry officer, this remark was, to say the least, tactless.
When they all sat at tea, he talked with his mouth full, helped himself to hot cakes—two at a time—bragged, snubbed his family, laid down the law, and made rude personal remarks. With regard to his daughter Nellie, he said:
"We sent Nellie down to try her luck in Bangalore; but there was no market, no buyers—and here she is, back on our hands like a bad penny."
Poor Nellie blushed till there were tears in her eyes.
"I'll give her to anyone with a pound of tea—ha! ha! ha!"
"If you weremyfather, and made such rude speeches," said Nancy fiercely, "I'd be very glad to giveyouaway, with a whole plantation!"
"There you go, spitfire!" he exclaimed.—He rather liked Nancy, because she boldly opposed him.—"You've been spoiled, my good girl; if your father had given you somesoundthrashings, you would not be so cocksey—and such a bad example to other young women."
"I think," said Mayne, rising, "it is time for us to make a start," and he eyed the old bully, with a menacing stare.
"Oh, ho!" and he chuckled. "Nancy is used to me—aren't you, red poll?Youdon't mind!"
"I'll overlook the outrage this time, but as an apology, I must have Gladys and Nellie to spend the day on Monday."
"Can't be done—no ponies!"
"Then I'll borrow the Clouds Rest car."
"Will you! You've cheek enough for anything! If you can get the car, you shall have the girls, and the Missus thrown in—there's an offer for you!"
Mayne, who felt a touch of sincere pity for poor Mrs. Meach and her browbeaten daughters, experienced a sense of profound relief when the farewells were over, and he and Nancy rode away.
"Look in again soon, young fellow!" shouted Major Meach. "Nancy, tell your father to send me up a bag of his number one coffee—it can come in the car."
"I don't know about that bag of coffee," said Mayne; "but old Meach won't seemeagain."
"Isn't he a horror?"
"I'm awfully sorry for his daughters; when he told the fair one to 'shut up,' I felt inclined to shy a plate at him!"
"And he is such an ungrateful old monster! Only for the way those girls work, and go without things, there would be no cigars, no Europe hams, tinned stores, or whisky and soda. Hemusthave everything he wants, or he yells, and storms like a madman. I've told him one or two plain truths about his selfishness."
"Have you? I must say you are fairly plucky."
"Nicky Byng admires Nellie, but it's no good; all the same, if Idoget the car, I'll let him know."
"Fancy trying your hand at match-making,—a child likeyou!" and Mayne turned in his saddle, and surveyed his companion, with a broad smile.
"Of course, I know it's no use. Finchie throws buckets of cold water on the affair; she hopes to marry Nellie off, the same as Blanche Sandilands. Blanche has a splendid car, lives in a big house on the Adyar, and entertains half Madras. All the same, I think Nellie likes Nicky."
"Then why mind Mrs. Ffinch, and her cold water?"
"We all mind her; she is so far-sighted, and clever—all but Ned, he thinks her too meddlesome, and anyway, shedidtalk Jessie Hicks out of accepting him."
"Do you suppose, that Mrs. Ffinch could talk you out of accepting anyone?"
"How can you be so silly! Anyway, there will be no occasion, for I don't intend to marry."
"Bosh! Wait till you are older, and then we shall see what we shall see."
"I'm quite old enough to know my own mind."
"Not you!"
"Don't be rude. Do you know, that I shall be eighteen on Tuesday?"
"I know that you are trying to pull my leg, miss! You are not an hour over sixteen—if so much. I should put you down at fourteen if I were asked."
"Well, if you won't believe me, you can see the certificate of birth and baptism.—I was born at Fairplains."
"But, Nancy," suddenly pulling up his cob, "I've always understood you were a mere child—if you reallyareeighteen—I—I feel completelybouleversé; in other words, shattered; for I've been treating you as a little girl, and all the time, you are a young lady! I declare, I'm so upset, I shall tumble off the cob!"
"Don't tumble yet; stick on, and I'll explain. Daddy likes me to look a mere child, and can't endure the idea of my growing up. So I always wear simple frocks, and short skirts—it was only the other day, I put my hair up."
"Did you wear a pig-tail?"
"Yes, of course I did—it was a beauty, too."
"And I know I'd have pulled it! that's one temptation removed! Well, let me here and now apologize for my many enormities. I'm most frightfully sorry; I wish you were only sixteen."
"You may go on just as if I were. They all do."
"Thank you, Nancy. And so Mrs. Ffinch is law-maker, the local dictator, and match-maker?"
"Yes. She is immensely proud of the Meach affair; but not so proud of Fred Pollard's match. She married him off to a girl who was most unsuitable—so much so, that Fred fled to Ceylon, and the Pollards are not very good friends with Finchie! She does not wish Ted to marry Jessie Hicks; for then Nicky would have to move out of The Corner, and he might take it into his head, to run away with Nellie—and she has magnificent plans for her."
"Wheels within wheels," exclaimed Mayne. "It strikes me all the same, that these young people are not desperately in love; if they were, they'd never take all this so tamely, or so to speak, lying down."
"Well you see, they are all very busy one way or another, and have no time. When theydomeet at tennis, Finchie mixes the sets, and sorts them out, as you saw!"
"Yes, I saw; but I must confess I did not notice the usual interesting signs of mutual attachment."
"No? What are the signs?"
"I don't know much about it, but sitting in one another's pockets, holding one another's hands, and obviously wishing us all at Jericho."
"Yes. Haven't you been in love yourself? Youmust—you are getting on!"
"Getting on, you rude child! Why, I'm only seven and twenty. As to being in love—no, never what you may call, seriously."
"Seriously?"
"That is to say unable to eat, or sleep—living solely to seeher—or if not her—the postman, who carries her priceless letters."
"Ah, you jeer at love! Perhaps it may pay you out one day."
"Perhaps! And what about you, Nancy? Has no smart young tennis champion awakened your interest?"
She burst into a peal of laughter—her first laugh for four whole days.
"No, I've never been in love—or ever will; I haven't a tiny scrap to spare from Daddy; and here he comes to meet us—with poor lonely Togo."
"Well, Nance," he called out, "I've just fixed up a splendid treat for your birthday."
"What is it? Oh, tell me quickly—quickly!"
"We are going down to Holikul for three days for a shoot. There is a big native holiday that draws off our coolies, and I've invited the Corner boys; you shall undertake the commissariat, and play the queen of the party."
"How delightful, Daddy!" cried Nancy; then as she glanced at Mayne, "Oh, poor Captain Mayne!—your jaw has dropped four cubic inches; but I do assure you, it will be all right—when I'm out on a beat, and sit up in a machan, I'm so deadly, deadly, quiet, that you might hear a fly sneeze!"
The expedition down to the Holikul jungle, proved a triumphant success, not only in the matter of sport, but of well-chosen and congenial company; Nancy, far from being an encumbrance, largely contributed to the comfort of the party.
The little camp was surprisingly well found; ice never failed, a tablecloth and brilliant tropical flowers, gave a touch of civilization to the alfresco meals, and after a long arduous beat among sweltering undergrowth, it was agreeable and refreshing, to sit out in the starlight, whilst Nancy and Nicky Byng sang solos and duets, the servants squatted round at a respectful distance, and Togo kept solitary ward.
Nancy proved to be well versed in forest lore. What she had picked up as a small child, when accompanying her father on various shooting expeditions, had never faded from a mind which held all impressions with tenacity. She knew the names of strange trees, and gorgeous flowering shrubs, and could relate, stirring legends and fabulous tales of the mysterious white tiger.
In her own line, Miss Travers proved as successful a hostess, as her great example at Clouds Rest, and in spite of her ingenuous girlhood,—had a way of mothering, and managing, the entire circle. There was not a spark of coquetry in her composition. She chatted to Ted and Nicky, precisely as if she were their pal and comrade, and it was evident to Mayne, that the "Corner boys," no less than Travers himself, worshipped the sole of this wood elf's small brown shoe!
Her birthday was an auspicious occasion. The house-servants, and head shikari, offered bouquets and wreaths; "The Corner" presented a tennis bat, and Mayne had surreptitiously placed a little parcel upon Nancy's plate. As she opened the blue velvet case, and beheld its contents, she gave a scream of delighted surprise.
"Oh, Daddy, how dare you? you wicked man!" she cried; "it's far too beautiful for me. I've always longed for a wristlet watch,—but never a gold one likethis—why, it's prettier than Finchie's," and she rose to embrace him.
"Here is the wicked man," he protested, pointing to Mayne; "my present has not arrived, but I expect it is waiting for you up at Fairplains."
"Captain Mayne," she exclaimed, with dancing eyes, "how ever so much too kind of you! I declare I'd like to kiss you. May I, Daddy?" glancing at him interrogatively.
Mayne looked at him expectantly, and stood up, prepared to accept this astonishing favour.
"My dear child," said Travers, "you are eighteen to-day, and must not go thrusting your kisses on young men."
"But I never did before," she protested.
"You should keep your first kiss for someone, who may come along one day!"
"Oh, Daddy," she murmured, blushing deeply through her tan, "now you have made me feel so shy, and uncomfortable. You all know," appealing to Ted and Nicky, "that I only wanted to do something, just to show Captain Mayne, how delighted I was—and am."
"You can do that in another way, Nancy," he replied, resuming his seat. "Call me by my Christian name—the same as these fellows."
"Derek—yes—and it's much prettier than Ted, or Nicky."
"So now, Mayne," said Nicky, "you are paid off handsomely, and atourexpense."
It was a merry, not to say noisy breakfast party; Nancy with two long white wreaths round her neck (in a third she had invested her father), the wristlet watch on her mahogany wrist, was in the wildest spirits.
"I woke this morning very early," she said; "almost before the birds, not because I was expecting presents in my stocking,—like at Christmas time, but because I was going to be eighteen, and I seemed to hear the bamboos—you all know how they whisper—murmuring to one another, 'Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen!'"
"Eighteen, will have to take to gloves and corsets," said Nicky, as he fumbled for his pipe.
"Fancy mentioning such an article in the free-as-air jungle," protested Nancy; "and anyway, my waist is only twenty inches."
"Nancy, spare us these particulars," protested her father. "One would think you were among a pack of women."
"Never mind him, Nancy," said Byng. "Tell him it's too late to start to keep you in bounds—and as for waists—Ted's is fifty."
"Daddy, I do wonder what you have got for me," she asked abruptly. "Won't you tell me?"
"I know," said Mayne; "it's awfully nice, you'll like it better than anything—and it's coming all the way from London."
"Then it must have cost a heap of money," she exclaimed. "Oh, Daddy!"
"Oh, Nancy," he echoed, "it's time we made a start; the shikaris are hanging about, so don't let us waste any more time," and he rose, and broke up the party.
Those three days in the Holikul jungles were a delightful, and flawless memory, to all concerned. How rarely can mortals say this! Sunburnt and weary, the Fairplains party returned to the shelter of a roof, and a daily delivery of letters, and parcels. The habit had arrived—moreover, it fitted.
Two evenings later, Travers and Mayne, Nancy and the head shikari, had been for a short, perfunctory beat, round the base of the hill on which the bungalow was situated. They were homeward bound, the bag, a mere peacock. Mayne and his host were a little in advance of Nancy, and last came the shikari, carrying the peacock, and Travers' gun.
"This day week," said Mayne, "I shall be on my way——"
As he was speaking, they turned an abrupt corner, and there, within forty yards, on a slab of rock, lay a sleek panther, and her two fat cubs! As she sprang erect, Mayne ran forward, and fired. But slightly wounded, she instantly leapt at him, and with such headlong ferocity, and impetus, that the weight of her body knocked him down, and sent his gun flying. Without a second's hesitation, Travers, armed with only a stick, rushed to where the savage brute was worrying her prostrate victim, and with all his might, hit her a smashing blow across the nose. Turning on him, with a furious snarl, she seized him by the forearm, but before she could do more, Tipoo ran up, and shot her through the head. She fell back, and after a few kicks, and one convulsive quiver, rolled over stone dead.
The whole scene had taken place within less than the space of two minutes. Nancy at first had stood by, a horrified, and paralysed spectator, but when the panther attacked her father,—she ran forward, and struck at it frantically, with her stick.
And now to take stock of the casualties! Mayne, thanks to a heavy shooting coat, had merely a few bruises, and scratches—nothing to speak of,—in short a miraculous escape. Travers also, had got off with a scratch on his neck, and a bite on his forearm. The latter might have been worse,—but his coat had also saved him.
"Sam's leopard—and you nearly got him!" he said to Mayne. "You fired a bit too soon, my boy."
"I believe I did—I was so keen to get the brute before she bolted,—I'm most awfully sorry."
"Oh, it's all right," replied Travers. "I'm well used to these scraps—she's a fine size."
"Never mind the panther, Dad," interposed Nancy, "but come along at once and have your arm dressed, and Captain Mayne too," and she ran on before them towards the bungalow, to collect, and prepare remedies.
Nancy had learned "First Aid," and was accustomed to doctor the household and coolies; she dressed the wounds, and scratches with prompt and skilful fingers, forbade all stimulants, and commanded her patients to rest till dinner-time. This was by no means the first time that Travers had been in a "hand to claw" combat, with a wild beast, but to Mayne, it was a novel experience, and he felt not a little shaken, and excited. It is not a pleasant sensation to have a heavy, evil-smelling wild animal, on the top of you, and murderous yellow fangs within six inches of your throat.
The following morning, the two patients described themselves as "quite fit." Travers with his arm in a sling, went about his everyday business, and Mayne commenced to make arrangements for his impending departure. That evening Travers appeared to be fatigued, his eyes were unusually bright, and Nancy's smiling face, wore an anxious expression.
"Dad, I'd like to send for Dr. Hicks, to have a look at your arm," she said, as they sat in the verandah after dinner.
"Certainly not, Nancy," he replied testily; "you have done everything that is necessary. I daresay I have brought a touch of fever from Holikul. That's all that ails me. The bite is nothing. Now look here, little girl, I won't have you worry."
As his tone was authoritative, Nancy, whatever she may have thought, said nothing further.
The next day Travers made a very early start, and did not return,—as was often the case,—in time for breakfast; and Nancy and Mayne weretête-à-tête.
"Father is so hardy and wiry, and so used to jungle accidents," she remarked, "he won't ever allow me to look after him properly. On Tuesday, only for him and his stick," she paused and glanced expressively at Mayne.
"Yes, by Jove! the panther would have had me! There's no doubt your father saved my life. That brute was making for my throat. I saw her yellow eyes glaring into mine, she had her claws dug into my shoulders, and, Lord, how her breath smelt! Yes, for once, I was face to face with death; and I'd be dead and buriednow—only for that swinging stroke across her muzzle."
"The cubs made her savage," said Nancy. "Tipoo has shot them both—such well-fed, fat, little creatures. All the family skins are now being dried. Only for those cubs, the panther would never have faced you—they are such slinking, treacherous cowards."
"And only for your father,I'dnot be sitting here."
"And how dreadful for your poor mother, if anything had happened to you! If I were to die, it would almost kill Daddy."
Mayne made no reply. Mentally, he was comparing his mother, with her father. Nancy looked as if she would still be flourishing at the end of half a century, but if anything were, as she expressed it, "to happen to her," it was quite possible, that Travers would go clean off his head.
Travers returned at tea-time; as he stumbled into the verandah, and sank exhausted into a chair, he looked completely "done."
"Ah, I see you have been down to the lower ground," said Nancy. "Now that was reallytoobad of you,—when you have a touch of fever."
As she handed him his cup she added:
"Let me feel your hand—why, it's almost red-hot!"
"My dear child, don't make a fuss," he exclaimed irritably; "I'll take a dose of quinine, and lie down till dinner-time,—will that please you?"
Nancy said no more, but shut her lips tightly, and began to prepare his special buttered toast.
"I can't touch anything," he protested, "but I've an awful thirst on," and he swallowed greedily, one after the other, two large cups of tea.
"I'm afraid I must worry you, dear Daddy, and dress your arm," she urged. "I promise I'll be as quick as I can," and she led him away to his own room. Presently she returned, and said to Mayne, who was still sitting in the verandah: "I want you to ride over at once, and ask Dr. Hicks to drop in this evening,—quite casually, of course. I simply dare not tell Daddy I've sent for him; he always pooh-poohs doctors, and illnesses, and he won't allow me to take his temperature, nor will he go to bed. His arm has a queer, livid appearance, and is terribly swollen; I must say, I cannot help feeling rather nervous."
"Oh, all right," said Mayne, rising; "I'll be off at once, and I'll bring Hicks back with me,—dead or alive."
When Mayne arrived at Panora, Dr. Hicks happened to be out, and it was nine o'clock when the two men reached Fairplains. By this time Travers, who now admitted that he was "feeling a bit out of sorts," was obviously worse.
As they rode over, Mayne had given the doctor full particulars, about the panther affair,—including the bites, and scratches.
"There may be poison in them," said Dr. Hicks; "these old panthers eat garbage, and putrid carcases, and are nasty brutes to deal with; and if septic poison sets in, Travers is rather a bad subject, and it may go hard with him. However," he added philosophically, "there is no use meeting trouble half way, and whatever happens, we must keep a cheerful face before Nancy. There's a good, single-hearted child, if ever there was one, and if by any chance, she were to lose her father—mind you, I'm not saying thereisa chance—I don't know what would become of her!"
Having examined his patient, Dr. Hicks came out into the verandah in order to confer with Mayne. His face was alarmingly grave, and he spoke with his eyes anxiously fixed on the communicating doors,—and in a lowered voice.
"He's pretty bad; high fever, temperature 104; his arm is frightfully swelled—it's the bite. I am sending for a nurse and vaccine, also for my wife. She's uncommonly capable, and always comes well up to scratch on these occasions, and of course, we must have some woman here to look after Nancy—in case of"—he hesitated for a second, and added—"delirium and complications."
"You don't mean to say it's as serious as all that?" cried Mayne, aghast.
"I'm afraid it is; but I'll move heaven and earth to pull Travers through. We can spare anyone, sooner than the Earl,—as we call him."
"Can't I go some message, or be of some use? For God's sake give me a job," and Mayne paused, half choked. "You see, it was through savingme, that Travers is like this!"
"Oh, all right," agreed the doctor briskly, "then you can ride down to Tirraputty, and send off a couple of wires. It will take you about three hours to get there,—riding hard."
"What about Mrs. Ffinch's car? I can drive a motor."
"She's away in it herself!—gone for a week's tour. She took my girl Jessie, and Nellie Meach, and left no address. 'Expect me when you see me' style. Ah, here comes Nancy!" as the girl, now looking strangely worn, and haggard, came into the verandah.
"What are you two conspiring about?" she asked, with a startled expression.
"I'm only telling Mayne a piece of news. Mrs. Ffinch is away on a motor tour."
"Oh!"—evidently relieved—"is that all?"
"Word of honour, yes," the doctor lied with emphasis.
"Won't you stay and have something?" she urged.
"Oh, well, I don't mind. Just anything at all—a bit of cold meat, and a hunch of bread.—I'll ask for a shake-down, too."
"A shake-down!" staring at him with widely-opened eyes; "then you think——" and she paused, unable to utter another syllable, or articulate her heartsick uneasiness.
"I think you're a silly girl!" he said brusquely. "You know as well as I do, that I must dress your father's arm every three hours. You'd like him to have the very best attention, my dear, wouldn't you? It isn't everyone I'd do as much for. I can tell you,—losing my dinner, and sleeping out. I'm sending Mayne here to Tirraputty to wire for a nurse."
"A nurse! Certainly not!" protested Nancy with energy. "Iam his nurse."
"Now, my good Nancy, if you are going to be silly and obstructive, and to stand in the way of what is necessary for your father, I'd like to know what I'm to do with you?"
"But a nurse—an utter stranger!"
"Yes, a professional, clear-headed, experienced woman, who has no emotions—to counteract her work."
"Father won't have her!!" declared the girl triumphantly.
"He will, ifyouask him," rejoined the doctor. "My dear child, I had no idea you were so set upon your own way."
"Then I am to realize that father is—indanger?" she demanded, with trembling lips.
"Nothing of the sort," he replied, now lying boldly and well. "You are to realize that you must be a sensible girl, and instead of fighting against remedies, and the doctor, to help him with your last breath."
Nancy gazed at him steadily, and after a moment's silence, she said:
"All right, you need not askmeto do my best," and she returned to the sick-room.
At eight o'clock the following morning, when, stiff and weary, Mayne dismounted from his cob, he found that a dark cloud had settled down on Fairplains. In the verandah, he discovered an anxious gathering, talking together in low voices, and in groups. Here were Ted and Nicky, Tom Pollard, young Meach—and Mrs. Hicks. They each nodded a welcome, and the lady advanced, and said:
"I came over early; he is worse. The fever is septic," she added, and her round black eyes filled with tears.
"He is sleeping all right," announced Dr. Hicks, who joined them; "so is Nancy,—I put something in her tea. She was up all night, poor child, and is thoroughly worn out. The nurse will be here about eleven,—and another doctor."
"It's too awful!" stammered Mayne, who had grown ghastly white. "Do you know, Mrs. Hicks, that by rights, I should be in Travers' place?"
"Tut, tut, tut!" she protested, giving him a push; "you go and have a bath, and some breakfast."
"Tell me," appealing to her husband, "will he get over it? Is there no chance?"
"There may be a turn at sundown, please God."
"If not——?"
"These cases last about four days—that brute's claws were so many poison-bags."
Without another word, Dr. Hicks turned away.
At noon, the nurse and specialist, arrived together, and presently there ensued grave consultations, whisperings, and ominous shaking of heads.
On account of its superior size, and in spite of Nancy's frenzied entreaties, the patient was moved into the drawing-room,—the most spacious apartment in the bungalow, with a northern aspect.
Mayne did not venture to speak to Nancy, who looked as if she scarcely recognized him, when she flitted about like a wraith between the sick-room, and verandah. Kindly, vulgar Mrs. Hicks, at whom he used to laugh, was now his support and comfort. She brought him bulletins, insisted on his taking food, and appeared to keep the whole establishment together; interviewing callers, writing chits, dispatching messengers, concocting dainties, and altogether reversing Mayne's opinion of "silly Mrs. Hicks." For her part, she was sincerely sorry for this worn, haggard-looking young man, who seemed to dread the impending tragedy, almost as much as Travers' own daughter.
Once or twice Mayne had been permitted to stand in the door of the drawing-room, and there exchange a few words with the patient. Quite late that evening, when he was disconsolately pacing the avenue, Mrs. Hicks came out, and joined him.
"How has he been since sundown?" he inquired.
"Neither better nor worse. We have sent for Mr. Brownlow, the padre; he will be here early to-morrow evening. Anyway, he'd have had to come up for the funeral."
"The funeral! Oh, good Lord!" exclaimed Mayne in a choked voice, "surely you are not thinking ofthat?"
"Now don'tyougo and break down, my dear boy," said Mrs. Hicks, thumping him on the back; "we must all keep up; while there's life there's hope, and we have to put on a bold face before Nancy. I have contrived to get her to bed.Hesent her. May God forgive me for all the lies I've told that poor child. If this ends badly, it'll break her heart. Poor dear! I can't think whatever is to become of her? She won't have a penny of her own in the wide world,—and there's no relations to speak of."
"What—no relations?" repeated Mayne incredulously.
"None that would come forward, anyhow. Her mother was an orphan, and Travers' people broke with him; first of all, because he married a governess, and lastly, because he lost his money. However, if Nancy has no belongings, she has lots of friends up here; we will all do what we can. Well now, I see Francis—he wants me," and she hastily abandoned her companion, leaving him to meditate upon her information.
Mayne went slowly down to the tennis ground; the tennis ground, entirely secluded, was a refuge, and here he could hold a long and uninterrupted conference with himself. Considering the affair from every point of view, he soon arrived at the conclusion, thathewas solely responsible for Nancy's future. Why should these good, kind-hearted people offer her a shelter, when he, who was accountable for a tragedy, that cost her a parent and a home, made no effort to provide for her?
During one whole hour, he did a sort of meditative "sentry go" up and down the kunkur courts. Mrs. Hicks' illuminating remarks, had presented Nancy's situation, in its true light: the girl had no relations, no income, and would be entirely dependent on the charity of her kind-hearted neighbours; and he was answerable for the fact, that she would be left homeless, and penniless. If her father had not interfered when the panther attacked him, in another second, the brute would have torn his throat out—the blow, transferred her fury to Travers. But for Travers, he would now be lying in a new grave in the garden. The least he could do, was to provide a home for Travers' daughter—though nothing could make up to her, for the one she was about to lose. Had his mother been like the usual run of mothers, Nancy could have lived with her; unfortunately there were half a dozen "buts," and Lady Torquilstone abhorred girls.
There was one alternative;—vainly he thrust this from him; but it returned again, and yet again, to confront him inflexibly. Yes, he was powerless against the malignity of events, powerless to evade the inevitable.He must marry Nancy.It was the only thing to do! He would thankfully have given her half his income; but, it was not to be supposed, that she would accept his money; she might look upon it as the price of blood!
He liked Nancy, she was a really good sporting sort; straight as a die, a capital pal; but as a wife—he would not know what to make of her? She would be such an unlikely and unaccountable Mrs. Mayne. She looked a mere flapper too, in spite of her eighteen years, and was occasionally capable of the most startling behaviour. He recalled the kiss she had offered him on her birthday, and her various tomboy tricks. What would the regiment think of Nancy? and what would Nancy think of the regiment?
After many pacings to and fro, his mind became definitely resolved. There are moments in the lives of individuals, when their conduct has to be decided, not by material profit, but by instinctive loyalty to what is best in their nature; and although marriage was the last step Mayne had intended to take, nevertheless he determined to adventure the great plunge! Yes, his decision was unalterably fixed, there was actual relief in the sensation. He was turning about for the fiftieth time when he noticed a figure in the moonlight beckoning to him violently from the top of the steps. It was Mrs. Hicks, who screamed out:
"So you're down there, are you? I could not find you! Been looking for you all over the place. He has been asking for you, and the doctors say you may go in, and stay a quarter of an hour."
As Mayne entered the sick-room, he noticed even within the last few hours, a grave change in Travers: a change that was the unmistakable forerunner of the last change of all. The sick man's face looked drawn, his sunken eyes extraordinarily bright and restless,—with a sort of watching expression. There was also some strange element in the room: something that seemed to be waiting—the silence was pregnant, with significance.
"My dear fellow, I'm very glad to see you," Travers began, in a thin weak voice; "come and sit down. They are making out that I am in a bad way, and won't allow anyone near me, but Nancy, poor girl. I may pull through, and I hope I shall, for her sake; she's such a child to be left all alone to battle with the world."
"Not alone," said Mayne gravely, "as long as I am to the fore. By rights I should be lying there instead of you, and if the worst——" He could not go on.
"You are very good, my boy! Although I have only known you for six weeks, I am as fond of you as of an old friend,—and indeed you seem so. I've never saved money until lately. There will be enough for Nancy's passage, and perhaps my sister may take the child; she was a spoiled beauty, and is now, to all accounts, a hard, selfish woman. She and I have not spoken for twenty years. Still Nancy is her niece—her only near relative."
"Look here, sir," interrupted Mayne, "by rights I should be in your place,—it was all my fault. I was in too great a hurry. I blundered shockingly when I aimed, so deadly keen to shoot Sam's panther; but I only enraged her, and made her charge. You knew my father, and are good enough to say, you like me. I have five hundred a year, besides my pay—give Nancy into my care. Give Nancy—tome!"
Travers gazed at him steadily; the sunken dark eyes were interrogative.
"As my wife, of course," he continued nervously. "I swear to you, that I'll look upon her as a sacred trust, and do all I can to make her happy. As it is, we are capital friends; I believe she likes me—and I am awfully fond of her. We really know one another far better than most people who marry—having lived here together for the last six weeks. What do you say?"
"I am a bit surprised," replied Travers at last: "although the notion of my little Nance being married seems preposterous, you have lifted a heavy load off my mind, and God bless you." He put out a burning hand, which Mayne wrung. Then he added, "But I cannot allow you to talk as if I had sacrificed myself; it was all in the day's work, the fortune of war—and—I'll be with my other Nancy before long."
"May I speak to Nancy?" asked Mayne, after a short silence, "or shall I wait?"
"No, I never was a fellow to put off things. I'll see her as soon as possible,—and look here, Derek," and he gazed up at him appealingly, "would you think I was rushing you, if I asked you to have the marriage before I go? Then she will not be left so desolate, my poor little darling. She will have her natural protector. Do you mind? I know—it may seem a bit sudden."
"No," replied Mayne firmly. "I think it will be best. I'll make arrangements at once."
"All right, then I'll have a talk to Nancy by and by, and you shall hear what she says. Of course I know there's never been any sort of flirting, or love-making between you—she's just a child! but I'd leave her with a happy mind, if I knew that my little girl was in the care of a good, honest fellow, like yourself. It will be a queer coincidence if Derek Mayne's son is to be the husband of my daughter. The parson will be here to-morrow, and may find two jobs. Ah, Nurse, all right—I'll stop! No, I've not been doing myself any harm—very much the other way. Good-night, my boy."
Very early the next morning when Nancy came out of her father's room, she found Mrs. Hicks already in the verandah, wrapped in a flaming kimona, and sipping a cup of tea.
"Well, dear child?" she began, then paused, and looked at her interrogatively.
"Daddy has been talking to me," she announced in a dull voice, staring at Mrs. Hicks with a curious dazed expression, "and—he—he wishes me—to marry Captain Mayne."
"Lors!" exclaimed her companion, jumping to her feet. "Whatever for?"
"Because I'm so alone in the world, and have no home!" replied the girl, as if she was repeating a lesson.
"And what does the Captain say?"
"He wishes it too."
"And what doyousay, Ducky?"
"Oh," with a frantic gesture of her hand, "is it any matter aboutme? Don't you know, that I would kill myself, that I would be cut in little pieces, if it would give any relief to Daddy,—and I am the onethingthat seems to trouble him."
"Well, I won't say that it isn't a wise plan!" declared Mrs. Hicks, folding her fat arms in her kimona; "the Captain is a fine young fellow, and has everyone's good word,—even Mrs. Pollard, and you know how she takes a bit out of people. But still, if you don't really fancy him, dearie, Iwouldn't. Marriage," now sitting down, "is a big affair, not to be settled at a moment's notice, like a game of tennis. This Mayne, they say, has high and mighty relations, and I don't believe there's ever been a word of love talk between you—much less a kiss."
Nancy made a movement of fierce repudiation.
"And from something Mrs. F. dropped," resumed Mrs. Hicks, "I know she has her plans for you—as well as others."
"Don't!" cried the girl. "Don't talk of plans, and schemes—it's this very second that counts. I shall do whatever pleases Daddy—and I'm going to speak to Captain Mayne now."
"Well, maybe it's all for the best! Anyhow, it'll be a wonderful ease to your poor father. God help you, my child!"
"They wish the marriage to take place to-morrow," said Nancy, and her lips twitched visibly as she added—"when Mr. Brownlow comes."
"Well Inever!" ejaculated Mrs. Hicks, and her round ruddy face assumed an awestruck expression, "but there's sense in that too. If it was put off, and you were to go home, things might happen. Some young men are as slippery as eels. Mind you, I'm not saying one word against Mayne; he doesn't seem that sort—his mouth has a tight look. Still, one of you might be talked out of it—like my own Jessie."
During this oration, Nancy's face had become as rigid and set as that of a waxen mask, suddenly laying her hand on Mrs. Hicks' arm, she said:
"If father dies, I don't carewhatbecomes of me! I only hope and pray, I may not live long. I'll do anything he asks for now,—fancy the horror that would haunt me,—if I were to say no, to his very last wishes!"
"Nancy, child, if you could only cry, it would be such a wonderful relief to your poor heart. Lors, here is Mayne coming! Maybe you'd better take him into the Den, and talk it out face to face."
"You know all about it, Nancy," he began, when she beckoned him to follow her into the little room, where both had spent such pleasant hours.
She nodded assent. Within the last three days the girl appeared to have undergone an extraordinary change; the childish air had vanished; her face was shrunken, and drawn, all life and spontaneity had departed. She wore a long white peignoir, which gave her height and dignity, and looked years older—in short, it was another personality.
"You know I'm awfully fond of you, Nance," continued Mayne, stooping to take a cold, limp hand, "and that I'll do my very best to make you happy."
"Happy!" and she dashed his hand aside, "as if I couldeverbe happy again!"
"You will, by and by," he went on steadily, unmoved by her outburst; "we shall settle down; you will get used to soldiering—and this awful time will be as a bad dream."
"Never," rejoined Nancy with emphasis. "Bad dreams are forgotten. Do you imagine, that I shall ever forgetthis?" and she stared at him with a pair of tearless, glittering eyes. Then there ensued a long, expressive, and uncomfortable pause, during which Togo trotted in, and gazed at the couple. They seemed so odd,—almost like two strangers: the girl sitting by the closed piano, the man with his hands in his pockets, standing with his back to the wall. After a moment's hesitation, and bewilderment, Togo trotted out.
"Well, Nancy, what do you think?" inquired Mayne at last.
"I'll do anything father wishes—anything to make him at ease. They say," and she choked, then continued in a hard, metallic voice, "he has only two days to live."
"I wish to God it had been me instead," burst out Mayne.
"So do I," agreed Nancy, with pitiless fervour, and something wild, and hostile, looked out of her eyes as she added, "and only for Daddy, itwouldhave been you."
"That is true; he gave his life for mine."
"And," said the girl, rising as she spoke, "I am to give mine to you; well, since he wishes it, you may take it!"
Without another word or glance, she turned her back upon Mayne, and departed to her post in the sick-room.
During all this time, Mrs. Hicks, as her husband had boasted, came well to the fore. Apparently accustomed to sickness, and death, she was surprisingly energetic and practical, altogether a saner, more subdued, and silent, Mrs. Hicks.
The doctor's verdict had now gone forth, and the whole establishment was figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes. Neighbours from far and near crowded the verandah; melancholy and dejected, these awaited bulletins, and in some cases, farewell interview with their dying friend.
Nancy never appeared among the callers,—everything remained in the hands of Dr. and Mrs. Hicks. When a visitor entered the sick-room, she noiselessly slipped away, but at other times, Travers' dog, and Travers' daughter, were his chief companions.
The grim drawing-room had been completely altered to suit its present use. Most of the hateful black furniture was piled up behind the screen! A small camp bed, a long arm-chair, and a round table occupied the middle of the apartment. On the latter, a few books, photographs, and odds and ends—Travers' poor treasures—had been hastily collected.
The sick man was not in bed, but reclined in the long chair wrapped in his dressing-gown,—with death in his face, a stout heart in his breast,—the only cheerful inmate in Fairplains. His left arm and hand were terribly swollen. With his right he had written a few lines to his sister, and to Fletcher.—Short notes enclosed and addressed by Nancy.—Also he had made his will, and given her many directions, and much advice; to all of which the girl had listened with immovable composure—knowing that to break down would be terribly distressing to her father—who, with extraordinary fortitude, now calmly awaited the end.
The following morning Mr. Brownlow arrived, and was hospitably entertained by Mrs. Hicks. To his immense surprise, the wire which summoned him, had invited him not only to visit a sick friend, but to prepare for the solemnization of a marriage, and his amazement was not lessened, when informed that Travers' little Nancy was to be the bride!
A lengthy interview with the dying man was interrupted by Mrs. Hicks, who entered the drawing-room, bearing in either hand a large vase of white lilies—a signal for the wedding ceremony. Presently Mayne appeared in his Sunday suit, prayer-book in hand, followed by Dr. Hicks, Ted Dawson, and, by special desire, Francis, a Catholic. The last to arrive was Nancy wearing a fresh white linen frock. Then the doors were closed, and after a little confidential discussion, and whispering, the ceremony commenced.
The couple about to be married, took their places before Mr. Brownlow,—who used an old prie-dieu as desk.—Nancy stood as close as possible to her father, who, at the question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" in a firm, loud voice, answered, "I do."
Accordingly "Eleanora Nancy" was married (with her mother's wedding-ring) to "Derek Danvers Mayne." The bridegroom appeared grave and anxious, the bride looked like an automaton, going through a mechanical performance, for which she had been carefully wound up.
When the Service was ended, the certificate duly signed, and witnessed, there was a celebration of the Holy Communion, and the little gathering retired.
It was an ominous fact, that as soon as she found herself alone, the first thing that the bride did, was to tear off her wedding-ring, and lock it away. It had been decided by Mayne and Travers, that the marriage was to be kept secret, at least until after the funeral, and everything went on precisely as if it had not taken place.
With regard to the funeral, the presence of Mr. Brownlow awaiting the occasion for his services, seemed to Nancy, Mayne, and others, a most hideous and heartrending necessity: Laurence Travers was still in the land of the living, and here was his friend Brownlow, waiting on at Fairplains,—as all the world was aware,—in order to read the funeral service over his dead body!
Nancy and Mayne encountered one another in the sick-room and at meals,—for Mrs. Hicks was inflexible with regard to food. She scolded vigorously, in a subdued voice, when the girl refused to eat; demanding to know, what was the good of her starving herself, and of being laid up, and no use to anyone?
Nancy rarely opened her lips, the dread of her impending bereavement was beyond words. She had lost much of her deep tan colour, and looked pinched, and haggard; it was a young face, aged and racked with torture, yet so far, she had not shed one single tear. On the contrary, her eyes had a fixed glassy stare, like those of a wax doll.
"Feed her up, and keep her going!" was Dr. Hicks' counsel to the newly-wed bridegroom. "The girl is so unnaturally restrained, that I'm afraid of some sort of a bad collapse."
But whenever Mayne urged Nancy to rest, or to spare herself, he was met with an impatient shrug, or a brusque refusal; and realized the uncomfortable fact, that she rarely spoke to, or looked at him, of her own accord; but naturally every precious moment was devoted to her dying father.
Travers' slight recovery on the day of the wedding was followed that night by a grave relapse, turning to delirium, finally coma; and the following day, he passed away at sunset. The prayers for the dying offered by Mr. Brownlow were almost drowned in the clanging of the coolies' gong. Their task for the day was over—and Travers' life's work ended at the same hour.
That night the bungalow itself was silent as a tomb, but the peaceful repose was broken by the weird death wail in the go-downs and coolies' quarters.
The funeral was immense. People from great distances, hills and plains alike, flocked to pay the last tribute to an old friend.—Laurence Travers had been in Coffee for twenty-five years.
Among the most prominent mourners were Mr. and Mrs. Ffinch; she had only returned home that morning, and was shocked by the news which assailed her, almost before she had set foot in her house. Having been beyond the reach of letters, this was the first that she had heard, even of Travers' illness: and the sudden announcement of his death, was a stunning blow. Although tired, and inclined to be hysterical, she pulled herself together with a great effort in order to accompany her husband to Fairplains.
During the Burial Service many of the women wept. Nancy never shed a tear, but stood by the grave-side like a graven image in white stone. Afterwards, she fled away to her room, where she locked herself in; refusing admittance to all,—even deaf to the beseeching of her own dearest, and broken-hearted, "Finchie."
Truly these were really miserable days for Derek Mayne! who weighed down by the loss of a good friend, and his own share in the tragedy, had now added to his trouble, a wife who undoubtedlyhatedhim! He read this fact in her dull, but still expressive eyes. She avoided him pointedly; even at the funeral, she had moved from his side in order to stand by Mrs. Ffinch; and once, when he had made an attempt to offer consolation and a caress, she had looked at him so fiercely; almost as if she could have struck him! Of course the miserable child was nearly off her head—and no wonder; but this was not an encouraging beginning for a life-long partnership!
His leave would be up in three days, and what then? The estate must be taken in hand at once: Ted and Nicky were working it at present, like the good fellows that they were, but a capable manager who could live on the spot, was in this, the busiest season, absolutely essential.
In the East, events march with amazing speed; as one man falls, another fills his place—and so the world rolls on. Almost everything at Fairplains, except such matters as books, guns, a few pieces of old china and silver, belonged, as Travers had once expressed it, "lock, stock and barrel" to Tom Fletcher; so the personal estate was easily wound up. The assets were small; but on the other hand—there were no debts.