As deputy chaperone, she took entire charge of Nancy—who felt powerless to resist—the girl interested her surprisingly. When she forgot herself, she could talk, she could sew, she could even smile! By the time thePatnawas in the Canal, Nancy was better. The sea-air revived her; her new acquaintance acted as a tonic, kept her incessantly occupied, promenaded the deck with her, told her stories, gave her sound advice, and from being a mere crumpled heap of hopeless misery lifted her once more to a foothold in life.
It had been discovered that the "Ghost," as she was called, was an excellent pianist, and consequently much in request to accompany song or violin. This demand brought her into communication with other young people—which was good for Nancy.
Mrs. Sandilands was amazed at the acquaintance which had been struck up between two such incongruous characters as Mrs. De Wolfe, and the Travers girl. What had they in common? However it came about, the old woman had effected a wonderful change, and as it were restored the Ghost to life, and the material world. She now went to and fro and mixed with other people, and no longer spent hours shut up in her little cabin.
When thePatnawas in the Channel, Mrs. De Wolfe said to her protégée:
"Do not forget to give me your address, my dear, and I will come and see you."
"That will be very kind."
"I stay in London occasionally, but my home is in the country,—also in the wide world—for I travel a great deal. Excuse my plain speaking, my dear, but have you no income at all? I understand that your father was a Travers of Lambourne, and I believe they went through every penny they possessed?"
"I have twenty pounds a year," replied Nancy, "and I have had a good education; but I'm afraid I look too young to be a governess. If the worst comes to the worst, I might go into a shop. I think I'd rather like that—millinery, or a ladies' outfitting—a sort of place where there are no men."
"Are you afraid of them?"
"Oh no," and she laughed.
"No love affairs yet, I should imagine," said Mrs. De Wolfe, with customary bluntness.
"No love affairs," repeated Nancy, but she coloured vividly.
"Ah! then thereissomeone?" remarked her astute questioner.
"Yes, there was someone; someone I don't like; but it had nothing to do with a love affair—and I pray that we may never meet again."
"I'm afraid that will be no use, my dear—we all meet the very people we don't want to see!"
"Well, I shall always want to seeyou!" said Nancy impulsively.
"I'm glad of that, my child, for the number of people who never wish to see me again, is fairly large. I hate cruelty, and snobbery; I speak out my mind rather freely, as I tramp through life. Well, my little chick, I've given you a lift on the road, haven't I?"
"You have indeed; I can't tell you all you have done for me, roused me from a stupor, that was creeping over me,—and helped me to make a fresh start. I can never thank you enough, never!"
"I don't want thanks. Give me deeds. You must write to me, Nancy. My bankers, Coutts, will always find me, and if I don't answer, never mind; I'm a shocking correspondent, my pen never saves my tongue. I'll come and see you when I pass through Town, and I hope I'll find you doing well. Be amenable to your father's sister: a rich, self-centred, elderly woman. Accept hard knocks—they will brace you—later on, you may find your life in pleasant places. I'd like to take you with me to Scotland, but I am under orders to visit old friends, who fix one's date of arrival, train, and room, with a firmness there is no withstanding, and I dare not be a deserter."
Nancy's were not the only thanks received by this social missionary. Pretty Mrs. Sandilands overwhelmed her with effusive gratitude, and flattering speeches.
"You took the girl off my hands, dear kindest lady, and have turned her into a new creature! I cannot imagine how you did it!"
"A little sympathy, and fellow-feeling, was all that was required."
Mrs. Sandilands coloured guiltily, and then replied:
"Nancy is like her father, you see—she takes everything so terribly, so foolishly, to heart."
"But what a good thing it is, that she happens to have a heart to take things to! Such folk are not common objects of the sea or shore in these days."
"Perhaps because people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves," retorted Mrs. Sandilands sharply. At this moment, her companion was summoned to receive a Marconigram, and she found herself unexpectedly abandoned with all the honours of the last word!
Later that same day, thePatnawas berthed in the London Docks, and her horde of passengers scattered afar, every man and woman to their own; in most cases to forget within a few hours, those who had been their daily associates for the last four weeks.
Mrs. Arabella Jenkins (née Travers), a stout little widow of sixty-four, occupied a large and lugubrious mansion in Queen's Gate, S.W. She was also the mistress of five thousand a year, eight servants—not including a permanent "char"—and one dog. Her mother, a pretty Scotch girl, had been of "no family," according to various disappointed dowagers—"just someone Charles Travers had picked up when shooting on a moor, and by no means a suitable châtelaine for Lambourne."
However, the poor despised lady reigned but a few short years, and was succeeded, after a heartless interval, by a dashing damsel of undeniable birth,—the mother of Laurence Travers, and his two brothers,—who ably assisted her reckless husband to squander the remains of a famous estate.
At nineteen, Arabella Travers was a beauty of the Dresden china type: a fair, fluffy little creature, with sunny hair and an exquisite pink and white complexion. Possibly she was shrewd enough to foresee how family affairs were drifting, for at the age of one and twenty, she accepted a rich elderly suitor from the City, and exchanged a cheery country life for a somewhat gloomy establishment in town.
There had never been much in common between Arabella, her smart stepmother, and riotous, high-spirited brothers. The Travers boys laughed at, and mimicked old Sammy Jenkins, and old Sam openly abused their mad folly, and extravagance, and rarely invited them under his roof.
However, he made Arabella an adoring and indulgent husband, spoiled and petted her most injudiciously, and permitted her to believe, that there was no one in the whole world as important or as beautiful as herself! Having entirely uprooted all that was best in her character, he died, leaving his widow every shilling he possessed,—to the wrathful indignation of his anticipating kindred.
A long impending crash promptly followed the death of Charles Travers. The estate was sold for the benefit of creditors, Mrs. Travers retired to Bournemouth, and there died within a year. Her three sons scattered over the world; one went to India, another to Australia, a third to South Africa. In a short time, the family were extinct, all but prosperous Arabella, and handsome Laurence,—who, having made a fair start in coffee, returned home for a few months' holiday.
As he was a most presentable relative, his stepsister saw a good deal of him, proudly exhibited him at tea-parties, and dinners, and exerted herself to find him a suitable—that is to say—a well-dowered wife. In one direction, she had even made overtures on his behalf, but before her plans had time to materialize, Laurence returned to the East, and married a wretched, penniless little governess! If he had been guided by his wise relative, he could have married a rich, rather plain young woman, who had been greatly attracted by his personality, and have enjoyed the easy life of a country gentleman, and revived something of the Travers prestige; instead of which, there he was, grilling out in India, grubbing away at a coffee estate.
Figuratively his sister washed her little fat hands of him; there had been a brief interchange of disagreeable letters—such as appear to be the copyright of near relatives—subsequently succeeded by a death-like silence.
Mrs. Jenkins ceased to trouble herself further with respect to her brother—"impossible," she declared, "to help those who refused to help themselves"—but vague scraps of information had reached her indirectly. She heard of the birth of a child, the death of his wife, and his financial collapse.
Sunken in selfishness, and egoism, Arabella Jenkins had almost forgotten her brother Laurence, when a twenty years' silence was broken; a letter written by an unsteady hand, announced his impending departure from this world, and appealed to a childless woman to give his little girl a home. Later, she had seen the announcement of his death in theTimes.—It had been duly advertised by the ever thoughtful Mrs. Ffinch.
So Laurence was gone—and only forty-seven!—and now there was his orphan. What was she to do about her? As dear Mrs. Taylor truly said, "at her time of life, and in her state of health, it was monstrous to suppose, that she should be saddled with an encumbrance." Of course she must receive the girl for a few weeks, and possibly some of her many friends, such as Lady Constance Howler, or Mrs. Fitzallen Jones, might find her a situation. As for being permanently troubled with this responsibility, the idea was simply too utterly ridiculous.
The early beauty of Arabella Travers had not lasted—save in the lady's own opinion. Bright hair and a rose-leaf skin, belong to the days of one's youth. Mrs. Jenkins was now a stout, short-necked, squat little body, with a pair of arrogant blue eyes, and an assertive nose. Happy in the delusion that she did not look a day over thirty, she dressed the age at great expense, and in the most villainous taste.
Her house was warm, dark, and stuffy; very thick red carpets led the way from hall to drawing-room. Here again was a red carpet, heavy crimson curtains, and solid furniture of the most debased Victorian type, of which the crowning atrocity was a large distorted ottoman in the middle of the room. The walls were covered with chromes, and mirrors in ponderous frames: a life-sized portrait of the mistress of the house hung opposite the fireplace, and seemed determined to challenge attention; it had been painted more than thirty years previously, and portrayed a slim young lady, with rosy cheeks, snow-white neck and arms,—and a voluminous blue dress. On her satin lap reposed a small King Charles,—which same animal, beautifully stuffed, and sheltered in a glass case, confronted visitors on the first landing, and struck terror into the hearts of his own species.
The portrait, the ottoman, and a grand piano, were the chief features of the apartment, which also contained a good many "occasional" chairs, and tables, various gaudy cushions, and lamp-shades (the spoils of bazaars), and a large collection of small rubbish. Mrs. Jenkins was not what is called "house-proud," and had made no alterations in what had been her bridal home,—merely contributing the cheap little souvenirs she had picked up on the Continent; such as Swiss carvings, Italian delf, marble letter-weights, and paper fans. Her interest was mainly centred in herself,—and the condition of her health; fortunately she was as strong as the proverbial horse, and endowed with a hardy Scotch constitution, otherwise she must have succumbed to the extraordinary variety of medicines she sampled, and the different "cures" she underwent. The lady took too little exercise, and too much nourishment. Even when she was supposed to be completely prostrate, heavily laden trays were welcomed by an astonishing appetite, which disposed of their dishes with healthy voracity, and provoked much ribald jeering among her retinue below stairs. The assimilating of prescriptions in the shape of drops or tabloids, were with Mrs. Jenkins, a confirmed habit and joy,—and took the place of cigarettes,—so soothing to other women.
Doctors who attended Mrs. Jenkins, were legion in number—occasionally two or three, unknown to one another, prescribed for the same case. According to her statement, she had been threatened with almost every known complaint: arthritis, appendicitis, angina pectoris, seemed to dog her steps, and yet her recuperative vitality was incredible.
One week prone in bed with nurses in attendance, and straw laid down in the street: long ere the straw was removed, the invalid might have been seen making a hearty lunch at "Prince's" or doing a matinée at the Haymarket. Indeed, it was on record, that a bewildered caller had found the knocker at No. 900 muffled, and on inquiring for the sufferer with almost bated breath, was informed that she was at Ranelagh!
Arabella Jenkins endeavoured to make the most of two worlds: the gay, hustling, social world, and the invalid sphere,—bounded by doctors, friendly inquiries, flowers, and commiseration. Nothing made Mrs. Jenkins more indignant—indeed furious—than any doubt of the bona fides of her ailments.
She posed as an extraordinarily plucky woman, who bore her sufferings, after the manner of the Spartan boy and fox; and those doctors who refused to see eye to eye with her, or to take part in a medical farce, were inscribed in her black books as not merely incapable, but the deadliest of enemies. For all her masterful, despotic ways and heavy purse, Mrs. Jenkins was more or less in the hands of her eight servants, her old friends, and her numerous parasites.
She held a court of elderly women; ladies in waiting (for favours) attended her, flattered her, and sung her praises,—particularly in her own presence. These, she rewarded with dinners, presents, drives, her cast-off gowns, and her confidence. They had all expressed deep sympathy over the impending invasion of this girl; for it was no secret that "dearest Arabella did not care for young people." Intensely jealous of each other's influence, they combined in a solid phalanx, against an intrusive outsider.
Two of Mrs. Jenkins' chief friends were sitting with her one afternoon late in June. One had presented flowers, the other had propped her up with cushions, and brought her a footstool—almost as if she was recovering from one of her notable heart attacks. In reality, she was awaiting the arrival of Miss Nancy Travers,—and Miss Nancy Travers was late!
Mrs. Taylor, chief counsellor, and parasite, was a widow with a masculine cast of face, a dark red complexion, and beetling black brows; being tall and massive, Mrs. Jenkins' dresses required a vast amount of letting out and letting down, before she could assume them. She lived in a little flat in Earl's Court, and was dependent on dearest Arabella,—whom she had known as a girl, a fact which made her position as mistress of the robes impregnable,—for many an excellent meal, a serviceable cast-off costume, and her summer holidays. In return for these benefits, she offered continual incense in the shape of flattery, and much engrossing gossip—having a wide, and illegitimate knowledge of other people's affairs.
The other lady, Miss Dolling, was well and fashionably dressed—no genteel mendicant this! but she was unfortunately plain: a long nose, no chin, and fat flabby cheeks, largely discounted her string of valuable pearls, and French toilette. Bessie Dolling, the original wife selected for Laurence Travers, was as yet an unappropriated blessing: after twenty years, she still hoarded Laurence's photograph, hugged his memory, and firmly believed that if he had not been caught by an adventuress, he would have returned to claim her. This fiction was a sustaining consolation to the poor lady, did no one any harm, and need not be begrudged.
The three friends were grouped round the open window overlooking Queen's Gate; Galpin the butler had just removed the tea-things, and departed with the tea-cloth neatly tucked under his arm. He was a stout, clean-shaven man, with a considerable meridian, and a stern mouth. N.B.—His mistress was not a little afraid of him.
"I wonder what she will be like?" said Miss Dolling suddenly.
"My dear Bessie, that is the tenth time you have made the same remark," peevishly protested Mrs. Taylor. "We shall know in a few minutes."
"She will be exactly like her father," announced Mrs. Jenkins as if stating a fact; "a dark Travers, with black hair, and well-cut features, especially the Travers' nose," and as she spoke, she put up her hand and stroked her own organ, which was short, thick, and first cousin to anez retroussé.
"I shall send her to her room almost at once. These interviews are so dreadfully trying for my poor heart."
"Yes, dear friend," purred Mrs. Taylor, "and we will take care, that she does not talk to you about the panther, or how her father was killed."
"Not killed at the time," contradicted Miss Dolling; "he died days afterwards."
"It was the panther's doing all the same," argued Mrs. Taylor, "and to think of Laurence Travers makingnoprovision for his girl,—I call it downright wicked, leaving her entirely dependent on his dear, good, golden-hearted sister."
At this moment, there was a sound of violent commotion, and deafening barking on the stairs. The Pom who left the room in close attendance on cream, and savoury sandwiches, had undoubtedly encountered a stranger. Miss Dolling looked hastily out of the window and said:
"Yes—she has arrived! a four-wheeler, and several large boxes."
Further information was postponed, as the door opened, and Galpin announced "Miss Travers." Enter, a thin, woebegone girl, with reddish hair: dressed in a crumpled black muslin, and carrying a waterproof on her arm.
Half way to the window, she paused for a moment, endeavouring to discover which of these three women might be her aunt? Was it the big one with the shiny red face, the thin one with the tortoise-shell pince-nez,—that gave her such an owl-like expression,—or the little fat one in pale blue chiffon? Evidently the latter, for she struggled out of her arm-chair, and offered a podgy hand blazing with diamonds.
"How do you do—no!" drawing back. "No, no, please don't kiss me!—I'm dreadfully afraid of microbes. My health, as you know, is so uncertain, and I have to be very cautious. We have been expecting you for the last half hour. What has kept you?"
"I believe the train was late," replied Nancy in a meek voice. Could this little cross fat woman, be Daddy's sister?
"Oh, was it? Have you paid the cab?"
"Yes."
"How much did he charge from Charing Cross?" demanded Mrs. Taylor,—an authority on fares.
"Four and sixpence."
"What!" The word was almost a shout.
"But I had luggage."
"Oh, yes, and your big boxes had better be kept below," said her aunt; "I am so afraid of my poor walls being damaged. You can sit down, Nancy. These are my friends, Mrs. Taylor, and Miss Dolling."
The ladies shook hands in silence. After a moment Miss Dolling said:
"Had you a good passage?"
"Yes, thank you."
Meanwhile her aunt was surveying Nancy with a look of puzzled disappointment.
"So you arenota Travers after all," she remarked. "How odd, and unexpected."
"No, I believe I am a Blake."
"A Blake," repeated Mrs. Jenkins, "I never heard of the people," and she knitted her light eyebrows as she reflected that possibly "Blake" had been the maiden name of the adventuress? "I daresay you would like to take your things off?"
"Yes, if you please, I should."
"Then will you ring the bell? It is close to the chimney-piece—on the far side."
When Galpin awaited orders in the doorway, Mrs. Jenkins said:
"Tell Baker to come and show Miss Travers to her room."
Baker promptly appeared, took the new arrival, so to speak, in tow, convoyed her to the fifth floor, and into a somewhat shabby apartment, next to her own bower.
As soon as Nancy had left the drawing-room, the three ladies closed in together comfortably, in order to discuss the new arrival with unreserved enjoyment. The ultimate finding of the conference proved unfavourable.
"The girl was not a Travers; her manners were awkward, and she was quite hopelessly plain!"
Nancy soon fell into the routine of the household, and led an active, useful life at 900, Queen's Gate. Undoubtedly it was good for her, that she had no leisure, nor any opportunity for reflection and solitude, save when in bed. Then she was so thoroughly tired, that she fell asleep almost as soon as her head was on the pillow. After all, the daily régime of this elderly establishment, was not so irksome to a girl who had been for years, accustomed to the strict discipline of a boarding school.
Within a week, the new arrival had learnt her aunt's chief ailments and requirements, taken a sharp impression of her character, and was not a little amazed at her own capabilities in measuring drops, picking up stitches, and writing notes. She also read aloud, and went endless messages. Many a tiresome errand did she save Baker, and the cook; many a toilsome journey did she make up those long flights of stairs: the excuse for such constant perambulation, being, "that she wasyoung!"
At first, her visit had been spoken of as "temporary," Mrs. Taylor and Miss Dolling being actively engaged in searching for a suitable post for the interloper. The former, was particularly anxious to be rid of this too useful, and obedient relative,—who accomplished her tasks without complaint or murmur. The truth was, that Nancy had not forgotten Mrs. De Wolfe's wise counsel, and inwardly soothed heramour propreby saying to herself, "Aunt Arabella is Daddy's sister, and I must try to please her; though lots of the things I have to do, are hateful,—and Mrs. Taylor is more detestable than everything put together!"
Her most unwelcome task, was that of exercising the Pom twice daily on a lead—a job that really belonged to Baker. He was a little animal with an odious character,—and not a gentleman; quarrelsome, and insulting to other dogs, shamelessly greedy and inquisitive, and with a bark, that was almost worse than a bite!
Meanwhile Nancy plodded along, buoyed up by hope and letters,—hope that "Finchie" would be home in the spring, and find her a nice situation—with payment. Here, naturally, she received no salary; her wealthy aunt was in some ways surprisingly stingy; a miser with respect to stamps, and extraordinarily mean in the matter of coal, electric light, cab fares, and newspapers. As for the electric light, they often sat in semi-darkness, and yet Mrs. Jenkins thought nothing of paying from twenty to thirty guineas for a gown, or a shilling for a plover's egg!
Nancy's happiest moments were when the Indian mail arrived, and brought her long despatches from "Finchie," from Francis, from the Hicks family, and Teddy Dawson. The latter had once enclosed in a letter what is known as a "fat" cheque, amounting to sixty-three pounds and some odd shillings, which had been paid into Ted's account on her behalf by Mayne. This cheque was promptly returned, and Nancy scribbled at white heat, "I will not touch this money; please do not offer it again, or ever mention Captain Mayne; allthatis a dreadful dream, which I am doing my best toforget."
Letters from India were not the only ones addressed to Miss Travers from the outer world. She had received a short note from Mrs. De Wolfe, and several ill-spelt scrawls, indited by Mr. Fletcher's valet. He was now living in a sanatorium in Switzerland, a confirmed invalid; indeed the valet, who was a Scotchman, informed Nancy that his master was "far through." Mr. Fletcher wished to hear how his little Nancy was faring? if she had need of money, and if her aunt kept her well supplied? otherwise she knew where to come for it.Hewould be her banker. But poor as she was, Nancy preferred to be independent. A portion of her savings, still remained intact.
She sent frequent letters to her old friend, gratefully declining his offer—telling him everything about herself, that she thought might interest or please him,—carefully omitting all disagreeables; she also added scraps of news, gleaned from her Indian correspondence; in short, Nancy had the art of composing cheery epistles, which were deeply appreciated by a sick, and solitary exile.
In August, Mrs. Jenkins journeyed to Harrogate, bearing Nancy and Baker in her train. The lady much preferred Scarborough, and cast many wistful thoughts in that direction, but then Baker had a married sister living at Harrogate, so there it was—or rather, thereshewas!
Mrs. Jenkins stayed for several weeks at a fashionable hotel, consulted a new doctor, sat about the gardens, sipped the waters, and compared gossip and symptoms with her friends. During the latter part of the visit, she allowed Nancy to spend a short time with Mrs. Briscoe at Eastbourne, whilst Mrs. Taylor, who had been languishing in her poky little flat, stepped nimbly into her shoes.
Nine hundred, Queen's Gate, was reopened at the end of September. The charwoman's parties came to an end, and the carriage horses no longer took the coachman's friends to Hampton Court, Kew, or "the pictures." Everything gradually settled into the usual routine, as far as Nancy was concerned; exercising the Pom, changing the library books, shopping at the Stores, and attending upon her relative.
One afternoon, as laden with parcels, she re-entered the house, Galpin handed her a card, on which was inscribed, "Mrs. De Wolfe, Newenham Court. So very sorry to miss you." The card was presently followed by a note, inviting Nancy to lunch with Mrs. De Wolfe at her hotel, but this, alas! she was compelled to decline, as the date fixed, happened to be her aunt's weekly "day," and she was on duty with the teapot.
A second note from Mrs. De Wolfe, repeated her disappointment at not seeing her young friend, especially as she was about to leave London, in order to spend the winter in the West Indies. Her disappointment was as nothing to Nancy's, for in her case, it was increased by despondency.
Ever since her arrival, under her aunt's roof, Mrs. Taylor had been ceaselessly endeavouring to remove her elsewhere. She had sought out, and suggested several situations, but these on examination had not proved to be satisfactory. One, was as an apprentice in a ladies' blouse and hat shop—to assist in the showroom and workroom, hours eight to six, dinner provided—no remuneration, but then "it was such a good opening," that Mrs. Taylor was enthusiastic. Another "opportunity," of which Nancy refused to avail herself, was as typist to a rising young dentist—and to give some assistance with the patients!
"But I'm afraid of dentists, and I cannot type!" protested Nancy. "If Aunt Arabella wishes, I can find a situation. Mrs. Briscoe will arrange for me—she has offered to do so."
Greatly to her friend's dismay, Mrs. Jenkins was not at present disposed to part with her useful slave, and sternly commanded Henrietta to postpone the search.
Autumn passed without any particular change; Nancy developed into a sort of extra lady's-maid, companion, secretary, and butt; Mrs. Jenkins saw a good deal of company: when her health permitted she was at home on "Tuesdays," and received many visitors,—as her teas were proverbially well provided—fruit and ices, were not unknown. These Tuesday afternoons, entailed weary hours for her niece, who stood pouring out, handing cakes, and generally assisting Galpin.
Mrs. Jenkins also gave occasional solemn dinners. These banquets were usually attended by various elderly men of her acquaintance, as she had a notable cook, and a famous bin of superior old port. At such festivities, Nancy was not expected to appear; her mourning was too deep. It was for this reason also, that Nancy was never invited to accompany her relative to any place of amusement. Mrs. Jenkins declared, that she could not possibly go into society for a full twelve-month. Her idea on the subject of mourning, was strict, and old-fashioned—mourning by the year,—crêpe by the yard. When the banquets took place, Nancy wrote out the menus, and name cards, arranged the flowers, and Bridge tables, and then thankfully retreated to the breakfast-room with a novel, and the Pom.
Sometimes she felt that this life was almost too difficult! Mrs. Taylor's poisonous influence told heavily against her; her enemy was so often with her in the Gate; she lunched or dined two or three times a week,—and having a genuine appetite for small doles, carried away fresh eggs, extra flowers, half-cut cakes, a box of scented soap, and similar useful largesse! After her visits, Nancy always found her aunt more than usually snappy, and ill to please; yet on the other hand, Mrs. Jenkins had what her niece mentally called "her good days." On these, she would talk glibly enough about her brother Laurence; his mad pranks, his high spirits, his good looks, extraordinary love for animals, and general popularity with old and young.
It also seemed to the girl—who was gifted with a vivid imagination—that now and then, in her aunt's conversation, she caught a faint echo of familiar expressions, and that she saw at long intervals on the face of her despotic relative, a glimmer of her father's smile! For these somewhat far-fetched, and flimsy reasons, Nancy still clung to her post. After all, Aunt Arabella, with her funny ways, was her onlynearrelative. She was Daddy's sister too, they had been brought up in the very same nursery, and had shared the same home.
The talks of "old times" at Lambourne, were considerably discounted by Mrs. Jenkins' rosy and prosy reminiscences of her own personal triumphs. On this subject, she could expatiate for hours,—content with a silent audience, or an occasional ejaculation.
"I daresay, my dear," she remarked to her niece, "that your father often told you, that I was the beauty of Blankshire, and how people would stand upon the road to look at me, and push and fight each other, to travel in the same railway carriage. The County ball was actually postponed, until I had returned home. After I was married, when I had a box at the theatre, it was most unpleasant the way the audience stared—every opera-glass levelled at poor me—and people waited in the vestibule, to see me pass out. Once when we were dining at a foreign restaurant, the prince of a royal house, sent round to inquire my name? Your uncle was furious, and I am sure it was the prince who sent me every morning, a most beautiful bouquet of flowers!"
She also related at considerable length, how several great artists had humbly implored permission to paint her portrait, but had been rudely snubbed by dearest Samuel: who had never allowed her picture to be on public exhibition.
Nancy listened with attentive interest to these tales of triumph, and faithfully believed in them. It may have been due to this artless confidence and appropriate deference, that she and her aunt were perceptibly drawing closer to one another; Nancy would receive an occasional kiss, a little patting of her hand, or even a word of praise, and thanks.
Alas, shortly before Christmas, a slump in Mrs. Taylor's dividends and a severe financial crisis, figuratively cast that lady at the feet of her wealthy school-fellow. Dearest Henrietta was received with open arms, offered the best spare bedroom, the second best, and most comfortable arm-chair, and soon settled down with remarkable ease into the position of an established resident.
Not long after this acquisition to the family circle, Mrs. Jenkins' manner to her niece underwent a change; she became querulous and fault-finding, and her "good days" were rare. Once, when the girl had ventured to speak of her old home, her friends, the far-away blue hills, and the coffee estate, Mrs. Taylor had coughed significantly, and her aunt had said:
"There, that will do, Nancy, that will do! I don't want to hear anything about those people; I am not interested."
As there were visitors present, Nancy was overwhelmed, and put to open shame by such a resounding slap in the face. Perhaps, after all, it was excellent discipline; Nancy the impulsive, was rapidly mastering the noble art of self-effacement and self-control. Her sorest trial was experienced of an evening, when Bridge was played, and Miss Dolling made a fourth. The scoldings administered to Nancy—especially when playing with Mrs. Taylor—made her so nervous that her mistakes were flagrant. She had actually been known to trump her partner's best card; more than once, she had been driven from the table in disgrace, and the rubber had ended in "cut throat."
Only for Mrs. Taylor (whose dislike amounted to personal enmity), Nancy believed that her aunt would have given her a small share of her heart; and for her own part, she made a great effort to storm her affections; but her attempts were invariably foiled by the sinister influence of Mrs. Taylor, who had marked "darling Arabella" for her own! She had reason to believe that her name was in "the will"—and naturally the fewer legatees the better!
Arabella was so weak and impressionable, she might take it into her head to make this niece her heiress! The girl was apparently good-tempered, and willing—but in reality, cunning, and deceitful. Arabella was of full habit; an apoplectic seizure might carry her off in a few hours, and she (Henrietta Taylor) was bound to be on her guard, and to take the situation firmly in hand. With this virtuous intention, she made stinging speeches, transformed harmless remarks, accused Nancy of untruth, and impertinence, and did her utmost to figuratively crush her out of existence like a black beetle, and create a wide breach between aunt and niece. Mrs. Taylor was particularly careful never to leave the pair alone; atête-à-têtewas always a serious danger to be avoided: precisely as if Mrs. Jenkins was a lovely young heiress—and Nancy, some unprincipled and discountenanced suitor! If by chance, she entered a room and there discovered the girl established with her relative, she looked so alarmingly black and lowering, that Nancy received an impression, that she had been caught in the act of stealing something that was the property of Aunt Arabella's old friend!
On the other hand, when Nancy found the couple together, her appearance was the signal for an abrupt and significant silence,—undoubtedly she and her short-comings, had been the topic of conversation.
In spite of this, Nancy had an instinctive impression that her aunt was a little afraid of her towering, black-browed inmate; once, when she made her a trifling and inexpensive present, she added:
"Don't show it to Henrietta," and on several occasions, she had whispered, "Not a word ofthis, to Mrs. T.!"
Mrs. Taylor was now enjoying what might be called "the time of her life." Of an afternoon, she accompanied her friend in the comfortable landau, behind a pair of fat brown horses,—royally arrayed in a superior, if secondhand, ermine stole, and muff. She was carried to theatres, lectures, concerts, and At homes: was suffered to make the first pounce upon new novels, enjoy breakfast in bed at pleasure,—and glasses of port at discreet intervals. Moreover, she had been endowed with several imposing costumes; and yet she was not happy! for Nancy Travers represented "Mordecai the Jew," in Queen's Gate,—and until she was dislodged, her enemy could know no peace.
It was ten months since Nancy had arrived from India, ten months of suppressed grief, hard work, and complete isolation. She had recovered her health,—thanks to incessant occupation, early hours, and good plain food. "The girl was picking up," as her aunt expressed it, and once or twice, she had actually been moved to remark, that in Nancy's now flawless skin, she saw something of "the family complexion!" (meaning her own). In spite of "the family complexion," Nancy was not treated as a relative, but an employée; her status in the establishment was that of a superior "tweenie"; as time went on, there were no longer any references to "old days at Lambourne," no affectionate pattings or strokings, no confidences, or small gifts—much less a condescending kiss.
Mrs. Taylor made as much mischief as lay in her power, and fomented and instigated "rows." She never gave her adversary credit for one good trait, but held up all her short-comings, in the domestic limelight. Late at night, when established at her ease in her friend's bedroom, she "talked over" the iniquities of the day with unctuous eloquence.
She (the chief parasite) loudly bewailed her poor darling Arabella's fate, in being compelled to support a thankless hanger-on! Pointed out, that Nancy was secretive, that she wrote too many letters, wasting her time and stamps; that she was cruel to the Pom, and flirted with the new doctor—even going so far as to lie in wait for him in the hall! Every one of these indictments was a deliberate and inexcusable falsehood; and perhaps Mrs. Jenkins, at the back of her mind, reminded herself that Henrietta "exaggerated"; but at last, after many vigorous efforts, Henrietta succeeded in rousing her effectually. One night, as soon as she had settled herself for the usual talk, she began abruptly:
"I do believe that girl has been complaining to Mrs. Devine, telling her that she is miserable here,—at least, that is whatIinferred, from what Mrs. Devine said to me to-day. She was quite sniffy and stand-off, and refused a cup of tea."
"What did she say?" demanded Mrs. Jenkins fiercely.
"She said, that it was noticed how Miss Travers always went about alone; quite a well-known figure in Kensington Gardens, a tall girl in mourning, taking a Pom for exercise. That she was never to be seen with her aunt in the carriage, or at any place of amusement."
"Why, of course not!" burst out Mrs. Jenkins; "her year of mourning is not nearly up. What else?" she demanded dramatically.
"That she appeared to have no young friends."
"Is it likely, my good Henrietta, that I would allow my house to be overrun and turned upside down by a pack of young people, simply to amuse a girl who has to look tome, for her daily bread? I never cared for Mrs. Devine, but I had intended to invite her to my next large dinner-party. Now I shall cross her name off the list—she shall eat no more dinners or luncheons,here!"
"I should hope not!" said Mrs. Taylor emphatically, "for Mrs. Murray told me privately, how Mrs. Devine had remarked to her, that the girl was treated more like a servant, than a relative: said she was shabbily dressed, neglected, and snubbed, and that if Miss Travers had a spark of spirit, she would find another situation—and clear out!"
This conversation proved extremely agitating to Mrs. Jenkins. It came as a revelation; a shattering mental avalanche: that anyone among her acquaintance should dare to find fault withher! The extraordinary influence of Mrs. Taylor, was entirely due to her unfailing supply of the most honeyed flattery! Misguided Arabella, was invariably told the things she wished to hear, and lived under the impression, that she was beyond the reach of criticism; everything she did was right; she had felt complacently assured that her neighbours and friends unanimously applauded her, for her benevolence in giving a home to her orphan niece!
The recent exciting and unexpected information, brought on a sharp attack of nervous palpitation.—Whenever Mrs. Jenkins was annoyed, she immediately complained of "palpitation."—Mrs. Taylor had swift recourse to the usual remedy, a bottle of drops—and as she handed the wine-glass to her patroness, she said impressively:
"Darling Arabella, youknow, you will never have any comfort or peace, until you get rid of that girl. She is accomplished, I understand, and now she is nineteen, and looks years older than when she arrived, surely her friend Mrs. Briscoe can find her a situation as governess?"
"No, no," protested Mrs. Jenkins, "I won't have that—Nancy is useful; clever with her fingers, active on her feet; the Pom is fond of her, and you know how few peoplehelikes! Baker, too, though terribly against Nancy at first, thinks her a nice young lady. Of course, I need not tell you, that I never bargained for a girl in the house; and I daresay I should be happier without her, but if I were to allow Nancy to go away, and take a situation—just think of thetalk!"
"It would be much better to have one big talk,—and get it over," declared Mrs. Taylor philosophically, "better to clear the air, than to have perpetual whispering. Some people are never happy, unless they are picking holes in such as you—whose shoes they are not fit to clean. And now, dearest Arabella, I cannot bear to see you worried,—as you know. If you could only make up your mind to let Nancy take a situation, we should all be somuchmore comfortable. Remember she is not actually your own niece; only your stepbrother's daughter. Do,do, think it over—good-night, my own—darling!"
"Good-night, Henrietta, and be sure you turn out the electric light on your landing. Last week, you left it on all night, and just think of howthatwill add to my quarterly bill!"
The winter had been long and dreary, and held no bright gleams for Nancy, who was sensible of a continuous atmosphere of suppression and oppression! It was now the capricious month of April, and in sympathy with its showers, she secretly shed many tears. Mrs. Jenkins had arrived at the definite decision, that her niece was "unsatisfactory"! This expression had been specially coined by Mrs. Taylor, who put it into daily currency. It was true that now and then the girl had absented herself for an hour or two in the afternoon, taking prolonged walks round the Park, or Kensington Gardens,—attended exclusively by the Pom.—She wasted time in the Victoria and Albert Museum, the Natural History Museum, and had even penetrated to the National Gallery!
Also, she had found her tongue, and ventured to talk to and make acquaintance with the elderly crowd assembled every Tuesday. More than all, she had become careless! She had broken a pet vase, value three francs, and—incredible enormity!—lost a library book—dropped it into the street from the top of a motor-'bus. Her last misdeed was of such gravity, that she had been formally summoned to the drawing-room, there to appear before her judges, and be sharply reprimanded. As Mrs. Jenkins, Miss Dolling, and Mrs. Taylor awaited the culprit, the latter said:
"My dear, you can see for yourself, how that girl is growing worse and worse, and becoming more unsatisfactory every day."
(It should be here explained, that Miss Dolling took a lenient view of Nancy's delinquencies, and was on occasion her ineffectual champion. She had even offered to take her to places of amusement—these invitations never came to Nancy's ears—for Miss Dolling cherished a mild, sentimental regard, for the daughter of her one and only love,—whose photograph, enshrined in silver, she treasured as a sacred relic).
Nancy's latest misdeed was of far-reaching consequence. Detailed to fetch her aunt's best transformation from the hairdressers' (where recently it had been renovated), she had left it in the Tube; abandoned it to the heartless jeers of railway officials, and the publicity of the Lost Property Office! The truth was, that Nancy had that morning heard of the death of Mr. Fletcher, and her thoughts were sad, and far away, as she travelled to South Kensington.—This valuable work of hair art, had cost no less than twelve guineas,—and what was poor Mrs. Jenkins to wear that evening at dinner?
The scolding had been so bitter, and impassioned, that Nancy's humility had at last given way, and as, with heightened colour and shining eyes, she seemed inclined to protest and expostulate, the enemy brought heavier guns to bear.
"Is it true?" demanded Mrs. Jenkins, sitting Buddha-like, with folded arms, "that you write to young men?"
"Yes," replied Nancy, "I do."
"She couldn't deny it!" broke in Mrs. Taylor; "I've seen the letters myself, lying upon the hall table."
"And you smoke cigarettes up in your own room," she added.
"Yes, occasionally," admitted the sinner.
"And waste the electric light, reading in bed," resumed Mrs. Jenkins, raising her voice with each accusation. "Mrs. Taylor saw the light under your door after eleven o'clock at night!"
"I do read in bed,—I've no time to read in the day," answered the girl defiantly.
"Keep your temper, miss!—that is not the way to speak tome," shouted her aunt, in an angry voice.
"No indeed, darling," chimed in Mrs. Taylor, "and after all you have done for her—taken her in, when she was a penniless orphan, and——"
"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Jenkins, "and I hear you have gone behind my back, and complained to Mrs. Devine,—oh, you abominable, ungrateful, double-faced minx!"
"To Mrs. Devine?" repeated Nancy. "I have never spoken to her in my life!"
"I don't believe you!" declared the accuser, her face alarmingly aflame; at this sharp crisis, the door was pushed open, and Galpin announced:
"Mrs. De Wolfe."
Mrs. De Wolfe, handsomely dressed, and completely self-possessed, walked forward to where Nancy stood before her accusers, and said in her masculine bass:
"Oh, my dear Nancy, I'm delighted to find you in at last! Pray introduce me to your aunt?" and she glanced at Mrs. Taylor,—who was still heaving with virtuous indignation.
The atmosphere was heavily charged with electricity, and for a moment Nancy was speechless. Then, hastily recovering herself:
"This is my aunt, Mrs. Jenkins. Aunt Arabella, here is Mrs. De Wolfe, with whom I travelled home in thePatna."
The shock of such an unexpected interruption had suddenly sobered Mrs. Jenkins: for a moment, she had been threatened with palpitation,—but thrust the temptation aside. Recently, she had heard Mrs. De Wolfe referred to as a woman of wealth and social importance; she therefore made an effort to recover her poise, and accord her a gracious reception. After a somewhat breathless and incoherent conversation with her hostess, Mrs. De Wolfe turned to Nancy.
"Have you been here ever since you came home?"
"Yes," she replied, and then boldly added: "I have not taken a situation yet; but I intend to see about one immediately," and she looked straight at her aunt, who encountered her gaze with sullen hostility.
This unexpected reinforcement by Mrs. De Wolfe had given Nancy a species of ephemeral, or "Dutch" courage.
"Oh, are you, my dear? But before you arrange anything definite, I hope you will come and pay me a little visit. I am staying for a couple of weeks at Brown's Hotel, in Dover Street, and shall be glad to have your company at once."
The eyes of Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Taylor met; their expression was significant.
"You are very kind," replied the former, now addressing her visitor, "but my niece is not leaving me—as far asIam aware—but I shall be pleased to spare her to you, for a few days."
"Thank you very much," replied Mrs. De Wolfe. "Then if you will allow me, I will call for her to-morrow."
At this moment other visitors were announced, and Nancy's ally rose and took leave. As she pressed the girl's hand she murmured:
"Had you not better come down with me to the hall,—and see that I don't carry off the umbrellas?"
On the landing, she halted opposite the stuffed dog, and said:
"My poor dear child! The door was ajar, and I heard every word about the cigarettes, the electric light, the reading in bed, the penniless orphan, and Mrs. Devine. What people! As for the big, dark woman, with the red face, positively she frightened me!—she is like a Gorgon!"
"I was getting on all right until just before Christmas when Mrs. Taylor arrived," replied Nancy; "she is dreadfully poor; she hates me, and thinks I am an interloper, and a fortune-hunter. Ever since she came into the house, Aunt Arabella is completely changed."
"I intend that you shall be completely changed," declared Mrs. De Wolfe. "Oh, I must go! I see the man is waiting at the door. I'll call for you to-morrow before twelve o'clock,—and I think you had better bring most of your luggage."
A visit to Mrs. De Wolfe proved a change indeed. Nancy felt another creature, living in another atmosphere, and another city. Oh, the blessed relief, from hearing the ponderous tread of Mrs. Taylor, Galpin's pompous announcements, and the Pom's maddening bark!
She and her hostess shopped in the mornings, motored in the afternoons, and at night, went to concerts, lectures, and the theatre. Within a few days, it had been decided, that Nancy was to be Mrs. De Wolfe's companion for the present,—and to receive sixty pounds a year, on which to dress. Already the girl had felt the stimulating effects of a new and fashionable outfit!
"Without flattering myself, I think I may say, that you will be happier withme, than with Mrs. Jenkins," observed her benefactress; "though I am by no means an angel! Every character has its odd corners, its limits, and its secrets. You are too young to harbour any secrets yet—whilst I have dozens!"
She also added, that later, should anything more satisfactory turn up, Nancy was not to consider herself bound in any way; and so the arrangement, or engagement, was concluded—an engagement which existed for little more than a week.
One afternoon, Nancy, who had just returned from the Park, was informed, that someone who had brought a message, particularly wanted to see her, and she was a good deal surprised, when the door of the sitting-room was opened, and no less a person than Galpin emerged from the passage. He was surprised, too,—as he subsequently confessed, when he imparted particulars of his visit to the lady's maid.
"There was Miss Travers, looking like another girl! her hair all fluffed out, wearing a great big hat covered with feathers—quite the fashionable young lady. I declare to you, Miss Baker, I hardly knew her!"
Galpin, who carried a packet of letters in his hand, peered cautiously round the room, made a stiff little bow, coughed, and said:
"Mrs. Jenkins sent me over special with these letters for you, Miss. She said, there was one that looked like a business matter, and is anxious to know what it is all about? She thinks, as you have been doing secretary work for her—that maybe there's a mistake in the name—as it's from a firm of lawyers. I was to bring back the letter, Miss, and to give Mrs. Jenkins' love, and to tell you how the Pom misses you."
Nancy received and hastily examined the letters. The Indian Mail was in. There was a thick one from Finchie, a thin one from Nellie Meach, and a postcard from Francis, on which was inscribed, "The dog Togo is too well." Besides these, one was in a blue envelope, on the flap of which was printed, the name of a legal firm. She sat down to open this,—in order to at once satisfy her aunt; whilst Galpin waited, hat in hand, with an air of respectful curiosity.
As Nancy glanced over the neatly-written lines, she faintly grasped an almost incredible fact. Mr. Fletcher's will had recently been read; he had endowed her with Fairplains, and an income of two thousand a year! This was the substance of what she gathered, through a maze of legal expressions. For a moment, she imagined that she must be dreaming. Then she slowly went over the pages, and noted, that the firm requested an immediate interview, and that one of their clerks would wait upon her at an hour, and date, to be hereafter fixed.
For a moment or two she sat motionless, endeavouring to collect her faculties; then, with considerably heightened colour, she raised her head, and looked up at Galpin,—who almost conveyed the impression that he was in attendance at table, and waiting to remove her plate!
"Please tell Aunt Arabella, that the letter was really for me, and contains good news. I will write to her to-night."
"Very well, Miss. Is that all—ahem—noparticulars?" Galpin's tone expressed extreme disappointment.
"No particulars," rising as she spoke; "good afternoon, Galpin, I think you can find your way down," and she indicated the door.
As soon as this had closed behind Galpin's broad back, Nancy, letter in hand, rushed into Mrs. De Wolfe's bedroom. The old lady, who had only recently come in, was changing her boots, assisted by the invaluable Haynes.
"I've just had this," announced the girl breathlessly. "Aunt Arabella sent it over by Galpin; she wanted so much to know what it was all about? Do look at it—and tell me if you think it'sreal?"
Mrs. De Wolfe hastily dismissed her maid, and with one boot on, and one boot off, assumed her glasses and deliberately studied the letter; then she looked up at Nancy, and said:
"An heiress, I declare! My dear, I congratulate you. Iamglad."
"Do you think it's true? I can hardly believe it! Oh, I feel I'd like to run about, and tell the whole hotel of my wonderful good fortune. It's not the money so much,—but Fairplains—how splendid of Mr. Fletcher, and oh, if father were only alive!"
"Fairplains. Yes, it was your father's once, now it is yours; you were born there, and love it; but a solid income is a satisfactory fact. Well, now you are independent, and can engage a companion—or a chaperone."
"I want to stay with you!"
"But what will Mrs. Jenkins say?" and Mrs. De Wolfe laughed. "How I should like to see her face, when she hears that you are no longer 'a penniless orphan!'"
When Mrs. Jenkins received the news, she was so startled, and upset, that she felt compelled to ring for Baker to bring her some special heart drops; and yet she was gratified in a way. To have a niece who was an heiress, increased—if that were possible—her sense of her own importance. Mrs. Taylor was also gratified. There would now be no question of the return of Nancy to Queen's Gate; no fear of her inheriting Mrs. Jenkins' substantial fortune; she would without further exertions, have the house, and the, so to speak, "field" to herself.
When the heiress arrived to pay her formal visit to Queen's Gate, she found her aunt in her most agreeable temper. Nancy might almost have been a titled acquaintance, so effusive was her welcome! After a few preliminaries, she said:
"Well, Nancy, so you've come in for a coffee estate, and a large sum of money! That is nice for you."
"I suppose there's no fear of the will being disputed?" said Mrs. Taylor—ever ready with disagreeable suggestions.
"I think not," replied the heiress. "I remember Mr. Fletcher telling us, that he was the last of his family."
"You won't know what to do with all your money," declared Mrs. Jenkins with a complacent smile. "Of course you will returnhere."
"Return!" repeated the girl blankly.
"Why, certainly, you must live withme; it is your natural home. It would be most extraordinary if you did not! What would people say? I am your only near relative. You will be putting off your mourning, and I shall take you out this season,—and perhaps give a dance for you. You shall have a room on the next floor,—and I daresay you can keep a maid."
Mrs. Taylor's face clouded over as she listened to these luxurious arrangements. How close Arabella had been; the sly old thing had never dropped a word of these plans, during their nightly conferences.
"Thank you, Aunt Arabella," replied Nancy, "but I am going to travel with Mrs. De Wolfe. We shall probably be abroad for a year. I have never been on the Continent; and I think we shall start as soon as the lawyers have finished with my affairs."
"That is a monstrous idea; I shall not give my consent," declared her aunt with a very pink face. "Mrs. De Wolfe is a complete stranger. Ten days, or a fortnight, is all very well, but you cannot go about the world with a woman who is nothing to you beyond being a fellow passenger. It would be most unseemly. Remember that you are not of age yet,—and have no right to do just as you please."
"I see no objection," murmured Nancy.
"You seeme," announced Mrs. Jenkins with emphasis, "Iam the objection. You cannot deny, that I stand to you in the place of a parent—that I have received you,—and adopted you"—here she paused to sneeze.
"I was not aware that you had adopted me, Aunt Arabella; and I think I had better say at once, that I should be sorry to have any disagreement with you, but I cannot admit that you have any right to control me. Mrs. De Wolfe and I, are starting for Italy in a few days, and this visit is not merely to tell you about my plans,—but to say good-bye."
"My dear, I think Nancy isverywise," proclaimed Mrs. Taylor, advancing unexpectedly to her rescue. "You know, that she has seen nothing of the world as yet; and she is so young; the tour will complete her education. Mrs. De Wolfe is a friend of the dear Foresters, and the aunt of Lady Bincaster,quiteall that she ought to be! Judging by my own feelings, I am sure that Nancy would not care to go into company yet; and anyway, the state of your health could never stand the strain of playing chaperone, and keeping late hours. Nowcouldit?" laying her heavy hand upon her friend's fat arm. "Of course we all know, that you are always onlytooready to sacrifice yourself for others; but your friends could never permit you to undertake, what would be practically, a sort of prolonged suicide!"
"Well, I suppose there is something in what you say," admitted Mrs. Jenkins, after a moment's reflection, reluctantly releasing the vision of a wealthy niece on show—and so to speak, bearing her own train.
Indeed, such was the effect of Mrs. Taylor's soothing, and cooling remarks, that by degrees, her old school-fellow recovered her temper and complacency. She talked about the Continent, of her triumphal progress through various cities, and related the tale of a tragic experience in the Tyrol, where it had been whispered "that a gallant young Austrian officer had precipitated himself from a mountain peak, solely on her account!"
After half an hour's discourse,—chiefly reminiscent,—Mrs. Jenkins had talked herself into a condition of the utmost good humour, and with the promises of letters, and many picture postcards, the visitor was permitted to take leave.
As Nancy departed, she noticed Baker peering at her over the banisters, and nodded to her affably, as she descended the stairs,—on which she had made many weary journeys—also it seemed to her, that Galpin the pompous, held the hall door extra wide, and was impressively benignant, as she passed forth.
More than two years had elapsed since Derek Mayne left Fairplains. Almost immediately afterwards, his regiment had been removed from Cananore, to the distant cantonment of Bareilly,—a station which instead of lying on the damp seaboard of the Malabar Coast, was situated in the heart of a sugar cane district, with the white Himalayas glimmering on its horizon. Here, in hard work, and strenuous play, parades, manœuvres, inspections, cricket, polo, and fishing in the Sardar, time passed only too rapidly; thanks to new surroundings, new friends, and incessant occupation, the memory of Nancy became a little blurred.
Mayne recalled her existence, when he dispatched his half-yearly cheque to Teddy Dawson; for although his friend had assured him, that the money would lie untouched, nevertheless he persisted in lodging the amount at Grindlays. Teddy had volunteered the news, that Nancy was now living in London, with her father's sister; but of this information, Mayne vouchsafed no notice, and correspondence, save for the bi-annual cheque, had completely lapsed. The yearly sum of two hundred and fifty pounds,—which was half of his private income,—left Mayne somewhat pinched in his finances. To keep a couple of ponies, to go on fishing, and shooting trips, required a certain number of rupees; and occasionally Captain Mayne found considerable difficulty in making both ends meet! His brother officers wondered why the deuce Mayne was now so economical? and what he had done with his money?
An incredible story had leaked out through Mayne's Madras servant—who had accompanied him to the Hills; it whispered, that when there, he had got into some sort of entanglement with a girl! This tale was frankly discussed, and believed, in the Gorrah bazaar at Cananore, but had never risen in any substantial form to higher circles,—such as the club or mess; and yet all the time, though nothing was said, there was a vague uneasy feeling, that Mayne was keeping back some incident or experience, connected with his six week's leave on that coffee plantation. It was noticed, how, although he had apparently enjoyed extraordinarily good sport, he was strangely reserved with regard to his hill friends; rarely referred to his expedition, and sat dumb when other fellows less successful, loudly bragged of their "shikar."
Also it had been remarked, that when he returned from the Neilgherries, he had appeared to be extraordinarily depressed, and that Mayne always such a cheery fellow, with lots to say for himself, hadn't a word to throw to the traditional dog. Former enthusiastic letters received by his friends, describing his delightful quarters, his first-class sport, were subsequently discounted, by a mysterious, and significant silence. One surprising fact, had been much discussed; Mayne was just the ordinary young man, and not in the least eccentric, and yet when his trophies were unpacked, displayed and praised (two magnificent tiger and three panther skins, all in first-class condition), as the largest panther skin was unrolled, he seemed strangely put out, and gave a hasty order to his bearer. Later, but four skins were exhibited, and when the fifth was inquired for, the bearer promptly answered that "the Sahib had given orders, that it was to be taken away andburnt!"
In a small Mofussil station such as Cananore, topics of conversation are but scanty. There was a good deal of talk and conjecture, respecting this same panther. Why had Mayne ordered such a prize to be destroyed? Why could he not have given it to someone—if he had a particular down upon the animal?—the Colonel's wife would have been proud to accept its skin.
No satisfactory answer to this was obtained at the time, but later, it became known that Mayne's friend, the coffee planter, had died, as the result of an encounter with a panther; it was conceded that possiblythatwas the reason of Mayne's agitation, and the order for the destruction of an unusually fine trophy.
Skin or no skin, there was some mystery connected with Mayne's visit to the Neilgherries. Since then, he had been obviously short of money, and given to unwonted economy. He drank cheap claret, refused himself a new rifle, and another polo pony. A hard player like Mayne, found it difficult to manage with less than three. Whatever the trouble was, he did not avoid society; he was popular with women; his good looks and good manners, made him a general favourite. He went to dances and picnics, was conspicuous in gymkhanas, and every afternoon, when nothing was "on," he played rackets or tennis at the club. Once or twice, when a particularly active girl happened to be his tennis partner, he recalled Nancy,—not one of the lot could approach her as far as play was concerned. Who would have believed that her thin brown arm and wrist, was capable of such smashing strokes, and disastrous service?
Mayne had now been three years in India, and never exhibited any intention of taking leave home. Apparently he preferred an excursion into Thibet, or Cashmere. At the back of his mind, he had a conviction, that as long as he remained in the country, he was safe from any awkward developments that might result from the ceremony which had taken place in the drawing-room at Fairplains.
Yet at the same time, he had an impression that some day, like murder, it would all come out,—and there would be a holy row! Meantime he thrust the hateful prospect into the lumber room of his brain; the poignant memories of the last week of Travers' life had now become a little dim. Supposing he had held back, and not suffered himself to be moved by an exceptionally tragic situation: by Mrs. Hicks' observations, and carried away by an almost irresistible impulse? he could have guaranteed an acceptable income to Nancy, which would have left them both free!
Now, they were bound together by that deadly certificate in his despatch box, on which were inscribed the names of Eleanora Nancy Travers, spinster, and Derek Danvers Mayne, bachelor. Nothing but death could release them. Occasionally plunged in contemplation, he would let his mind work; endeavouring to trace some way out of this desperate situation. His thoughts would travel to and fro, as in a maze,—vainly seeking some safe, and honourable exit. Sometimes, during these moods of reflection, his companion for the moment, would wonder at Mayne's abstraction? Once or twice, he had been offered "a penny for his thoughts," but had invariably dismissed the offer with a laugh.
Finally summing up the affair, he assured himself that some day or other—perhaps in twenty years—the whole business must be disclosed. Supposing Nancy wanted to marry someone?—supposing he were to meetthegirl, and fall in love with her? what a complication that would be! After all, the present was calm and peaceful, he could discern no clouds on the horizon, and soothed his uneasiness, with the well-worn sedative,—"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Such were Mayne's sentiments, when he received a cable from home, informing him that his uncle had met with a serious accident, and begging him to return at once. As there could be but one answer to such an appeal, Mayne instead of taking his intended sixty days' shooting leave into Garwalb, immediately applied for three months to England—on "urgent private affairs."