The Project Gutenberg eBook ofGiven in MarriageThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Given in MarriageAuthor: B. M. CrokerRelease date: October 12, 2022 [eBook #69142]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1916Credits: MWS, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIVEN IN MARRIAGE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Given in MarriageAuthor: B. M. CrokerRelease date: October 12, 2022 [eBook #69142]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1916Credits: MWS, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Title: Given in Marriage
Author: B. M. Croker
Author: B. M. Croker
Release date: October 12, 2022 [eBook #69142]Most recently updated: October 19, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: Hutchinson & Co, 1916
Credits: MWS, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIVEN IN MARRIAGE ***
GIVEN IN MARRIAGEBy B. M. CrokerAuthor of "In Old Madras," "Lismoyle," etc.LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.PATERNOSTER ROW—E.C.
Author of "In Old Madras," "Lismoyle," etc.
LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.PATERNOSTER ROW—E.C.
"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?"
An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together they—or rather their horses—toiled up a sharp ascent.
"Oh yes,Iheard him," grunted the other with a shrug.
"And what did you think, Ted?"
"That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out!"
"Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the estates were chock full of gold."
"Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it," declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade.
"Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops—the berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I've heard that lame Maistrey—whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened up—say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains—run right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered in jungle."
"Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I've heard these fool stories, but there's nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of ammonia.
The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up the steep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated on the western slopes of a hill range, in Southern India. Edward Dawson, the elder of the pair, was a big, loosely put-together man, of five and thirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardless face), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clothes were decent—which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt, wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a battered topee, completed his kit.
Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely invested part of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had thereby provided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes—a good, honest fellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spoke Tamil and Canarese, with effective fluency.
Nicholas Byng, his companion, cousin, and partner, was a slight, young man, with neat features, quick, bright eyes, and a remarkably clear idea of the importance of appearances—especially of his own appearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode a long-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouraging name of "Mad Molly."
Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for the Army, but was "spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared to have become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end to further efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him to the Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career, he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year's apprenticeship, became partner and sub-manager. He liked the life.
Teddy, for all his unconventional, "jungly" ways, was a good sort; a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays—oh, it was notall"coffee"—and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras, and fashionable—alas! rather remote—hill stations; he got a bit of shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet suited him down to the ground.
The couple had been to the foot of the ghât on business connected with the transport of their crops; every yard they now travelled carried them further and further from dense, tropical forests, sweltering heat, and swampy valleys, and nearer to the quiet beauty of the grassy uplands.
Turning a sharp corner, they debouched into a little glade where three tracks met, and here, with a slight shock of surprise, discovered that prominent figure in early Victorian fiction, known as "a solitary horseman."
Dawson, who was still expounding on the scandalous price of bone manure, broke off his sentence with:
"I say,—who's this?"
"Hello, good afternoon," said the stranger, raising a smart topee, "I heard your voices, and waited. I don't know these parts, and I'm afraid I've lost my bearings."
The "lost one" was a well set-up, self-possessed individual, mounted on a fine waler cob, and accompanied by a wiry, and more than half-naked syce.
"I expect we will soon put you all right," said Byng,—ever the speaking partner—"Where are you bound for?"
"A place called Fairplains; the estate of one James Fletcher."
"Then you are just five miles out; you overshot the mark by that native village among the plantain trees, near the bridge. Why didn't you stick to the road?"
"Well, I suppose because I'm an adventurous idiot," was the modest reply, "and I was told that a bridle-path cut off seven miles."
"So it does,—but it depends uponwhichbridle-path. This one has put you on, a good ten."
"I say, what a confounded nuisance!" exclaimed the wanderer, looking down at his blown, and sweating, steed.
"Our place is barely a mile from here," announced Dawson, speaking for the first time. "Come on with us, have a drink, give the gee a feed, and a rub-down, and we will send a coolie to put you on the way to Fairplains—unless you'll stay the night?" he added, with true planter's hospitality.
"Thanks awfully, but I'd better shove on. I'll be glad to stop an hour at your diggings, and give the cob a rest—he's pretty well done."
"Not the usual 'Hirling,' I see," remarked Byng.
"No, I brought him from Cananore; he is awfully soft—that climate is only fit for horned cattle!"
"Yes, beastly wet," agreed Byng, his bright eyes taking in the well-knit figure and military bearing of the cob's master. "Your regiment quartered there?"
"It is—my name is Mayne—Derek Mayne—an uncle of mine is a pal of Fletcher's, he invited me up for six weeks' shooting—and naturally I came like a shot!"
"But Fletcher has gone home—went off ten days ago!"
"What do you say?" cried Mayne, reining up his horse.
"It's a fact; he has been rather seedy, and ran down to see a doctor in Madras, who ordered him to start then and there for London—it was a case for an immediate operation."
"Poor chap! I'm most awfully sorry. Well," after a reflective pause, "I'm in a pretty big hole. I had a line from Fletcher three weeks ago, and I've got my leave all right, and have written to announce my arrival, but the shoot is off! I suppose I must make for one of these hill stations. I can't tell you how I've been looking forward to this shikar trip—my first."
"Oh, I expect you will be all right," said Dawson reassuringly; "Fletcher is bound to have left instructions; he is a most reliable old boy. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dawson, and this," waving a huge paw, "is my cousin, Nicholas Byng. We run a coffee estate known as Chicknabullnay,—but called by our neighbours 'The Corner.' He is the ornamental, and I'm the working partner."
"Come, I like that!" broke in his cousin: "I live with my nose to the grindstone. I've been on duty since six o'clock this morning; down at Burliar, making a bundobast for our crop."
"We would give you some shooting," continued Dawson, "but nothing like what you'd get at Fairplains—that has always had a Shikari owner, who knows the best grounds, and beats in the low country, as well as he knows his A B C, and can call out any amount of good, plucky beaters."
"Well, I sincerely hope itwillbe all right, as you believe, and that the manager has been warned by Fletcher; otherwise, it's no great matter, as I am a complete stranger to them both. I say, what a mixed multitude!" pointing to the pack.
"Yes, all sorts and conditions," replied Byng, "and a real good specimen of an average planter's pack, only ours are absolutely healthy—no red mange."
"But what variety!" said Mayne, turning in his saddle to survey them. "A fox hound, three beagles, a deer-hound, half a dozen fox terriers, several—any other sort—a bull terrier, and what was once a poodle."
"Yes, and the poodle has the brains of the lot. You see how it is; people going home are glad to leave their dogs in a good climate. Most of ours, have a history! The deer-hound was given to me by a girl, the poodle came from a French priest at Pondicherry, the fox-terrier with the black head, belonged to a poor chap who died. They get on together fairly well, all being fond of sport, and they have a rattling good time."
"Lucky dogs!"
"Yes," put in Dawson, "hunting, drawing sholahs for sambur, and pig, and at home, there are rats and bandicoots. Two dog-boys feed and brush them—and a few live indoors."
"Afew!" echoed Byng, "make it a dozen! The poodle and fox-terriers,—like the poor,—are always with us, and I've found a couple of beagles in my bed before now, and"—as an old retriever came slowly towards the party, "here comes a pensioner to welcome us. This is Chicknabullnay."
For the last quarter of a mile, the journey had been on a well-metalled cart road, and through a crop of dense green coffee bushes; now, a sudden curve brought the back of a long, low bungalow with adjoining gardens, stores, and stables, into sight. As the trio rode down a steep slope, dog-boys, and syces, hurried forward to claim their respective charges.
The guest dismounted rather stiffly, and was escorted by Dawson straight through the house, and into the front verandah. Here the view that lay before them was startlingly unexpected; low hills to right and left had, as it were, been cleft by some volcanic convulsion, and disclosed a far-away, and exquisite, blue panorama of the plains.
"Oh I say!" Mayne exclaimed involuntarily.
"Hits you bang in the eye, doesn't it?" was Dawson's complacent rejoinder. "Most planters manœuvre for a fine outlook—the one up at Fairplains is the same—but Fletcher swears, ten times better. Now come along inside, and have a wash."
For a bachelor abode "The Corner" proved unexpectedly comfortable, and well-furnished.
"Wouldn't you swear a couple of old maids lived here?" said Dawson, as he ushered his guest into the dining-room. "This is all Byng's doing," pointing to a precisely-laid table,—where four little hill-ferns, in four little white china wheelbarrows, supported a central ornament. "He found things pretty rough and tumbled, when he joined me three years ago."
"You may say so!" corroborated his cousin, now entering sleek-headed and refreshed, unfolding a smart silk handkerchief as he spoke. "Why, there was hardly a sheet or a towel—nothing but rags—only one tumbler, one breakfast-cup, and two plates, both cracked!"
"Oh come, draw it mild!" protested the other. "Anyhow, the Missy—I call him the 'Missy'—gives picnics and tiffins, we have an ice machine, a piano, and lace-edged tea-cloths! Now sit down, I'm sure you are starving."
A black-bearded butler brought in a substantial cold hump, salad, roast potatoes, bread, butter, cheese, and a huge cake; whilst his satellite, an attendant chokra, supplied each of the company with a long and well-iced peg.
"Not much of the old maid in this quarter!" remarked Mayne, when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls, indicating the splendid tiger-skins, and heads, that surrounded the party. "That bison—I say, what a fellow!" surveying the trophy with eyes of envious respect.
"Yes, a good specimen," assented Dawson. "You should see those at Fairplains. Travers is the finest shot in Southern India. Have you ever done any big game shooting?"
"Nothing bigger than a hare! I've always been mad keen on trophies, and when my uncle wrote about this invitation, I nearly stood on my head. Supposing Fletcher's manager has received no instructions, and gives me the boot?"
"No fear," rejoined Byng emphatically. "Travers is the great shikari in these hills, a magnificent shot, and absolutely without a nerve in his body. If you are a keen sportsman—a red-hot enthusiast—he will love you as a son, or brother."
"How splendid! What's he like?"
"I'll tell you all about him, when we adjourn outside. Have one of these Trichys?"
With a Trichy between his fingers, Mayne followed his host into the verandah, and there, subsided into a deep and seductive chair. His eyes ranged over the unfamiliar outlook, of rich green coffee bushes, heavy forestry, and vague, blue plains, as he meditatively rolled the cheroot.
"It's rather a painful story about Laurence Travers," began Byng, blowing a cloud.
"Then—er—perhaps you'd rather——"
"Oh, it's common property—no scandal. Travers' father lived to spend his last penny, and left nothing but debt for the family. So Laurence, instead of going into the Army, came out here when he was two and twenty; he had a little capital, and started coffee planting at Fairplains. After a good season, he went home on three months' leave,—and got caught, coming out!"
"Caught!" repeated Mayne.
"Fell head over ears in love with a fellow passenger; a young governess bound for a situation in Melbourne. She had not a penny, needless to say. They were married, and lived very happily, in spite of the wrath of his relations,—whose chief asset was family pride. Mrs. Travers did up the house, started a garden, rode about all over the place, and made heaps of friends; she was Irish, very pretty, lively, hospitable, and an immense favourite. Those were fat years for coffee too—and Travers prospered."
"Oh, get on!—don't be so long-winded!" growled Dawson, who was nursing a fox terrier, whilst jealous dogs of various sorts surrounded his chair.
"Well," resumed Byng, "after a good while, there was the usual baby—a girl. Travers was in the seventh heaven, but Mrs. Travers somehow began to go down hill, though she would not give in; other people saw it, and urged her to take a change, or to go home. She stuck it out, that she was as strong as a horse. However, when the child was about a year old, Travers, coming in late one afternoon, discovered her sitting in the verandah,—as he supposed asleep,—with the baby on her lap. When it turned out that she was stone dead, he went nearly raving mad; in those days the place was a bit isolated, neighbours were far off; not like it is now,—the Ffinches and Hicks within a couple of miles. Strange to say, the servants had the sense to put away his razors and fire-arms, and to send for the nearest doctor. He gave Travers a sedative, and found that Mrs. Travers had died of long-standing heart disease. She was buried in her garden.
"After this blow, Travers appeared to have no further interest in anything in the wide world,—bar the kid. She had a superior English nurse, and the most wonderful frocks, sashes, and dolls, that had ever been seen on these hills. Travers could not bear her out of his sight, and brought her about with him everywhere,—even shooting. When Nancy was six, she got typhoid—our crystal clear streams are deceptive—and she nearly went out, and had to be sent home. Her father took this separation terribly to heart; after her departure, they say, he used to sit for hours, in a sort of dream, just smoking, and staring into space! Some people thought he was going dotty; and it sounds a funny thing to say, but in a way, the child was hisruin! An irresistible magnet, that drew him to England, and often at the most critical seasons. There, he had no occupation; here, his coffee estate was going to pot. Other planters warned him, but in spite or all they could say, he would leave as manager, one, Doria, a cunning half-caste,—such an oily persuasive rascal,—to take on his job.
"There had been bad seasons, and losses,—common to the whole community, and this fellow urged Travers to raise a mortgage, and Travers, who wanted ready money, and was dying to be off home, agreed, and departed. Then Doria, left to his own devices, set about to rob and plunder in the most shameless way; he pocketed a whole season's profits, also large arrears of debts—and cleared out, leaving no address."
"I believe he is in South America," interposed Dawson. "Go on, Nicky—you'd make your fortune in the Bazaar!"
"I think," resumed Byng, "that it must be nearly five years since Travers returned, and found himself completely smashed. He made a desperate effort to pull things together, but it was too late; the coffee was neglected, and blighted, the bungalow full of mildew and cobwebs,—and the mortgagees were calling for their capital. I must say, they behaved infernally badly; would not give Travers a dog's chance; foreclosed, and sold up Fairplains. Fletcher bought it, lock, stock and barrel, and kept on Travers, as his manager. He has a bungalow, and four hundred rupees a month—and is worthdouble. When Fletcher is away—he is boss, and lives in the big house."
"Where he was once lord, and master!" exclaimed Mayne. "What frightfully hard luck,—I wonder he stayed on."
"Hobson's choice! He'd got to live, and to pay for the kiddie at home. Now she is grown up, and out—and——"
"Do you mean to tell me," interrupted Mayne, pushing back his chair, "that there is a girl at Fairplains?"
"I am thankful to say thereis! She is the life and soul of the neighbourhood. We should all be uncommonly dull without our Nancy—she is full of energy, and truejoie-de-vivre—does everything bang off on the spur of the moment, and is the apple of her father's eye."
"And mine," supplemented Dawson, "apple of both eyes."
"Yes, she put new life into Travers," resumed Byng, "he is like another man; goes all over the place to picnics, and tennis, and takes an interest in his personal appearance—not like my cousin here," with a contemptuous gesture of his thumb.
"Oh, go on!" grunted Dawson, "Ihaven't thirty-eight ties hanging on a string—I've no red silk socks—and no looks! Travers, though he is nearly fifty, is far and away the handsomest fellow in these parts; he's like a king! I suppose it's the old blue blood—and one of the best, into the bargain."
Mayne listened with ill-suppressed impatience to this long eulogy. What were the handsome planter, and the apple of his eye, to him? His programme must be entirely revised.
"But I say," he broke in at last. "It's one thing to go shooting with a bachelor, my uncle's old pal—but another pair of shoes, to quarter myself on his manager, who has a grown-up daughter—even if he wanted to go for a week's shikar, he could not leave her at home alone."
"Oh, she goes with him," was Dawson's staggering announcement, "she's an A1 shot."
"Thenthatsettles it," declared Mayne, rising to his feet. "Two is company! Only my baggage is on its way to Fletcher's, I'd ask for a bed here, and start down the ghât to-morrow. Anyway, I won't stay at Fairplains more than a couple of days."
"Oh,won'tyou?" said Byng, with ironical emphasis, "I advise you to 'wait and see.' Nancy won't be the fly in the ointment—she's a rattling good little housekeeper, and will make you uncommonly comfortable. She does not always go out shooting; sometimes Mrs. Ffinch comes over, and keeps her company—they are tremendous pals."
"Yes, if you are really anxious to see first-class sport," broke in Dawson, "don't let a scruple, or a little girl, stand in your way. Take my advice, and make no arrangements, till you have seen Fairplains for yourself."
"Well, I daresay you are right," said Mayne, after a weighty silence. "It does seem rather rotten, to have taken this long journey, and be, so to speak, headed off by a petticoat. I—might be sorry afterwards."
"You are bound to be," rejoined Dawson with conviction.
"All right then, I'll push on. Have the Travers any neighbours besides yourselves, and this Mrs. What-you-may-call her?"
"Oh, yes, the Ffinches at Clouds Rest, are within two miles—there are only the two of them. He, given over body and soul, to money-making, and coffee—otherwise just Mrs. Ffinch's husband! She, is our local dynamo, and keeps everything going;—extraordinarily clever woman, absolutely wasted out here;—would make a great Prime Minister, or Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Then we have the Hicks'. Dr. and Mrs. and two girls; he was doctor on board a liner—and picked up a lady passenger."
"More of a passenger, than a lady," corrected Dawson, "but a rare good sort."
"And the girls ditto," continued his cousin. "These are our nearest—if not dearest. You'll soon get to know everyone, and everyone will know you,—and give you lots of sport."
"Well then, I think I'll make a start, if you'll send for the cob, and syce; it's seven o'clock."
"It's a fine starlight night, and no hurry; only the Travers' are early birds," said Dawson, when Mayne's cob was led up. "There's a coolie to guide you. I expect we shall see you pretty often—mind you look in, when you can."
"Upon my word, I don't know how to thank you! You have been most awfully good in taking me in like this," said Mayne. "Perhaps Fletcher has not written; and you may have me back on your hands to-morrow morning," and with a laugh, and a salute, he sprang into the saddle, and cantered away, closely pursued by syce, and coolie.
"A real cheery chap!" remarked Dawson, as he looked after the parting guest; "no 'haw-haw' nonsense about him. I like his eyes,—and he laughs like a boy."
"Boy! He must be seven or eight and twenty," said Byng, "may be more. Money, I should say. I noticed his watch, and he paid a smart sum for that cob. He's not a bad-looking chap—I hope he won't turn the child's head?"
"Not likely!" rejoined Dawson, "Nancy's head is too well screwed on, and she has no room for anyone in her thoughts, but her Daddy—as for that fellow, his one and only object in life, is to bag a tiger!"
Having pronounced this dictum, Dawson flung himself into a long cane chair, and picked upThe Planter's Gazette.
Proceeding through the coffee estate at a sort of dog's trot, Mayne was sorely exercised in his mind; being filled with serious misgivings concerning the planter's daughter; probably a pert, autocratic little minx, after the manner of the usual "apples of eyes," who would no doubt prove—as far as he was concerned—a real spoil-sport! For days he had indulged in glowing visions of a rough outdoor life; of camps, long marches, exciting stalks, heavy spoils, and freedom!
Could a manager leave his estate? and if he did, and brought his encumbrance, how hateful and irksome to have this girl tacked on to the party! Well, he could soon see how the land lay, and if the outlook was too discouraging, would hurry off and spend his leave in Ceylon—where he might,—with any luck—get an elephant or two.
It was a lovely starlight evening, and after the hot and clammy atmosphere of Cananore, the thin cool hill air, with its tang of eucalyptus, was as refreshing as a draught of spring water. Up various steep coolie paths, bordered by clumps of aromatic blue gum, and ragged bushes, and round many sharp corners, Mayne followed his light-footed leader. Presently they came upon a good metalled road, running through coffee, and above them, on a raised plateau, stood Fairplains, with lighted windows, and lanterns flickering like fire-flies about the premises.
As Mayne approached, the barking of many dogs was deafening, and he halted just below the bungalow. When he did so, the majestic figure of an elderly butler, appeared at the top of a flight of stone steps, brandishing a lantern in one hand, and salaaming profoundly with the other.
"Is the sahib at home?" inquired Mayne.
"Yes, saar, please to come up, saar?"
Thus invited, the visitor dismounted, and ascended to the verandah; and as he did so, caught sight, within a room, of a girl reading. By the light of a shaded lamp, he invisioned a wisp-like figure in white, and a bent head crowned with a mass of hair.
"Francis!" called out a clear young voice, "why are those dogs making such a noise? Is it the panther again?"
"No, missy," replied the servant reassuringly, "no panther to-night—only one gentleman."
Missy lifted her head, and beheld Mayne standing in the doorway. As she rose to her feet, he discovered that the word "little" did not fit Miss Nancy Travers, who was rather tall than otherwise.
"I hope you will pardon this late and audacious intrusion," he began, removing his topee as he spoke. "My name is Mayne—Mr. Fletcher, my uncle's old friend, invited me up here for some shooting. I only discovered a couple of hours ago, that Mr. Fletcher has gone home, and had no time to make other arrangements—but——"
"It is quite all right," she declared with serene composure, "this is Mr. Fletcher's bungalow, and naturally you are welcome. Francis will get you some supper at once."
"I suppose you had no letter—you did not expect me?" he inquired, advancing to the table.
"No, but that makes no difference. We are accustomed to stray visitors, and always glad to see them. Planters, doctors, chaplains, and missionaries, drop in from time to time. Won't you sit down?" indicating a chair; a half-finished game of chess was on the table between them. "Father and I were playing, when he was sent for to see to a sick coolie. He will be back in a few minutes."
"Did I hear you say something about a panther just now?" asked Mayne abruptly.
"Yes, they come down from the rocks above us, and prowl round after dark, and carry off dogs if they can; last week one of them took the dhoby's best goat!"
"Then the shooting about here must be good?"
"I'm afraid father has not left much in the immediate neighbourhood; for real sport, you have to go down the ghât—I mean for bison and tiger—hereabouts, there are only sambur, and wild pig."
"And panthers?" supplemented Mayne.
"Yes, too many of them! Such treacherous, cruel, brutes, and very bold. More dangerous in their way than tiger—Father says the tiger is a gentleman—the panther a bounder."
"I wish I could get a shot at one."
"No doubt you will have a chance. Did you come far to-day?"
"From the railway. I arrived from Cananore last night, and stopped at the Dâk bungalow. My guns and traps are following me, but I really don't like to billet myself on you, and your father."
Since he had been in the company of Miss Travers, Mayne had been anxiously endeavouring to distinguish her appearance; but a heavily shaded lamp left, beyond the mere outline, everything to conjecture; and, save an impression that she had a small face, large eyes, and a thin brown hand,—the lady's looks, remained an unknown quantity.
At this moment, Travers, who had been prescribing for a stomach-ache in the coolie lines, reappeared, unaware of the arrival of a visitor. As he stepped into the verandah, he heard talking—a strange voice, vibrant and attractive,—the voice of a gentleman; and there, sitting in his own pet chair, was someone whose sleek dark head, and white collar, appeared above its cushions.
He entered promptly, received a hasty and apologetic explanation, and became at once the cordial and hospitable host. The dark-haired young fellow, was evidently an Army man, with pleasant easy manners.
A description of his journey was presently cut short by the announcement that "Supper was ready on the table," and as Travers hurried his guest into the dining-room, the young lady disappeared.
Supper was laid out with an unexpected display of fine damask, cut glass, and shining silver, and the new-comer did ample justice to an excellent meal of which thepièce de résistancewas cold hump. There was a sameness in the planters' homes, not only confined to food; here again were dead trophies, and not a few live dogs; but dogs, trophies, and surroundings, were all on a superior, and more imposing scale, than that of theménageat "The Corner."
Travers, noticing his guest's attention fixed upon a valuable old sideboard, said:
"I see you are looking at the Chippendale! This place is no mushroom, and been established over eighty years. I took it from the executors of a very old planter, who started it, and collected no end of good furniture, plate and glass, from auctions and sales—the break-up of families, who were pioneers in these hills."
Presently the conversation turned to the subject nearest to the wayfarer's heart, "shikar." On such a topic, the two were in the most profound, and, so to speak, deadly sympathy. Mayne listened enthralled—to an excellent supper—to vivid descriptions of beats and bags, "near shaves," and glorious triumphs. Afterwards the sportsmen smoked in the verandah, and exchanged views on a surprising variety of subjects, from the stars in their courses, to the preserving of skins, and the imperative use of arsenical soap.
Later, as Travers escorted his guest to the spare room, he said:
"I expect we shall be able to show you some fairly good sport."
"I'm sure of it," responded Mayne, "but by no means so sure, that I ought to trespass on your good nature. For allyouknow, I may be an impudent impostor!"
"Oh, I'll risk that," replied Travers with a hearty laugh, then as he turned to withdraw, "Make yourself at home—and sleep well."
Next morning, the dâk-wallah's brown leather bag carried the English mail to Fairplains, and among papers and advertisements were two or three letters for Travers, including one from Mr. Fletcher. He wrote from a nursing home in London, and gave a belated notice of the prospective arrival of the nephew of his old friend, Richard Mayne:
"I don't know the young man personally," he said, "but if he is like his uncle, he will be all right. Mayne is in the Porcupines on the West Coast, is mad keen to see some sport, and could not be in better hands than yours. His father is dead, and his mother has married again. My friend, a bachelor, is a man of large property, and I fancy your visitor will be his heir. He has a little money of his own—and they say, brains. Let him have my guns, and the brown pony, do your best for him, and don't let him flirt with Nancy. I'm not much better, and the doctors talk of having another 'go' at me. How did our ancestors live without these operations? They died, I suppose. Well, we must all go—sometime——"
The remainder of the letter was filled up with business directions, suggestions, and interrogations.
When Mayne came out of his room in the morning, he sat on the steps, and greedily devoured the delicious pearly prospect; it was similar to the one from "The Corner," but finer, and more extensive.
"Isn't it lovely?" said a clear voice, and looking round he beheld Miss Travers.
Seen by the clear and impartial light of day, her appearance was disappointing; a tall slip of a girl with deeply sunburnt face, in which was set a pair of wide-open grey eyes; and Mayne was struck by the intensely youthful expression of these eyes—that now regarded him curiously; her hair, very thick and wavy, was of a tawny red—almost the same shade as her complexion; a white linen frock emphasized a slim, rather boyish figure, and made no attempt to hide a pair of surpassingly neat ankles. Nancy's age was possibly sixteen, and to sum up her personality in one word, Mayne's hostess was neither more nor less, than a happy-looking, well-grown flapper!
"I never tire of it," she resumed; "if I am bored, or in a bad temper, I just sit here and stare—and it always soothes me."
"Are you ever in a bad temper?" inquired Mayne, who had risen, and was looking up at her.
"Don't askme—ask Daddy," she answered with a gay smile, revealing a set of perfect teeth, "I'm afraid he will say it's—fiery!"
"May be your hair has something to say to it?"
"Probably! When I was a small child, it was much worse,—other girls pretended to warm their hands on my head. It has grown deeper in shade, and I have hopes, that it may yet be black."
"It will be white before that."
"How smart of you!" she exclaimed, seating herself. "How did you sleep?"
"Like an infant."
"Really? Sometimes they scream all night! 'An infant crying in the night,'" she quoted. "And so you lost your way yesterday?"
"I believe so—and only for two good Samaritans, I might be wandering still."
"You met Mr. Dawson, and Mr. Byng?"
"Yes, they were kind enough to put me up, and to lend me a guide. I say, what an oddly-matched couple to run in double harness!"
"They are; but it's so good for them; they counteract each other's failings, and get on splendidly—the same as people who marry their opposites."
"Do they? I see you know all about it!" said Mayne, now sitting down beside her, and warding off the attentions of a fine bull terrier.
"Go away, Sammy," commanded his mistress, "I'll talk toyouby and by." Then to Mayne, "Are you trying to be sarcastic?"
"Perish the thought!"
"And Idoknow all about it—within our small circle, every married person is the exact contrast to their partner. You will soon be able to judge for yourself—as for Teddy Dawson—we are all christian names up here——"
"May I call you by yours?" asked Mayne audaciously.
"In a few days—perhaps——"
"Thank you; and you were speaking about Teddy Dawson?"
"So I was; he is so practical and hard-working, and loves coffee-planting, but is rather rough and untidy. If you had only seen 'The Corner' before Nicky arrived! The Bungalow was crammed with sacks of coffee, tins of kerosine, and packs of dogs—scarcely a chair to sit on. Ah! here is father at last!"
As Travers dismounted from a shaggy estate pony, and approached, Mayne realized that he was undeniably handsome; dark, with finely cut features, and noble bearing; the gallant air, that descends in certain families, from generation to generation.
"Too hot for the steps, Nance!" he said, laying his hand on her head, "and no topee! Away with you into the verandah." But Nancy merely lifted a slender arm to thrust back a hair-pin. "How are you, Mayne? I heard all about you this morning."
"All, sir? That's rather a large order; but I gather that you have had a letter from Fletcher?"
"Yes, poor old boy, I'm afraid he is in a bad way. He is anxious you should have good sport. I believe I can manage a big beat next week, and I've arranged to draw a small sholah this afternoon." (A sholah is a deep fold in the hills indicated by trees and undergrowth). "We may get a jungle sheep, or a pig."
"Anything will be a novelty to me," declared Mayne.
"I can lend you Fletcher's rifle, till your own comes up; in fact, he said you were to use his battery and——"
"But, father," interrupted the girl, "you have forgotten that this is tennis day! The Hicks, the Ffinches, and the 'Corner' boys, are coming."
"Oh, by Jove, yes! but you will be all right without us. You can tackle more than that, my little Nance." Aside to Mayne, "She manages everyone."
"Now you are thinking of Mrs. Ffinch," protested Nancy, "what excuse could I offer? You know Captain Calvert is still at 'Clouds Rest,' and with the Hicks, Andrew Meach, and the Pollards, she said we ought to make up three sets."
"To-day or to-morrow is all one to me," was Mayne's generous announcement,—for he was secretly longing to be off within the hour.
"Oh, well, Mr.—or is it Captain—Mayne?" He nodded. "I will try and arrange the tennis somehow, and let father carry you off to draw the 'Bandy' sholah."
The immediate result of such magnanimous permission, was an animated dispute; each party clamouring to yield to the other; finally it was decided, that the sportsmen were to remain at home.
"It will give you an opportunity of meeting some of our neighbours," said Travers; then turning to his daughter, "Nancy child, five minutes ago, I asked you to go in out of the sun."
"Yes, dear, but you know very well that my hair is as thick as a roof thatch, and my skull is bomb-proof."
"Ah, I'm afraid this is a day, when you don't feel very good?"
"Oh, Daddy—please——!"
"Come along," he interrupted, taking her gently under the arms, raising her to her feet, and drawing her into the verandah. Then to Mayne—who had followed them, "When this sun-worshipper was a small, and unruly mite, she obligingly prepared me for the worst, by announcing, 'Daddy, I don't feel very good to-day.'"
"Oh, that story has been told all over the hills since I was two years old!" protested Miss Nancy. "People are always quoting it. Don't you think, Captain Mayne, that it is too bad of Daddy to give me away?"
"Make your mind easy, my dear child, your old Daddy will never give you away. Now come along into the dining-room, and give us some breakfast, and let Captain Mayne sample our famous Fairplains coffee."
The Fairplains coffee, fully maintained its high reputation, and the accompanying food was on the same satisfactory level; fresh cream, bread and butter, apricot jam, and new-laid eggs, grilled ham and chicken—what a welcome change, from the sodden West Coast fare, to which Mayne had been accustomed. Besides the menu, he could not help being impressed by the deep mutual affection, existing between Travers and his daughter; how quietly she forestalled all his requirements, how his dark eyes softened, when they met her glance, and how the pair laughed, and chaffed, one another with light-hearted enjoyment.
Mayne cast a thought to the domestic atmosphere of his own home. What a contrast to this! There, a fashionably youthful woman of fifty, shrank from the too convincing appearance of a son of seven and twenty, and her early morning manner was particularly chilly and acidulated. Breakfast was never a convivial meal.
Lady Torquilstone, an only child and heiress, among her many suitors, had, to the disappointment of her parent, accepted handsome Derek Mayne, a mere officer,—and not even an eldest son! and accompanied him when he joined his regiment in India. As soon as the glamour of a new life, and a new world, had worn off, the lady drooped. In India, she found a dreadful spirit of equality—no nicely partitioned sets, only the sternest rule of "precedence," in short, from her point of view no "society" whatever!
Money failed to give her the prominent position she considered to be her right, she was merely Mrs. Derek Mayne, a Captain's wife, and one of the herd! Unfortunately the marriage was not a success; the heiress was discontented, and irritable, she snubbed and tyrannized over her good-natured husband,—and spent most of her time in England.
Captain Mayne died in Jubbulpore of cholera,—when his happy wife was dancing at a London ball,—and within the least conventional period, his widow married Lord Torquilstone, an elderly, but well preserved peer, and hardened man of the world; they shared the same tastes—particularly racing, and Bridge—and lived for eight months of the year in a gloomy, but imposing house in Mayfair,—where it required a combination of three men-servants, to open the hall door.
Derek Mayne Junior had never been permitted to become "an encumbrance"; school, Sandhurst, and his Uncle Richard, lifted the weight of child, boy, and man, from his mother's shrinking shoulders,—and he made only an occasional and brief appearance at his so-called "Home."
"I'm afraid you will have lots of spare time on your hands," said Travers to his guest. "This is our busy season, and I can only get off for a shoot now and then,—but Nancy will take you on, when I have an extra full day."
"What do you call a full day?"
"Well, when I start at seven, with roll call of the coolies, am out till twelve; after a rest and tiffin, I go round and see how the weeding and picking is done? then to the factory to weigh coffee, afterwards attend to office work, which sometimes carries me on till eleven o'clock at night."
"But I don't allow thatnow," said Nancy with a proprietary gesture.
"No," agreed Travers, "because this young lady wants a playfellow, and has no conception of the labour and anxieties, that belong to a coffee estate. Sometimes a planter will awake, to find what has been compared to a fall of snow,—the blossom in flower! It is a pretty sight; but for three days, he lives in a quaking agony for fear of rain—rain would spell the ruin of the whole crop. To insure a good setting of the bean or berry, we must have several days of sunshine."
"I suppose the picking is all done by hand?" said Mayne, who from his place could observe various black heads bobbing about among the coffee bushes.
"Yes, I get my labour from Mysore. I must take you down to the pulping-house, and let you see some of the process."
"I gather that coffee-planting is an uncertain business?"
"You may say so!" replied Travers. "We are liable to leaf disease, rain, and rot. However, a planter is a sanguine creature, and if he has a bad season, his cry is 'next year.'"
"Now Daddy, we won't have any more coffee tillafterdinner," announced Nancy authoritatively. "Captain Mayne has not been introduced to the best dogs. This"—pushing forward a large white bull terrier,—"is Sam. Uncle Sam, my property, and shadow."
"I say, what a splendid fellow!" exclaimed Mayne. "Come along and talk to me, Uncle. I love dogs—have you had him long?"
"Ever since he was born. Bessie, his mother, was brought from England as a puppy. She looked after me when I was small, and was so clever and wise. I am sorry to say she died before I came home,—but her son has adopted me."
"Well, Bessie lived to a ripe old age," said Travers; "she must have been thirteen—an extraordinarily intelligent, almost human creature. When the poor old lady felt that her end was approaching, she went round every one of her haunts to bid them farewell—down to 'The Corner,' up to 'Clouds Rest,' and even to the nearer sholahs and beats. Day after day she was to be seen hurrying along all by herself—a strange journey——"
"You have not talked to Togo yet," interposed Nancy, the irrepressible. "Father belongs to him, and sleeps in his room. Come here, and show yourself, my Togo! He is a shy, and eccentric person—nearly always carries a stone in his mouth—a trick inherited from his retriever ancestors."
The animal in question was a yellow and white, curly-haired, long-legged spaniel, with a jaunty tail carried high over his back, and a pair of beseeching dark eyes.
"What do you think of him?"
After a moment's hesitation Mayne replied:
"Well, I've no doubt Togo is a good sort—he reminds me of a variety of dogs I've seen!"
"Variety—you mean he is a mongrel?"
"I'd rather not commit myself. Perhaps he is a particular hill breed?"
"No, but one of the best of our pack," said his owner, "and if he seems all leg, he is really all heart. Come here, Togo,—'handsome is, that handsome does,' eh Togo?"
And Togo went over and laid his head on his master's knee, and turned a deeply reproachful gaze upon the stranger.
"I'm going down to the factory, if you'd care to come," said Travers. "I'll show you the lie of the land, and Nancy can concentrate on her tea-party."
Mayne accepted with alacrity, and in a few minutes, the two men, followed by the two dogs, were to be seen descending the hill.
"I knew a fellow of your name long ago," announced Travers; "I was one of the juniors, when he was in the sixth form at Harrow; a remarkably good-looking chap, Derek Mayne. We small fry worshipped him—he was Captain of the Eleven."
"It must have been my father; he was at Harrow, and his name was Derek Mayne—so is mine."
"Then in that case," said Travers, halting for a moment, and confronting his companion, "I am delighted to meet his son; although I lost sight of him for ages and ages, I remember your father just as well as if we had met but yesterday; such an active, cheery sort of chap, with a wonderful influence, and personality. I know he went into the Army, and died young."
"Yes, twenty-five years ago out here—cholera. I don't remember him at all—I wish I could."
"Once he came and spent a few days at Lambourne, my father's place, and I felt tremendously flattered, and proud. Everyone was taken with him, and such a cricketer! Those were the pleasant days before our grand smash. Are you an only child?"
"I am."
"What hard lines for your mother to have six thousand miles between you and her!Iknow what that means."
Mayne made no reply. He had good reason to believe, that distance was of no account, and his absence, more or less of a welcome relief.
"Yes, I know exactly how she feels," repeated good, simple-minded Travers; "when my little girl went away from me to England,—the whole world seemed changed, and dark."
His love of Nancy was the keynote of the man.
"Well, here is what we call a factory—not much like your idea of one, I'll swear,—and a bit of an eyesore into the bargain."
The factory was an ugly, solid brick building, with a flat zinc roof, and vast verandahs; in and out of which, the laden coolies swarmed like ants in an ant-heap. All seemed working at the highest pitch, and everything pointed to a big crop; here Travers was the acute, energetic and authoritative Manager; eyes and ears, hung upon his words, which happened to be in fluent Canarese.
At the appointed hour, Mayne,—whose kit had arrived,—presented himself in the drawing-room at Fairplains; looking very business-like, in his well-cut white flannels, and tennis shoes. Here host and hostess were already awaiting their guests.
The apartment was gloomy and old-fashioned—in spite of Miss Nancy's obvious attempts to work a change, with gay cushions, white curtains, and a wealth of flowers; these items entirely failed to overpower the depressing effect of a double suite of Black Bombay furniture—sofas, armchairs and tables; all heavily carved, and upholstered in shabby purple damask,—the original Fairplains furniture, brought from Bombay at vast expense, fifty years previously.
The walls were hung with a weird grey paper, covered with a pattern that recalled urns, and weeping willows; the ceiling was crossed by great beams, and the yellow keys of an aged piano, seemed to grin defiance at every innovation! Mrs. Travers and her daughter had been in turn defeated by the overhanging beams, and funereal furniture, and so the apartment of the early sixties, remained more or less deserted. Nancy generally received her friends in the verandah, or the cheerful, shabby "Den," common to her parent, and herself.
"Is not this room hideous?" she said, appealing to Mayne. "No one likes it. I think it's because when people die,—they are laid out here."
"Nancy!" protested her father, "you don't know what you are talking about! The fact is," turning to Mayne, "this room was once the glory of the old lady who first lived at Fairplains, and there was a sort of understanding that it was not to be transformed,—so here it is, as you see! We only use it on state occasions."
"Once in a blue moon," added Nancy. "The servants say it's haunted, and I believe the old lady comes here still. If any article happens to be moved, it's put back in its place, the same night—it reallyis; flowers die in a few hours, and I always feel as if this was a brooding, creepy sort of place—I don't like to be here alone after dark—I feel a sense of something terrifying in that far corner—! Dad, shall I take Captain Mayne down and show him the tennis ground? We are proud ofthat."
"All right, Nan, I'll do figurehead, and receive the company,—and pass them on to you. They will be here at any moment."
The four tennis courts had been, so to speak, scooped out of the hill, and lay open on one side to a sheer descent, enclosed with stout wire netting. A flight of steps connected the ground with the broad terrace in front of the bungalow.
"It's A1," remarked Mayne, "kunkur courts, I declare!"
"My mother had it made in the days when Daddy was rich," explained the girl, "but for years and years it was forgotten,—and overgrown with grass and brambles."
"And you restored it?"
"No indeed, Mr. Fletcher resurrected the poor old tennis ground—wasn't it good of him?"
"He plays himself, of course?"
"Oh no, he is quite old—much older than father. We have lived with him, since I came out."
"Were you long at home?"
"Eleven endless years. Daddy came over four times to see me; only for that, I believe I'd have died. Here are the Hicks!"—pointing to a party who were riding up the road in Indian file. "The stout lady on the white pony is Mrs. Hicks, or ''Icks'—she drops her aitches all over the place; once someone sent her a sheet of paper covered with them,—and she took it as a capital joke."
"Why not?" said Mayne. "After all, why make a fetish ofoneletter?"
"Yes, and some people who cling to their aitches, work the poor letter 'I' to death."
"That's rather sharp, and very true too, Miss Nancy."
"I believe I am sharp in seeing some things. Mrs. Hicks is blind as a bat, but immensely good-natured,—and so kind to animals."
"Do you call her kind to that unfortunate pony? She must weigh fourteen stone if she weighs an ounce!"
"Oh, he's a 'Shan,' and well up to weight. Anyhow, she is active—wait till you see her skipping about the tennis courts! Those two girls are her daughters, Fanny and Jessie—they keep her in great order."
"Do they indeed—but why?"
"Because of her love for bright colours, her giggling, and loud laugh, and the funny things shewillsay—before they can stop her!"
At this moment, the lady in question loomed large upon the top of the steps, and Nancy ran to meet her. A ruddy, dark-eyed matron, with a rollicking expression,—wearing a stiff white skirt, comfortable canvas shoes, and a flowing green sash.
"Well, Nance!" she called out, "'ow are you? This your friend?"—indicating Mayne with a nod.
"Yes; Captain Mayne—Mrs. Hicks."
Mayne bowed, with slightly exaggerated deference.
Mrs. Hicks nodded approvingly, and said:
"These are my two girls, Miss Fanny and Jessie—Captain Mayne," and she waved her bat towards two trim, lady-like young women. "They are first-class tennis players," she continued, "and you can't go wrong,—whichever you choose."
Mayne had not intended to make a selection, but the matter was taken out of his hands by Nancy.
"I'm playing with father; and Mrs. Hicks, I know you like to play with Andy Meach. Captain Mayne, you had better secure Jessie," and she gave him a little push.
Thus committed to a decisive move, he asked if Miss Jessie would honour him?
Her blushing acceptance was rudely cut short by her parent, who said:
"It's all very fine for you to make up sets, my good Nancy! but you know as well as I do, that as soon as our commander-in-chief arrives, she will upset the whole of our little bag of tricks, and make us play with whoevershechooses—and talk of an angel!"—lifting her eyes—"here comes the Honourable Mrs. Ffinch."
The Honourable Mrs. Ffinch was a woman of forty; thin, dark, rather sallow, and not specially noticeable, until she spoke—then her face became transformed; the half-closed, greenish-grey eyes, lit up; the ugly wide mouth revealed beautiful teeth, and an enchanting smile. "Finchie" as her intimates called her, had been endowed with an attractive voice, inexhaustible vitality, and a big brain.
Even her enemies—and these were not a few—admitted her cleverness, and powers of fascination; whilst her friends deplored the lamentable fact that poor "Finchie's" great talents, had no suitable outlet within the circumscribed orbit of a planter's wife. She was gifted with the capabilities of a brilliant hostess, and could have held asalon, or seriously engaged in political and diplomatic affairs; having the gift of a strategic silence, wonderful success in extracting confidences, and the capacity for holding strings;—unfortunately her talents transcended her opportunities!
As the eldest girl of a well-born, but impecunious family, she had, so to speak, "taken the bush out of the gap," for her five sisters, sacrificed her Romance, and married Hector Ffinch; a prosperous tea-planter, whose stolid reserved character, found an irresistible attraction in vivacious Julia Lamerton,—who had the power of imposing her personality on all her surroundings.
After a short and undemonstrative courtship, a quiet wedding and handsome settlements, he carried off his bride to the East. India fell far beneath the lady's expectations; a vivid imagination had misled her; at "Clouds Rest" she found no gay, amusing cantonment, or gorgeous, and amazing entourage—merely a vast tea estate, a large, half-empty bungalow, and a tribe of brown retainers,—last, not least, a dull enough husband! Hector was as heavy and immovable as a block of granite; she, as mobile and restless, as a bit of quicksilver.
For a time, she secretly wept, and bitterly bewailed her fate. It was all so utterly different to what she had expected! Alas, for her plan of inviting her sisters one by one, and marrying them off with success andéclat! "Clouds Rest" was as hopeless (from a matrimonial point of view) as any dead-and-alive rural village.
However, she had one solid consolation—money; also, the still undimmed halo of "the bride"; so she exercised her gifts of oratory and persuasion, and pleaded most eloquently for the company of guests, for a motor, for quantities of new furniture, and a trip home,—at least once in three years. To all these requests, Hector lent a favourable ear; even his lethargic mind realized what the change of surroundings meant to a member of a large and talkative family, and any amount of lively society. The couple had now been married twelve years; and in spite of various visits to England, and many gay excursions to the plains, Julia Ffinch was beginning to weary of this comfortable exile; she could never be happy without a certain amount of excitement—excitement was as necessary to her well-being, as petrol to an engine.
She did a little racing (under the rose)—the telegraph peon's red turban looming along through the tea bushes, gave her appropriate thrills; she played Bridge for rather high stakes; but what afforded her the keenest enjoyment, was intruding into other people's lives; pulling strings, directing their affairs, and making her puppets dance right merrily! This, she considered to be a legitimate and delightful entertainment, and by dint of clever manipulation, contrived to make her immediate neighbours perform with praiseworthy success!
It was thanks toheroffices, that a planter's wife at Tirraputty had left her home in a cloud of mystery; she had stage-managed the engagement between Blanche Meach, and a civilian; a notable match,—but then Blanche was very pretty. On the other hand, to her, was attributed the rupture of the affair between Fanny Hicks, and a young fellow in the Woods and Forests, and the dire disgrace of a German Missionary. Many and various matters in which Mrs. Ffinch had taken a part, afforded scope for interviews, letters, stormy scenes (at which she assisted), cables, telegrams, sudden entrances and exits. All of these, the clever operator of the puppet-play, most heartily enjoyed.
Mrs. Ffinch descended the steps with leisurely precision,—offering as she did so, an interesting display of brown silk stockings, and neat brown shoes.—She was immediately followed by her grey-haired, square-headed, and somewhat paunchy lord; and also a guest; a slim, well-groomed gentleman, with closely set black eyes, and a slightly vulpine nose. Some people thought Captain Calvert handsome; to others, he unpleasantly recalled a well-bred greyhound with an uncertain temper.
"Well, Nancy darling," Mrs. Ffinch began in her clear high voice, "so here we are at last! We had a smash—ran into a bullock bandy at a corner—the bandy, like the 'Coo,' got the worst of it!"
Her glance travelled to Mayne, and as her eyes rested on him, they brightened,—after the manner of a hunter who sees game afoot!
A tall, well set-up young fellow, with clear-cut features, candid dark eyes, and an air of distinction—quitea find!
"This is Captain Mayne," explained the hostess, "Captain Mayne—Mrs. Ffinch. He only arrived last evening," she added.
"Oh, really!" murmured the lady; then turning to address him, "I did not hear you were expected, and we always know our neighbours' affairs, as soon as they do themselves."
"Sooner," growled Dawson, who had joined the group, in a hideous green and yellow blazer.
"As a matter of fact," said Mayne, "I was not expected—but came."
"As an agreeable surprise, I am sure!" interrupted Mrs. Ffinch, with one of her radiant smiles. "I must hear all about it later. Nancy, if we are to finish before dark, there's not a second to lose. Do let us begin? I shall choose Captain Mayne, and you Nancy, had better take on Captain Calvert."
"Oh, but I'm booked to play with father!" she protested.
"Nonsense, child! how ridiculous you are! You and he can play all day to-morrow—nowyou must entertain your guests."
It happened precisely as predicted by Mrs. Hicks,—who made a valiant but useless attempt to retain the young man of her choice,—the Commander-in-chief took all arrangements upon herself. Mayne was secretly amused to see the tall thin figure in a panama hat, the centre of an eager and well-disciplined crowd—who presently scattered—each to their allotted post.
After winning a hardly contested set, Mrs. Ffinch retired to a seat, and called upon her partner to supply her with refreshments. At a long table in their vicinity, two white-clad servants dispensed iced drinks, and a tempting variety of cakes, and sandwiches. As Mrs. Ffinch sipped claret cup, she asked for details respecting Mayne's visit, and remarked as he concluded:
"So you fell from the skies into a crowd of strangers! Well, at any rate Laurence Travers can get you fine sport. You have come to the right shop for that!"
"Yes, but I am rather ashamed to take up his time; he is most awfully busy just now."
"That's true; he works like a horse for another man, and yet he would not put out a finger to save the estate, when it was his own. I suppose you have heard the tale?"
"Well—Dawson did say something about trouble, and absence——"
"Yes, the death of his wife broke Laurence Travers' heart, and the loss of the child nearly sent him off his head."
"He seems fairly sane now," remarked her listener.
"Yes, case of locking the stable door when the steed—or the estate—is gone. Laurence is much too emotional for a man; it was lucky for him that Fairplains was bought by Tom Fletcher, who was sent out here for his health. He is rich, entirely independent of coffee; such a good old fellow, who always looks kindly on the under dog!"
"And Travers was very much under?"
"In the depths," was the emphatic reply; "he was dragged into unknown liabilities by Doria, his manager—an absconding thief. Thanks to Tom Fletcher, he has been set on his legs again; but he only has his monthly screw—should anything happen to Laurence, that girl will be destitute."
"Well, we will hope for the best," said Mayne cheerfully. "Travers looks as active as if he were five and twenty—more than a match for young Byng," nodding towards the players. "I hope he may live long, and be always as happy as he is now!"
"Happy! that is just the word. Did youeverbehold anything like the absolute adoration that exists between father and daughter? She is a dear child, but too elemental to be sophisticated, in spite of her eleven years at home. You see herheartwas always out here. She is quite a unique flapper, and plays tennis like a boy. What a strong service—do look!"
Mayne looked as desired, and saw the light figure skimming about the court, and noted the remarkable contrast between her brown face and arms, and snow white linen frock; also the uncovered masses of rough reddish hair that now and then caught a gleam of gold.
"No beauty, poor darling, is she?" murmured Mrs. Ffinch.
"If she would only give her complexion a chance!"
"She won't. She is making up now for years of strict hat and glove wearing; and doesn't bother about her personal appearance; all she really cares for are—her father, and Sam the bull terrier. She is also rather devoted tome." A pause. "Well, Captain Mayne," and she laughed, "I'm waiting for you to say, 'I'm not surprised atthat!'"
He coloured a little, laughed too, and said:
"Somehow I don't fancy such a compliment would go down up here."
"You are right! We are a simple, and primitive community. If you will dispose of my glass, I'll make you out a social A B C."
"All right," he agreed, as he resumed his seat.
"There is my husband, aged fifty-five, a hard-working enthusiast, who lives for coffee, and sales; sales, and coffee. Ted Dawson too—though he is a bit of a boor—is also an enthusiast, and will also be rich by the time he is fifty—unless he finds gold."
"Gold," repeated Mayne. "What—up here!"
"No, down nearer the plains—some believe there are great reefs and old workings swallowed up in the jungle. Learned people say that Herodotus wrote of how the Indians paid Darius tribute in gold; also that Malabar isOphir! You know we are not far from there."
"I've just come up from the coast,—and there's no sign of gold—that I am prepared to swear."
"Dr. Hicks believes in the reefs, and he is a very shrewd little man. There you see the family. Mrs. Hicks has money; they say she was a publican's widow; he doctors us all gratis, has a son in a Bank in Madras, and the two girls, Fanny and Jessie. Jessie was extremely pretty at sixteen; then suddenly her nose began to grow! We were afraid it would never stop, but become a real proboscis—only for this feature, Jessie is a beauty. She would look lovely in a Yashmak—her eyes are so fine. Their mother is such an anxiety to those girls."
"It's usually the other way on!"
"Or rather itwas—domestic affairs are upside down in these days. The girls cannot control their parent's free and easy manners, her love for bright colours, and dancing, and a good coarse story—aman'sstory! Do look at her now, leaping up and down like a great india-rubber ball! Isn't it depressing to watch such misdirected energy?"
After a moment's pause, she resumed: "There are two or three of the Meaches here. Their old tyrant usually keeps them at home, toiling for him, that he may gobble up all manner of delicacies, and live on the fat of this land! I'm speaking of Major Meach, who owns a large family, a small estate, and is our champion vampire; bleeds his descendants white, and terrorizes over them all, from his chair in the verandah—he always makes me think of a sick tiger."
"Your neighbours don't seem to be very attractive," remarked Mayne dryly.
"I am beginning with the least interesting—keeping some as abonne bouche. Nancy, is what you see; refreshingly young, plastic, and impulsive. The Meach sisters are remarkably pretty; their poor mother is a dear martyred saint. The Pollards—those fair-haired boys and the pink girl—are nice young people, but unfortunately a good way off. Mrs. Pollard has a tongue!shecannot be too far! Fairplains is central and here we all meet. India provides its own amusements. How Captain Calvert is enjoying himself with Nancy! Her saucy answers delight him; he has a ridiculous fancy for very young girls, and—parle du diable—here he comes!"
"Hullo, Mayne," he said, mopping his face as he lounged up, "I believe we have met before—on board ship, eh?"
"Yes, theMedina, coming out last September."
"Fancy our forgathering on the hill top like this! Making any stay?"
"A few weeks—I've come for a shoot."
"Lucky chap! Well, I hope you'll have good sport. Can I get you anything, dear lady?" turning to Mrs. Ffinch with anxious solicitude.
"Yes, a match; I'm simply dying for a smoke."
As he bent over her, Mayne rose and relinquished his chair to Mrs. Hicks, who painfully out of breath, was clamouring for "a real big tumbler of hiced 'Ock cup."
The refreshment table was now besieged by a noisy intimate and animated crowd, making fixtures for tennis, picnics, or shoots; in short all manner of social meetings and amenities, and into the midst of them, Mrs. Ffinch glided, in order to contribute her veto, arguments, commands, or consent.
Presently the sudden Indian dusk began to fall, enshrouding the view; a cold blue haze was creeping nearer and nearer, and the congenial company prepared to disperse.
A great "Napier" car belonging to "Clouds Rest" lingered after the Hicks, Meaches, and Pollards had ridden away, and when the lamps were lighted, Mrs. Ffinch said:
"Captain Mayne, I do hope we shall often see you; when Laurence Travers is busy, come up to us. Nancy child, good-bye," embracing her with motherly affection; "I intend to steal your new friend—whenever he is bored here, send him to me," and with these words still trembling in the air, the great motor slid silently away.