GIVEN IN MARRIAGE

By B. M. Croker

Author of "In Old Madras," "Lismoyle," etc.

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
PATERNOSTER ROW—E.C.

CHAPTER I

A STRANGER IN THE LAND

"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, I heard 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 not all "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 upon which bridle-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 it will be 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."

"A few!" 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."

CHAPTER II

"THE CORNER"

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 his ruin! 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 worth double. 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 there is! She is the life and soul of the neighbourhood. We should all be uncommonly dull without our Nancy—she is full of energy, and true joie-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, "I haven'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."

"Then that settles 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't you?" 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 up The Planter's Gazette.

CHAPTER III

THE GIRL AT FAIRPLAINS

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 the pièce de résistance was 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 the ménage at "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 all you know, 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 ask me—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 to you by and by." Then to Mayne, "Are you trying to be sarcastic?"

"Perish the thought!"

"And I do know 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."

CHAPTER IV

THE COFFEE ESTATE

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 that now," 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 till after dinner," 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! I know 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 really is; 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 of that."

"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 of one letter?"

"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 she will say—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 whoever she chooses—and talk of an angel!"—lifting her eyes—"here comes the Honourable Mrs. Ffinch."

CHAPTER V

"FINCHIE"

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 a salon, 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 and éclat! "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 to her offices, 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—quite a 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—now you 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 you ever behold 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 her heart was 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 to me." A pause. "Well, Captain Mayne," and she laughed, "I'm waiting for you to say, 'I'm not surprised at that!'"

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 is Ophir! 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 it was—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—a man's story! 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 a bonne 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! she cannot 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, the Medina, 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.

"That was not very complimentary to you, was it?" said Mayne, turning to Nancy.

"Oh, she didn't intend it in that way," protested the girl. "She says a great deal she does not mean—so do I!" and she laughed. "There are no end of attractions at 'Clouds Rest'; a billiard table, an electric piano, the motor, and a 'mug' cook, and here we have so little to offer. No indeed—I'm not fishing! but when father has an extra heavy day, and you are idle, I do hope you will not worry about us—but just take Finchie at her word, and ride over to 'Clouds Rest.'"

CHAPTER VI

THE PANTHER'S FIRST VICTIM

The tennis party had dissolved, dinner was an agreeable memory, and Mayne with his new friends, sat out in the broad verandah, and gazed at a moon,—which, like a pale golden disc, hung midway in the dark blue sky.

The two men were smoking, Sam was circling uneasily round his unheeding mistress, when she suddenly said:

"Do tell me, Captain Mayne, what you think of Mrs. Ffinch—isn't she charming?"

"She seems to be awfully clever, and amusing, and full of go."

"Yes," said Travers, "she manages the whole community with the very best intentions. I can't help feeling a little sorry for her."

"Sorry, father!" exclaimed Nancy, "why sorry?"

"Well, you see, she has no children, no positive home interests; her wonderful talents and exertions, are squandered among strangers. Ffinch has made a fortune—some say two—and yet he won't stir. He is rooted in coffee; so poor woman, is she! If he only would take her to London, there backed up by his long purse, she would be in her natural element; an admirable organizer of important functions, bazaars, charity balls, and political receptions; dealing with affairs on a grand scale, instead of running our tuppenny-halfpenny concerns."

"But these, no doubt with success?" said Mayne.

"Well, yes, on the whole—there have been one or two lapses, but a sacrificial goat was always on the spot!"

"Father!" broke in Nancy, "how can you be so horrid? You are talking like an odious cynic. Finchie has done no end of wonderful things—patching up all the quarrels, and getting people into good posts. She is always right—if ever she wants a scapegoat—here am I!"

"Noble child!" Travers ejaculated, and he surveyed his daughter with laughing eyes.

"Captain Mayne," she resumed, "don't you think Captain Calvert good looking?"

"Um—no," then after a doubtful pause, "more the other thing,—since you ask me."

"Bad looking, I suppose you mean. How funny!"

"I understand," said Travers, "that Mephistophelian cast—it does appeal to women and children."

"You have got into the wrong side of your chair, Daddy. What dreadful things you are saying—talking of Finchie's scapegoats, and seeing a likeness to the old gentleman, in Captain Calvert."

"I must confess I am rather surprised to find him in this part of the world," said Mayne, "he is not a sportsman—but a Society man, who likes big functions, the theatre, and cards."

"Oh, it's pretty warm down below just now," replied Travers, "and the Ffinches do their guests uncommonly well. Calvert is a pleasant fellow, and comes over here sometimes for a game of tennis; he and Nancy are pals. Well," rising as he spoke, "to-morrow I must be up and about at five o'clock—so that you and I can shoot in the early afternoon. Nancy child, it is time for bed, and just look how Sam is yawning!"

"Why, Daddy, it's only half-past ten," she protested, but all the same she rose, and having bid Mayne good-night, and folded her father in an overpowering embrace, went away to her own room, attended by her sleepy shadow.

Time at Fairplains flew with what seemed to Mayne, amazing speed; the shooting surpassed his most sanguine expectations; his excursions to the low country had resulted in two fine tigers, and several pairs of noble horns. When Travers was unable to accompany him, Ted Dawson and Andy Meach had come to the front, and shown the stranger capital sport. Mayne found this simple life delightful; a novel perspective and atmosphere; instead of familiar barrack bugles, here he was awoke by the clanging of a gong, summoning the coolies to their labours.

With Mayne it was a case of a happy surrender to his environment; the delicious life-giving air, good wholesome food, and congenial society, all contributed to this condition. He enjoyed listening to playful family arguments and squabbles,—when weary, after a long day's tramp, he lounged at delicious ease, in a comfortable, if shabby old chair; there was generally something piquante and provoking in Nancy's conversation. He and she were now on the most friendly footing; he had given her elaborate instructions in the important art of making a tie; she mended his socks, replaced lost buttons, and had even cut his hair! Also he called her Nancy, and was a little disposed to lecture, and tease her, in big elder brother fashion.

Mayne, however, discovered that there were two distinct Nancies; one of the morning, the other of the afternoon. The earlier young lady was a serious person, with the heavy responsibility of a household upon her shoulders. From chotah hazri till mid-day, she was occupied, first with the cook—a bearded retainer, who had carried her in his arms. The two conferred with the deepest solemnity over menus, the bazaar accounts, and the contents of the store-rooms. Then she visited the poultry yard, and the garden, superintended and helped to fill and trim the lamps, and finally sat down to make or mend. Nancy was an expert with her needle, and frequently extended a kindly hand towards the rags and tatters of "The Corner"; altogether a grave, silent, industrious mistress of Fairplains.

The afternoon Nancy was her opposite; neither grave, nor silent, but an exuberantly irresponsible chattering chit, who broke into song as she went about, in a sweet rather childish voice, waltzed her reluctant parent up and down the verandah, played tennis, rode with boyish pluck and abandon, sat with dangling legs on the ends of tables, talked ridiculous nonsense to the dogs and ponies, and was rarely seen to open a book, or to write a letter.

Mayne, who had no sisters, or girl cousins, mentally adopted Nancy as something of both; but as Miss Travers, and a young lady, it never occurred to him to take her seriously.

The Fairplains guest had been hospitably entertained by all the neighbours; tennis parties at the Hicks', tiffin at "The Corner," and dinner at Clouds Rest—where he was in particular request,—a request that savoured of a command—for Mrs. Ffinch had discovered that she knew his people at home—and her invitations were both frequent, and imperious. Travers was far too busy to dine abroad, Nancy never deserted her parent, and on several occasions Mayne went alone to Clouds Rest to dine and sleep. This abode was more on the lines of an English country house; here were curtains, carpets, elegant modern furniture, and appointments; nothing shabby or ramshackle, in or about the premises, which was staffed with first-rate native servants, had a luxurious "go as you please" atmosphere, and kept late hours. Champagne and caviare, and other important importations were offered at dinner; after the best Havanas came Auction Bridge at high points.

Captain Calvert still lingered in these "Capuan" quarters. One morning, he and Mayne awaited their hostess in the verandah, where breakfast was served; she was an hour late, and Captain Calvert's sharp appetite had undoubtedly affected his temper. After one or two nasty speeches about "damned lazy women," and "rotten arrangements," his remarks became more personal, and he twitted his companion with his mad craze for shikar.

"Upon my soul, I believe you'd go anywhere, even among half-castes and natives, if they were to promise you an extra good bag."

"Perhaps I would—in fact, I'm sure I would," admitted Mayne. "By the way, apropos of natives and shooting—what about your shoot up North? I heard you talking to a Nawab coming out on the Medina, and you put in pretty strongly for an invite."

"Yes—did I?" drawled Calvert, lifting his thin black eyebrows, "I forget—I believe. I—er—wanted to have a look at the country."

"So it did not come off, eh?"

"No, as well as I remember, there was some hitch about dates. Talking of dates," he went on, with a significant glance, "are you putting in all your leave at Fairplains?"

"I hope so," was the bold rejoinder, "I shall be jolly sorry when it comes to my last week!"

"Ah! Well, yes, the little red-haired girl is not half bad fun,—brown as a coolie, but what delicious feet, and ankles! If she were to sit reversed, with her feet above the table—I see," catching Mayne's furious glance. "Well then, I'll give you another picture. Some day, Miss Nancy will be a handsome woman,—though she's more of a boy, and a tomboy now. She has odd flashes—that set one wondering, and I bet you, will give her husband a lot of surprises!"

"That'll do!—don't let us discuss her any further!" exclaimed Mayne impatiently.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Calvert with a loud laugh, "I apologize! Upon my soul I'd no idea——"

"There is no idea," interrupted Mayne. "Miss Travers and I are very good friends. She is one of the straightest and the best. So natural and simple."

"How nice for you!"

"I only wish she was my sister," persisted her champion.

"By Jove,—do you?" drawled Calvert. "Well, I don't!" and he expelled a cloud of smoke from his thin, well-cut nostrils. "I'm, as you see,—smoking like the Indians,—to appease hunger. Presently I shall take a reef in my belt. I say," after a pause, "look at old Ffinch riding along the hillside. He breakfasted hours ago! I can't imagine why he does not chuck all this? Everyone knows he is quite too grossly prosperous—and she, with her talents, and her energy, is thrown away out here."

"Yes," agreed Mayne, "she's awfully clever, and go-ahead."

"A lot of what Americans call, 'Get up and go!' about her," said Calvert. "Wonderful driving force,—and what a woman to talk! She'd make a fine figure of a Sunday in Hyde Park; or taking a hand in some big revolution. Yes"—slowly closing his eyes—"I can see her in the tumbril," he concluded, with morose vindictiveness.

"I say, what amazing pictures you have in your mind's eye," said Mayne—who was not imaginative, "a cinematograph isn't in it!"

"Oh, here she comes at last!" said Calvert, tossing away his cheroot, and rising, he added with his most courtly air, "Welcome, welcome, dear lady—as the sun upon a darkened world."

Immediately after breakfast, Mayne ordered the cob, and rode away in spite of Mrs. Ffinch's urgent appeals for him to remain, and "spend a nice long day." He felt that at present, he could not endure any more of Calvert's society. What a poisonous tongue,—what a shameless climber; and there was such calculation and method in his schemes. He, by his own confession, made a point of cultivating the right people—chiefly through their womenkind—and cherished well-founded hopes of a comfortable, and prominent post on someone's staff.

He insinuated that he (Mayne) was sponging on the Travers', he read the accusation in the fellow's eyes—(Calvert himself was just the sort to cheat at croquet, and sponge on old ladies).—With regard to his host, he felt blameless. Travers treated him as the son of his old school-fellow; he and Nancy made him one of themselves, and allowed him to share in their interests, jokes, and even secrets. He knew all about the new habit, that was on its way from England for Nancy's birthday. Here his reflections were put an end to by the sight to Fairplains plantation, the motley pack, and Nancy herself.

That same night after the household had retired, and the premises were supposed to be wrapped in sleep (though some of the servants were gambling in their go-downs) Mayne was aroused by a wild piercing scream. He jumped out of bed, and as he hurried on some clothes, saw a bare-footed white figure, lamp in hand, flash down the verandah shrieking:

"Sam! Sam! A panther has taken him! Daddy—Daddy—hurry!"

Mayne snatched his gun, and rushed out; the light was very faint, but as he ran up the path, he was aware of a choking noise, and a something large bounding along not far ahead. He followed the sound, in among the rocks and bushes, and then suddenly lost it. By this time, the whole place was swarming with men armed with sticks and lanterns, Nancy in a blue garment, and her father half dressed, heading an excited crowd. Alas! the tragic truth had to be faced—Sam was gone! taken from the door of his mistress's room, and carried off in his sleep, by one of those treacherous devils.

With bobbing lanterns, crashing sticks, and loud harsh shouts, the whole of the rocks were most thoroughly beaten, but without result; of dog or panther there was not a trace. After an hour's exhaustive search, Mayne returned to the bungalow—his lamp had gone out. Here in the verandah he distinguished a sobbing figure; Nancy, alone and in uncontrollable grief. Between her sobs she moaned:

"Oh, my poor darling Sam! Oh, the cruelty—oh, Daddy, what shall I do—what shall I do?" and she suddenly flung herself upon Mayne, and sobbed out in the tone of a child asking for consolation, "Daddy, Daddy, what shall I do?"

They were the same height, and in the dark, she had mistaken him for her father,—who was still pursuing a hopeless search among the rocks,—but the situation was not the less embarrassing,—especially as the girl clung to her supposed parent, with both arms clasped tightly round his neck, and her face buried in his coat. Suddenly she realized her mistake, and with a violent jerk, drew herself away.

"Why, you're not Daddy!" she gasped out, breathlessly, "I know by the feel of your coat. It's Captain Mayne—I've been—hugging."

"It's all right, Nancy," taking her hands in his. "Poor little girl! I'm just as sorry for you, as ever I can be, and I'll never rest, till I bring you in the skin of the brute that has killed Sam. Here is your father now," and Mayne tactfully withdrew, and abandoned the pair to their grief,—Nancy's the wildest, and most poignant, that he had ever witnessed.

The following day, Francis the butler, mysteriously imparted to Mayne the news, that Sam's collar, and one paw had been found.

"But say not one word to the Missy. We bury in dogs' graveyard; the beast is a big female with young cubs, therefore is she overbold. That dog Sam," and his black eyes looked moist, "I also loved him, too much."

CHAPTER VII

EIGHTEEN ON TUESDAY

For two days after the loss of Sam, Nancy remained inconsolable; she could neither eat nor rest, her face looked small, her tragic eyes sunken and dim; also she wept for hours,—utterly indifferent to consolation, or chocolates. "The Corner" after the day's work, ascended to sympathize, Mrs. Ffinch descended with a similar kind intention, and expressed shocked concern; but her kissing, endearments, and honeyed words, were a waste of time and breath.

"I shall never get over it, Finchie, never!" moaned the girl, "and I won't rest till the panther has been killed, and skinned. Daddy has offered a reward of thirty rupees,—but so far it is no use."

"Take her out riding—make her go," commanded Mrs. Ffinch, "she can't sit here all day nursing her grief. Try what you can do, Captain Mayne, take her up to the Meaches, Nellie has returned home, and Major Meach always amuses Nancy."

"I don't think anything would amuse her now," he answered.

"Look at Togo," burst out Nancy, "he knows. All yesterday he lay with his face to the wall—here in the verandah—and he has not touched a morsel since it happened. Oh, my poor Sam!" The name was almost a cry.

"If you and Togo starve yourselves, my dear, what good will that do poor Sam?" inquired the practical visitor, "I'm sure he would not like you to die too. You really must cheer up, for your father's sake. I am awfully sorry myself; as the son of our dear old Dan, Sam was a sort of nephew. We will all give him a great funeral——"

She stopped abruptly as it flashed into her mind that there were no remains. Ultimately her powers of persuasion, proved effectual, and Nancy reluctantly agreed to give her pony some exercise, and not to indulge her emotions in such frantic ungovernable native fashion. Travers was as usual busy among his coolies, and Mayne and Nancy set off alone, and rode over to the Meaches, precisely as Mrs. Ffinch had ordained.

It was a cheerful breezy trip; sometimes the road lay in hollows, winding round a valley, and between blackberry bushes, wattles, ash trees, and wild roses, recalling an English lane; or again, over grassy uplands, with a delightful breeze, driving white clouds overhead.

By and by, Nancy recovered her self-control, and her tongue,—a member that was never long mislaid.

The Meach family lived eight miles from Fairplains, on a poor worn out, and out of the way estate; Major Meach, having spent all he possessed, invested his wife's little fortune in this, so to speak "refuge," and here she and her offspring slaved and struggled, in order to provide their old man of the sea, with everything he demanded in the way of attention, and comfort.

Part of the estate was let to a native, part was worked by Andy, whilst Mrs. Meach and her three pretty daughters kept cows and poultry, and sold eggs and butter among their neighbours. Blanche, the beauty,—thanks to Mrs. Ffinch,—was satisfactorily married; Tom, the youngest son, slaved in an office, and sent all he could spare to his harassed mother who struggled to keep house, and maintain a presentable family, on one hundred rupees a month.

The Misses Meach emerged into the verandah when they heard the glad sound of voices, accompanied by the clatter of hoofs, and Gladys and Nellie joyfully hailed Nancy, who instantly in a strangled voice, claimed their sympathy for her irreparable loss.

"The dear faithful fellow!—how dreadful!" said Nellie. "I remember one time, you went home by the old road, he missed you, and came back here, and lay all night by the chair you had been sitting on."

"Bah! what's a dog!" snarled Major Meach, a preposterously fat man, who now appeared, and with a curt salute to Mayne, sank with heavy violence into a creaking wicker chair. "Lots to be had! We can give you half a dozen—greedy, good-for-nothing brutes!"

Mrs. Meach, a worn, thin woman, with remarkably red hands, and a still pretty face, who had been ordering tea, now came forward to welcome her guests. Poor lady! her life had been, and was, a tragedy. Once a beauty, she was thought to have made a fine match when she married Captain Meach of the Light Lancers,—a man with a nice fortune. The nice fortune, he squandered on himself; and poor Amy Meach, after knocking about the world from garrison town to cantonment, saving, pinching, rearing a family, and keeping up appearances, was now the drudge, and servant, of her selfish and unwieldy tyrant.

Her hope, comfort, and joy, was in her children; possibly some day, she may be in a position to sit down and be served by other people, to read a novel, or even to take a morning in bed!

Everything at Panora seemed cheap and faded,—except the fat helpless old Major, and his three pretty girls. He insisted on keeping up "his position," as he called it; the shabby, timid-looking servants, wore in their turbans, the badge of a regiment that had been only too thankful to get rid of their master!

He, who was a notorious slacker, now posed as a former martinet, and present authority, and his faithful family believed in the fable. The truth was, that but for Mrs. Meach, who was popular, and for whom everyone was sorry, he would not have been "let down," so to speak, without a nasty jar.

The Tyrant liked to fasten on Mayne,—who occasionally escorted Nancy, when she came to see her friends,—and to question him sharply on Army matters, and utter high boastings of "my old regiment—Cavalry—I never could stand being a mud-crusher!" and as he knew that Mayne was an Infantry officer, this remark was, to say the least, tactless.

When they all sat at tea, he talked with his mouth full, helped himself to hot cakes—two at a time—bragged, snubbed his family, laid down the law, and made rude personal remarks. With regard to his daughter Nellie, he said:

"We sent Nellie down to try her luck in Bangalore; but there was no market, no buyers—and here she is, back on our hands like a bad penny."

Poor Nellie blushed till there were tears in her eyes.

"I'll give her to anyone with a pound of tea—ha! ha! ha!"

"If you were my father, and made such rude speeches," said Nancy fiercely, "I'd be very glad to give you away, with a whole plantation!"

"There you go, spitfire!" he exclaimed.—He rather liked Nancy, because she boldly opposed him.—"You've been spoiled, my good girl; if your father had given you some sound thrashings, you would not be so cocksey—and such a bad example to other young women."

"I think," said Mayne, rising, "it is time for us to make a start," and he eyed the old bully, with a menacing stare.

"Oh, ho!" and he chuckled. "Nancy is used to me—aren't you, red poll? You don't mind!"

"I'll overlook the outrage this time, but as an apology, I must have Gladys and Nellie to spend the day on Monday."

"Can't be done—no ponies!"

"Then I'll borrow the Clouds Rest car."

"Will you! You've cheek enough for anything! If you can get the car, you shall have the girls, and the Missus thrown in—there's an offer for you!"

Mayne, who felt a touch of sincere pity for poor Mrs. Meach and her browbeaten daughters, experienced a sense of profound relief when the farewells were over, and he and Nancy rode away.

"Look in again soon, young fellow!" shouted Major Meach. "Nancy, tell your father to send me up a bag of his number one coffee—it can come in the car."

"I don't know about that bag of coffee," said Mayne; "but old Meach won't see me again."

"Isn't he a horror?"

"I'm awfully sorry for his daughters; when he told the fair one to 'shut up,' I felt inclined to shy a plate at him!"

"And he is such an ungrateful old monster! Only for the way those girls work, and go without things, there would be no cigars, no Europe hams, tinned stores, or whisky and soda. He must have everything he wants, or he yells, and storms like a madman. I've told him one or two plain truths about his selfishness."

"Have you? I must say you are fairly plucky."

"Nicky Byng admires Nellie, but it's no good; all the same, if I do get the car, I'll let him know."

"Fancy trying your hand at match-making,—a child like you!" and Mayne turned in his saddle, and surveyed his companion, with a broad smile.

"Of course, I know it's no use. Finchie throws buckets of cold water on the affair; she hopes to marry Nellie off, the same as Blanche Sandilands. Blanche has a splendid car, lives in a big house on the Adyar, and entertains half Madras. All the same, I think Nellie likes Nicky."

"Then why mind Mrs. Ffinch, and her cold water?"

"We all mind her; she is so far-sighted, and clever—all but Ned, he thinks her too meddlesome, and anyway, she did talk Jessie Hicks out of accepting him."

"Do you suppose, that Mrs. Ffinch could talk you out of accepting anyone?"

"How can you be so silly! Anyway, there will be no occasion, for I don't intend to marry."

"Bosh! Wait till you are older, and then we shall see what we shall see."

"I'm quite old enough to know my own mind."

"Not you!"

"Don't be rude. Do you know, that I shall be eighteen on Tuesday?"

"I know that you are trying to pull my leg, miss! You are not an hour over sixteen—if so much. I should put you down at fourteen if I were asked."

"Well, if you won't believe me, you can see the certificate of birth and baptism.—I was born at Fairplains."

"But, Nancy," suddenly pulling up his cob, "I've always understood you were a mere child—if you really are eighteen—I—I feel completely bouleversé; in other words, shattered; for I've been treating you as a little girl, and all the time, you are a young lady! I declare, I'm so upset, I shall tumble off the cob!"

"Don't tumble yet; stick on, and I'll explain. Daddy likes me to look a mere child, and can't endure the idea of my growing up. So I always wear simple frocks, and short skirts—it was only the other day, I put my hair up."

"Did you wear a pig-tail?"

"Yes, of course I did—it was a beauty, too."

"And I know I'd have pulled it! that's one temptation removed! Well, let me here and now apologize for my many enormities. I'm most frightfully sorry; I wish you were only sixteen."

"You may go on just as if I were. They all do."

"Thank you, Nancy. And so Mrs. Ffinch is law-maker, the local dictator, and match-maker?"

"Yes. She is immensely proud of the Meach affair; but not so proud of Fred Pollard's match. She married him off to a girl who was most unsuitable—so much so, that Fred fled to Ceylon, and the Pollards are not very good friends with Finchie! She does not wish Ted to marry Jessie Hicks; for then Nicky would have to move out of The Corner, and he might take it into his head, to run away with Nellie—and she has magnificent plans for her."

"Wheels within wheels," exclaimed Mayne. "It strikes me all the same, that these young people are not desperately in love; if they were, they'd never take all this so tamely, or so to speak, lying down."

"Well you see, they are all very busy one way or another, and have no time. When they do meet at tennis, Finchie mixes the sets, and sorts them out, as you saw!"

"Yes, I saw; but I must confess I did not notice the usual interesting signs of mutual attachment."

"No? What are the signs?"

"I don't know much about it, but sitting in one another's pockets, holding one another's hands, and obviously wishing us all at Jericho."

"Yes. Haven't you been in love yourself? You must—you are getting on!"

"Getting on, you rude child! Why, I'm only seven and twenty. As to being in love—no, never what you may call, seriously."

"Seriously?"

"That is to say unable to eat, or sleep—living solely to see her—or if not her—the postman, who carries her priceless letters."

"Ah, you jeer at love! Perhaps it may pay you out one day."

"Perhaps! And what about you, Nancy? Has no smart young tennis champion awakened your interest?"

She burst into a peal of laughter—her first laugh for four whole days.

"No, I've never been in love—or ever will; I haven't a tiny scrap to spare from Daddy; and here he comes to meet us—with poor lonely Togo."

"Well, Nance," he called out, "I've just fixed up a splendid treat for your birthday."

"What is it? Oh, tell me quickly—quickly!"

"We are going down to Holikul for three days for a shoot. There is a big native holiday that draws off our coolies, and I've invited the Corner boys; you shall undertake the commissariat, and play the queen of the party."

"How delightful, Daddy!" cried Nancy; then as she glanced at Mayne, "Oh, poor Captain Mayne!—your jaw has dropped four cubic inches; but I do assure you, it will be all right—when I'm out on a beat, and sit up in a machan, I'm so deadly, deadly, quiet, that you might hear a fly sneeze!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE PANTHER'S SECOND VICTIM

The expedition down to the Holikul jungle, proved a triumphant success, not only in the matter of sport, but of well-chosen and congenial company; Nancy, far from being an encumbrance, largely contributed to the comfort of the party.

The little camp was surprisingly well found; ice never failed, a tablecloth and brilliant tropical flowers, gave a touch of civilization to the alfresco meals, and after a long arduous beat among sweltering undergrowth, it was agreeable and refreshing, to sit out in the starlight, whilst Nancy and Nicky Byng sang solos and duets, the servants squatted round at a respectful distance, and Togo kept solitary ward.

Nancy proved to be well versed in forest lore. What she had picked up as a small child, when accompanying her father on various shooting expeditions, had never faded from a mind which held all impressions with tenacity. She knew the names of strange trees, and gorgeous flowering shrubs, and could relate, stirring legends and fabulous tales of the mysterious white tiger.

In her own line, Miss Travers proved as successful a hostess, as her great example at Clouds Rest, and in spite of her ingenuous girlhood,—had a way of mothering, and managing, the entire circle. There was not a spark of coquetry in her composition. She chatted to Ted and Nicky, precisely as if she were their pal and comrade, and it was evident to Mayne, that the "Corner boys," no less than Travers himself, worshipped the sole of this wood elf's small brown shoe!

Her birthday was an auspicious occasion. The house-servants, and head shikari, offered bouquets and wreaths; "The Corner" presented a tennis bat, and Mayne had surreptitiously placed a little parcel upon Nancy's plate. As she opened the blue velvet case, and beheld its contents, she gave a scream of delighted surprise.

"Oh, Daddy, how dare you? you wicked man!" she cried; "it's far too beautiful for me. I've always longed for a wristlet watch,—but never a gold one like this—why, it's prettier than Finchie's," and she rose to embrace him.

"Here is the wicked man," he protested, pointing to Mayne; "my present has not arrived, but I expect it is waiting for you up at Fairplains."

"Captain Mayne," she exclaimed, with dancing eyes, "how ever so much too kind of you! I declare I'd like to kiss you. May I, Daddy?" glancing at him interrogatively.

Mayne looked at him expectantly, and stood up, prepared to accept this astonishing favour.

"My dear child," said Travers, "you are eighteen to-day, and must not go thrusting your kisses on young men."

"But I never did before," she protested.

"You should keep your first kiss for someone, who may come along one day!"

"Oh, Daddy," she murmured, blushing deeply through her tan, "now you have made me feel so shy, and uncomfortable. You all know," appealing to Ted and Nicky, "that I only wanted to do something, just to show Captain Mayne, how delighted I was—and am."

"You can do that in another way, Nancy," he replied, resuming his seat. "Call me by my Christian name—the same as these fellows."

"Derek—yes—and it's much prettier than Ted, or Nicky."

"So now, Mayne," said Nicky, "you are paid off handsomely, and at our expense."

It was a merry, not to say noisy breakfast party; Nancy with two long white wreaths round her neck (in a third she had invested her father), the wristlet watch on her mahogany wrist, was in the wildest spirits.

"I woke this morning very early," she said; "almost before the birds, not because I was expecting presents in my stocking,—like at Christmas time, but because I was going to be eighteen, and I seemed to hear the bamboos—you all know how they whisper—murmuring to one another, 'Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen!'"

"Eighteen, will have to take to gloves and corsets," said Nicky, as he fumbled for his pipe.

"Fancy mentioning such an article in the free-as-air jungle," protested Nancy; "and anyway, my waist is only twenty inches."

"Nancy, spare us these particulars," protested her father. "One would think you were among a pack of women."

"Never mind him, Nancy," said Byng. "Tell him it's too late to start to keep you in bounds—and as for waists—Ted's is fifty."

"Daddy, I do wonder what you have got for me," she asked abruptly. "Won't you tell me?"

"I know," said Mayne; "it's awfully nice, you'll like it better than anything—and it's coming all the way from London."

"Then it must have cost a heap of money," she exclaimed. "Oh, Daddy!"

"Oh, Nancy," he echoed, "it's time we made a start; the shikaris are hanging about, so don't let us waste any more time," and he rose, and broke up the party.

Those three days in the Holikul jungles were a delightful, and flawless memory, to all concerned. How rarely can mortals say this! Sunburnt and weary, the Fairplains party returned to the shelter of a roof, and a daily delivery of letters, and parcels. The habit had arrived—moreover, it fitted.

Two evenings later, Travers and Mayne, Nancy and the head shikari, had been for a short, perfunctory beat, round the base of the hill on which the bungalow was situated. They were homeward bound, the bag, a mere peacock. Mayne and his host were a little in advance of Nancy, and last came the shikari, carrying the peacock, and Travers' gun.

"This day week," said Mayne, "I shall be on my way——"

As he was speaking, they turned an abrupt corner, and there, within forty yards, on a slab of rock, lay a sleek panther, and her two fat cubs! As she sprang erect, Mayne ran forward, and fired. But slightly wounded, she instantly leapt at him, and with such headlong ferocity, and impetus, that the weight of her body knocked him down, and sent his gun flying. Without a second's hesitation, Travers, armed with only a stick, rushed to where the savage brute was worrying her prostrate victim, and with all his might, hit her a smashing blow across the nose. Turning on him, with a furious snarl, she seized him by the forearm, but before she could do more, Tipoo ran up, and shot her through the head. She fell back, and after a few kicks, and one convulsive quiver, rolled over stone dead.

The whole scene had taken place within less than the space of two minutes. Nancy at first had stood by, a horrified, and paralysed spectator, but when the panther attacked her father,—she ran forward, and struck at it frantically, with her stick.

And now to take stock of the casualties! Mayne, thanks to a heavy shooting coat, had merely a few bruises, and scratches—nothing to speak of,—in short a miraculous escape. Travers also, had got off with a scratch on his neck, and a bite on his forearm. The latter might have been worse,—but his coat had also saved him.

"Sam's leopard—and you nearly got him!" he said to Mayne. "You fired a bit too soon, my boy."

"I believe I did—I was so keen to get the brute before she bolted,—I'm most awfully sorry."

"Oh, it's all right," replied Travers. "I'm well used to these scraps—she's a fine size."

"Never mind the panther, Dad," interposed Nancy, "but come along at once and have your arm dressed, and Captain Mayne too," and she ran on before them towards the bungalow, to collect, and prepare remedies.

Nancy had learned "First Aid," and was accustomed to doctor the household and coolies; she dressed the wounds, and scratches with prompt and skilful fingers, forbade all stimulants, and commanded her patients to rest till dinner-time. This was by no means the first time that Travers had been in a "hand to claw" combat, with a wild beast, but to Mayne, it was a novel experience, and he felt not a little shaken, and excited. It is not a pleasant sensation to have a heavy, evil-smelling wild animal, on the top of you, and murderous yellow fangs within six inches of your throat.

The following morning, the two patients described themselves as "quite fit." Travers with his arm in a sling, went about his everyday business, and Mayne commenced to make arrangements for his impending departure. That evening Travers appeared to be fatigued, his eyes were unusually bright, and Nancy's smiling face, wore an anxious expression.

"Dad, I'd like to send for Dr. Hicks, to have a look at your arm," she said, as they sat in the verandah after dinner.

"Certainly not, Nancy," he replied testily; "you have done everything that is necessary. I daresay I have brought a touch of fever from Holikul. That's all that ails me. The bite is nothing. Now look here, little girl, I won't have you worry."

As his tone was authoritative, Nancy, whatever she may have thought, said nothing further.

The next day Travers made a very early start, and did not return,—as was often the case,—in time for breakfast; and Nancy and Mayne were tête-à-tête.

"Father is so hardy and wiry, and so used to jungle accidents," she remarked, "he won't ever allow me to look after him properly. On Tuesday, only for him and his stick," she paused and glanced expressively at Mayne.

"Yes, by Jove! the panther would have had me! There's no doubt your father saved my life. That brute was making for my throat. I saw her yellow eyes glaring into mine, she had her claws dug into my shoulders, and, Lord, how her breath smelt! Yes, for once, I was face to face with death; and I'd be dead and buried now—only for that swinging stroke across her muzzle."

"The cubs made her savage," said Nancy. "Tipoo has shot them both—such well-fed, fat, little creatures. All the family skins are now being dried. Only for those cubs, the panther would never have faced you—they are such slinking, treacherous cowards."

"And only for your father, I'd not be sitting here."

"And how dreadful for your poor mother, if anything had happened to you! If I were to die, it would almost kill Daddy."

Mayne made no reply. Mentally, he was comparing his mother, with her father. Nancy looked as if she would still be flourishing at the end of half a century, but if anything were, as she expressed it, "to happen to her," it was quite possible, that Travers would go clean off his head.

Travers returned at tea-time; as he stumbled into the verandah, and sank exhausted into a chair, he looked completely "done."

"Ah, I see you have been down to the lower ground," said Nancy. "Now that was really too bad of you,—when you have a touch of fever."

As she handed him his cup she added:

"Let me feel your hand—why, it's almost red-hot!"

"My dear child, don't make a fuss," he exclaimed irritably; "I'll take a dose of quinine, and lie down till dinner-time,—will that please you?"

Nancy said no more, but shut her lips tightly, and began to prepare his special buttered toast.

"I can't touch anything," he protested, "but I've an awful thirst on," and he swallowed greedily, one after the other, two large cups of tea.

"I'm afraid I must worry you, dear Daddy, and dress your arm," she urged. "I promise I'll be as quick as I can," and she led him away to his own room. Presently she returned, and said to Mayne, who was still sitting in the verandah: "I want you to ride over at once, and ask Dr. Hicks to drop in this evening,—quite casually, of course. I simply dare not tell Daddy I've sent for him; he always pooh-poohs doctors, and illnesses, and he won't allow me to take his temperature, nor will he go to bed. His arm has a queer, livid appearance, and is terribly swollen; I must say, I cannot help feeling rather nervous."

"Oh, all right," said Mayne, rising; "I'll be off at once, and I'll bring Hicks back with me,—dead or alive."

When Mayne arrived at Panora, Dr. Hicks happened to be out, and it was nine o'clock when the two men reached Fairplains. By this time Travers, who now admitted that he was "feeling a bit out of sorts," was obviously worse.

As they rode over, Mayne had given the doctor full particulars, about the panther affair,—including the bites, and scratches.

"There may be poison in them," said Dr. Hicks; "these old panthers eat garbage, and putrid carcases, and are nasty brutes to deal with; and if septic poison sets in, Travers is rather a bad subject, and it may go hard with him. However," he added philosophically, "there is no use meeting trouble half way, and whatever happens, we must keep a cheerful face before Nancy. There's a good, single-hearted child, if ever there was one, and if by any chance, she were to lose her father—mind you, I'm not saying there is a chance—I don't know what would become of her!"

CHAPTER IX

"GIVE NANCY TO ME!"

Having examined his patient, Dr. Hicks came out into the verandah in order to confer with Mayne. His face was alarmingly grave, and he spoke with his eyes anxiously fixed on the communicating doors,—and in a lowered voice.

"He's pretty bad; high fever, temperature 104; his arm is frightfully swelled—it's the bite. I am sending for a nurse and vaccine, also for my wife. She's uncommonly capable, and always comes well up to scratch on these occasions, and of course, we must have some woman here to look after Nancy—in case of"—he hesitated for a second, and added—"delirium and complications."

"You don't mean to say it's as serious as all that?" cried Mayne, aghast.

"I'm afraid it is; but I'll move heaven and earth to pull Travers through. We can spare anyone, sooner than the Earl,—as we call him."

"Can't I go some message, or be of some use? For God's sake give me a job," and Mayne paused, half choked. "You see, it was through saving me, that Travers is like this!"

"Oh, all right," agreed the doctor briskly, "then you can ride down to Tirraputty, and send off a couple of wires. It will take you about three hours to get there,—riding hard."

"What about Mrs. Ffinch's car? I can drive a motor."

"She's away in it herself!—gone for a week's tour. She took my girl Jessie, and Nellie Meach, and left no address. 'Expect me when you see me' style. Ah, here comes Nancy!" as the girl, now looking strangely worn, and haggard, came into the verandah.

"What are you two conspiring about?" she asked, with a startled expression.

"I'm only telling Mayne a piece of news. Mrs. Ffinch is away on a motor tour."

"Oh!"—evidently relieved—"is that all?"

"Word of honour, yes," the doctor lied with emphasis.

"Won't you stay and have something?" she urged.

"Oh, well, I don't mind. Just anything at all—a bit of cold meat, and a hunch of bread.—I'll ask for a shake-down, too."

"A shake-down!" staring at him with widely-opened eyes; "then you think——" and she paused, unable to utter another syllable, or articulate her heartsick uneasiness.

"I think you're a silly girl!" he said brusquely. "You know as well as I do, that I must dress your father's arm every three hours. You'd like him to have the very best attention, my dear, wouldn't you? It isn't everyone I'd do as much for. I can tell you,—losing my dinner, and sleeping out. I'm sending Mayne here to Tirraputty to wire for a nurse."

"A nurse! Certainly not!" protested Nancy with energy. "I am his nurse."

"Now, my good Nancy, if you are going to be silly and obstructive, and to stand in the way of what is necessary for your father, I'd like to know what I'm to do with you?"

"But a nurse—an utter stranger!"

"Yes, a professional, clear-headed, experienced woman, who has no emotions—to counteract her work."

"Father won't have her!!" declared the girl triumphantly.

"He will, if you ask him," rejoined the doctor. "My dear child, I had no idea you were so set upon your own way."

"Then I am to realize that father is—in danger?" she demanded, with trembling lips.

"Nothing of the sort," he replied, now lying boldly and well. "You are to realize that you must be a sensible girl, and instead of fighting against remedies, and the doctor, to help him with your last breath."

Nancy gazed at him steadily, and after a moment's silence, she said:

"All right, you need not ask me to do my best," and she returned to the sick-room.

At eight o'clock the following morning, when, stiff and weary, Mayne dismounted from his cob, he found that a dark cloud had settled down on Fairplains. In the verandah, he discovered an anxious gathering, talking together in low voices, and in groups. Here were Ted and Nicky, Tom Pollard, young Meach—and Mrs. Hicks. They each nodded a welcome, and the lady advanced, and said:

"I came over early; he is worse. The fever is septic," she added, and her round black eyes filled with tears.

"He is sleeping all right," announced Dr. Hicks, who joined them; "so is Nancy,—I put something in her tea. She was up all night, poor child, and is thoroughly worn out. The nurse will be here about eleven,—and another doctor."

"It's too awful!" stammered Mayne, who had grown ghastly white. "Do you know, Mrs. Hicks, that by rights, I should be in Travers' place?"

"Tut, tut, tut!" she protested, giving him a push; "you go and have a bath, and some breakfast."

"Tell me," appealing to her husband, "will he get over it? Is there no chance?"

"There may be a turn at sundown, please God."

"If not——?"

"These cases last about four days—that brute's claws were so many poison-bags."

Without another word, Dr. Hicks turned away.

At noon, the nurse and specialist, arrived together, and presently there ensued grave consultations, whisperings, and ominous shaking of heads.

On account of its superior size, and in spite of Nancy's frenzied entreaties, the patient was moved into the drawing-room,—the most spacious apartment in the bungalow, with a northern aspect.

Mayne did not venture to speak to Nancy, who looked as if she scarcely recognized him, when she flitted about like a wraith between the sick-room, and verandah. Kindly, vulgar Mrs. Hicks, at whom he used to laugh, was now his support and comfort. She brought him bulletins, insisted on his taking food, and appeared to keep the whole establishment together; interviewing callers, writing chits, dispatching messengers, concocting dainties, and altogether reversing Mayne's opinion of "silly Mrs. Hicks." For her part, she was sincerely sorry for this worn, haggard-looking young man, who seemed to dread the impending tragedy, almost as much as Travers' own daughter.

Once or twice Mayne had been permitted to stand in the door of the drawing-room, and there exchange a few words with the patient. Quite late that evening, when he was disconsolately pacing the avenue, Mrs. Hicks came out, and joined him.

"How has he been since sundown?" he inquired.

"Neither better nor worse. We have sent for Mr. Brownlow, the padre; he will be here early to-morrow evening. Anyway, he'd have had to come up for the funeral."

"The funeral! Oh, good Lord!" exclaimed Mayne in a choked voice, "surely you are not thinking of that?"

"Now don't you go and break down, my dear boy," said Mrs. Hicks, thumping him on the back; "we must all keep up; while there's life there's hope, and we have to put on a bold face before Nancy. I have contrived to get her to bed. He sent her. May God forgive me for all the lies I've told that poor child. If this ends badly, it'll break her heart. Poor dear! I can't think whatever is to become of her? She won't have a penny of her own in the wide world,—and there's no relations to speak of."

"What—no relations?" repeated Mayne incredulously.

"None that would come forward, anyhow. Her mother was an orphan, and Travers' people broke with him; first of all, because he married a governess, and lastly, because he lost his money. However, if Nancy has no belongings, she has lots of friends up here; we will all do what we can. Well now, I see Francis—he wants me," and she hastily abandoned her companion, leaving him to meditate upon her information.

Mayne went slowly down to the tennis ground; the tennis ground, entirely secluded, was a refuge, and here he could hold a long and uninterrupted conference with himself. Considering the affair from every point of view, he soon arrived at the conclusion, that he was solely responsible for Nancy's future. Why should these good, kind-hearted people offer her a shelter, when he, who was accountable for a tragedy, that cost her a parent and a home, made no effort to provide for her?

During one whole hour, he did a sort of meditative "sentry go" up and down the kunkur courts. Mrs. Hicks' illuminating remarks, had presented Nancy's situation, in its true light: the girl had no relations, no income, and would be entirely dependent on the charity of her kind-hearted neighbours; and he was answerable for the fact, that she would be left homeless, and penniless. If her father had not interfered when the panther attacked him, in another second, the brute would have torn his throat out—the blow, transferred her fury to Travers. But for Travers, he would now be lying in a new grave in the garden. The least he could do, was to provide a home for Travers' daughter—though nothing could make up to her, for the one she was about to lose. Had his mother been like the usual run of mothers, Nancy could have lived with her; unfortunately there were half a dozen "buts," and Lady Torquilstone abhorred girls.

There was one alternative;—vainly he thrust this from him; but it returned again, and yet again, to confront him inflexibly. Yes, he was powerless against the malignity of events, powerless to evade the inevitable. He must marry Nancy. It was the only thing to do! He would thankfully have given her half his income; but, it was not to be supposed, that she would accept his money; she might look upon it as the price of blood!

He liked Nancy, she was a really good sporting sort; straight as a die, a capital pal; but as a wife—he would not know what to make of her? She would be such an unlikely and unaccountable Mrs. Mayne. She looked a mere flapper too, in spite of her eighteen years, and was occasionally capable of the most startling behaviour. He recalled the kiss she had offered him on her birthday, and her various tomboy tricks. What would the regiment think of Nancy? and what would Nancy think of the regiment?

After many pacings to and fro, his mind became definitely resolved. There are moments in the lives of individuals, when their conduct has to be decided, not by material profit, but by instinctive loyalty to what is best in their nature; and although marriage was the last step Mayne had intended to take, nevertheless he determined to adventure the great plunge! Yes, his decision was unalterably fixed, there was actual relief in the sensation. He was turning about for the fiftieth time when he noticed a figure in the moonlight beckoning to him violently from the top of the steps. It was Mrs. Hicks, who screamed out:

"So you're down there, are you? I could not find you! Been looking for you all over the place. He has been asking for you, and the doctors say you may go in, and stay a quarter of an hour."

As Mayne entered the sick-room, he noticed even within the last few hours, a grave change in Travers: a change that was the unmistakable forerunner of the last change of all. The sick man's face looked drawn, his sunken eyes extraordinarily bright and restless,—with a sort of watching expression. There was also some strange element in the room: something that seemed to be waiting—the silence was pregnant, with significance.

"My dear fellow, I'm very glad to see you," Travers began, in a thin weak voice; "come and sit down. They are making out that I am in a bad way, and won't allow anyone near me, but Nancy, poor girl. I may pull through, and I hope I shall, for her sake; she's such a child to be left all alone to battle with the world."

"Not alone," said Mayne gravely, "as long as I am to the fore. By rights I should be lying there instead of you, and if the worst——" He could not go on.

"You are very good, my boy! Although I have only known you for six weeks, I am as fond of you as of an old friend,—and indeed you seem so. I've never saved money until lately. There will be enough for Nancy's passage, and perhaps my sister may take the child; she was a spoiled beauty, and is now, to all accounts, a hard, selfish woman. She and I have not spoken for twenty years. Still Nancy is her niece—her only near relative."

"Look here, sir," interrupted Mayne, "by rights I should be in your place,—it was all my fault. I was in too great a hurry. I blundered shockingly when I aimed, so deadly keen to shoot Sam's panther; but I only enraged her, and made her charge. You knew my father, and are good enough to say, you like me. I have five hundred a year, besides my pay—give Nancy into my care. Give Nancy—to me!"

Travers gazed at him steadily; the sunken dark eyes were interrogative.

"As my wife, of course," he continued nervously. "I swear to you, that I'll look upon her as a sacred trust, and do all I can to make her happy. As it is, we are capital friends; I believe she likes me—and I am awfully fond of her. We really know one another far better than most people who marry—having lived here together for the last six weeks. What do you say?"

"I am a bit surprised," replied Travers at last: "although the notion of my little Nance being married seems preposterous, you have lifted a heavy load off my mind, and God bless you." He put out a burning hand, which Mayne wrung. Then he added, "But I cannot allow you to talk as if I had sacrificed myself; it was all in the day's work, the fortune of war—and—I'll be with my other Nancy before long."

"May I speak to Nancy?" asked Mayne, after a short silence, "or shall I wait?"

"No, I never was a fellow to put off things. I'll see her as soon as possible,—and look here, Derek," and he gazed up at him appealingly, "would you think I was rushing you, if I asked you to have the marriage before I go? Then she will not be left so desolate, my poor little darling. She will have her natural protector. Do you mind? I know—it may seem a bit sudden."

"No," replied Mayne firmly. "I think it will be best. I'll make arrangements at once."

"All right, then I'll have a talk to Nancy by and by, and you shall hear what she says. Of course I know there's never been any sort of flirting, or love-making between you—she's just a child! but I'd leave her with a happy mind, if I knew that my little girl was in the care of a good, honest fellow, like yourself. It will be a queer coincidence if Derek Mayne's son is to be the husband of my daughter. The parson will be here to-morrow, and may find two jobs. Ah, Nurse, all right—I'll stop! No, I've not been doing myself any harm—very much the other way. Good-night, my boy."

CHAPTER X

MARRIAGE AND DEATH

Very early the next morning when Nancy came out of her father's room, she found Mrs. Hicks already in the verandah, wrapped in a flaming kimona, and sipping a cup of tea.

"Well, dear child?" she began, then paused, and looked at her interrogatively.

"Daddy has been talking to me," she announced in a dull voice, staring at Mrs. Hicks with a curious dazed expression, "and—he—he wishes me—to marry Captain Mayne."

"Lors!" exclaimed her companion, jumping to her feet. "Whatever for?"

"Because I'm so alone in the world, and have no home!" replied the girl, as if she was repeating a lesson.

"And what does the Captain say?"

"He wishes it too."

"And what do you say, Ducky?"

"Oh," with a frantic gesture of her hand, "is it any matter about me? Don't you know, that I would kill myself, that I would be cut in little pieces, if it would give any relief to Daddy,—and I am the one thing that seems to trouble him."

"Well, I won't say that it isn't a wise plan!" declared Mrs. Hicks, folding her fat arms in her kimona; "the Captain is a fine young fellow, and has everyone's good word,—even Mrs. Pollard, and you know how she takes a bit out of people. But still, if you don't really fancy him, dearie, I wouldn't. Marriage," now sitting down, "is a big affair, not to be settled at a moment's notice, like a game of tennis. This Mayne, they say, has high and mighty relations, and I don't believe there's ever been a word of love talk between you—much less a kiss."

Nancy made a movement of fierce repudiation.

"And from something Mrs. F. dropped," resumed Mrs. Hicks, "I know she has her plans for you—as well as others."

"Don't!" cried the girl. "Don't talk of plans, and schemes—it's this very second that counts. I shall do whatever pleases Daddy—and I'm going to speak to Captain Mayne now."

"Well, maybe it's all for the best! Anyhow, it'll be a wonderful ease to your poor father. God help you, my child!"

"They wish the marriage to take place to-morrow," said Nancy, and her lips twitched visibly as she added—"when Mr. Brownlow comes."

"Well I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Hicks, and her round ruddy face assumed an awestruck expression, "but there's sense in that too. If it was put off, and you were to go home, things might happen. Some young men are as slippery as eels. Mind you, I'm not saying one word against Mayne; he doesn't seem that sort—his mouth has a tight look. Still, one of you might be talked out of it—like my own Jessie."

During this oration, Nancy's face had become as rigid and set as that of a waxen mask, suddenly laying her hand on Mrs. Hicks' arm, she said:

"If father dies, I don't care what becomes of me! I only hope and pray, I may not live long. I'll do anything he asks for now,—fancy the horror that would haunt me,—if I were to say no, to his very last wishes!"

"Nancy, child, if you could only cry, it would be such a wonderful relief to your poor heart. Lors, here is Mayne coming! Maybe you'd better take him into the Den, and talk it out face to face."

"You know all about it, Nancy," he began, when she beckoned him to follow her into the little room, where both had spent such pleasant hours.

She nodded assent. Within the last three days the girl appeared to have undergone an extraordinary change; the childish air had vanished; her face was shrunken, and drawn, all life and spontaneity had departed. She wore a long white peignoir, which gave her height and dignity, and looked years older—in short, it was another personality.

"You know I'm awfully fond of you, Nance," continued Mayne, stooping to take a cold, limp hand, "and that I'll do my very best to make you happy."

"Happy!" and she dashed his hand aside, "as if I could ever be happy again!"

"You will, by and by," he went on steadily, unmoved by her outburst; "we shall settle down; you will get used to soldiering—and this awful time will be as a bad dream."

"Never," rejoined Nancy with emphasis. "Bad dreams are forgotten. Do you imagine, that I shall ever forget this?" and she stared at him with a pair of tearless, glittering eyes. Then there ensued a long, expressive, and uncomfortable pause, during which Togo trotted in, and gazed at the couple. They seemed so odd,—almost like two strangers: the girl sitting by the closed piano, the man with his hands in his pockets, standing with his back to the wall. After a moment's hesitation, and bewilderment, Togo trotted out.

"Well, Nancy, what do you think?" inquired Mayne at last.

"I'll do anything father wishes—anything to make him at ease. They say," and she choked, then continued in a hard, metallic voice, "he has only two days to live."

"I wish to God it had been me instead," burst out Mayne.

"So do I," agreed Nancy, with pitiless fervour, and something wild, and hostile, looked out of her eyes as she added, "and only for Daddy, it would have been you."

"That is true; he gave his life for mine."

"And," said the girl, rising as she spoke, "I am to give mine to you; well, since he wishes it, you may take it!"

Without another word or glance, she turned her back upon Mayne, and departed to her post in the sick-room.

During all this time, Mrs. Hicks, as her husband had boasted, came well to the fore. Apparently accustomed to sickness, and death, she was surprisingly energetic and practical, altogether a saner, more subdued, and silent, Mrs. Hicks.

The doctor's verdict had now gone forth, and the whole establishment was figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes. Neighbours from far and near crowded the verandah; melancholy and dejected, these awaited bulletins, and in some cases, farewell interview with their dying friend.

Nancy never appeared among the callers,—everything remained in the hands of Dr. and Mrs. Hicks. When a visitor entered the sick-room, she noiselessly slipped away, but at other times, Travers' dog, and Travers' daughter, were his chief companions.

The grim drawing-room had been completely altered to suit its present use. Most of the hateful black furniture was piled up behind the screen! A small camp bed, a long arm-chair, and a round table occupied the middle of the apartment. On the latter, a few books, photographs, and odds and ends—Travers' poor treasures—had been hastily collected.

The sick man was not in bed, but reclined in the long chair wrapped in his dressing-gown,—with death in his face, a stout heart in his breast,—the only cheerful inmate in Fairplains. His left arm and hand were terribly swollen. With his right he had written a few lines to his sister, and to Fletcher.—Short notes enclosed and addressed by Nancy.—Also he had made his will, and given her many directions, and much advice; to all of which the girl had listened with immovable composure—knowing that to break down would be terribly distressing to her father—who, with extraordinary fortitude, now calmly awaited the end.

The following morning Mr. Brownlow arrived, and was hospitably entertained by Mrs. Hicks. To his immense surprise, the wire which summoned him, had invited him not only to visit a sick friend, but to prepare for the solemnization of a marriage, and his amazement was not lessened, when informed that Travers' little Nancy was to be the bride!

A lengthy interview with the dying man was interrupted by Mrs. Hicks, who entered the drawing-room, bearing in either hand a large vase of white lilies—a signal for the wedding ceremony. Presently Mayne appeared in his Sunday suit, prayer-book in hand, followed by Dr. Hicks, Ted Dawson, and, by special desire, Francis, a Catholic. The last to arrive was Nancy wearing a fresh white linen frock. Then the doors were closed, and after a little confidential discussion, and whispering, the ceremony commenced.

The couple about to be married, took their places before Mr. Brownlow,—who used an old prie-dieu as desk.—Nancy stood as close as possible to her father, who, at the question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" in a firm, loud voice, answered, "I do."

Accordingly "Eleanora Nancy" was married (with her mother's wedding-ring) to "Derek Danvers Mayne." The bridegroom appeared grave and anxious, the bride looked like an automaton, going through a mechanical performance, for which she had been carefully wound up.

When the Service was ended, the certificate duly signed, and witnessed, there was a celebration of the Holy Communion, and the little gathering retired.

It was an ominous fact, that as soon as she found herself alone, the first thing that the bride did, was to tear off her wedding-ring, and lock it away. It had been decided by Mayne and Travers, that the marriage was to be kept secret, at least until after the funeral, and everything went on precisely as if it had not taken place.

With regard to the funeral, the presence of Mr. Brownlow awaiting the occasion for his services, seemed to Nancy, Mayne, and others, a most hideous and heartrending necessity: Laurence Travers was still in the land of the living, and here was his friend Brownlow, waiting on at Fairplains,—as all the world was aware,—in order to read the funeral service over his dead body!

Nancy and Mayne encountered one another in the sick-room and at meals,—for Mrs. Hicks was inflexible with regard to food. She scolded vigorously, in a subdued voice, when the girl refused to eat; demanding to know, what was the good of her starving herself, and of being laid up, and no use to anyone?

Nancy rarely opened her lips, the dread of her impending bereavement was beyond words. She had lost much of her deep tan colour, and looked pinched, and haggard; it was a young face, aged and racked with torture, yet so far, she had not shed one single tear. On the contrary, her eyes had a fixed glassy stare, like those of a wax doll.

"Feed her up, and keep her going!" was Dr. Hicks' counsel to the newly-wed bridegroom. "The girl is so unnaturally restrained, that I'm afraid of some sort of a bad collapse."

But whenever Mayne urged Nancy to rest, or to spare herself, he was met with an impatient shrug, or a brusque refusal; and realized the uncomfortable fact, that she rarely spoke to, or looked at him, of her own accord; but naturally every precious moment was devoted to her dying father.

Travers' slight recovery on the day of the wedding was followed that night by a grave relapse, turning to delirium, finally coma; and the following day, he passed away at sunset. The prayers for the dying offered by Mr. Brownlow were almost drowned in the clanging of the coolies' gong. Their task for the day was over—and Travers' life's work ended at the same hour.

That night the bungalow itself was silent as a tomb, but the peaceful repose was broken by the weird death wail in the go-downs and coolies' quarters.

The funeral was immense. People from great distances, hills and plains alike, flocked to pay the last tribute to an old friend.—Laurence Travers had been in Coffee for twenty-five years.

Among the most prominent mourners were Mr. and Mrs. Ffinch; she had only returned home that morning, and was shocked by the news which assailed her, almost before she had set foot in her house. Having been beyond the reach of letters, this was the first that she had heard, even of Travers' illness: and the sudden announcement of his death, was a stunning blow. Although tired, and inclined to be hysterical, she pulled herself together with a great effort in order to accompany her husband to Fairplains.

During the Burial Service many of the women wept. Nancy never shed a tear, but stood by the grave-side like a graven image in white stone. Afterwards, she fled away to her room, where she locked herself in; refusing admittance to all,—even deaf to the beseeching of her own dearest, and broken-hearted, "Finchie."

Truly these were really miserable days for Derek Mayne! who weighed down by the loss of a good friend, and his own share in the tragedy, had now added to his trouble, a wife who undoubtedly hated him! He read this fact in her dull, but still expressive eyes. She avoided him pointedly; even at the funeral, she had moved from his side in order to stand by Mrs. Ffinch; and once, when he had made an attempt to offer consolation and a caress, she had looked at him so fiercely; almost as if she could have struck him! Of course the miserable child was nearly off her head—and no wonder; but this was not an encouraging beginning for a life-long partnership!

His leave would be up in three days, and what then? The estate must be taken in hand at once: Ted and Nicky were working it at present, like the good fellows that they were, but a capable manager who could live on the spot, was in this, the busiest season, absolutely essential.

In the East, events march with amazing speed; as one man falls, another fills his place—and so the world rolls on. Almost everything at Fairplains, except such matters as books, guns, a few pieces of old china and silver, belonged, as Travers had once expressed it, "lock, stock and barrel" to Tom Fletcher; so the personal estate was easily wound up. The assets were small; but on the other hand—there were no debts.

Dr. Hicks had taken his departure, but his good, capable wife still remained in charge of Nancy, and the household. Mayne and she dined tête-à-tête; and somehow in her brusque matter-of-fact way, she cheered him: she talked of Nancy as "a darling; a girl with a heart of gold, who, when she had found her breath again, after such a terrible experience, would make him the best of wives, and was fit for any society."

"You only saw the jungle side," she explained, "but I can tell you, that Miss Nancy is accomplished; she can play the piano, and sing and dance as well as the best of your tip-toppers; she didn't waste her time at school, you bet! She cost Laurence Travers about two hundred a year, he never spared any expense upon his girl—we all know that."

When Mrs. Hicks had withdrawn—she was an early to bed lady—Mayne wandered about alone in the bright moonlight, thinking sorrowfully of the dead man.

Was it but a week ago, when they two, discussing a question of European politics, had paced this very path, and since then, his companion had set out for the undiscovered country? It seemed incredible.

By and by he went and stood by the newly made grave; something was lying across it, crushing all the beautiful wreaths and flowers. What was it? On nearer inspection it proved to be Togo; who recognized his disturber with a threatening growl.

From the grave Mayne returned to the bungalow, and sat for a long time alone in the empty verandah—what a change was here! The merry voices, and the laughing that filled it a week ago, already belonged to the past; every door stood wide, and a chill death-like stillness pervaded the premises. Even in the servants' quarters—what a singular absence of sound!

All at once a wholly inexplicable impulse impelled Mayne to enter the room where Travers had breathed his last; the corners looked mysteriously, and forbiddingly dark; but in the centre, where the moonlight streamed,—it was as light as day. The little iron cot had been neatly made up, in the long chair—Mayne started, the moon discovered a prone figure—Nancy! with her head buried among the cushions; and something in the absolute abandonment of her limp and lifeless attitude, brought to his mind the picture of a dead white bird.

He stole away, noiseless as a shadow, with these two scenes indelibly fixed upon his memory; Togo, keeping watch and ward over the grave, Nancy prostrate in the death chamber. Surely few men had ever awakened such profound grief, as Laurence Travers.

CHAPTER XI

MRS. FFINCH INTERVENES

The Honourable Mrs. Ffinch was not merely the happy possessor of an energetic mind, but of an elastic physique. As soon as she had recovered from the shock of Travers' death, heart and soul she set about arranging his affairs—naturally beginning with his orphan daughter!

Accordingly the afternoon after the funeral, the Clouds Rest car once more glided up to Fairplains. On this occasion the visitor was immediately admitted to see Nancy; who thanks to Mrs. Hicks' almost violent insistence, had rested and eaten a mid-day meal. The white and tearless girl submitted very patiently to her friend's caresses and condolence. At last Mrs. Ffinch released her, and sat down,—still holding her hand, as if she feared her escape,—began to talk to her most seriously.

"Well, my dear child, I've settled everything! your room at Clouds Rest is ready, the Dirzee is waiting to fit your mourning, and I have come to fetch you away,—for I don't intend to leave you another day with Mrs. Hicks."

"She has been so very, very kind," murmured Nancy, "I don't know what I should have done without her."

The visitor dismissed this statement, with an impatient gesture, as she resumed:

"And there's Captain Mayne! What is he waiting for?"

"I suppose he is waiting for me," was the unexpected reply.

Mrs. Ffinch's large thin-lipped mouth opened, but no words came forth, she merely gaped upon her young friend.

"We were married on Friday," calmly announced the bride.

"You were—what?" cried Mrs. Ffinch, hastily rising and towering over the speaker.

"Married—married in the drawing-room here. Father wished it."

"And you?" demanded her breathless inquisitor.

"Oh no."

Here, within a few hours, was the second shock which Mrs. Ffinch had sustained. To return to a hum-drum neighbourhood, after merely a week's absence, and to find awaiting her, not only a sudden death, but a sudden, amazing, and crazy marriage! Her head felt swimming; yet such was the lady's ruling passion and ardour for managing, that even this unparalleled situation, presented its compensations! With admirable persistence and patience, she succeeded in dragging some facts from her half-stunned and apathetic companion; and when all was made clear, she said:

"Fancy! of all people in the world—you and Derek Mayne! Such a hopelessly unsuitable couple to be chained together for life! What have you in common?"

Nancy shook her head. She was not in a frame of mind to furnish either reasons, or arguments.

"Nothing whatever," resumed Mrs. Ffinch, answering her own question. "Certainly not sport—you merely went shooting, so as to be with your Daddy: you know you hate killing things; you and Mayne agreed to sacrifice yourselves, just to give that poor fellow an easy mind. My dear, have you thought of the future?"

Nancy made no reply, her eyes were fastened on the corner of the room. Undoubtedly her thoughts were miles away from her companion.

"Has Captain Mayne any plans? Come, come, Nancy, don't look so dull, and dazed."

"I don't know."

"Don't know," repeated her friend, in a tone of exasperation. "My dear good child, do try and rouse yourself, and think."

"I think," said the girl, speaking very deliberately and as if talking was an immense effort, "that he is going away the day after to-morrow."

"And you too?"

"I suppose so," assented the bride, in a tone of stolid indifference.

"Good heavens—you 'suppose,' and you 'don't know.' Have you talked it over together?"

"No," was the whispered reply.

Mrs. Ffinch threw up her shapely hands with a gesture of despair.

"This private marriage has taken place simply because your father saved your husband's life."

"Don't call him my husband!" burst out Nancy, with a lightning flash of her former self.

"Well, dear, I won't, if you don't like it. Your poor Daddy has left you alone—and from what I hear—almost penniless."

These were hard words, and facts; but the Honourable Julia Ffinch never flinched from the plainest of plain-speaking.

"And Mayne naturally feels bound in honour to provide for you."

An expressive silence followed this bald statement.

"Dear me, how you do stare, child! You know, I'm fond of you, Nancy, darling, and I'm most frightfully upset about all this terrible trouble; but just at the moment, I want to put my own feelings entirely aside, and try and act for your benefit. I had no idea, that we were in the least likely to lose you, or that you were on the brink of such an awful leap in the dark. There's no time to be lost; now is the moment for action. I shall go and have a good square talk with Captain Mayne. I see him wandering about outside, looking for all the world as if he were a lost dog."

As Mrs. Ffinch stepped down from the verandah to accost him, her first words were:

"So you and Nancy are married!"

"Yes," he replied. "Don't you approve?"

"I am simply horrified," she answered, with deliberate emphasis. "Yes, I am."

"But why?" he asked. "It was quite a sound thing to do."

"Only for the circumstances of the case, neither of you would ever have dreamt of such a mad proceeding. Come, would you—honour bright?"

"Well, I don't suppose we should," he admitted reluctantly.

"Now look here, Captain Mayne," turning to pace beside him. "I must speak my mind. You don't care a pin for one another. Nancy is a mere child of freedom, a child still in many ways, and totally inexperienced; you spend your life in military harness. What will become of her as a regimental lady?"

Mayne coloured, and gave a short uneasy laugh.

"Oh, she'll be all right, I daresay."

"Why, only the other day you solemnly assured me, that you wouldn't marry for years—if ever. I remember you quoted Kipling, 'He travels fastest, who travels alone.'"

"That's true," he admitted, "but unexpected things happen. One never can tell. I daresay Nancy and I will worry along as well as other people."

"What a nice, cheerful way of looking at it," exclaimed Mrs. Ffinch.

"Well, of course we have made an awkward sort of start; and at present Nancy, who used to be my best friend, cannot endure me in her sight. I shall let her have everything her own way—anyhow for a time—for I can thoroughly understand her feelings. Only for me, her father might be here talking to you at this moment. However, I intend to do my big best. Perhaps once Nancy has left these surroundings, she may not take things so desperately hard. Our Colonel's wife is a rare good sort, and will mother her; and I'll bring along the old ayah, the pony, and the dog, so that she won't feel altogether too strange. I must go down the day after to-morrow; and there are lots of things to settle up before that."

"You will come over, and say good-bye to us, won't you? Hector would like to see you, to talk business. He is arranging for a temporary manager until he hears from Mr. Fletcher. He sent him a cable yesterday."

After a little conversation respecting the new manager, and the winding-up of the household, Mrs. Ffinch returned to Nancy, whom she found precisely as she had left her, sitting with clasped hands, and downcast eyes, staring hard at the floor.

"Come, come, my dear!" she protested briskly, "try and put away your grief for a few minutes, and listen to me,—for I'm going to talk to you, for your life-long good."

Nancy raised herself with an effort, and gazed at her adviser with a pair of large, lack-lustre, eyes.

"Nancy, I have come to the conclusion, that you and Captain Mayne can never be happy together. He is not one bit in love—I suppose you realize that. He married you simply to fulfil what he considered a duty,—the payment of an enormous debt! He belongs to a totally different class—County people. I know his uncle—and I know his mother—an odious, overbearing, cat! A super cat! I daresay you are just as well born, but you will find that between you, and his people, a great gulf is fixed. They will forget the true reason for the match, and declare that he has been 'run in.' He has assured me more than once that he had no intention of marrying; and is excessively anxious to get on in his profession. I remember him saying that his sword was is helpmate, and I know from my own experience, that an officer hampered by a wife with no fortune, no helpful connections, is too heavily weighted."

"Then what do you advise me to do?" murmured Nancy, almost inaudibly.

"Remain with me at Clouds Rest, and let him return to Cananore alone. Leave details to me; I can arrange everything,—I shall love doing it! Scarcely a soul knows of the ceremony, and we shall keep it dark. When once you are comfortably established with us, you shall write to Captain Mayne, and tell him that he is absolutely released."

"But will it not be breaking a promise to father?" and Nancy rose out of her chair, and stood before her adviser, a limp, and dejected figure—an almost unrecognizable Nancy!

"No, my dearest child; you know, as well as I do, that your Daddy's sole idea was for your happiness. This scrambled up 'shilling shocker' affair would be for your misery."

Mrs. Ffinch waxed eloquent. She warmed with her subject; excitement, and enthusiasm carried to her feet, and she stalked about the room, declaiming with both hands. On more than one occasion, she had made a marriage; here was a notable opportunity to break one! This idea, to do her justice, was not the sole cause of her energetic intervention. Nancy, more dead than alive, had apparently no interest in her future; and was willing to drift wherever a miserable fate would take her; but Julia Ffinch was not the woman to suffer a favourite puppet to be lost to her in such a fashion! Nancy should have another chance, recover her health, and spirits at Clouds Rest—and let Captain Mayne go his own way.

Mrs. Ffinch had mapped out Nancy's future with a bewildering thoroughness, and continued her exposition, and arguments with unabated zeal. As for Captain Mayne, he would thankfully snatch at such a chance of liberty; for never had she seen a young man so alarmingly altered, and depressed.

"If you and Captain Mayne stick to one another, it will be," she announced, "a deplorable calamity for both,—and his professional ruin. If either of you were in love, of course I would not say a word; but this is really too cold-blooded! Mayne married you to pay the price for his life—you married him—because your father was naturally anxious to see you provided for; there is the whole affair in a nutshell," extending two expressive hands, "and in my opinion, the kernel is rotten!

"If I had been at home, this preposterous ceremony would never have taken place. Thank goodness, it can be hushed up, and smothered here—among the coffee bushes. Should it ever try to come to life, the marriage must be annulled. As far as witnesses are concerned, there will be no difficulty. Doctor and Mrs. Hicks won't talk; and Mr. Brownlow is about to settle in Tasmania. You will come and live with me, and be my daughter," then with a cautious afterthought, "at any rate for the present. As for Captain Mayne, he will rejoin his regiment, and there won't be a whisper! He is coming over to-morrow to Clouds Rest. I'll have a serious interview with him, and tell him that he must really leave you with me. I know he will jump at the offer, and be only too thankful to go off alone. Then as soon as he has cleared out, you and I will put our heads together, and write him such a clear, decisive letter, and put the matter so effectively, that he will withdraw all claim."

Here Mrs. Ffinch paused, a little out of breath from this long oration, and surveyed her companion judicially.

"Now what do you say, Nancy? Take your choice? Will you come to me?—or go to him?"

"I hate him!" was the startling rejoinder.

"Ah, so I see you've made up your mind! Then the day after to-morrow, I'll fetch you; I shall tell your ayah to put your things together. I've given you the big room—so that you can have all your own particular belongings round you—and I've ordered lots of mourning paper. Well now, good-bye my own darling, don't think too much; don't let Mrs. Hicks worry you, and don't see more of him than you can help," and she nodded her head expressively.

Then Mrs. Ffinch went forth, and was ceremoniously conducted to her car by Captain Mayne, who, as he walked beside her, dropping a casual "yes" or "no," little dreamt of the scheme that was maturing in his companion's ever active brain.

CHAPTER XII

"EXIT NANCY"

It was after sundown, when Nancy's eloquent visitor had taken a prolonged farewell, and a reluctant departure. She was immediately succeeded by Mrs. Hicks, charged with cheerful talk, anxious interrogations and an enticing description of the forthcoming dinner; nevertheless, the girl declared that she felt dead tired, and would rather not appear, but have something sent in to her on a tray.

As soon as the servants' voices, and the clatter of plates, assured her that the meal was in active progress, Nancy slipped out, and stole down to the tennis ground, in order to breathe a little fresh air, and secure an uninterrupted think. The tennis ground was the most secluded resort about the premises,—being sunken in the hillside, and invisible from the bungalow. It was a pregnant coincidence, that the recently married couple had each sought the same sanctuary!

Nancy paced slowly to and fro; the agony of apprehension, and the tension of a desperate hope, had come to an end. She was turning over in her mind the various statements that Mrs. Ffinch had so frankly disclosed. One or two stark-naked facts boldly presented themselves. Fact number one: Captain Mayne had married her for no other reason, than to discharge a debt, and to give her his protection, and a home. This plain and odious truth, was unbearable. Once upon a time—indeed only a week ago—she had liked Captain Mayne so much; but now her feelings had undergone a sharp change, and all she felt for him, was shuddering aversion. Yesterday, when he had put his hand on her shoulder, she had felt inclined to scream! It was undeniable—proclaimed another stout fact—that she had assented to the marriage; but if it was ruinous to Captain Mayne, abhorrent to herself, and unfair to them both,—why hold to it?

Another glaring truth revealed, that she was absolutely homeless—unless she followed her fate to Cananore, or accepted what was neither more nor less than Mrs. Ffinch's charity! Surely there must be a third alternative? For the last eighteen months, she had held the purse-strings, and saved her Daddy many rupees, and after the servants' wages and other expenses were settled, there remained sufficient money to pay her passage home, and leave a margin of about twenty pounds.

She would go straight to her old school at Eastbourne: Mrs. Beccles—who had always been her friend—would no doubt allow her to remain there for a week or two, and assist her to find a situation as companion, or governess. She was determined not to be carried off to Clouds Rest; there, to become a pensioner, and non-paying guest. She was really fond of Finchie, who was immensely kind, and generous; but Finchie had more than once openly lamented, that "she so soon got tired of people!" What if she grew tired of her? As Nancy cast her thoughts back, she recalled the reigns of Blanche Meach; of Nicky Byng; of Jessie; and there was no denying the fact that at the moment, she herself was the official favourite. Even if she went to Clouds Rest for a few weeks,—it would be only to prolong the present agony, and defer a crisis.

To remain in the neighbourhood of Fairplains, where she and her father had been so supremely happy; with strangers occupying their rooms, riding their ponies, playing on this very tennis ground,—no, never! And then all the talk and commiseration, although so kindly meant, would drive her crazy! There was a loop-hole of escape overlooked by Mrs. Ffinch. She would go down to her old nurse, Jane Simpson, at Coimbatore, and start to-morrow night, leaving two letters, one for Captain Mayne, and one for Finchie. Finchie would be furious; she could almost see her face, after she had read and digested her leave-taking epistle! But, after all, she must live her own life, such as it was; and go her own way. What she did, or where she went, was of little matter to anyone. Nurse Jane would not worry her with plans, and questions—she understood; she always did; and later on, when she felt stronger, not so queer, and dazed, and the monsoon was over, she would go home—that is to say, to England.

As Nancy made up her mind to this plan, she beheld Togo coming slowly down the steps, and looking about cautiously. Catching sight of the object of his quest, he flew to her side.

"So you were afraid we were all gone, dear, were you?" and she lifted him,—a heavy armful,—sat down, and placed him on the bench beside her. Togo endeavoured to make frantic demonstrations of affection,—but was firmly restrained. His mistress held him fast with her arm round his neck, and there the two sat, and gazed on the moon-flooded plains,—an exquisite scene in silver. It all looked so still, so calm, and in a word, so heavenly. "Oh, Togo," she murmured. "The world is the same, but everything in it, is changed for you—and me."

Suddenly something in Nancy's throat seemed to give way, and she buried her face in Togo's woolly neck; the ice had melted, and for the first time, she wept,—but not for long. In a surprisingly short time, she choked back her sobs—and with a supreme effort recovered her composure, restrained her streaming tears, as she had done Togo's caresses,—and administering a kiss in the middle of his forehead, rose and returned to the bungalow,—stealing into her own quarters almost like a thief.

Manœuvring among the shadows, she had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hicks and Captain Mayne smoking together on the verandah. What good friends they seemed to be! In her room she found awaiting her, a dainty little meal (now cold), and offered it to Togo. As a rule the dog had a healthy and unfastidious appetite, but to-night, he merely sniffed at the plate, and turned sorrowfully away. To avoid a scene of recrimination, and remonstrance, Nancy gulped down some cold soup, and ordered the ayah to remove the tray, "quick, quick, quick," and when Mrs. Hicks had gone to bed, to send Francis to speak to her.

Sounds in the still hill regions carry far, and the Clouds Rest "gurra" would be heard striking ten faint strokes, when Francis appeared in the doorway. Salaaming with grave dignity, he awaited Nancy's commands.

"Francis," she said, "you have known me as a baba, and have always been good to me."

"No, no," he protested, "Missy good to me."

"Yes, you have," she contradicted flatly, "and you know it, Francis—and I want you to help me now."

"Whatever the Missy says, that I do," and once more he salaamed with both hands.

"Well, I want you to do a good deal! You know that I was married by the Padre Sahib, because my father wished it, and I was thankful to please him, but it is not a good marriage; and I do not intend to leave here with the Captain Sahib on Wednesday, but will go down to Nurse Jane at Coimbatore instead—and you must manage it."

"Nurse Jane, Missy," he repeated, "but for why? That very, awfully foolish business. The Captain Sahib very nice gentleman. Master like him,—everyone too much like him."

"And I," pointing to herself, "do not like him! Francis, can you understand?" and she gazed at him steadily.

Francis made no answer, but looked down, and gravely contemplated his flexible brown toes.

"Listen to me," she continued, "to-morrow night, I am leaving Fairplains; you will get a bandy, and coolies, for the luggage, and the ayah; also I am taking Togo. If I return to England, he shall be in your keeping. At present, he and I, comfort one another. I will ride the grey pony down the ghât, and Tumbie syce can attend, and bring him back. Later, all my belongings are to be sent to Coimbatore. Do you bring them yourself. I shall have much to say to you—to-night it hurts me to talk."

"May I speak one word, Missy? Now you are married to this gentleman Captain,—suppose you run away, he making plenty bobbery; he not swearing or calling names, that gentleman I know. All the same, I think he is strong,—and there will be much trouble."

"It will be all right, Francis; you need not be afraid. I shall give you a letter for him, and he will be glad to let me go,—and never see me again."

Francis made a noise like "tch, tch, tch." "Oh, Missy, already have we got too much sorrow—will you thrust more upon us—and yourself——?"

"More—sorrow—we could not have," declared his reckless young mistress. "Now for my plans," she continued.

"I want you to send a coolie with a telegram to prepare Nurse Jane. I shall remain in this room to-morrow; sick—and I am sick—and I wish I was dead! At night, when all is still, I intend to ride away down to the railway station. Francis, it is for you to make all the bandobast. I know you will help me. Good-night," and he was dismissed.

By the first streak of dawn, the next morning, Nancy crept out to visit, for the last time, the newest grave. She was so early that no one beheld her, but the birds, and Togo.

During the long hours when Mrs. Hicks was busily engaged in counting glass, china, and cooking pots (for the inventory), or reposing on her beloved bed, Nancy and her ayah were occupied in making final, but secret arrangements. When these were completed, Nancy sat down and wrote two letters. The first was to Mrs. Ffinch,—and began:

Dear kind Finchie,

This is to say, that I am going my own way. Please do not be vexed. You will hear of me at my nurse's in Coimbatore. I feel somehow that I want her, as when I was a small kid, and had had a bad fall; later, I hope to go to England; for much as I adore the hills, I cannot endure them just now. Give my love to all my friends, and please do understand, that I am most grateful to you for your kind offer, to have me with you at Clouds Rest,—and forgive,

Your loving,
Nancy.

Having completed and addressed this, she sat for a long time with a sheet of note-paper before her, resting her head upon her hand, nibbling the penholder, and making up her mind how to frame a letter to Captain Mayne. At last she began, and wrote—rapidly, almost without a pause:

Dear Captain Mayne,

Before you read this, I shall have left Fairplains. I have been thinking hard the last two days, and am quite sure, that it is best for us to part now,—and never to meet again. Let us forget the dreadful ceremony of last Friday. You know, that we agreed to it, only to satisfy my dear father,—at least that was my intention,—so that he might be at ease in his mind, before he left me. On this point, our aim was accomplished; and there let the matter end. I feel certain, that you have no true wish, that I should live with you—'until death us do part.' Far from it. I am just a little hill girl, and not the least one of your sort. For my own part, the mere sight of you brings before me that horrible struggle with the panther, when Daddy interposed, and saved you. I know you are honourable, and a man of your word, and wish to give me—as payment—a home and your name; but I cannot accept one or other, for—to be honest—I shall never like you again, and if I were forced to live with you, I should loathe you.

It seems dreadful to write this down in black and white, but it is the truth; and surely the truth is best? I am so absolutely miserable that I wish I was dead: I could easily kill myself with an overdose of chlorodyne—we keep a large store on account of the coolies—and I would be buried in the garden beside them, and be no further trouble to anyone; but Daddy always said, 'Suicide was a coward's act,' and I shall struggle on somehow. Mrs. Ffinch, who, as you know, is immensely clever, had a long talk with me yesterday. She pointed out that you and I were entirely unsuited; that apart from the circumstances, we would have been almost the last people in the world to think of marrying one another; that you had told her the idea of marriage had never entered your mind, and it would be the ruin of your career. This can easily be prevented. No one, except the Hicks and Teddy Dawson, knows of the ceremony. The parson is about to settle in Tasmania;—they will all be dumb. Here in India, people so frequently separate, scatter, and forget that they had ever met. I shall do my utmost to forget you, and I hope you will let me drop out of your thoughts as completely as if you had never seen me; and should we meet—which I trust is unlikely—let it be as strangers. Do not be at all concerned about my future. I have sufficient money to pay for my passage, I have friends at home, and if the worst come to the worst, I can be a lady's help, or governess. At any rate, I shall be independent. I hope you will not think, that in taking this step, I am also breaking my promise to father. You know, that his one idea, as he lay dying, was for my happiness; and I shall be far happier—if I ever can be happy again—to feel, that I am free—also that you are free. I believe, that if I had followed my first intention of keeping to the letter of our contract, and accompanied you down to Cananore, we should have been the two most miserable people in the whole world.

Believe me,
Yours faithfully,
Nancy Travers.

This was a much longer and fuller epistle than Nancy had intended to send; but she was determined to make everything absolutely plain. Possibly it was a stupid letter, and no doubt she had repeated herself several times; also it was brusque, and rude. It might make Captain Mayne dislike her extremely. In that case; so much the better! If Mrs. Ffinch had written such a letter, how well it would have been expressed; how beautifully she would have taken off the raw edges, and made it almost a pleasure to read! Well, there it was; she would not look at it again, in case she might alter something, so she thrust it into an envelope, sealed it, and laid it beside her other despatch.

Mrs. Hicks was only too sympathetic with Nancy's severe headache. She paid several visits, imparting remedies, and outside intelligence. Captain Mayne had not yet returned from his round of farewell calls, but all his baggage had been packed by his "boy," everything was ready for a start the next afternoon, and he had ordered up a pair-horse tonga, for the use of the ayah, and herself.

"I shall remain here to see you off, Nancy, my dear," she announced, "and I've got hold of an old shoe that I intend to throw after you!"

"Dear Mrs. Hicks, you are always so kind," said the girl, "and I'll never forget what you have been to me, during this last awful week."

Afterwards Mrs. Hicks remembered, that in Nancy's kiss there was something soft and lingering—something in the nature of a farewell.

Nancy, having taken an emotional leave of Francis, handed him two letters to be immediately delivered, and prepared to depart at twelve o'clock that night. Under the auspices of a high full moon, she rode away from Fairplains, accompanied by Togo, and followed by her syce. The domestic servants were aware of her impending departure,—for is not everything known in the cookhouse, and go-down? When she came up the drive, they were all, so to speak, paraded—standing in one long line, to see the last of their little Missy. As she passed, she nodded to each individually, and when she had reached the corner, where the private track joined the great cart road, turned in her saddle, to look back on her home, and to wave a valediction to the crowd.

CHAPTER XIII

IN BLACK AND WHITE

Mayne, an early riser, was generally the first to appear at chotah hazri; and when, with an impressive gesture, Francis laid Nancy's letter on the table beside him, he instantly recognized the writing, and felt a premonition that there was something in the wind! With admirably concealed impatience, he waited until the servant had retired, to open this, the first communication from his wife. He read it standing; then he sat down with a sudden plunge, and went slowly over it again, whilst a curious, rather grim expression stole across his face. Nancy's strange attitude was here most fully, and frankly explained. Her look of cold dislike, her frigid silence, and pointed avoidance, were amply accounted for, by the fact that she hated the man, whom in her heart she accused of being the cause of her father's death. Her love for him, was so absolute and overwhelming, that it had changed her kindly liking for Mayne, into horror, and detestation, and she spurned what she termed his "payment." The information was before his eyes in clear black and white—the girl wrote a good, legible hand—she had shot her bolt and fled. So after all his anxious heart-searchings, stifled reluctance, and sincere good-will, Nancy had deserted him, and gone her own way, to live her own life!

His feelings were an extraordinary mixture; various and unusual sensations, in turn swept over him; anger, humiliation, astonishment—then finally, relief. It was a relief, to be free from the desperate embarrassment of being married to a girl, a mere playfellow, with whom he had never exchanged a word of love, nor for whom he had ever felt the smallest touch of passion; yet on the other hand, Nancy was his legal wife, and—in spite of her ignorant confidence, and offer of release—to the best of his belief, it was impossible to sever the bond between them. Also, he was in the position of being sole executor of her father's will, and scanty personal estate.

The actual fact of the marriage was known to few. He could now rejoin his regiment as a bachelor; and the distasteful vision, of presenting himself at Cananore, in company with a stony-faced, abjectly miserable bride, faded away into the background. He would still continue to live at the Mess, and if later, there were any awkward developments—"sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof!"

Mayne paused in his tramp to and fro, and was about to pour himself out a cup of tea, when he beheld the shiny, copper-coloured face of Teddy Dawson, appearing above the steps.

"So I hear you are off this afternoon," he began, "and I have just looked in to know if I can do anything to help? I was the first to welcome you, and I should like to be the last to speed you, from this part of the world."

"You have come at an opportune moment," said Mayne, holding out his hand; "the very fellow I particularly want to see. But first let me get you a cup of tea."

"All right, I don't mind," said Ted, tossing down his battered topee, and taking a seat at the table. "How is Nancy?"

"Nancy has gone."

"Gone! What the Dickens do you mean?—Nancy gone! Gone where?"

"As you were at the marriage, and are altogether behind the scenes, also my first friend here,—I think I may show you her letter," said Mayne, and he handed it across to his gaping vis-à-vis.

Dawson read it with irritating deliberation; going back over sentences, and frowning heavily as he did so. When he came to the end, he looked up and said:

"Nancy was always a queer child, and you will have to let her alone. You couldn't well follow her, and drag her back—could you?"

"I shall not move a finger," said Mayne, with deliberate emphasis.

"It's just like one of her tempers; she'll cool down all right."

"And where do I come in?" inquired Mayne. "She has made a pretty good fool of me!"

"Oh, you'll forgive her some day, for you're a real white man! I'm awfully fond of Nan; she is clean, through and through—couldn't lie if she tried; knows nothing whatever of love; or what's called 'sex,' and that sort of thing. Her heart and soul were given to her Daddy; and now that he is gone, the poor child feels that her life is smashed to bits."

"That's true," assented Mayne, "and I can understand her grief. I have made every allowance, and never intruded on her for a moment. I have not laid eyes on Nancy since the funeral; she has remained shut up in her own room. This," holding up the note, "is the first sign that she has recognized my existence, and it gives me my dismissal, or 'jawaub.'"

"Well, well," resumed Dawson, after an expressive pause (during which he disposed of a large cup of tea), "it's rather a facer, I'll allow. I believe I can trace the delicate hand of Mrs. Ffinch in it—she always has a finger in every one's pie—and hitherto she has looked upon Nancy as her own particular property. By the way, have you made any fresh plans?"

"Yes. I leave early this afternoon. Nancy's baggage will, of course, remain, and as not a word of this business is known to anyone, bar the Hicks, Mrs. Ffinch, and yourself, I shall rejoin my regiment, as if nothing had happened."

"And keep up the delusion?" said Ted, opening his large blue eyes; "that won't be easy."

"Why not? I don't intend to follow, or to trace Nancy: she can go her own way. Money affairs, I'll arrange with you. I shall make her an allowance, paid half-yearly to your bankers. Who are they?"

"Grindlay and Co., but you may spare yourself the trouble, for Nancy won't accept a penny—if I know her."

"I shall lodge it all the same," said Mayne, looking obstinate. "Two hundred and fifty pounds a year. I won't have her governessing, or any of that nonsense. The inventory here has been seen to by Mrs. Hicks, and the station-writer; I have wound up a few business matters, paid off the servants, and, excepting a couple of yearly cheques, I shall have no more to say to—Mrs. Mayne!"

"Is that so?"

"Certainly; it is Nancy who has left me,—and, as the natives say, 'one hand cannot clap.'"

"I must confess, I don't wonder you feel a bit hurt."

"Hurt!" repeated Mayne, with an angry laugh.

"I've a good idea where Nancy is. She has gone down to her old nurse in Coimbatore; an excellent woman, who married a chap in the Telegraphs. Nance could not be better fixed up, for the present; the girl feels like a mortally wounded animal, that wants to hide from its own sort. It would have been a terrible ordeal for a child like Nancy, with her hurt, so to speak, raw, to find herself launched amongst complete strangers, with no one to hold on to, but a fellow she had known for a few weeks. One of my coolies told me, that last night he had seen the ghost of a woman on a white horse riding down the ghât road. Of course, that was Nancy, making for the railway station."

"I'm fairly broad-minded," said Mayne, "and I can see the matter from your point of view; naturally, you hold a brief for Nancy. I remember the first time we met, you told me she was the apple of your eye!"

"Aye. And what queer things have happened, since we overtook you that day on your way here. Now I wonder, if I had turned you back, would it have made any difference?"

"No—I believe it was 'Kismet.' I wish to goodness, Kismet had left me alone. However, I shall give the girl a wide berth,—and her freedom."

"Oh, will you?" Dawson's tone implied doubt.

"Yes, I shall hold my tongue; none of my brother officers would dream of my having got married up on a coffee estate. Later, it may be a bit awkward. You see I am my uncle's heir." He paused for a moment, and fumbled with his tobacco pouch,—which, all unconscious, he was holding upside down. "However, I'll manage somehow—even if there are complications."

"And how about Nancy? When she has recovered from this blow, has gone to England and grown up, how will it be, if she comes across a fellow she takes to? If ever she falls in love, it will be the devil of a business. A case of all—or nothing. What will happen then, eh?"

"There's no good in looking so far ahead," declared Mayne, preparing to light his pipe. "Why meet trouble half way—one of us may die——"

"Who is talking of dying?" inquired Mrs. Hicks, suddenly launching herself into the verandah. "Boys, I've overslept myself most disgracefully! and I'm shockingly late; but I always was a lazybones,—and fond of my little bed. I've not even been in to see Nancy yet."

When it had been carefully explained to her, that there was no Nancy to see, her fat, florid face was a study.

"Well, this is a nice how-do-you-do!" she exclaimed. "If I hadn't been an old silly, I might have had my suspicions, from her being so quiet. Well, well, well! Fancy her running away! I didn't think she 'ad it in her."

"Oh, there's a lot in Nancy," declared her champion.

"She kissed me something extra last night," resumed Mrs. Hicks, "and I suppose it was for good-bye. Lors! what will people say!"

"Nothing," replied Mayne emphatically. "They don't know anything about me, and they will think it only natural that she should—as Dawson suspects—have gone to her old nurse."

"And so it's—you know what I mean—to be a dead letter, and hushed up?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Hicks gave a shrill, unladylike whistle.

"Well, I declare! All the servants are 'in the know,'—but that doesn't count; folks don't ever believe 'bazaar' talk, and of course Hicks and I will 'old our tongues—you bet."

"That will be very kind of you, Mrs. Hicks—but——"

"But," nodding her head expressively, "if either of you go and marry other people, it will be bigamy, eh?"

"I suppose so," replied Mayne. "There is one thing positively certain."

"What's that?"

"That I have been married for the first, and last, time."

"Well, there's no saying; queer things 'appen. I'm sure this day week, you never dreamt you'd be a married man to-day; and you and Nancy are married, just as tight as 'Icks and me. You've got the certificate?"

"I have, and I do not intend to shirk all my responsibilities. I shall make Nancy an allowance; but I'll never see her again."

"Many's the woman that will be thankful to be married on those terms," chuckled Mrs. Hicks, now lighting up.

The good lady was enjoying a thorough holiday, and being as free and easy, and talkative as she pleased; far removed from the irritating criticisms of her daughters. She and her would-be son-in-law were pals! It was Jessie, influenced by Mrs. Ffinch—and Dr. Hicks—ambitious for his daughter—who were the real obstacles to the alliance.

"I'll run down to Coimbatore," she announced, "and see the child. Hicks doesn't like the look of her, and I'll just tell her what I think of her, for giving me the slip, the sly little toad! I suppose you don't send her no message?" suddenly turning to Mayne.

"Well, yes, perhaps I'd better. I'll go and write a line now, no time like the present," and he rose and went towards the den.

Mrs. Hicks' eyes followed him steadily. Then she burst out:

"Nancy has been a fool!—fine, upstanding young fellows like him aren't to be found on every coffee-bush, that I can tell you."

"Maybe it'll come all right yet," said Dawson soothingly.

"Maybe not. She has given him a nasty whack, and I think myself he has a pride. My old boy will fetch me to-day, and everything here is now settled, and cleared up, and the Travers' belongings are packed and ready for the road. I believe the new acting-manager comes to-morrow. My, what a change!" she added gloomily; "and all in one little week."

"Yes, and somehow I can't realize it," said Dawson. "As I sit here, I half expect to see Travers riding up from the Factory on his brown pony, and Nancy flying along this verandah, like a gale of wind."

"Aye, that's true," assented Mrs. Hicks, and she heaved a great sigh; "we have all had good times here, and the Travers' can never be replaced," and again she sighed heavily.

Meanwhile Mayne was writing rapidly on the estate note-paper:

Dear Nancy,

I have received your letter, and accept the situation, all shall be as you wish. I am sorry to find that you dislike me so inveterately, and decline what you describe as 'Payment'—but it cannot be helped. Let me assure you, that I have no intention of coming into your life, and the marriage, as far as I am concerned, shall be as though it had never taken place. I have arranged to make you a yearly allowance (£250) which will be paid to our mutual friend, Ted Dawson. The estate and personal affairs have been satisfactorily settled.

Yours faithfully,
Derek Danvers Mayne.

When he handed this note to Mrs. Hicks, she turned it over, looked at the superscription, and remarked:

"I see you've addressed it to 'Miss Travers.'"

"Well, why not?" he protested; "I feel sure Nancy would not have opened it, had it been addressed to 'Mrs. Mayne.'"

Early that same afternoon Mayne rode down the ghât,—in what a different frame of mind, to the blithe expectations with which he had gaily ascended the same road! Near the foot of the hills he encountered a syce, who salaamed to him profoundly! Could there be anything ironical in that salute? The man was leading a remarkably hot grey pony; the pony was carrying a side-saddle.—An episode was closed.

CHAPTER XIV

"NANCY SITS WITH SORROW"

Nancy, the ayah, Togo and the luggage, arrived at Coimbatore station without any incident, much less a half-expected "hue and cry." Here Mrs. Simpson awaited them with her roomy bullock cart, drawn by a pair of huge Nellore bullocks, and carried the little party to her large and comfortable bungalow on the outskirts of the town. She was delighted to welcome her nursling,—to whom she had always been devoted.—She made her eat, and insisted upon putting her to bed, and treating her precisely as if she were still a small child!

When Nancy was at rest, in her spacious white cot, Jane Simpson sat by her side, and listened with tearful sympathy to details of the illness and death of her former master; for all this, she had been prepared, but the unexpected news of Nancy's marriage, reduced her to a condition of stunned, and horrified silence.

Jane Simpson was by nature excessively prim, a little narrow-minded, strictly conventional, but a most worthy person. Her house, her person, and especially her hands, were beautifully kept. When she had deposited Nancy at school in Eastbourne, she subsequently turned her attention to professional nursing, and after several years' experience, had attracted the attention of one of her patients, married him, and returned to India,—a country she abused for its slack unpractical ways, but nevertheless liked it all the same. Bob Simpson's pay was liberal, and although they had no family, Jane was a very busy and contented woman.

From her point of view, everything should be foreseen, cut and dried, punctual to a second, and absolutely proper and correct. This sudden marriage of her little girl to an acquaintance no better than a stranger, figuratively swept her off her feet! However, like a prudent woman, she said little. Nancy was looking desperately ill, a different creature from the buoyant Nancy of Fairplains: so silent, haggard, and lifeless. What further information Mrs. Simpson required was eagerly supplied by the ayah, who though not actually present, had witnessed the marriage ceremony in the drawing-room,—through an obliging crack in the door.

"Mayne Sahib and the Missy, standing before the Padre, both looking too sorry. Mayne, he very nice gentleman. His butler telling, a good sahib, and no evil liver,—everyone liking. He money got, too. Yesterday giving me twenty rupees," and the ayah's black eyes glistened greedily.

"Do you think he will come down here after Miss Nancy?" anxiously inquired Mrs. Simpson.

"How I telling, Memsahib?" throwing up her small brown hands, "but for what good? My Missy plenty sick, soon, soon, very sick—and maybe die.—Ah ye yoh!" and she wrung her hands.

Part of this augury came true. The dreaded reaction set in, Nancy had a bad attack of fever, and was seriously ill. She was lucky to find herself in Jane Simpson's care, and with the help of a good doctor, and the best of nursing, at the end of three weeks, she had recovered; but rose from her bed a shattered wreck, wasted to a shadow, with a small wan white face, from which all trace of sunburn and tan had now completely disappeared.

During the fever, Mrs. Simpson kept all visitors steadily at bay. Training as a professional nurse, had invested her with an inflexible attitude, and even Mrs. Ffinch, who had motored down on two occasions, could not succeed in interviewing the invalid; but when Nancy was convalescent, the position was stormed.

Mrs. Ffinch brought her neighbour, Mrs. Hicks, with her in the car, and during most of the journey, the two ladies wrangled, for they held diametrically opposite views with respect to the protégée they were about to visit. Mrs. Hicks declared "that it would be a great pity there should be a complete breach between Nancy and Captain Mayne." She was sentimental, and soft-hearted in her way,—fond of the girl, and well disposed towards the man.

"By and by, if they're let alone, believe you me, they'll make friends! After all, Mayne is a fairly good match. I am told he has five hundred a year, and expectations from an uncle."

"Yes," broke in Mrs. Ffinch, who was not soft-hearted, and whose own love affair had been strangled. "You can imagine the uncle's delight—I know the old man—when he hears that his nephew and heir, has picked up a little nobody off an Indian coffee estate!"

"I don't think that's a very nice, or kind, way to speak of Nancy," gobbled Mrs. Hicks, swelling with indignation.

"My dear, good Mrs. Hicks, don't be angry; it's not my idea, I do assure you; only one that would undoubtedly present itself to this rich old man! I propose to shelter Nancy under my own wing. I shall be going home next spring, and as soon as she has recovered from her grief, I shall take her about, and give her a good time—and——"

"And marry her off," broke in Mrs. Hicks, with challenging insolence. "Match-making with you is just a play; all excitement and amusement. However, you can't marry Nancy, for you know as well as I do, she has a husband already!"

"Nothing of the sort," rejoined the other, "any claim that Captain Mayne would put forward could easily be refuted. He won't do it though, and I suppose if he chose, he could sue Nancy for desertion."

Argument waxed fast and furious, and Mrs. Ffinch had much the best of the conflict. She kept her temper admirably, whilst her opponent was in a red-hot towering rage. On such occasions she completely cast all fear, and awe of the "Dictator," to the winds, and told her various, plain, and unpleasant truths. On the present occasion, she said:

"You know very well, that if you had been here and had a hand in this marriage of Nancy's, you would have made her stick to it through thick and thin—but as it was all got up in a hurry, and, so to speak, behind your back, you'll do all you can to smash it!"

Mrs. Ffinch's reply was an icy and dignified silence. The proper and suitable punishment for her companion would have been to open the door of the car, request her to descend, and allow her to walk the remainder of the distance down to Coimbatore.

For a long time, neither matron spoke; and the motor skimmed rapidly down the winding road, passing many familiar land-marks. The cold fit was now on Mrs. Hicks. She had let herself go, and said too much, and there wasn't the smallest doubt that her companion—from what she knew of her—would hold a truce for the present, but in some way or another "have it in for her" on a future occasion!

As they sped along the flat plains, in the direction of Coimbatore, Mrs. Ffinch broke the silence.

"I propose to take Nancy back with me this evening; her room is ready, and most of her mourning has been finished, so, dear Mrs. Hicks, on our return journey, I'm sure you won't mind sitting in front with the chauffeur, and I will take the poor child in beside me."

In her own opinion she was carrying out the part of a benevolent friend—she was saving Nancy from a loveless union, and the misery of being dragged round the world, by a man who did not want her.

The two well-meaning visitors were greatly shocked when they beheld their young protégée. She looked so dull, and vacant, almost like another creature! Her attitude resembled that of a wounded creature, cowering, and withdrawing, from those who wished to do her good. She resisted all Mrs. Ffinch's importunities and persuasions to accompany her to Clouds Rest. This, was the one subject on which the girl seemed to have a fixed opinion; nothing would induce her to return to the hills. Otherwise, whether she was to remain at Coimbatore, or go to England, to live, or to die,—was apparently a matter of complete indifference.

Whilst Mrs. Ffinch was holding a whispered conference with Jane Simpson, Mrs. Hicks seized the opportunity to give Nancy the note from Mayne. The girl turned it over listlessly.

"It is his answer to yours," explained Mrs. Hicks. "He wrote it right away, and gave it to me. I thought it better to wait until I could bring it down myself."

"I suppose so, thank you," she said as she opened it, glanced over it, and then tore it into four pieces. "That's done," she said, looking at Mrs. Hicks, with unexpected animation.

"Well, I'm not so sure!" rejoined the matron, "and I'm not of the same mind as Mrs. Ffinch. We quarrelled about the business the whole way down. Indeed, I think myself, she had half a mind to put me out on the side of the road! I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me, and said lots of things I'm sorry for now. I expect Mrs. Ffinch is bitterly disappointed that you won't go back with her, Nancy. I shouldn't be surprised if she carried her point yet, and you know we'd all be only too glad to have you among us. Hush! here she comes!"

As the time passed, Nancy's grief and misery, instead of abating seemed to increase. She was no longer an invalid, but helped Nurse Jane about the house, knitted, sewed, and walked out daily. Her attitude was one of an unnatural passivity. Grief had burnt into her very soul, and her inner being was absorbed with one obsession: the memory of her father. Apparently his image filled her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. This much, Nurse Jane gathered, during their infrequent conversations—for Nancy now was almost dumb. As for Mayne, the girl appeared to have forgotten his existence! She was completely prostrated by the loss of her parent, and gradually sinking into an apathetic condition of mind and body, from which at all cost, she must be redeemed.

As Bob Simpson's cheery good humour, and Jane's authoritative efforts, had not the smallest effect upon this white-faced silent inmate, Mrs. Ffinch and Mrs. Hicks and Ted Dawson were summoned,—and held, so to speak, a committee upon the case. They decided that the girl must have a complete change, otherwise, it would be impossible for her to regain her normal balance! Mrs. Ffinch relinquished her efforts to induce Nancy to live with her, had obtained her aunt's address, and sent her one of her most diplomatic letters—to which there had been a cool, but polite reply.

Mrs. Jenkins had also written to her niece, offering to receive her, and to give her an asylum until she could make other arrangements. Nancy, who had been two months at Coimbatore, was a wan, hollow-eyed spectre of herself: it was evident, that in her present environment she would never recover her mental poise. In the day-time she sat and walked, and talked like some dull automatic figure—entirely indifferent to her surroundings. As Mrs. Ffinch gravely considered her—she mentally concluded that, "that way madness lies!" and Mrs. Simpson's friends, who had known the gay and happy Miss Nancy Travers, assured one another, there was no doubt at all, but that the broken-hearted girl was either dying, or going out of her mind!

"She must be sent away at once!" such was Mrs. Ffinch's mandate, after a protracted interview with Nurse Jane. "There is her aunt's invitation—she has the money for her passage, her mourning is ready, and, as it happens, most providentially, Mrs. Sandilands is going home by the Patna. They can travel together. I shall wire to Cook, make all arrangements, secure a separate cabin for Nancy, and this day week, she will find herself at sea!"

CHAPTER XV

A FRIEND IN NEED

Thanks to Mrs. Ffinch's promise and her prompt exertions, within a week's time Nancy found herself in the Madras roads, on board the P. & O. steamer Patna, bound for London. The Patna was a full boat, carrying a mixed multitude of cheerful passengers. Among these was Blanche Sandilands (née Meach), a remarkably pretty woman in exuberant spirits,—embarking on her first trip to England in the character of a rich, popular, much admired young matron. Her cabin was crammed with flowers and books, friends to bid her good-bye were assembled in flattering numbers, and among these, she anxiously looked about for her charge.

Yes, there was that invaluable Mrs. Ffinch,—and could it be Nancy Travers? Nancy, so altered as to be almost unrecognizable. The bright school-girl, she remembered, as just out from England, brimming over with happiness, and gaiety, was now a wan white creature in deep mourning, with sad abstracted eyes. Thank goodness, they were not sharing the same cabin, or she would certainly be flooded out with tears! What, she asked herself, could she do with her? Mrs. Sandilands had been looking forward to such a ripping time on the voyage: the Bruffs, and the Colvilles, Captain Yates and Mr. Orme, were on board, but there would not be much fun for her, if all day long she was tied to such a wet blanket as this poor child—who appeared to be actually stupefied with grief.

To her immense relief, the lively lady soon discovered that Nancy Travers would be no encumbrance. It was true that she sat beside her at meals (nobly representing the traditional death's head), but otherwise effaced herself, seeming to prefer solitude, and her own company, sitting aloof with a book, or disappearing for hours into her nook of a cabin in the stern.

Mrs. Sandilands lent her novels, offered her chocolates, and little toilet luxuries, kissed her perfunctorily night and morning, and left her to herself,—assuring her friends, that such was the truest kindness, and went her own light-hearted way to play deck games, and Bridge; or to embark on such amusing and harmless flirtations, as are expected of the prettiest woman on the ship.

At Colombo the passengers went bodily ashore, and enjoyed the few gay hours at the Galle Face Hotel, explored the bazaars, or darted off in rickshaws to inspect the Cinnamon gardens. With their return at dinner time, they brought a horde of new comers,—tourists, planters, and their belongings.

Among the crowd, one figure was conspicuously prominent, and proceeded at once to dominate the ship.

"Yet after all, what was Mrs. De Wolfe?" asked a girl plaintively, "but an ugly, rude, old woman?"

The lady appeared to know several of the passengers, and to be a sea friend of the captain's; for a special place had been reserved at his table, also she enjoyed a large double cabin, and was attended by a hard-featured, but dignified maid.

In appearance, Mrs. De Wolfe looked formidable enough! Tall and bony, with a long, wrinkled face, a commanding hooked nose (a family feature descending through generations), sharp black eyes, heavily marked brows, and a tightly closed mouth, which, when open, displayed two gleaming rows of expensively fitted teeth. Her hands exhibited knotted veins, and surprisingly large knuckles, but the lady's most distinctive endowment was a far-reaching, masculine voice. Her style of dress was tailor-made, and suitable, her only jewellery, a thin wedding ring.

What was her claim to the almost subservient homage which she received? She was suffered to break into the most interesting conversation; her remarks were listened to with profound respect, and she was waited on with slavish assiduity. Perhaps the answer was, that the old lady had influence, a strong personality, a sharp tongue, and great possessions. She was a masterful, independent individual, who did what she liked, went where she fancied, and said what she pleased! Nancy shrank from her instinctively, and when on deck, kept well out of her orbit, and beyond the range of those piercing eyes.

One evening, as she sat pretending to read, she was startled by a deep voice speaking over her shoulder. It said:

"What's the matter with you? Why don't you go and play about? You look like a sick chicken!"

As Nancy gazed straight up into the old wrinkled face, her lips twitched, but she made no reply. Mrs. De Wolfe, who evidently expected an answer, waited for a moment, still staring fixedly. It was something like the children's game of "Who will laugh first?" Then with an indignant "Humph!" she moved away.

The Patna, four days out from Colombo, had experienced fairly fine weather, and real tropical heat. Nancy slept in the top berth of her tiny cubby hole, with the port wide open, and was dreaming a delightful dream, when it suddenly turned to a sense of horrible reality and drowning. She was roused by a wandering green wave, which, having discovered an inviting porthole, flowed in torrents over her prostrate form, and completely swamped the cabin. As soon as she had recovered her breath, and the shock, she endeavoured to close the port. It proved much too stiff. Then she sprang down into the water on the floor, snatched at her dressing-gown, and opening the door, screamed for a steward. A man in the next cabin had evidently met with the same catastrophe, and was in a similar plight. He and Nancy faced one another in the passage, a dripping, shivering pair! Very soon a bedroom steward appeared on the scene, there was loud talking, splashing, mopping. In the midst of this, a door opened, and a gruff voice demanded:

"What's all this noise about?"

Then the face of Mrs. De Wolfe appeared. She wore a large lace-frilled nightcap, "and looked for all the world," as the young man subsequently described, "like the wolf in Red Riding Hood."

"There's been a sea into these two cabins, ma'am," explained the steward, "and this 'ere lady and gentleman has been washed out!"

The old woman now came forth, and surveyed them impartially; the smart clean-shaven man in pink pyjamas, and a blanket; the girl in a blue dressing-gown, with two long plaits of hair dripping down her back, and instantly recognized the "Ghost," Nancy's nickname on the boat.

"You come along in here," she commanded, stretching out her bony hand, and taking her by the wrist. "Steward, send my maid at once," and the cabin door closed on the pair—the wolf, and the lamb!

"You shall have dry things immediately," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "and Haynes shall make you up a bed on the sofa here."

"Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," chattered Nancy, whose teeth were like a pair of castanets.

"Take a towel and dry your hair, Haynes will be here in a moment."

Almost as her mistress spoke, Haynes made her appearance in a trim red flannel dressing-gown, and took the matter in hand with quiet promptitude. Nancy soon found herself invested in a beautiful silk and lace nightgown, which she regarded with unspeakable awe.

"It's quite all right, chicken," declared the old lady who had returned to her berth, "I wear plain upper garments, and keep the show for what I call my 'Undies.' It fits you to a T. Better sleep with the towel round your head. How on earth do you manage to hide all that hair!"

"Less talking!" growled a voice from the neighbouring cabin.

"Haynes, you'll bring two teas at half-past seven," continued Mrs. De Wolfe, totally unmoved by this command, "and now you may turn out the light, and go."

In the ensuing darkness, Nancy was able to reflect at leisure upon her novel position. She was actually sleeping in the cabin—and the nightgown—of the woman she most feared and avoided of all the passengers on board the Patna. Yet in spite of her overpowering personality, she had proved to be a good Samaritan, and not so alarming after all; consoled by this conviction, Nancy dozed off.

In the morning, Haynes—a celebrated Treasure—brought Nancy a cup of delicious "private" tea, and when she had drunk it, and thanked her hostess for a night's lodging, she slipped on her dressing-gown, and fled into her own quarters—once more habitable.

The little episode of the "wash-out" had no immediate results beyond the exhibition of two mattresses, and several blankets hung out to dry, and Nancy's acquaintance with Mrs. De Wolfe went no further. She shrank more and more into solitude and silence, and gave way to the gnawing misery and loneliness of her heart—plunged in the agony of a terrible loss, she was left to struggle in it quite alone.

One morning Mrs. De Wolfe encountered her face to face, at the top of the companion ladder, nodded brusquely, and stared. The girl's face subsequently haunted her. Oh, what a picture of real grief,—and nothing but grief! Impressed by this vision, she proceeded to make inquiries respecting the solitary young woman in mourning. Mrs. Sandilands (a notable chatterbox) volubly related the tale of tragedy, dwelt on Nancy's adoration for her father, their ideally happy life, his death,—and her altered fortune.

"Nancy has no one belonging to her, except a disagreeable aunt," she said, "a half-sister, who has been at daggers drawn with Mr. Travers for twenty years; however she has offered what she calls 'an asylum' to the girl, until she can find some job."

Mrs. De Wolfe nodded and grunted; she also marked, learned and inwardly digested this information.

A grand fancy ball was got up on board the Patna, in order to inaugurate her entrance into the Red Sea; the preparations, arrangements and expedients, afforded almost as much enjoyment as the dance itself. Such were its attractions, that Mrs. De Wolfe's special Bridge table was ruthlessly dissolved. One of the keenest players was appearing as Neptune, another as Mephistopheles, a stout, middle-aged lady as Ophelia. Mrs. De Wolfe made no change in her plain rich evening toilet—though more than one malicious tongue had suggested that "she might get herself up as the Witch of Endor."

Tired of looking on at the whirling crowd, she went on deck, and having descried a solitary figure leaning over the side, approached it stealthily and, so to speak, pounced!

"No, don't go away, little sick chick!" she said, laying her bony grasp on Nancy's arm. "Come over here, and talk to me," and Nancy was carried away a helpless prisoner, to where two deck-chairs happened to be placed close together. "You're not looking on?"

Nancy shook her head.

"No, I'm told you have had great trouble—and I'm very sorry for you."

"Thank you," said the girl stiffly.

"Come now, do you think it is right to give way to it like this? keeping apart from your fellow creatures, and fretting yourself to death?"

"I cannot help it."

"You could, if you tried."

"Oh, you don't know——" and Nancy caught her breath.

"Pardon me, I do know! Your chaperone told me all about it. I'm sure if your father could see you,—and we have no proof otherwise,—it would hurt him terribly to witness such hopeless, useless, misery."

"My father was the same himself," declared Nancy, "after my mother died, and I was sent to England."

"I know; your friend, Mrs. Sandilands, an exhaustive talker, assured me, he was so heart-broken, that he allowed his affairs to what is called 'go to the dogs.' Did he not regret that?"

"Yes, he did—but I have no affairs."

"You have your life to lead, my dear. Come, do not play the coward, but brace yourself for the race that is before you."

"Oh, I can't," she muttered; "if I could only die!"

"What nonsense," protested the old lady, "I've no patience with this silly sort of talk."

For a moment there was no answer, and the silence was filled with the blare of the band, and a rousing Two-step.

"Because perhaps you don't know what trouble is," murmured Nancy at last.

"Don't I? I am not disposed to talk of my private affairs with strangers—but for once, I will." A harsh tragedy looked out of her old eyes, as she added: "Listen. You possibly see me a gruff, selfish, overbearing old woman, with not a thought in the world beyond her dinner, and a rubber of Bridge. Nevertheless, I have indeed known anguish—the wounds throb still. My husband left me, when we were young and happy; my eldest boy was killed at Magersfontein, my youngest, died of typhoid in India,—all alone; and here am I, all alone,—with nothing awaiting me but the grave." She paused, for a moment. "Now you have, I trust, a long useful life, and many happy hours before you. Why, you cannot be more than eighteen."

"I was eighteen three months ago."

"And eighteen wishes to die! Mrs. Sandilands tells me you are going to live with an aunt in London. May I hear her name?"

"Yes, it is Mrs. Jenkins. She has a house in Queen's Gate."

"Strange, I think I've heard of her. She is a widow like myself,—very comfortably off. Her chief interest in life, is her health, a malade imaginaire. Do you know anything of nursing?"

"Not much, I am afraid."

"Well, then, my dear, I am well experienced—and I am going to prescribe for you. You are to come along with me, and look on at the ball; and then we will go and have a bit of supper. Yes, I insist!" There was no gainsaying this old lady.

When Mrs. De Wolfe and her young friend parted that night in their mutual passage, she said:

"I intend to take you in hand, Miss Nancy Travers. I shall not allow you to sit idle in the market-place, eating your heart out. To-morrow I'll give you some knitting, and teach you to play Piquet and Patience. You can look upon me as your deputy chaperone."

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 the Patna was 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 the Patna was 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 there is someone?" 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 see you!" 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, the Patna was 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.

CHAPTER XVI

AUNT ARABELLA

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.