ODDS AND ENDS

: : : By B. M. Croker : : :
Author of “Her Own People,” “In Old Madras,”
“The Company’s Servant,” “Given in Marriage,”
“Bridget,” “Blue China,” etc.

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
: : PATERNOSTER ROW : :

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ODDS AND ENDS

I
THE SPARE BED

“What is the matter? What has happened?” asked Aunt Lizzie. “Just open the window and find out,” she added, with her usual brisk decision.

It was nine o’clock on a dull September evening, and we two ladies were seated side by side in a 40 h.p. Daimler, which had suddenly come to a full stop on a country road, in the west of Ireland. On either hand stretched a wide expanse of dark mysterious country, to which the white waving bog cotton gave a ghostly, weird appearance. Black water in neighbouring bog-holes flashed back on us like phantom eyes, a dazzling reflection of the motor’s huge lamps. Undoubtedly our outlook was sombre and discouraging—as if the land nurtured some secret sorrow that no stranger could properly understand. The moon had not yet risen, but was shyly peeping at us from behind a low range of distant hills; not a soul was in sight, nor a sound to be heard, except the cry of a belated curlew, and the voices of our men; the car itself had ceased to throb.

As the chauffeur came to the window, and touched his cap, my aunt said:

“Have you missed the road, Watkin? Or is it a breakdown?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of both, ma’am. You see, these ’ere cross-country roads is terrible puzzling, and I’m thinking we took the wrong turn about three mile back. Then there’s been a kind of a mishap to the car—this extra twenty miles and bad road has done it. If we had stopped at Mulligooley for the night I was going to overhaul her, and have her all right for the morning.”

Watkin (an old servant) was obviously aggrieved; he had no sympathy with his mistress’s continual craving to push on, and would have preferred to spend the night in a poky country hotel, sup and smoke comfortably, and brag a little about his car.

“But surely we ought to be near the station by this time. I’ll get out and have a look round.” As she spoke, my aunt nimbly descended, and I followed. For her fifty-five years, she was an extraordinarily active and energetic person.

Gaze around as we might, there was no sign of lights, or station, and, as far as one could judge by appearances, we four people, standing by an empty motor, were alone in a world of brooding solitude.

“Do you think, Watkin, we have any chance of getting on?”

“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid not. You see, if it was only a burst tyre—we might manage—but——” he coughed behind his dogskin glove.

But he was too wise to say “I told you so.” This foolish late trip had been made entirely against his warning and advice; and behold us with night at hand, stranded on a desolate bog road, apparently out of humanity’s reach. My aunt, Miss Elizabeth Barrett, and I, had been making a tour through Ireland, and so far everything had gone smoothly; roads, weather, motor, even the accommodation at inns was better than we anticipated. We had visited Portrush, the Giant’s Causeway, Dublin, Wicklow, Killarney, Connemara, and were now on our way to Queenstown—and England.

“I expect this is the adventure at last!” suggested my aunt cheerfully; “it would be too bad to leave Ireland without one.”

“If it is the adventure,” I answered, “it is not of the description I care for. I——”

“Of course not,” she interrupted, “but you are three and twenty—I know your kind!”

“So I suppose we shall spend the night sitting in the road?” I grumbled.

“No, no, that is not to be thought of, with your delicate chest. We shall get a bed somewhere. Ah!” in a tone of triumph, “look over to the left, on the rising ground—there is a light—two lights—it’s a house!” Then, raising her voice, she said to the footman, “Jopp! I see a cottage on that hill. Take one of the car lamps, and go and ask if they can give us a night’s lodging.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jopp, and presently he set off with, as it seemed to me, considerable reluctance, in the direction of this beacon. Meanwhile we remained in the motor—whilst Watkin grovelled beneath it—and watched the lamp flickering over the bog, and taking a surprisingly zig-zag course.

“I was sure there would be some house,” said my companion complacently, “and I do hope the bed will be clean! It will be rather fun for once, won’t it?”

Her character was optimistic, active, and restless. She gave the impression of being determined to get all she could out of what remained to her of life—since her youth and middle age had been cruelly cramped and sacrificed.

My aunt was slim and erect, with thin clear-cut profile, keen blue eyes, beautiful white hair, and a very strong will. And why not? A spinster lady, with no encumbrance, no ailing relatives, and four thousand a year, can well afford one. Aunt Liz had not long enjoyed such easy circumstances. Most of her life had been absorbed in assiduous attendance on a hypochondriacal old godfather; her spring and summer had passed in housekeeping, nursing, reading aloud, listening to continuous grumbling, scolding, and symptoms and accompanying the invalid to endless foreign cures. Such had been her existence. For this servitude she received sixty pounds a year, and washing; but when her tyrant died it was found that he had not been ungrateful, and had left her an unexpectedly large fortune, and, late as it was, she lost no time in becoming a live woman! A cottage in the country, a flat in town, and a motor, were soon among her possessions, but for the greater part of the year she lived in the car. Watkin, her late godfather’s coachman, had learnt this new job; Jopp, the footman, was his nephew, so we were quite a little family party! My sister and I were orphans—she, however, had a husband. Aunt Liz had always been more than good to us; I was supposed to be her favourite of the two, because I had her nose, was rather delicate, and not the least afraid of her sharp tongue. For some time I was a probationer in the Children’s Hospital in Great Ormonde Street, but my health broke down, and I was now companion to my aunt—and she was my nurse!

Although we did not admit the fact, I think there is no doubt that we were both in the enjoyment of a comfortable little nap, when we were disturbed by the return of Jopp—looking extraordinarily hot and mud-stained.

“Well?” we asked in the same breath.

“I am very sorry, ma’am, but the people at the house—it’s a full mile away—mostly talk Irish. I made out that they have no beds—they want what there are themselves; but if you wouldn’t mind settin’ up in the kitchen they make no objection.”

“No, I daresay not!” rejoined my relative, throwing up her chin, “and one hears so much of Irish hospitality! I intend to sleep there, and I shall go over and interview her myself—I suppose it’s a woman?” appealing to Jopp.

“Yes, ma’am, quite a crowd of women—a houseful, I should say. It’s a rough sort of place for ladies; it looked like a kind of wedding party.”

“A party—that settles it! Millie” (to me) “we will start at once—wrap up well. I am afraid we shall have rather a disagreeable walk, but it will be something to spend a night in a real Irish cottage. Jopp will carry our dressing-bags, and Watkin the lamp. No one will touch the car, and anyway, they cannot carry it away, so we will all sleep out.”

Here I must draw a decent veil over our muddy excursion, our climbing of gates, evading of bog-holes, and wading through fields. At last we turned into a deep lane; this led up to a yard, in which stood an enormous manure-heap, several empty turf-carts, and a long, slated house of one story. There were lights in three windows, and my aunt hammered vigorously on the door, which was immediately opened by a tall woman with black hair and high cheek-bones. She stood in a sort of little entrance, from which one could see into a kitchen with a roaring turf fire. It appeared to be full of people.

Aunt Liz, in her high, clear English accent, made her request with civil confidence. A bed for her niece and self, and permission for the men to sit up in the kitchen; she promised to give no trouble, and would pay well.

“I am terribly sorry, me lady, but I can’t take ye in nohow,” declared the woman; “we are shockingly put about—and the house is throng as it is.”

My aunt edged her way further and looked eagerly round the kitchen; there were three or four men smoking, half a dozen women staring, and one very old crone in a large white cap hunched up inside the big chimney shook her stick at us, and gabbled in Irish.

“Have you no place you could put us into?” enquired my never-to-be-denied relative; “our car has broken down—we really cannot remain in the road all night; my niece has a dreadful cold. I am prepared,” and she looked full into the woman’s eyes, and I knew she was thinking of adventure, “to pay handsomely.”

“An’ what wud ye call handsome?” asked the other, in a high, whining key.

“Say three pounds.”

“Is it three pounds? No, me lady. I really couldn’t upset the house for that. What wud ye say to six?—maybe then I’ll be talkin’ to ye—and let the two men have an air of the fire, and give you and the girleen a good bed between yees.”

“What—six pounds—for one night! Why, it’s more than a London hotel.”

“Bedad, yes, I’m charging yees, because it’s not a hotel, and for the raison that I’ll have to square it with me Gran—for it’s her bed—ye might see her there in the corner crouched up like an old wet hen. If ye will just stand outside the door a couple of minutes, I’ll argufy it out wid her—but she is terribly crabbed in herself, and it’s like enough she’ll pull the head off me!”

It was a novel and humiliating experience to be turned out of doors, there to await a verdict—Watkin and Jopp, too—and Jopp, who was young and foolish, stared at his uncle and winked expressively.

Meanwhile, within, a fierce discussion raged; loud sentences in an unknown tongue actually reached the would-be guests; it sounded as if a furious quarrel and real battle of words were taking place, with angry shouts and stamping, but after ten minutes’ uproar the door was flung wide and the woman of the house reappeared.

“I have it fixed up elegant! Walk in, if ye plase, and welcome,” and she ushered our party into her kitchen. The men stood up, and shuffled with their feet, and, with Irish courtesy, extinguished their pipes; the women stared, the old crone chattered like an angry monkey, and pointed significantly to the door.

Hot strong tea and hot well-buttered soda-bread were offered, and found delicious.

“It will be extra, ye understand,” whispered the hostess behind her hand, “two shilling—but I felt sure ye’d be the better of a mouthful, whilst they were redding up the room, and getting yer bed made.”

In ten minutes we were established in the bedroom, which opened out of another apartment at the opposite side of the front and only door, and was boarded, white-washed, and looked, though bare, unexpectedly possible. There was a wooden bed, a large green wooden press, a chest of mahogany drawers, and looking-glass, a washstand, and numerous religious pictures nailed on the wall—at least four of the Blessed Virgin and the Sacred Heart—over the bed hung a large crucifix.

“We won’t take off all our clothes,” said my aunt, as the door closed, “the sheets are sure to be damp—though they are quite clean. I see she has left us matches. Oh, what a luxury to lie down. B-r-r-r, but the sheets are cold!” and she gave a shiver. To me, the sheets felt as if they had been iced, but I was too sleepy and tired to mind, and soon passed into the land of dreams.

I think I must have been asleep three or four hours—it seemed like three or four minutes—when I was awakened by my aunt shaking me vigorously. She was sitting up in bed.

“Millie—how you do sleep!” she said. “There’s a noise in the press that awoke me. Listen!”

As I could hear nothing, I naturally asked:

“What is it?”

“Hush!” she said impatiently. For a time there was no sound. It seemed to me we were like two fools, sitting up side by side in dead silence in the dark.

At last—yes!—certainly there was a movement in the press—a sort of sliding and shuffling, a bump!

“There!” she exclaimed, hastily lighting the candle. “You hear! Now I intend to see what it is. It’s my opinion there’s a man in the wardrobe!”

As she spoke, my valiant aunt sprang out of bed, candle in hand, turned a handle, and flung the door wide open. Then she gave a loud quavering screech, as something in the wardrobe toppled forward, and fell upon her bodily.

I flew out of bed, just in time to see that the corpse of a little wizened old man, in a brown wrapper—or habit—had tumbled from the press, and lay at my aunt’s feet; and in spite of my excellent hospital training, for the moment I lost all self-control, and screamed too!

Our united shrieks brought the assembled household to the spot. The hostess burst in first, demanding: “What’s this at all, at all?” Then as she caught sight of the corpse, “Oh, Holy Fathers! there’s for ye now!”

“An’ well served,” added another woman, thrusting herself forward, “an’ serves ye right, Maggie Behan, letting out the death-bed from under yer old granddada for lucre—and the breath hardly out of him, sure,” she continued in a shriller key and with impassioned gestures. “It’s no wonder on earth the poor old man made a disturbance and annoyance, and come out of the press ye had him put away in. Faix, never ye fear, he’ll have it in for ye yet!”

The body of the aged grandfather had, with my assistance, now been lifted on to the bed from which we had so unceremoniously ousted him.

“What does it all mean?” demanded my aunt, speaking with as much dignity as was compatible with a pair of black satin knickers; then snatching up a skirt, she wound it hastily about her and boldly met the eyes of half a dozen men, including her own servants.

“Faix, then I’ll tell yer ladyship, and no lie about it,” volunteered a little swarthy man; “him that’s dead was me granddada—there’s herself in the kitchen. He was mortial old; we were going to wake him—just a small bit of a wake—when ye come, first yer man, then yerself, and wouldn’t take no. Me wife felt bad to be denying the two nice English ladies a bed, and the bog air so cold—so—so—and seeing the money was good, and wanted, we laid our heads together and settled to turn out the old chap for the night—and have our wake without him. Sure, don’t I know well enough he’d be glad to accommodate any lady for six sovereigns. We had a notion of puttin’ him up the chimney, but for his new habit, and we made him all right and tight in the press—but”—and he looked round—“his legs give way. Ye see, he hasn’t the use of them, this while back. Well, it’s all wan to him, and I hope yer ladyship will take the bed at half-price—ye had half a night, ye see. I give ye me honour ’twas the best we could do for ye, and the money will bury him elegant, and as for him disturbin’ ye, I’m sorry he didn’t let ye sleep it out.”

“If you will be so good as to withdraw, we will dress,” said my aunt, who had recovered her self-possession; “and if it is all the same to you, we’ll sit in the kitchen till daybreak, and then perhaps you can send us on a car to the junction.”

The remainder of that night we did sit in the kitchen, drawn up within a large and hospitable circle. Our hostess had not realised that there was a social line of demarcation between our companions and ourselves; my aunt and Watkin shared a form, and I sat on a reversed turf-creel, squeezed in between Jopp and Maggie Behan. Tea, whisky, and porter were in steady circulation; a combination of porter and whisky struck me as a novelty, but was evidently well known to and highly appreciated by some of the company. I am sure that but for my own embarrassing proximity, Jopp would have liked to sample it.

As we sat there in the light of a huge turf-fire, I learnt more of Ireland and listened to more wit and good stories than I had ever done in my life. A tall, red-haired man, called “Foxy Pat”—who seldom smiled—kept, without the least apparent effort, and with but two or three exceptions, the kitchen in a roar. A couple who never laughed interested me greatly: a girl of my own age, but quite beautiful, the true Irish type, with black hair and wonderful blue-black eyes; the other, a young man, equally handsome, with some resemblance to the girl, straight and broad-shouldered, with a nobly-set-on head, and dark as a Spaniard. I noticed that they rarely spoke, but gazed at one another from time to time; their expression was so grave as to be almost tragic. In answer to a whispered question, Maggie Behan replied, also in a whisper:

“Them’s the two McCarthys—Norah and Dermot; ye see, they can’t marry, being second cousins. He is going to Ameriky on Monday—and sure, ye’ve only to look at them to tell yerself as their two hearts is broke.”

I must confess that this piece of information had the effect of depressing my spirits to such an extent that even the brilliance of Foxy Pat’s best story failed to raise them.

As soon as the light began to creep in at the window the gathering broke up, the wake—that was not a wake; the wake where the corpse had been shut in a press and its bed given to two ladies—was over. Aunt Lizzie paid up the full price agreed upon, and we partook of a parting cup of tea before we set out for the station—a distance of eight miles. Thither we were ignominiously conveyed on a turf-cart drawn by a young irresponsible long-tail, and after a most exciting drive, and several hairbreadth escapes, arrived at the railway hotel in time for an early breakfast. We had brought our bags with us, and mention that we had had a breakdown on the way—but not a word of our experience. Subsequently we retired to bed, where we enjoyed several hours of undisturbed repose. Late in the same afternoon the motor turned up in good order, none the worse for its night out—and the following day we started for Queenstown, and home.

This was our only adventure in Ireland! Aunt Lizzie—who thinks the whole incident too shocking for words—has requested me never to mention it to a soul; but I sometimes wonder if Watkin and Jopp have been equally discreet.

II
UNAVOIDABLY POSTPONED

A great white Orient liner lay in the harbour of Colombo, with her Blue Peter flying. The coaling process was accomplished, and her passengers—who had lunched and scattered over the town and its environs—were being thus summoned to abandon Ceylon’s spicy breezes for the breezes of the sea.

As the Oriana was homeward bound from Melbourne, naturally most of her freight were Australians—squatters and their families taking a trip to the old country, wealthy men from the big towns, tourists who had been visiting the Colonies, parsons, actors, doctors, engineers, with their corresponding women-folk.

And now a small Indian contingent had been contributed; these the so-to-speak residents of three weeks eyed with the same description of curiosity, superiority, and faint hostility which schoolboys experience with regard to new pupils.

Among the group of pale mem-sahibs, sunburnt planters, children, ayahs and green parrots, was one figure and face, well known, not merely to the captain and officers, but to several of the passengers, who hastened to offer the arrival a hearty greeting.

This individual was a certain popular sportsman who roamed the world in search of big game and “heads.” The Hon. Lumley Grantham was the only son of Viscount Nesfield, and in a way the despair of his parents, who were anxious that he should remain at home and “settle,” instead of which he roved about the globe, a modern wandering Jew (as sudden in his arrivals and departures), energetic, enterprising, and erratic. He had been in the Army, but the Service did not accord sufficient leave to enable an ardent sportsman to shoot in the Rockies, and to fish in New Zealand; and so, after a few years’ restraint, he threw off his uniform and unbuckled his sword. He had a passion for trophies, and owned the most unique and comprehensive collection of almost every known horned animal, from a moose to a jungle sheep. To add to his collection he spared neither effort nor expense. If he heard some notable animal discussed one evening at his club, such as a rare red bull in the Shan Hills, a strange antelope in Borneo, the chances were that he would immediately look up trains and steamers on the spot, and depart on his quest within the week. His marches and stalkings beyond the bounds of civilisation were fruitful in dangers and hardships, and his mother, who was devoted to him, lived in an agony of apprehension that some day, instead of securing his object and prize, the prize should turn the tables and make a prey of her only son! For weeks and even months she did not hear from him—he was probably in Thibet, Somaliland, or Central America—and the unhappy lady would lie awake for hours, thinking of “Must” elephants, tigers, cholera, earthquakes and snakes. Oh, if Lumley would only fall in love with some nice girl, marry her, and stay at home, how happy and thankful she would be; and she secretly vowed a window in their country church, should this blessed event ever take place. Lady Nesfield knew so many charming girls; these she cautiously praised and brought to the notice of Lumley; but, unfortunately, it is so seldom that a young man and his mother admire the same girl; also Lumley’s shooting proclivities had made him wary—he, like Tennyson’s character, “saw the snare, and he retired,” preferring his roving life, and freedom.

Lumley was now thirty-two years of age, but looked older; tall, and without a superfluous ounce of flesh on his bones, as wiry and sinewy as a greyhound; his skin was brown, his short hair black, and two dark, keen eyes illuminated a pleasant but not handsome face. They were honest, watchful eyes, something like those of an intelligent dog, and when they smiled they became beautiful.

Captain Grantham’s manners were easy and unaffected; he could find something to say to everyone, from a royal duke to an Indian beater, and was equally popular with all grades of society; a well-known character on most liners, whether to the Cape, America, Bombay, or Melbourne, he was, during his constant trips, continually coming across former fellow-travellers.

On the present occasion, when he and his baggage came up the side, Captain Grantham received quite an ovation from half a dozen acquaintances. With one or other of these he subsequently paced the deck, and smoked and talked till the Oriana was well out to sea, relating thrilling shikar stories, and his recent exploits, with the gusto and enthusiasm of a schoolboy. He described the hunting down and capture of a big Rogue elephant in the Annamulley Jungle, and the notable pair of ibex horns he had brought from the Pulnay Hills.

After dinner, as he sat on deck in the starlight, talking to a matronly acquaintance, he said:

“It seems a full ship—quite a number of girls, too—all homeward bound.”

“Yes,” she answered, “and some of them pretty. The two with the scarlet tam-o’-shanters are the Miss Todds, heiresses from Woorolango. And the one in the white yachting cap is said to be the belle of Sydney.”

“And who is the dark girl who sits at the end of the first officer’s table?”

“Beside a delicate lady with white hair and a bloodless face? I do not know, except that they are Mrs. and Miss Loftus, presumably mother and daughter. The girl is devoted to the invalid, and never leaves her side; they keep entirely to themselves.”

“Must be rather slow for the young lady?”

“No doubt it is; but when she is spoken to she merely smiles and answers ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Conversation cannot flourish under such circumstances, can it?”

“Do they know no one?”

“No. No one knows them, or who they are—which amounts to the same thing.”

“She is a handsome girl, with a thundering good figure, and looks well-bred.”

“Appearances are sometimes deceitful!”

“I don’t know about that—one has an intuition——”

“I believe you are going to break the spell of silence, and make the lady’s acquaintance.”

“Yes—why not?”

“Why not, indeed? But you will find it easier said than done! She has never opened a conversation with anyone during three weeks. I’ve even tried to talk to her myself!”

“Ah! I see you are a little piqued.”

“I am not the only one who is piqued. I think the damsel is inclined to give herself airs—we are possibly not good enough—but I expect she will thaw to you.”

“Come now. I call that rather a nasty one, Mrs. Seymour! What have I done to deserve it?”

“Nothing—forgive me, and help me on with my cape, and we will take a little turn before I turn in. As for the Loftus party, they may have very good reasons for keeping all at arm’s-length”—she paused and stared at him significantly—“for not wishing to know us, or us to know them,” and, as she spoke, the lady rose from her chair, as if the subject were closed and done with.

Like a true sportsman, Captain Grantham was patient and pertinacious; he bided his time—but biding one’s time on the trackless ocean, aboard a fast liner, is not the same thing as tracking a quarry in the pathless forest. There is a limit to postponement—a limit represented by the port of arrival.

For several days he made no progress whatever, beyond discovering that the lady was admired by the men-folk, and suspected by the ladies, who, whilst admitting the patent fact of her filial devotion, had nothing to say in her favour. There was plenty to occupy the time among the passengers, and one sulky girl was soon overlooked—but not by Captain Grantham. She interested him; he was determined to make her acquaintance, and luck favoured him—a sudden lurch of the ship in the abominable current just off Socotra capsized the old lady’s chair, and she would have been hurled across the deck had he not dashed to her assistance, caught her bodily in his arms, and saved in all respects the situation. He took the entire charge of Mrs. Loftus, personally conducted her to her cabin, and subsequently collected books, spectacles, shawl, and was thus brought into communication with the young lady, and from that moment his object was secured. She proved not at all difficile once the ice was broken, but a charming and captivating acquaintance. After nearly four weeks’ silence, she seemed anxious to make up for lost time, and talked incessantly; she was also an admirable listener. Before they had reached Suez she had largely extended her acquaintance, and became as intimate with some of the passengers as previously she had been remote. But her first acquaintance was her chief ally; together they paced the deck for exercise, together they did problems in the papers, they played chess, and exchanged books and opinions, and sat for a long time after dinner watching the stars and the low tropical moon.

In the canal Captain Grantham, who was on the “amusement committee,” helped to get up a grand concert, and prevailed on Miss Loftus to sing. He had gleaned from her mother that she had a fine voice, and also a few other talents; as he sat beside the invalid’s long chair, he discovered that she was ladylike and refined; her surroundings indicated taste and money.

Rata, as the girl was called, was her only child. Mrs. Loftus was a widow returning to England, which she had quitted twenty-eight years previously. Her husband’s people came from Gloucester, and were nearly all dead.

She had lived near Christchurch, New Zealand, and only been twice to England since she and her husband had become colonists. Her brother had commanded a well-known regiment and was now a Brigadier in India.

Yes, Captain Grantham remembered to have seen him some years previously, and here was a link between them—such a very small matter will constitute a tie on board ship, especially when both the ends are anxious to be joined.

At the rehearsals for the concert, Miss Loftus discovered to her listeners a magnificent contralto voice. People vowed she was a second Melba; there was also something that thrilled and touched one’s very heart-strings in the expression of her rich, full notes.

The concert took place whilst the ship was in the Canal, and the Oriana seemed motionless, as it wound its way through the limitless sand; the concert was, of course, packed, every seat was occupied. There were the usual banjo and guitar ditties, men’s songs, a glee; then Miss Loftus stood up, all in white, and, without a note of music, sang “An Arab Love Song.”

The theme, which seemed peculiarly suitable to the encompassing desert, had a weird and impressive effect, and threw a momentary spell over the entire audience. There was a wild, passionate note in the singer’s voice that appealed to that something far down, hidden away and stifled, that is born in every human being.

All the world of the Oriana realised that they were listening to a voice entirely out of the common, to something unusual, unforgettable, and unique.

Miss Loftus presented a delightful picture; she was good to look at, as she stood up in the moonlight on the little platform—graceful, dignified, and yet so simple; last, by no means least, so undeniably handsome.

Her second song was a simple ballad, which caused a lump to rise in the throats of her audience; but when the last notes had died away among the sands, what applause—real applause! Such was the uproar and the acclamation, that a ship which was following became extremely envious, and half inclined to despatch a boat to inquire the reason of the unusual demonstration.

A Mediterranean moon looks sympathetically on lovers. What can be more romantic than those long, idle evenings on that romantic sea? By the time Malta was sighted, Lumley Grantham, the despair of mothers (his own included), had proposed and been accepted by Rata Loftus. Although they had only known one another three weeks, time at sea means ten times more than time on land. They had no distractions, or occupation, spent at least twelve hours of the day in each other’s society, and they had learnt one another’s tastes and characters—so far as these may be known before marriage. She listened eagerly to his sporting adventures—he, to her descriptions of New Zealand, her vivid little sketches of Colonial life, her craving to see England and other countries, to hear operas, concerts, and, above all, to visit Bayreuth during the festival.

When the news of the engagement leaked out, it was received on board with mixed feelings—but on the whole the ship was pleased. It was a wonderful catch for the girl; but she was handsome, accomplished, and rich. Some of the women murmured among themselves that, “for all anyone knew she might be an adventuress! and the uncle, who was a General, a fraud,” but they kept their suspicions to themselves.

Mrs. Loftus now became more active; the voyage had revived her. She walked on deck, a little erect figure with a stately pose of her white head, and even discussed her plans with other ladies.

She proposed to make London her headquarters for the present, to take a furnished house, and get Rata presented—it was only March; there were sure to be May drawing-rooms.

The happy couple—they were very much in love—went ashore, and spent a day at Gibraltar in the highest spirits, chaperoned by Mrs. Loftus. It was surmised that they had despatched telegrams and letters, and, at any rate, Miss Loftus wore a handsome ring on her engaged finger when she returned to the ship, loaded with gifts of fans, quaint bits of Moorish ornaments, and a fine mantilla, which she wore at a fancy ball two evenings later as a Spanish lady, and looked a Spanish donna to the life. On their arrival in London, Mrs. and Miss Loftus drove straight to the Carlton Hotel, and Lumley Grantham joined his family in Grosvenor Place.

The next day Lord and Lady Nesfield came to call on the new arrivals, and their son’s future bride.

They were not a formidable couple: he, a tall, bent, grey old man, with courteous manners; she, a pretty, impulsive little woman, enchanted that Lumley had chosen a wife at last, thankful for anyone, as long as she was not black, and prepared to be delighted with her daughter-in-law.

Rata for her part was much touched by their kind welcome, and all now went merrily as a marriage bell. Miss Loftus was handsome, healthy, ladylike; she had £25,000—quite ample, as Lumley had no occasion to marry a great fortune. Her mother was a refined and amiable woman, passionately devoted to her only child, and the attachment was most warmly returned. Rata was a girl of strong feelings, and it was patent to all that she was deeply in love with her fiancé. Mrs. Loftus, who was evidently a woman of wealth, was soon established in a fashionable house at Lowndes Square, with a smart carriage and an adequate staff, and all Lumley Grantham’s relatives and connections, male and female, crowded to call upon the lady of his choice.

They found her as handsome, graceful, and agreeable as they were led to expect, but perhaps a little unconventional and colonial. With respect to her voice, there could be but one opinion. She was a serious loss to the musical world, and could have made a fortune as a great prima donna. Invitations were showered upon 225, Lowndes Square. Miss Loftus was in continual request, and soon became a social favourite. She was a magnificent horsewoman, and rode every morning in the Row, accompanied by Captain Grantham.

Among the chorus of praise were a few discordant notes; the loudest and shrillest of these issued from the Hon. Mrs. Custance, Lord Nesfield’s only sister, a lady in somewhat narrow circumstances, with two tall, talkative daughters. Her view’s were not rigid respecting the marrying of first cousins, and Lumley’s engagement had been a shock to her, for she had always hoped that he would one day settle down, and marry either Maudie or Mag, instead of which he presented as fiancée a Colonial nobody, whom he had, so to speak, picked up at sea! Who was she? This was a question continually on her lips.

The Loftus family were undoubtedly respectable, but how was anyone to know she was one of them? And the uncle, a General, was possibly a myth. These people had no friends in London, and did not seem to know a soul.

But for all these objections Lady Nesfield found satisfactory replies. She was delighted at her son’s capture—now he would be chained fast, and kept at home. General Broome had written his congratulations, and was sending a present. Two of the Custance girls were to be bridesmaids; the wedding would take place in July, as the bride’s mother was in precarious health, and anxious to see her daughter happily married, as she believed—so she told Lady Nesfield in confidence—that her own days were numbered, and she could not bear the idea of leaving Rata alone in the world.

At the present moment she had rallied sufficiently to be able to accompany her girl to the park, the play, and elsewhere.

The questions of Mrs. Custance were also on the lips and in the mind of Lady Foxrock, Lumley Grantham’s only sister. She was undeniably one of the smart set. The childless wife of a wealthy old peer, ambition was her fetish, and, in spite of her passion for bridge, motoring, and racing, she still contrived to find time for the casting of social nets, and for bringing important intimacies into the family circle. She had always resolved that Lumley, “the wild hunter,” as she playfully called him, should marry—when he did take the step—to the advantage of his family, and she had mentally selected one of her exclusive friends, the rather passée daughter of a noble duke, with a splendid connection, and a considerable dower. She never dreamt, for one moment, that Lumley would find anything more attractive abroad than his usual horns, tusks, and skins; but home he came with a bride, so to speak, in his hand—a mere colonial nobody. Lady Foxrock took an invincible dislike to her on the spot—the dislike was mutual. Rata felt herself an antagonist to this tall, sour-looking lady, with a thin, high nose, pale, arrogant eyes, and slow, disdainful airs. Lady Foxrock could not understand why men admired the colonial; in her opinion, she was frightfully second-rate. And who was she? How, she asked her mother, did they know she was related to the Gloucestershire people? The uncle in India was probably a fiction! The girl had no friends in London and, for all that they could tell, might be an adventuress. Lumley’s interests must be watched—he was an idiot, where that girl was concerned.

Naturally Lady Foxrock had been indefatigable in her endeavours to discover something about the Loftuses, but, unfortunately, New Zealand was remote, and her acquaintances in the Colonies were limited, and she had a confused idea that people who lived in Melbourne or Sydney must, as a matter of course, be intimate with those in Christchurch and Wellington!

One sleepy afternoon, at Hurlingham, kind fate placed a clue in her hand. She was sitting in one of the little tents on the lawn, enjoying tea and strawberries; her near neighbours were a large merry party of acquaintances, and they gradually intermixed. Among the group was a grey-haired, square-built gentleman, who was presented to her as Mr. Dexter, spending a few months in England after an absence of thirty years. Lady Foxrock surveyed him critically; his clothes were ill-fitting, his gloves preposterous, but his carriage, square chin, and keen eyes, gave indication of a man of character, and importance.

He sank into a chair beside the lady, and said, “It is a pretty scene,” nodding his head at the numerous gay groups, the passing crowd, the lawn scattered with flower-beds, the tall trees, through which shimmered the river.

“Yes, but I’ve seen it so often,” she drawled, “its charm has faded a little.”

“Ah, well, if you had been thirty years in the colonies you would not complain of that.”

“Oh, really, I suppose not,” she answered indifferently, her attention diverted by the sight of her brother, his fiancée, Mrs. Loftus, and Lady Nesfield, who were then passing. She noticed that her companion started and stared hard; he even leant forward and gazed after the group; then, as he met her glance of interrogation, he said, “I’ve just seen a familiar face—a face from home.”

“Oh, then you are from New Zealand,” she exclaimed, “and have recognised Mrs. and Miss Loftus?”

“Ah,” he answered, “so you know them?”

“Yes; and you?”

“Very intimately once; but eighteen years ago they left our neighbourhood, and I entirely lost sight of them.”

“Who was Mr. Loftus?” she asked abruptly.

“A prosperous gentleman who owned several large ranches, and died a year ago, leaving a fortune.”

“Was he of good birth?”

“I should say so—but we don’t take much account of that in the Colonies, you know.”

“And Mrs. Loftus?”

“She was renowned for her philanthropy and charities. She had no children——”

“What! No children! She has a daughter—you saw her just now.”

“An adopted daughter,” he corrected.

“Impossible!”

“I assure you it is the case; there was no secret about it.”

“There is a secret about it now.”

“You seem interested in the family.”

“I should think I am, considering that Miss Loftus is going to marry my brother—Lord Nesfield’s only son.”

“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned amazement.

“But I do—the wedding is fixed to take place in ten days’ time. Shall we go outside this tent, and stroll about a little?—impossible to talk here.”

“Certainly,” and he moved a chair out of her way, and followed Lady Foxrock down towards the polo ground.

“I suppose there is no mistake, Mr. Dexter,” she began, “and you really recognise these people?”

“I recognise Mrs. Loftus. I could swear to her anywhere, to her white face and prominent blue eyes. The girl was only two, when I last saw her, but I believe her to be the same. She was very handsome, and her name, I believe, was Rata—named after a New Zealand flower.”

“Yes; it is Rata.”

“There never was any concealment or mystery respecting her. The Loftuses had no family. They were passionately fond of children, and they adopted a child, and, a short time after this, they moved away to the south island; and we lost sight of them.”

“Do you know who the child was?”

“Well”—with obvious reluctance—“yes, I do.”

“You will tell me, won’t you?” and she flashed on him a challenging glance from her small grey eyes.

A moment’s silence. At last he said, “No; I would rather not. It is not my business, and you must excuse me.”

“Oh, Mr. Dexter, won’t you speak out? It means so much to us.”

“There is absolutely nothing against the girl’s character. I think I can assure you of that.”

“Then it is her birth—that is the question.”

“Well, she is not responsible for that, is she?”

“No-o,” the negative was reluctant.

“She seems a fine, tall, beautiful young woman, and I’m sure she has been well brought up; she will be wealthy—what more do you want?”

“The truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“It is not always advisable to know the truth—sometimes silence is best.”

“And so you won’t speak,” she said impatiently, “you are inflexible?”

He bowed his head.

“Look here; we are just coming face to face with the party. Will you accost them?”

“No; I prefer not—unless Mrs. Loftus recognises me.”

They approached in a line, the two younger people handsome and radiant—Rata all in white, carrying a becoming pink sunshade—the elder ladies deep in mutual confidences. Little did they suspect that the smiling lady in grey, who had accosted them in passing, was elaborating a scheme which was to upset their happy anticipations.

“Well, Mr. Dexter,” said Lady Foxrock, “I see you are a man of honour, and respect the affairs of other people, and I must say, that, much as I should like to know something about my future sister-in-law, I admire your reticence immensely. We will consider our talk strictly confidential. Are you married?”

“Yes; that was my wife with the Greysons—the little woman in the blue toque.”

“You won’t mention the subject to her, will you?”

“No, certainly not. The less said the better.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Hyde Park Hotel—for a couple of weeks. We have not many friends in London.”

“Then I should like to do myself the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Dexter.”

“That is really very kind of you. I am sure she will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“And now,” said the lady, “we must go and look for our parties. They will think we are lost.”

Lady Foxrock was prompt in calling on Mrs. Dexter. She found her twenty years younger than her husband, and of a much inferior class—a yellow-haired, shallow, over-dressed little person, who was obviously flattered by a visit from her ladyship.

Her ladyship dangled some imposing invitations before her dazzled eyes, and then began to ask cautious questions about New Zealand.

Yes, she was New Zealand born herself, not long married—she had insisted on Joe taking her to England, for a spree like! She wanted to see the world a bit, and society. He had brought her, though all his own folk were dead—and he had no home now.

Had Mrs. Dexter ever heard of a Mrs. Loftus in her part of the world?

Yes, ages ago—she’d almost forgotten the tale.

“Oh, so there was a tale. How very interesting! Has it anything to do with her adopted daughter?”

Mrs. Dexter nodded, and giggled.

“The girl is in England now, you know, with Mrs. Loftus—and about to make a grand match.”

Lady Foxrock had touched the right chord; the little colonial was filled with a sudden spasm of envy.

“A splendid match—she!”

“Yes, to the son of a lord.”

“Oh—what!” and she burst out into an excited laugh. “Well, I declare, this is too fine a joke. If they only knew—wouldn’t they be wild!”

“Knew what?”

“Oh, I’d better not say—it might get out. I don’t want to be a spoil-sport; and Joe hates what he calls ‘gossip,’” and she put her finger on her lips.

Lady Foxrock drew herself up and looked dignified. “I assure you that I never gossip, Mrs. Dexter. If you can tell me who this girl was, and is, you will be doing me an enormous favour, and one I shall not forget; but, of course, if you feel that you have no wish to confide in me—and after all I am a stranger——” she paused, and her smile implied a threat.

After all, she was Lady Foxrock, and if she was denied this small request, good-bye to a box at the Opera, an invitation for Lady Foxrock’s fancy ball—and other delights.

“Well, then, look here; I will tell you,” and she suddenly leant forward. Her visitor also approached her head, her heart beat fast—these moments are the sparks of life!

“Miss Loftus, the adopted daughter of Mrs. Loftus, is just a——”

There was a footstep outside.

“Hark! my husband is coming!”

“Quick, quick, you must tell me!” cried Lady Foxrock, seizing her arm in an agony of suspense.

Mrs. Dexter once again leant forward, and whispered, and, ere her whispering had ceased, the handle rattled, and the two heads started apart, as the door opened and Mr. Dexter entered the room.

His wife had entirely recovered her self-possession and said, with incredible assurance, “Oh, there you are, dear. I’m so glad you’ve come in while Lady Foxrock is here.”

He advanced with broad, extended palm. Lady Foxrock, who seemed embarrassed, and strangely flushed, said:

“Yes; I’ve paid, you see, my threatened visit to your wife, and now”—rising as she spoke—“I must positively be going. I’m such a busy person, my quarters of an hour are all filled up.”

“I am sorry I did not come home a little sooner,” said Joe Dexter, who saw that his wife was flattered and gratified, and felt proportionately pleased.

“I will send the cards to-morrow,” continued Lady Foxrock, “and I shall hope to see you both on the 29th,” and with a gracious handshake her ladyship swept out.

Once seated in her carriage, she felt herself trembling with excitement; a few civil words, a card of invitation, what had they not brought her? The match between Lumley and the New Zealander was practically broken off—in a few hours the notification would appear in the Morning Post!

She was determined to strike at once—no time like the present, and no time to be lost. She ordered her footman to drive to Lowndes Square.

Mrs. Loftus was at home, resting on the sofa in the back drawing-room. She had had an unusually fatiguing day, and looked ghastly as she struggled to her feet to receive Lady Foxrock. Her ladyship, being Lumley’s sister, had the entrée at all hours to the temporary home of his fiancée. Yet Lady Foxrock was antipathetic to both Rata and her mother. She was cold, arrogant, interfering, and inquisitive—it seemed almost impossible that she could have been born a Nesfield!

“It is a little late,” she said, glancing at a clock, “but I could not have slept to-night if I had not come to see you. I want to ask you something important about—Rata.”

The lady’s manner was menacing, and at the conclusion of her sentence the eyes of her hostess resembled those of some long-hunted animal, that the cruel hunter has tracked to its lair at last!

“What about Rata?” she faltered, as she sank into a seat; her hands were shaking visibly.

“Yes, what about Rata?” echoed a full, gay voice. “Talk of an angel, and here I am!” she added playfully as she advanced, a delightful vision in a summer gown and flowery hat.

“Darling,” cried Mrs. Loftus, “run away for a little. Lady Foxrock wishes to speak about you.”

“But, dearest, if Leonora is going to talk about me, don’t you think you are rather cruel to banish me? Curiosity is one of my strongest characteristics!”

“Enough of this nonsense,” thought the visitor, and, turning roughly on Mrs. Loftus, she said, “I wish Rata to remain here—it is essential”; and then, turning quickly to Rata, she added, “If you are so naturally inquisitive, has it never occurred to you to wonder who you are?”

“Oh, my God!” murmured Mrs. Loftus under her breath, “it has come! Rata, as you love me, leave me here alone with Lady Foxrock,” and she half rose and stretched out an appealing arm.

“No, dearest; if there is going to be trouble, I will stand by you. As to wondering who I am, Leonora,” now facing the lady, “why should I, when I know that I am Rata Loftus?”

“By all accounts, you have cherished a delusion. You are no more to Mrs. Loftus than to me—you are an adopted child. Mrs. Loftus adopted you, when you were two years old.”

“Well, even so, she is my mother,” coming over and taking her hand. “I could not love her more if she were ten times my mother.” And she raised her eyes defiantly to Lady Foxrock.

“Yes—yes,” faltered the miserable Mrs. Loftus. “Yes, darling; you are not my real child. I hoped you would never, never know—and now!”—looking at Lady Foxrock—“is not that enough? Rata has always been to Edgar and me as our very, very own.”

“Enough!” echoed the visitor, “no, not nearly enough—not half enough. The girl should be made acquainted with her own race. Do you think I will stand by in silence and allow my only brother, the future head of the family, to marry a Maori?”

“A Maori! What nonsense!” cried Rata indignantly.

“Nevertheless, your own grandfather is still living,” she continued inexorably. “He is a chief called Ramparaha, and resides in a ‘Pa’——”

“There! you have killed her!” screamed the girl, rushing forward and catching Mrs. Loftus in her arms. Mrs. Loftus, whose blanched face had, during the above conversation, assumed a death-like hue, and who now collapsed without a word into a heap upon the sofa.

It was a dead faint indeed. Having laid her down and unfastened the neck of her dress, Rata dashed to the bell.

Then as she returned to the invalid she said, “I think you had better go—you have done your worst.”

“I have done my best for my brother,” answered Lady Foxrock fiercely. “I am sorry your patroness has fainted—she would have kept the secret always, to her very last hour; what I have stated is true—and can be proved.”

“Mother—mother,” murmured the girl, as she rubbed the cold hands. Then to a servant, “Run for the nearest doctor, and send some brandy. Mrs. Loftus is very ill; and let someone show this lady out.”

Lady Foxrock’s words were prophetic, for Mrs. Loftus had kept her secret to her dying hour. When the doctor and the brandy arrived, she was past all human aid.

It appeared that she had a most dangerous form of heart disease, and it was a marvel she had survived for so long.

Rata was stunned—she had sustained two violent shocks within the same hour: the announcement of her parentage, and the loss of her mother.

Her grief was at first as wild and uncontrollable as that of one of her savage ancestors; then she became as a creature of stone, and shut herself up from all eyes, like some wounded animal, who would suffer alone. Lady Nesfield and Lumley were all sympathy and affection—they did not yet know the truth. Lord Nesfield undertook the funeral arrangements and Lady Nesfield—who could not prevail on Rata to leave the house—offered to take up her quarters in Lowndes Square; but this Rata declined. She and her sorrow, her anguish, and her fears were sufficient company for one another. The day after the funeral, a paragraph to this effect appeared among the fashionable intelligence:

“Owing to the sudden death of Mrs. Loftus, the marriage of Miss Loftus and Captain the Hon. Lumley Grantham, fixed for the 13th inst., is unavoidably postponed.”

When affairs were returning to their normal course, Lady Foxrock made her parents and her brother acquainted with the result of her investigations into the past of their future relation. At first their amazement transcended expression. The intelligence fell like a moral avalanche; they were all three stunned by the information.

“A Maori!” they repeated; “a Maori—a Maori!”

“But she is so accomplished and graceful, and sings so splendidly,” argued Lady Nesfield.

“I believe many Maori women are graceful, and have fine voices.”

“And so fair,” objected his lordship.

“Her father was an Englishman.”

“And she never knew this till the other day. Oh, poor child!”

“The discovery you made killed the old lady,” added Lord Nesfield.

“It certainly hastened her end,” she admitted; “but, according to the doctors, she ought to have died years ago; in fact, it was a miracle she lived so long!”

“It is an extraordinary affair,” exclaimed her father, “a most terrible disclosure—it seems incredible; and that such a—I may say—unheard-of catastrophe should occur in our family——”

His family, his pedigree, was Lord Nesfield’s pride; a long descent stirred his enthusiasm; before all things in the world he respected blue blood. His ancestors had fought at Cressy and Poitiers—he claimed descent from Henry the Seventh; that his only son and heir should marry a Maori woman—the descendant of cannibals and savages! Never. He was sorry for Lumley and the girl, but his resolution was embodied in the word never.

When Rata permitted Lady Nesfield to see her, she realised by instinct that she was acquainted with her story, although not a word was uttered. And Lumley—he knew also. He called to see her daily, and sent her flowers and notes, but she still remained mute and invisible.

At last she reappeared and granted him an audience in the drawing-room. But here was a Rata he had never seen before, dressed in trailing black, and looking worn, hollow-eyed, and aged.

He felt as if this girl were a stranger.

“No, no; don’t kiss me, Lumley,” she protested. “Sit down in that chair, and let me talk to you. In the first place, I wish to show you a letter. In my—in—Mrs. Loftus’s despatch-box I found this addressed to me, and inscribed, ‘To be opened after my death.’ It will tell you everything you ought to know.”

He glanced at the letter in his hand. It began:

“Dearest Rata,

“When your eyes read these words I shall be no more, and I am now about to tell you what I never imparted to you in life. You are not my own child, but my adopted daughter. Your parentage will startle you, my dear; you were born in a Maori ‘Pa’ near Wellington. I saw you there, a lovely, fair baby of two years old, fell in love with you, and, after a little time persuaded your grandfather, Ramparaha, chief of a great tribe, to give you to me, to bring up absolutely as my own. You were an orphan, and he had other grandchildren. Your father was an Englishman of good birth—needless to tell you his name. Your mother was the most beautiful girl of her race in the whole of the North Island. They were married by a priest, and by the rites of her tribe. Not long afterwards he was drowned in the lake Tavatara; your mother died in giving you birth, and that is your history. We never regretted the step we took—you were always our joy and comfort. We moved away from the neighbourhood of Wellington, and brought you up as an English girl; you have not one Maori trait in your character. I feel that my life hangs by a thread, and I intend to take you to Europe, where I hope you may make friends, and possibly marry. Once you have won the love of a good man, who will be your protector and guardian, I am ready to depart in peace. He will have to be told the truth some day, when you are his wife, and, if he loves you, it can make no difference.

“My will, enclosed with this letter, was drawn up in New Zealand, and is perfectly legal, and formal. In it I speak of you as Rata, my adopted daughter, and leave you all I possess. Make good use of this wealth, dear child, and be happy.”

When Lumley Grantham came to the end of this letter he looked up, and met the eyes of his fiancée, and for some seconds they surveyed one another in silence. She was the first to speak.

“It makes a difference—a terrible difference, Lumley, does it not?”

“But you are not changed.”

“I am—I am a Maori. Imagine it! A Maori! I seem to feel different—to summon up strange, dim dreams. A tall old man with feathers on his head—yes—of a low, dark hut with smoke——”

“No—no,” protested Lumley, “that is your imagination. Your nerves have gone to pieces.”

“And I would always be thinking of that.”

The man felt curiously embarrassed—the girl was so matter-of-fact, so unlike herself; there was something unfamiliar, and almost stern about her.

“Your father is, of course, overwhelmed by the news,” she resumed. “I remember he asked to see the Loftus’s pedigree—think of my pedigree! Tell me, what does he say? Oh, speak to me plainly—he will not have me as a daughter-in-law?”

“He likes you personally, Rata, so does my mother; you know that, but—but——”

“Yes, it is a tremendous but—an impassable but—I understand.”

“Of course it will never be known beyond ourselves.”

“It will,” she interrupted. “My mother hugged herself with the same delusion—yet the secret crept out—and killed her!”

“It shall not kill us,” he answered slowly. “We will, on the contrary, smother and bury it.”

“Ah, easier said than done! Now tell me frankly, Lumley, what are your family proposing to do with me?”

“To find you a nice lady companion, and let you travel for a bit.”

“Yes—and then?”

“Well, I——” he stammered, “I’m not sure that they suggested anything further. To be honest, my father will not hear of our marriage. My mother is heartbroken; but she, too, is against it. Leonora—is—is——”

“Triumphant! That is understood. And you, Lumley?”

“I am ready to marry you to-morrow. I love you, Rata. Of course you come first of all; but I do not wish to quarrel with my father, or break my mother’s heart. It seems so hard to hit on the right thing, and decide. I want a good think—all by myself. I will go off alone to-morrow morning into the country, and come back and tell you what the result is, and then we can make our plans.”

“Very well.”

“What time shall I come—may I say four o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Then four o’clock to-morrow without fail.”

Rata awaited the appointed hour—which meant so much to her—with feverish impatience; long before the time she was pacing the drawing-room and watching the timepiece. Did Lumley mean to abandon her? Was the suggestion of travelling on the Continent but the preliminary to a final farewell? Had he not been confused, embarrassed, unlike himself, and cold, when they had met the previous day, although his sympathy for her loss had seemed truly real and sincere? With these thoughts forming and glowing in her brain she worked herself into a condition of the highest mental tension. Four o’clock—half-past five—and no Lumley; he who was so true to his word, and so punctual! What did it mean? It meant, that he had decided against her, and dared not venture to announce the fact face to face.

After this came the agonies of waiting for the postman’s knock. No letter, not a line from him. All that night she lay wide awake, thinking for herself, and enduring a mental torture such as she had never dreamt of—it was ten times worse than mere physical pain. So Lumley was lost to her—as well as her mother. She had not a relation in Europe, and was practically alone in the world.

The following day came and passed with leaden feet. It brought piles of cards of condolence and inquiries. There were letters from dressmakers, milliners, and shops, papers, circulars, notes from acquaintances, legal looking documents—not a sign from Lumley. Oh, it was too cruel of him to torture her like this! About five o’clock, she relinquished all hope and made up her mind to act for herself.

Lumley Grantham had taken his bicycle by rail down to Croydon, and started for a long, solitary spin. He always enjoyed his own society, and could not exist without plenty of exercise, and, as he skimmed along the country roads, his brain was hard at work, sorting out the pros and cons of an extremely difficult situation. He was resolved to marry Rata—to that point his mind was anchored—but in deference to his father’s sensibilities he felt that he was bound to do nothing suddenly. He and Rata must wait; time would soften the sharp edge of the shock that his parents had sustained. Rata could travel; she had never seen the Continent. He would run out to South Africa for a few months—and possibly by Christmas.... Here his bicycle ran over a loose stone—he lost his balance and fell heavily on his head. An hour later, he was found by a farmer’s carter, taken to the farm, and there laid, still insensible, under the shade of the best four-poster. A doctor was summoned, and announced slight concussion of the brain, and rest essential; but it was two days before the traveller was fit to return to London. His mother—accustomed to his erratic departures—was only slightly concerned—and hailed his reappearance with relief.

Two days after his appointment, he arrived to keep it, but found, to his surprise, that Miss Loftus was not at home, and the household seemed a little upset.

Miss Loftus had departed that morning in a four-wheeler, taking a small box and a bag with her, and leaving her maid without any instructions. She had not mentioned when she proposed to return.

And as it turned out, Miss Loftus never did return. She had walked out of the house, and abandoned her belongings, all her jewellery, including engagement ring, letters, papers, personal possessions, and the will of the late Mrs. Loftus.

Presently the family lawyers arrived, and dismissed the servants, gave up the house, and set about tracing the heiress. But she seemed to have vanished, as it were, into the air. Lord Nesfield was agreeably and obviously relieved, until he was assured by his son that, unless the lost lady was found, he would never marry, and this statement considerably modified his joy, for Lord Nesfield disliked his next heirs, the Nesfields of Barlow, even more intensely than the idea of a daughter-in-law with strange blood in her veins!

Lumley Grantham, after fruitless visits, first to Gloucestershire, and then Lahore, finally set out for New Zealand, “the wonderland of the world,” with its mountains, glaciers, waterfalls, and lakes. Here it took some time tracing a lady who, three months previously, had landed at Dunedin; but he tracked her steps patiently, and at last discovered that she had disappeared among a Maori tribe near Kaiapui in the lake country. Here he sought the great “Pa” of the chief Ramparaha, and found him, the splendid wreck of a fine Maori warrior, wrapped in a cloak of feathers, his head adorned with the plumes of authority, enjoying a long pipe in the door of his abode. Around were various Maori women, young and old, with thick, grizzly black hair and tall, graceful figures, dressed, as is the present custom, in skirts and blouses, instead of their picturesque native costumes. A few fine, stalwart men were loitering about, smoking and talking. Over them all lay the spell of unconquerable indolence—children, dogs, and flies were the only objects endowed with vitality.

In reply to Captain Grantham’s question, the chief replied, “Yes, one white woman come here two moons ago—my daughter’s daughter, she said—but she was all English. Her mother was Tassila the beautiful, who died young. I gave her baby to a lady from Wellington. Twenty years after the baby comes back to the tribe; but she is a stranger.”

“Yes, of course she is,” assented his visitor, with emphasis.

“She liked not our food, nor our ways, although we held a Tangi in her honour and gave poi deones and hakas. She would not even look—also she knew not our tongue. She sat all day alone in her hut and wept, and ate nought, and grew thin, oh, so thin—and then she—as was best—left us.”

“Where is she?” enquired Captain Grantham eagerly; “you know?”

“Oh yes,” gravely nodding his plumed head, “I know.”

“And will you take me—will you show me?”

“Why do you seek her?”

“Because she and I were to have been married, and I have come to fetch her back to England.”

“Ah!” rising stiffly, “and so you were to marry my granddaughter Rata. Then follow me, and I will show you where she is.”

And Ramparaha, the lineal descendant of the great Tuahariri, led the way through the surrounding raupo, or scrub, up a very steep hill, from the summit of which was a view of considerable extent.

“You see that big lake?” he said, pointing his shrivelled hand towards a melancholy sheet of distant water, in which the mountains were darkly reflected. “She is always staring at the water—some day it will take her. Her heart is not here—but in her father’s country.”

As Ramparaha spoke, they reached a solitary wattled hut, and in reply to a call, the ghost of Rata appeared in the doorway. She was incredibly changed—robbed of every trace of beauty, worn and emaciated—and wore a Maori skirt, and jacket, her masses of hair hanging down her back. At first, she looked dazed, and startled; then her black eyes took a fierce expression, as she surveyed her grandfather’s companion in expressive silence.

“I have come to fetch you, Rata,” he said.

“The last time—you never came—you—deserted me,” she answered hoarsely.

“Rata, I could not help it—I met with an accident and was unconscious for days. When I recovered you were gone—and I have searched the world for you! Will you believe me, and come home?”

Ten minutes later, the befeathered old chief gave an audible grunt of satisfaction and relief, as he beheld his granddaughter and the Englishman walk down the hill together hand in hand.

III
THE NORTH VERANDAH

A chance meeting in the hall of a Swiss hotel, in the vicinity of the visitors’ book, a polite “After you,” and a similarity of surnames led to our acquaintance with two charming Americans. The acquaintance ripened into friendship, and ultimately my sister Lucy and self discovered that Mrs. Washington-Dormer and her son Philip were connected with our family, and that we, the Dormers of Ashley Gardens, Victoria, London, S.W., were cousins (several times removed) of our namesakes of Rochelle, near Lexington, Kentucky, U.S.A.

Mrs. Dormer was a widow with a good figure, snow-white hair, and a bright, intelligent face. She had also a cheerful manner, and an air of suppressed energy. Having confessed to the national passion for old places, old curiosities and old pedigrees, she set to work to examine our family tree, from which it appeared that a certain relative had emigrated in the year 1810, settled, married and founded a dynasty in that State, so worthily celebrated for its thoroughbred horses and blue grass.

In company of “Cousin” Carolina and “Cousin” Philip, we travelled through Northern Italy and the Tyrol with mutual enjoyment, and before we separated in Paris had entered into a solemn league and covenant to visit our Kentucky cousins in the early “fall.” I was rather astonished at the alacrity with which Lucy accepted this invitation—knowing that she was a hopelessly bad sailor and how she hated the sea! It, however, dawned on me that she liked Cousin Philip, and the least observant could see that he worshipped her.

Behold us therefore arrived and happily established at Rochelle, a stately old “colonial” house which, with its pillared verandahs on all four sides, presented a dignified appearance in the midst of spreading turf lawns (the beautiful blue grass), avenues of walnut trees, and clumps of oak and hickory.

In former days, Rochelle had been surrounded by an immense estate, worked by slaves who raised and gathered vast crops of hemp, tobacco, and corn; but now the shrunken acreage was chiefly devoted to the breeding and rearing of horses; for these Cousin Philip enjoyed a reputation that extended from New York to New Orleans. My sister Lucy was in her element, being a fearless rider and a capital whip; Cousin Carolina, too, was an admirable horsewoman, despite her fifty years. The days were spent in driving-racing trotters, galloping young thoroughbreds, visiting distant runs, and inspecting rival stables. These joys were not for me! I am naturally timid, a shameless coward where horses are concerned, distrustful of distant cows, and all strange dogs. I believe mine is what is termed “the artistic temperament” (I paint and write poetry), yet I have a certain queer courage of my own. For instance, I am not afraid to discharge a servant, to venture alone into a dark room, and have no belief in ghosts. When my sister, cousins, and their friends scoured the neighbourhood, I remained contentedly at Rochelle, sketching the best “bits” of scenery, the little black “piccaninnys,” and the interior of the house itself. Mr. and Mrs. Gossett, Cousin Carolina’s niece and nephew, were a gay young couple also of the party, which included Cousin Carolina’s old schoolfellow, Miss Virginia Boone, a lineal descendant of the founder of the State. She was an interesting woman, and had a fund of stories relating to Kentucky and the Civil War, which rent the State in two. One day Lucy asked her to tell us something about Rochelle itself; it was so mellowed and solid, and in its way delightful, with an atmosphere of age and peace. Surely it had a history?

“Well, you see,” said Miss Boone, clearing her throat, “Carolina has not lived here long—it’s not her family place. It belonged to the Taylors a great while back, and it was standing empty for quite a spell. The grass is said to be the best in the world for young horses, and Philip was crazy to come here, so he routed his mother out at last; Rochelle was a dead bargain too, and though Carolina was loath to move, now she likes it.” Then, as if to herself, she added, “She comes from a distance—or maybe she’d never have come at all!”

This was a dark saying, and I hastened to beg for some enlightenment.

Miss Boone seemed to hesitate before she answered rather vaguely, “Well, of course, all great plantations are the same.”

“The same?” I echoed.

“Yes, where numbers of slaves have been employed. See,” pointing to a row of lines or negro quarters to the north of the house. “I expect in Taylor’s time there were hundreds there. The estates were some of the largest in Kentucky.”

“Cousin Carolina still has black servants,” I remarked.

“Oh yes—Uncle Pete, Mammy, and Jane were born in the family, the children of children, of slaves, yet devoted to the Dormers.”

“Do you know, I saw such a forbidding looking nigger staring in through the breakfast-room window?” said Lucy. “I’ve never noticed him as one of the servants or hands, and he looked anything but devoted! He was coal black and big, and he pressed his hideous face close up against the glass door and scowled at me and muttered something; when I got up, and went to find out what he wanted, he was gone.”

“A tramp,” I suggested.

“Possibly. I hope I shan’t see him again!” said Lucy, rising. “Here come the horses and the buggy; you,” to me, “will have the house to yourself for the whole afternoon.”

“So much the better,” I answered; “I intend to make a sketch of Taffy, and there will be no one to distract his attention.”

Taffy was a handsome fox-terrier, remarkable for a very short tail and great independence of character.

I watched the cavalcade turn down the avenue, Cousin Carolina and Miss Boone driving, followed by two mounted couples, and then set to work to persuade Taffy to sit for his portrait. By and by the fierce glare of the setting sun compelled me to retreat with my block, paint-box, and model into the north verandah. This overlooked from a respectful distance the servants’ quarters—and, possibly for this reason, was but little frequented. It proved delightfully shady and almost empty, save for a few roomy old cane chairs, but now that I had obtained a satisfactory light my sitter began to fail me; he became restless, fidgety and disobedient, turning his head, pricking up his ears; finally he trotted off bodily. His attitude implied grave suspicion of something, or somebody—and his air was so uneasy that he almost gave the impression of there being an intruder in our vicinity—visible only to him!

This of course was a ridiculous idea, but as nothing would induce Taffy to “sit,” I relinquished the hope of finishing my sketch, and fetching a book from the drawing-room, settled myself comfortably in one of the cane chairs and prepared to pass an hour of undisturbed enjoyment. The story of “Uncle Tom” proved to be absorbing; I had almost lost consciousness of my surroundings, when I was startled by a very peculiar sound quite close to me, a strange inarticulate gurgling noise, as if someone was being choked. I looked about; there was not a soul in the verandah, and I came to the conclusion that Taffy had swallowed a fly, which had gone the wrong way. I called to him; he was not fly-catching, but seemed to be staring intently at a certain closed door, and entirely unconscious of my presence.

I resumed my book, only to be again disturbed by this peculiar choking noise, and Taffy, with all his hair bristling on his back, now sought refuge under my chair, uttering low growls. At the same moment I noticed, coming directly from the servants’ lines, a gigantic negro, whom I never remembered to have seen before. His head was bare, his face lowering and sullen; he wore a ragged blue and white striped jacket, trousers turned up to his knees, and a pair of clumsy boots. As he advanced, with a deliberate, purposeful air, I became conscious of a sensation of fear, which increased with every stride.

The evening was still and warm, not a breath of air was stirring, the very leaves were motionless. Taffy was dumb, and the only sound to be heard was these doggedly approaching footsteps.

A door in the verandah was suddenly flung open and, to my amazement, there came forth a middle-aged lady, who was a complete stranger; she wore a flowing white dressing-gown, with wide sleeves; her reddish hair, of which she had a quantity, hung loosely to her waist, her figure was tall and slight, her sallow face—this I only saw in profile—looked hard as flint; the expression of her sharply-cut features was fiercely determined, and aggressive. She hurried across the verandah with light, pattering footsteps, and reached the railings that enclosed it, almost at the same moment as the huge black. I gathered that she addressed him angrily—her face expressed violent fury—but I could not distinguish a single word. I sat there motionless, an amazed and nervous spectator. Presently Taffy crawled out from under my chair, and with one piercing howl fled from the scene like a creature possessed.

I observed that the negro listened to his mistress with downcast eyes, and an air of stolid indifference, also that, as he waited, he held one hand against his back; grasped in that hand—invisible to the woman—was a shining blade about two feet long, which I recognised as the knife used for cane-cutting, and called a “machite.”

As the two figures stood, one on the verandah, the other immediately beneath, I became aware that an enormous crowd had assembled outside the quarters, hundreds of coloured people—and a sudden hoarse hum arose, resembling the buzzing of angry bees. Finally the lady raised her clenched fist with a fierce, threatening gesture, and turned away.

As she did so, the negro gave a deep guttural laugh, reached out his arm, caught her violently by the hair, and dragged her head backwards over the edge of the railing. I saw her long thin throat, fully exposed, and it was with a shock of unexampled horror that I beheld the descent of a gleaming blade. With one swift stroke the wretched woman’s head was severed from her body, and I heard the previous gurgling and choking sound, as it fell with a heavy thud upon the lawn, while the trunk collapsed in a hideous heap upon the boards of the verandah—which were instantly deluged with blood. The dreadful tide was flowing towards me, but I was unable to stir hand or foot—I felt as if I were paralysed.

As the murderer, stooping, lifted the head by its hair, I had a view of the blanched and ghastly face, and the wide-open eyes fixed in wild astonishment. He held it up towards the lines, and in response there rose strange, fierce, and prolonged yells of jubilation—such, I imagine, as are uttered by savages, when exulting over some fallen enemy. Then with his horrible trophy in one hand and a dripping knife in the other, the negro turned, and looked straight at me. Instantly everything became blurred, black darkness descended, and I remember no more!

When I came to myself, the clear imperative voice of Cousin Carolina was saying:

“My dear Marion, do you know that it is very imprudent to sleep out of doors at sundown—even in our exquisite climate?”

“Sleep!” I repeated, with an involuntary shudder; “I’ve not been sleeping,” and with a painful effort I rose and tottered into a lighted sitting-room.

“What has happened to you, Marion?” cried my sister; “you look simply awful. Are you ill?—or have you seen a ghost?”

“Yes,” I answered, looking round at six expectant faces, “I have seen two in the verandah!”

I noticed that Miss Boone gave me a quick, sharp look, but the rest of the company wore indulgent smiles, and Cousin Carolina said:

“No such thing as ghosts, my dear—it’s only ignorant people like the negroes that believe in them now. You have Scotch blood in your veins, your mother was a Highlander, and no doubt you are a bit superstitious, and you have such imagination, dearest child, and are so highly strung. You have just dozed off and had a nightmare.”

“Tell me, what do you think you saw?” enquired Philip, who had brought me a glass of wine.

I sipped this before I answered:

“A horrible sight, a lady in a white gown—I believe the owner of the estate—was beheaded in the verandah by a huge negro, and all the slaves—hundreds of them—shouted, and yelled for joy.”

Mrs. Gossett, who was young and giddy, began to giggle, and then apologised, adding:

“It sounds so screamingly funny—a public execution in the Rochelle verandah!”

“It was just a bad nightmare, the combined result of crab salad at lunch, and ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’” declared Cousin Carolina, “and nothing else. I believe there is a place—somewhere near Lexington—that has a story, but it is certainly not Rochelle, and sensible folk don’t believe in such tales.”

“No,” I answered, now fortified by company and port wine. “But you will admit that seeing is believing. I’ve heard that my mother had second sight, and I’m afraid she has bequeathed it to me.”

“My dear, you are a little upset,” said Cousin Carolina; “don’t think of your dream, and you will soon forget it. I daresay it was very vivid. I implore you not to repeat it to any of the servants, or we shall have the place in an uproar. Now just go and lie down, and get a rest before supper-time; Lucy will look after you. Another time, we won’t leave you to keep house all alone.”

Cousin Carolina was a despotic lady in her way, and would never suffer my nightmare in the back north verandah to be discussed. I still stuck to my opinion, but was as one to six—for even my own sister had deserted me and preached about imagination, and crab salad. It seemed impossible that a mere nightmare could ever be so vivid in its horror, and its realism. For several days I felt ill and nervous, and it was only my pride, Cousin Carolina’s forcible character, and Mrs. Gossett’s wild giggle, that restrained me from removing myself to an hotel at Lexington.

I never sat alone, and preferred a crowd to solitude. I even thrust my company on Phil and Lucy, now an engaged couple. Taffy and I were fast friends; we two had shared a unique experience—an experience apart. I was sensible of this bond in his manner, and I read it in the expression of his wistful and expressive eye.

A suspicion, nay, a conviction, took root in my mind. Miss Boone knew more about Rochelle than she pretended. More than once, I found her gazing at me, with an air of peculiar interest, and, more than once, curiosity had urged her to angle (very cautiously) for some particulars of the tragedy I thought I had seen; but I declined to indulge her. She was an unbeliever—and I held my tongue.

In the month of January, Lucy once more faced the Atlantic, accompanied by Miss Boone, Philip, and myself. She was obliged to arrange about her trousseau, and money affairs. We travelled by a big liner, and had on the whole a capital trip. Miss Boone found several friends among the passengers, and one afternoon as we sat in the library in the idle hour which follows tea, an old lady, her son and daughter joined our small circle. We discussed a variety of topics and impressions, and at last came to Kentucky State, Lexington, and Rochelle.

“Rochelle,” repeated the lady’s daughter. “Is not that the haunted house, Momma?”

“Yes, the Taylors’ place,” she answered briskly; “there is a dreadful story about it, but I fancy it is more or less forgotten by this time. For years and years it could not be let—the house, I mean; the land of course is most valuable.”

“What is the story?” I enquired, and I glanced with some significance at Lucy and Philip.

“I remember hearing of it from my mother,” continued the old lady, “and it’s gospel truth. The Taylors were wealthy, and had a great estate, and hundreds of slaves, and were well thought of by all, till the time of Mrs. Herman Taylor, a widow, who inherited it from her husband. She was very strange—some said crazy—and lived alone; hoarded her money, flogged her slaves, and worked them to death. There were stories of terrible scenes at Rochelle—that lovely old place, so dignified and admired, had become a sort of negroes’ hell! People could only talk—they did not dare to interfere. Marcella Taylor was a rich woman, and a vindictive enemy, and had overseers as cruel and hard as herself, and she got more out of her slaves in the way of return than any mistress or master in the State. When it was moonlight, it was said, she worked them all night, and her crops were extraordinary.”

At last the situation became intolerable; beyond the endurance of flesh and blood. A field hand who had been cruelly flogged took the law into his own hands, and one evening, in the sight of the entire community, executed Mrs. Taylor in her own verandah! He had been summoned to receive a punishment, and the story is, that he suddenly drew a long knife, which he had concealed, dragged her backwards by the hair, and beheaded her on the spot. He took the head with him, escaped to the woods, and was never seen or heard of again.

“It was also said that every anniversary the scene was re-enacted in the same verandah—but fortunately was only visible to some. The Villiers, who succeeded to the estates, hated the place, and got rid of it, and so for two generations the house has had a bad name, but now it is apparently recovering its character. I suppose the supernatural has a time-limit?”

She glanced at me interrogatively, but Miss Boone threw me an imploring look and I suffered silence to pass for assent. In this extraordinary and unexpected fashion my experience was confirmed, my truthfulness vindicated, there was an end to gibes about dreams, and crab salad. Subsequently Miss Boone confessed to me that the tale of the north verandah was not new to her, but that she had not wished to frighten Cousin Carolina. As if anything could frighten Cousin Carolina! She has nerves of cast-iron.

As for Lucy, she assured me with a rather unsteady laugh that when, as Mrs. Philip Dormer, she returned to Rochelle, nothing that could be offered would ever induce her to spend an afternoon there alone.

IV
IMITATION PEARLS

It was entirely owing to the death and defalcations of a trustee that my sister Linda and I—heiresses in a small way—awoke one morning to find ourselves penniless! We were orphans, and since our schooldays had made our home with a widowed aunt in the depth of the country, on the borders of an ancient village, within a parish whose extent was under a hundred acres. Aunt Sophy’s house, which enjoyed the flattering name of “Heart’s Delight,” was a little old manor, with shallow oak stairs, low ceilings and heavy beams, standing in the midst of rich meadows and stately trees, and immediately surrounded by a delicious garden, with mulberry trees, and a stew-pond.

Here we three lived in complete harmony. Aunt Sophy was fifty-four, my sister Linda, temporary housekeeper and manager, was twenty-four—she was engaged to Arthur Fortescue, a naval officer on the China station—whilst I was but twenty, rather pretty, incorrigibly cheerful, and entirely fancy free.

Mr. Benford, our guardian, who had been father’s best man—and was presumed to be our best friend—was a bland, somewhat portly, elderly gentleman, who, when we made rare visits to London, took us to the theatre, and to dine at smart restaurants, and even lent us his beautiful blue Panhard! He occupied luxurious bachelor quarters in the West End, and was generally supposed to be enviably rich. Recently he died rather suddenly—indeed, suicide had been suspected—and when his affairs came to be examined, three tragic facts were disclosed. For years, he had been involved in serious difficulties; his debts were enormous, and our twelve thousand pounds had long been dispersed in wild speculations—though he had paid us the interest punctually twice a year—and now both our guardian and our income had ceased to exist.

At first we felt stunned; and for many days Aunt Sophy remained sternly incredulous. Ultimately the truth was brought home to her by friends. Letters and visits of sympathy, offers of advice and help were not lacking. Linda, who was really the head of the house, promptly decided that one or both of us must turn out and work for our living, for Aunt Sophy’s means were limited (barely two hundred a year, besides “Heart’s Delight” and its contents).

The first and most essential move was to cut down expenses; the victoria and dogcart, the sleek horse, and sleeker cows, were sold, maids and gardener dismissed, and the establishment reduced to a mere general and boy. The old pony remained to take aunt out in the governess-car, but the meadows were let, and the family silver disposed of, as well as two much-prized Chippendale chairs.

Arthur Fortescue’s uncle, a wealthy admiral on the retired list (who invariably spoke of himself as a “sea-dog”), would not consent to Linda taking any situation—indeed, he was furious at the mere suggestion—but offered no alternative. However, a girl so capable and contriving was in the right place at home; she proposed a daring scheme—to make the garden pay, and also to undertake delicate needlework for one of the great outfitting shops in London.

Summer wore into autumn, yet still I, so to speak, “remained on hand.” I gardened, and sewed industriously, and did housework, hoping every day that Aunt Sophy’s anxious wish might be fulfilled, and that “something nice would turn up for Letty.” A post as companion to an amiable and wealthy old lady; or as governess to two dear little girls under ten, was what my friends desired. I spoke French fluently, and was a good pianist, but as so much more is expected in these days (Latin, German, Euclid, Mathematics, Gymnastics, Sketching), the value of my services was placed at the low figure of forty pounds per annum and washing; and yet in spite of this moderate assessment, no eager employer had claimed me!

The truth was, we were out of the beaten track—and Early Victorian in our ideas. Aunt Sophy had a horror of “seeing me in an advertisement,” as she expressed it. “It was always so much pleasanter and safer to try and hear of a nice opening through one’s friends.”

And to do them justice, our friends were active—especially Miss Pinfold—an old maid who lived at the other end of the village; Mrs. Clarke, our rector’s wife, was also zealous on my behalf. Miss Pinfold wrote many letters, also scores of postcards, and almost every acquaintance had been victimised and pestered, irrespective of age or sex. More than once she said to Aunt Sophy:

“If Letty could only go to India! I’ll lay my life a girl with her remarkable looks will marry some wonderful catch.”

But Aunt Sophy was not in favour of this dazzling idea and looked coldly on the scheme. India was too far away, and was said to be the happy hunting-ground of fast women—as well as abounding with snakes!

For my own part, I had always (privately) cherished a burning desire to see the East, and though I did not believe in the wonderful, or any, “catch,” I was profoundly interested in Miss Pinfold’s tales of the days of her grandfather, who had been a famous Indian warrior, and had fought the Sikhs, and also in the more modern activities of her two married nieces.

In the end, it was Mrs. Clarke who brought us the great news! She arrived one evening at tea-time, eager and important, letter in hand, and breathlessly announced that she had found “the very thing for Letty at last!” Her husband’s cousin, who received Indian children, and had “an Indian connection,” knew of a lady, the wife of an official in good position, who required a governess to take charge of two dear little girls, aged seven and eight; they were in the hills almost all the year in a perfect climate; the salary offered was forty pounds and a second-class passage out, and, if suitable, an engagement for two years. The governess must be a gentlewoman, young, healthy, energetic, and Church of England. She would be required to teach French, English, and music, and expected to arrive not later than the end of February. It was now November.

“It seems made for Letty!” said Mrs. Clarke—her voice quivering with triumph as she handed the epistle to my aunt; “you should write at once!”

But Aunt Sophy and Linda were politely dubious.

“Dear Mrs. Clarke, who is this Mrs. Hooper?” enquired my sister. “Letty could not write and engage herself to a lady we know nothing about; of course, there must be mutual references; and forty pounds for India is so little!”

“Well, she gets her board and washing free,” put in Miss Pinfold, who happened to be present, “and has the forty pounds in her pocket, and, as I’ve said before, Letty will never come home Letty Harlowe—she’ll make a great match!” and she rubbed her knees with an air of complacent finality.

“Not likely,” objected Linda; “and Letty is not going to India on the chance of finding a husband. Arthur says those days were over sixty years ago. Of course, I know Letty has always devoured books on India, and longs to see it; but she is not to jump at Mrs. Hooper’s offer—though it is so good of Mrs. Clarke to bring it and, I know she,” looking at her, “would be the first to advise caution.”

Ultimately Mrs. Hooper proved to be my fate. Her references were unexceptional. Colonel Hooper was in the Indian Army, and held an important post on “the Survey.” She wrote Aunt Sophy a letter that was almost gushing, and promised to take every care of the dear girl and treat her, in short, as the daughter of the house! I may mention that my references had been forwarded, and included a warm recommendation from a lady of title.

The next weeks simply flew! My outfit was put in hand, an escort was found for me in Mrs. Russell, a distant relative, whose husband commanded a regiment in Bengal, and our passages were booked in the Malwa, which sailed on February 5th. Linda had insisted that I should travel first-class, and share Mrs. Russell’s cabin. She had known our mother, and was sure to be kind to me. The extra passage money and my outfit made a deep hole in our finances, and Linda sold almost the whole of our jewellery in order to meet these expenses. All my ornaments now consisted of a pair of gold bangles, a watch, and a string of Parisian pearls, fastened by an old diamond clasp that had belonged to my grandmother.

I will draw a veil over those last weeks at home, my tearful farewells to the neighbours, Aunt Sophy, and the dogs. Linda and I spent our last day together in London, and the next morning she escorted me down to Tilbury in order to see me off. The Malwa seemed to be a full ship; there were numbers of passengers bound for Gibraltar and Egypt. In the saloon a wire was awaiting me; it was from Mrs. Russell, and said, “My boy dangerously ill, appendicitis, departure postponed, sorry.” Undoubtedly I was condemned to travel alone, and must just make the best of the situation. Linda was most dreadfully concerned. She actually broke down, and wept.

“I felt so confident, and happy at your having one friend in India,” she sobbed. “Oh, it’s really heart-breaking!”

After I had comforted her a little, we descended together in order to inspect my cabin and arrange my belongings. We found Mrs. Russell’s place already occupied—evidently by a lady who used a prodigious amount of scent. She had secured the bottom berth, the best looking-glass, and her odds and ends were scattered about in a most disorderly fashion.

Afterwards, when Linda and I walked about together, she said:

“How I hate your going alone, Letty; you are so young—yes, and so pretty. How I wish there was some nice, motherly woman I could pin you on to!” and she looked around the crowd with a face of blank despair. “Do be careful who you speak to, and who you get to know; keep to yourself as much as possible, and above all avoid men.”

Never had I seen Linda so depressed, so nervous or so tearful—not even when Arthur went to China—and I must confess that I, too, wept bitterly as I signalled to a figure that waved from the dock.

Going down the Channel the weather was moderate. I found my allotted place at dinner, and kept it, too. There were about twelve at our table. On my left was a florid young officer, with prominent brown eyes and turned-up moustache, who talked to me persistently; but after that evening I spent two miserable days in my berth. My cabin companion proved to be a stout, showy lady, with auburn hair, expressive dark eyes, and an exquisite complexion. She seemed to fill the whole cabin, and to be under the impression that she was its sole occupant.

At an early hour the stewardess brought her a stiff whisky and soda, afterwards, she smoked cigarettes, breakfasted on grilled duck and porter, and then made a leisurely and elaborate toilette—sitting before the glass on a rickety camp stool doing up her face with various little brushes and pencils, serenely indifferent to my interested inspection. Her hair, which seemed coarse and rather scanty, was supplemented by a generous supply of curls and rolls; her petticoats were the most elaborate I ever beheld, and her dress, blouse, and furs looked equally expensive. She wore enormous diamond earrings, a jaunty, rather outré hat, and eventually sallied forth in obvious good humour with her own appearance.

All the afternoon she sprawled in her berth, smoking, dozing, and drinking whiskies and soda. Subsequently she attired herself for dinner in a costume that was far more suitable to a ballroom than board ship. The lady kept late hours, snored noisily, and never vouchsafed the faintest recognition of me, until I brusquely introduced myself to her notice. I was watching her toilette on the third morning out, with almost painful intensity. I had read of the “art of making up the face,” and now I was receiving first-rate, first-hand, instruction. As the artist was about to put away her brushes I could not refrain from exclaiming:

“You’ve forgotten the left eyebrow!”

“Laws, so I ’ave!” she answered with astonishing composure. “And so you are not dumb or dead, you little cherub up aloft? My! but you ’ave ’ad a time! You look like a happorth of soap after a week’s washing. Take my advice and ’ave a good old whisky and soda, and that will buck you up.”

Although I turned a deaf ear to this suggestion, I managed to dress, and with the assistance of the stewardess crawled on deck the same afternoon. It was bitterly cold and sunless, and I realised that I was all alone aboard this great rolling steamer, on the grey heaving sea, amidst a crowd of total strangers. No doubt I looked rather shaky and forlorn, for a nice old gentleman, with a friendly face, came forward and led me to a chair, whilst another—a younger man—placed a rug over my knees.

“I’m glad to see you are up,” said the former. “Anything is better than stifling down below, eh?”

I smiled faintly as I thanked him.

“I suppose your friends are hors de combat?” he continued, as he sat down beside me.

“My friends—I have none on board. I am all alone,” I replied. I still felt weak and giddy, and could not restrain the tears which started into my eyes.

“You must allow me to bring you some chicken broth,” urged the younger gentleman, who had a clear-cut, clean-shaven face, and wore a fur-lined coat; and in another moment a steaming cup was in my hands. As I sipped the broth I felt revived, the keen sea air refreshed me, and sitting between my two new acquaintances I found myself telling them that I was going all the way to Bombay, that it was my first long journey, and how I had been disappointed of the company of my chaperone.

“I hope you have a nice cabin companion?” enquired the old man (I believe he was about fifty).

I hesitated for a moment, and then indicated my partner, who, at a little distance, lay extended in a chair bandying good stories and chaff with a hearty audience of three men. It seemed to me that my neighbours exchanged hasty glances, and instantly began to talk about some of the other passengers. Many, I gathered, were still below; we had a prince and princess and suite on board, a well-known novelist, a famous actress, but all the notable and wealthy passengers were landing at Port Said for Egypt.

“After the Canal,” added my new acquaintance, “we shall be an empty ship.”

At dinner time the weather was calmer, and I ventured to descend, and found myself once more beside the agreeable officer, who welcomed me with effusion. During the courses he told me the names of most of those at our table. My old gentleman was, it seemed, a General Pontifex, who was en route for Madras, to take up a command; his clean-shaven, good-looking companion was his nephew, a Mr. Sandars, bound for the jungle and sport. Captain Bilton (my neighbour) informed me that he was only going to Gib., but that as far as he went he would consider me his special charge, and proved as good as his word. He sat beside me on deck, and subsequently promenaded with me, and, although I assumed my most distant manner (remembering Linda’s warning), became every hour more and more friendly and confidential. On the fourth evening, he suddenly remarked:

“I say, Miss Harlowe, what a ripping necklace you have! I wonder you dare to wear it on board ship.”

I made no reply, and turned the subject; but when he again returned to the charge, and said as he stared fixedly at my ornament, “Do excuse my rudeness, but I must confess one does not often see such topping pearls!” I felt that I must not allow him to deceive himself, and replied:

“I am glad you admire them—but they are not real.”

“Oh, nonsense!” he protested energetically, “I think I know real pearls when I see them.”

“I assure you that I bought these in Regent Street for twenty-five shillings.”

“What! Well, I never was more deceived in my life—such colour and shape; they look worth every penny of five thousand pounds!”

“I only wish they were,” I answered unguardedly.

“Why?”

“Because I would not then be on my way to India.”

“But you are going out to your people, and are just the sort of girl that will have a ripping time!”

“I am afraid you are wrong again—real pearls and ripping times are not for me! I am on my way to be a governess in Naini Tal.”

For a moment he was too stupefied to speak, his eyes seemed to travel over me from my necklace, my lace blouse (remnant of better days) to my neat evening shoes, and he exclaimed:

“By Jove! You don’t say so! Anyone would take you for the daughter of a millionaire.”

After this evening I seemed no longer to have any special interest for Captain Bilton; he scarcely spoke to me at meals, and then in an off-hand, patronising manner, that I secretly resented; yet on deck, the night of our last conversation, he had assured me he had never in all his life been so much struck by a girl as by me, and we must not lose sight of one another. He added that he would write—and send me a fan from Gib.

How thankful I was that I had received this overture with civil discouragement, for when we touched Gibraltar, Captain Bilton had so far forgotten my existence as not even to wish me good-bye!

The Mediterranean was warmer than the Bay, and I was nearly suffocated by the perfumes in my cabin, for my companion (Madame Garda) would not suffer the ports to be opened; and really between patchouli and cigarette smoke, I felt all but asphyxiated. Two days before we reached Port Said I missed the string of pearls—my sole and paltry ornament: I remembered that I had worn it the previous night, and taken it off when I undressed; and now it was gone. I searched very carefully. No, there was not a trace of it. I applied to Madame Garda when she swung into the cabin before tea.

“Pearls! Never knew you had such things! We must have a good look. Imitation, you say? Well, even so, you don’t want to lose them, do you?” and she good-naturedly went down on her knees, and raked under the berth with an umbrella, searched all over the floor with her large bejewelled hands—and found nothing!

“It’s a pity!” she exclaimed, rising breathless. “I do ’ate losing things myself. Maybe you dropped ’em on deck—them clasps are so rotten.”

The next day I confided my loss to the stewardess, who came into the cabin and instituted a most business-like investigation.

“If you say you had them, and hung them on your pin-cushion night afore last, they’re bound to be in this cabin, and I’m bound to find them!” she announced with an air of invincible determination. After examining all my property, she proceeded to turn out madame’s belongings with reckless disrespect, violently shaking her gowns and petticoats.

“Ah! ha!” she exclaimed, as suddenly, with a clinking sound, my necklace fell out of the pocket of a gorgeous bath-gown. “I thought as much!” and she nodded at me with terrible significance; “now you lock them up, miss.”

“But, stewardess, they are only imitation,” I protested, “and it must have been a mistake.”

“I don’t hold with those sort of mistakes,” she sternly declared. “Your pretty sister asked me to keep an eye on you, and so I have. To-morrow madame goes ashore, and a good riddance. Her liquor bill would frighten a barman, and after to-morrow, Miss Harlowe, you will have the cabin to yourself.”

I do not know if madame discovered that her dressing-gown had been rifled; at any rate, she made no sign, and before she landed bade me an affectionate farewell, assuring me that “I was a real good, decent little girl—and she could go round the world with me!”

The important Egyptian crowd went ashore with piles of luggage, maids, and valets, bent on a season in Cairo, or a trip to Assouan, or even Khartoum. The remnant left was comparatively a small number; officers and officials and planters going East, at the end of their leave, to brave the horrors of approaching hot weather. An Eastern moon lighted us down the Red Sea, and we had the piano and music on deck. I played most of the accompaniments, and always those for Mr. Sandars, who had a beautiful tenor voice and sang some of Wagner’s songs—especially the prize song from the Meistersinger—delightfully. By this time I had become well acquainted with him and his uncle; indeed, they seemed like old friends, particularly the uncle, who had a knack of absorbing my confidences. I told him all about home, Linda and her fiancé (General Pontifex, it turned out, had been fag to the Admiral, and invariably burnt his toast and boots) and our losses. I described our neighbours, our dogs, and even Methusalem, the aged but active pony. In the mornings I played deck quoits with Mr. Sandars as partner, and in the evenings after dinner paced up and down the deck with the General, his uncle.

Besides these, I had made the acquaintance of two ladies—Mrs. Wallace and Mrs. Mason—wives of officials in Madras, who also sat at our table, and were charming to me. Oh, how I dreaded the end of the trip, when I should lose my new friends, and be once more a castaway amongst total strangers.

The evening before we landed, General Pontifex begged me to give him my address, and also not to think it a liberty if he ventured to advise me in one matter. This, I was amazed to learn, was a request not to wear my beautiful pearls every day, and in all companies.

“India,” he declared, “is a land where jewels are more highly prized than elsewhere—and yours are magnificent, Miss Harlowe; they invite envy, and tempt thieves.”

“But they are imitation,” I replied impatiently—I was becoming tired of making this announcement. “I bought them in Regent Street two years ago. My sister thought they were too large and remarkable, but I would have them; they cost twenty-five shillings, and the clasp alone is real.”

“They look immensely valuable,” he rejoined. “Many people have noticed them—they have the real sheen. You are sure they are imitation?”

“Positive,” I answered; “if they were real we would have sold them with the rest of our jewellery, and the old silver and ‘chairs.’”

Mr. Sandars, who happened to be standing by, overheard this conversation. He also heard Mrs. Mason and Mrs. Wallace requesting me to write and let them know how I was getting on.

“I, too, should like to hear,” he said, “but I am going into the jungle, and don’t know my own address; but when I do emerge—I hope I may have tidings of you—somehow——”

There was something so significant in his glance that I felt my heart throb, and my face suddenly flame. I realised acutely how honestly glad I should be to have tidings of Mr. Sandars. But my prudent sister, with second-hand wisdom, had warned me against certain snares.

“Arthur says that no matter what warm friendships or desperate love affairs are started on ship-board, they all come to nothing! There is no one so soon forgotten as a fellow-passenger—he or she goes clean out of your mind along with all the voyage miseries.”

To my surprise I did not part with the General and Mr. Sandars on the Apollo Bund in Bombay; we travelled in the same train (but not in the same carriage), crawling up and down the towering Ghâts, and onwards across the level, monotonous plains. They visited me from time to time with offerings of books or fruit, until early one morning we arrived at Basaule Junction, where they joined a mail for the South.

Here, after the General had said good-bye, Mr. Sandars returned unexpectedly and, holding my hand for a second, looked at me steadily. I noticed that his lips were trembling, as they said, “Little girl, don’t forget me?” then he turned abruptly, and disappeared.

Early as it was, the first of March, Mrs. Hooper was already installed at “Beverley,” a large, imposing house overlooking the lake at Naini Tal, and almost directly under Cheena. She received me in the drawing-room—which gave one the immediate impression of a great deal of pink. Everything seemed to be of this colour—the covers, curtains, carpet, lampshades. Mrs. Hooper was a woman of five-and-thirty, tall, dark, and very handsome, with an alarmingly deep voice. She accorded me—considering my long journey, and the fact that I was to be “the daughter of the house”—a surprisingly cool reception. I did not expect her to kiss me, but after my recent fatiguing experience in a hill “dandy,” I should have been glad if she had asked me to take off my hat and have a cup of tea.

“Dear me, Miss Harlowe,” she exclaimed, “you look much younger than I anticipated—why, you are a mere child!” she added severely.

“I was twenty-one in February,” I replied.

“You might be seventeen! I hope I shall find you competent, healthy, and above all steady,” surveying me with a hard, concentrated stare.

“I hope so,” I assented stiffly.

Then she made searching enquiries respecting the tiresome, cumbersome parcels I had brought out for her, and, when her mind had been thoroughly relieved, she raised her voice and called out “Teesie and Dodo!” and two little girls, who must have been within earshot, entered demurely; little girls with sallow faces, bright black eyes, very scanty white frocks, very thin black legs, and equally thin black pigtails—tied, needless to say, with pink ribbon.

“These are your charges,” she explained. “Dodo and Teesie, this is your new governess.”

The couple surveyed me in silence. Their expressions reminded me of our dog, Tack, when he had killed and buried a chicken—fearful, yet defiant!—and presently my two pupils began to mutually criticise me in voluble Hindustani, with gesticulations to correspond.

Before very long I found my level in the household. My quarters were at the back of the house—two gloomy rooms looking straight into rocks on the hillside, and when on wet days the rain streamed down, the prospect was excessively depressing.

Here I endeavoured to teach the children, and here we had our meals. We breakfasted together, afterwards there were lessons and a promenade along the upper Mall, tiffin in the dining-room with Colonel and Mrs. Hooper—unless there was company; then more lessons and another walk, supper, and to bed. Our outings were restricted to the wooded hillsides of two upper Malls; from whence we caught occasional glimpses of the gleaming “Tal” a thousand feet beneath us; we were never permitted to descend and mix with the gay and giddy crowd who were playing tennis or polo, boating, shopping, or riding. I found that I was expected not only to teach the little girls, mend their clothes and be their ever-constant companion, but to wash the peevish Maltese dog, and, when there was company, was pressed into service to trim lamps, and arrange flowers.

Mrs. Hooper, a “society woman,” was extremely smart, popular, and rarely at home; and Colonel Hooper, a stout, bald, good-natured man, was frequently absent for many weeks on survey. The children had been disgracefully neglected, and left entirely to the Ayah and servants (with brief interludes of governesses), and were appallingly wise for their years.

“Mamma slapped Miss Vincent,” announced Teesie, “and so she left. She made a bobbery, too, and complained to the Padre. Miss Dodd would not stay either; she was always crying, and said she was a lady, and would not wash Motee, or do the dhoby—and went away in a week.”

Vainly did I implore Teesie not to repeat things, but she only cracked her fingers, native fashion, and shouted at the top of her shrill voice, “Daddy says you are awfully pretty—the prettiest girl in Naini—and have a very poor time, and he and mammy had a row—and mammy said she hated the sight of you!”

It was an undeniable fact that when the Colonel was at home I was better off. He treated me with every courtesy, sent me the Pioneer, twice escorted me to a gymkhana with the children, and once to a theatrical performance.

By the end of July I had been five months in India and seen but little of the country, beyond the woody walks in the upper Mall at Naini Tal—now wet as sponges in the heavy monsoon—and “St. John in the Wilderness” on Sunday evenings. Mrs. Hooper attended in the morning, accompanied by the little girls, who sat on either side of her with roving, knowing eyes, but otherwise conducting themselves with surprising discretion. This was the only time their mother desired their society—she liked to pose (in public) as a devoted parent. I was by no means the daughter of the house, as Aunt Sophy fondly believed; in fact, I was more like a maid-of-all-work, but I kept my troubles to myself, for I knew that it would make Linda and auntie miserable if I complained, and I hoped at the end of a year to find some loophole of escape—and go down to Madras, where Mrs. Mason had invited me to pay her a long, long visit in the Shevaroy Hills.

During these months I had learned Hindustani, had gained the children’s entire approbation, received some startling confidences, and experienced an adventure. I was awakened one night by stealthy steps on the matting in my room, and by the light of an oil wick in a tumbler in the bathroom I beheld a tall, half-naked native busily opening boxes and drawers on my dressing table. I sat up and watched him for some minutes—somehow I was not frightened—I knew the chokedar and a peon were close by in the back verandah. He seemed to be eagerly searching for something; at last he drew it out, and it proved to be the string of pearls! These he held up to the light, felt them carefully, put them to his lips, licked them, and was about to steal away, when suddenly I gave a piercing shriek. He started violently, and dashed into the bathroom.

Meanwhile my screams had been heard, and the house was aroused. The thief endeavoured to escape through the bathroom window, but it is quite one thing to climb through a small space at your ease and leisure, and another to be compelled to do so in a desperate hurry. After a frantic struggle he wriggled through, and in doing so dropped his prize—the string of pearls fell out of his turban—but he fled away into the woods below Cheena scot free.

When Mrs. Hooper heard of the thief’s visit she was terribly alarmed, and a second watchman was immediately stationed on guard in the verandah.

“I expect he was after my diamonds,” she declared, “and these Budmashes are so expert, and so cunning—they always slip off; their bodies are covered with oil.”

It seemed so strange that there had been two attempts to steal a miserable little string of false pearls, and I now kept them locked up in my large steamer trunk, and rarely wore them.

They had immediately attracted Mrs. Hooper’s attention, and she, like others, listened to the usual explanation, merely remarking:

“I wonder you bought them such a size! To my mind it makes an imitation look so vulgar!”

Sometimes when ladies had tiffin at Beverley the children and I were present, but on these occasions Dodo and Teesie were temporarily suppressed, and I was dumb and self-effaced.

“Mr. Sandars called to-day,” remarked Mrs. Hooper to her visitor, Mrs. Leith; her tone indicated triumph. “Such a nice, good-looking young fellow! He has been shooting in the C.P. He is very well connected, and unmarried.”

“What a chance for some of our spins!” said Mrs. Leith.

“Oh, he doesn’t encourage girls—he is not a marrying man.”

“Look at Miss Harlowe—isn’t she funny and red!” cried Teesie, directing everyone’s attention to me.

“Perhaps Miss Harlowe knows Mr. Sandars?” said Mrs. Hooper, staring at me; her voice had a sharp edge, and her eyes were piercing.

“We came out in the same ship,” I explained.

“Oh, was that all?” and, turning once more to her visitor, they began to discuss a great ball that was to take place at the club, and soon forgot my existence.

That same afternoon, as I was exercising the children and the dogs in the middle Mall, I found myself suddenly confronted by Mr. Sandars. He looked uncommonly smart in his well-cut flannels, and hailed me with an air of joyous rediscovery. After a brief salutation, he said:

“So these are your charges. How are you getting on?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“I must say you don’t do much credit to Naini Tal air. You don’t look yourself—or happy.”

“You must not judge by appearances,” I answered gaily. “Remember the pearls.”

“Ah, yes, I remember the pearls—rather! I suppose you have them still?”

I nodded and asked, “How is General Pontifex?”

“Very fit.”

“Did you have good sport?”

“Splendid. I have stacks of heads, horns, and skins at Jubbulpore waiting for me to take them home.”

“You will be going soon?”

“That depends. I called to-day on Mrs. Hooper, and rather hoped to see you. I suppose you were out?”

“No, she wasn’t,” broke in Teesie, who had been an attentive listener, “she was giving me a music lesson. Mamma never lets the governesses see company.”

“Hush, Teesie,” I expostulated, and Teesie turned to her sister, and they gabbled together and held a violent argument in what was really their native tongue. “I’m afraid we must be going home,” I said. “I cannot keep these children out when the mist rises from the lake.”

“May I walk back with you?” he asked.

“No, no, he may not,” declared Teesie with dignified decision. “A young police officer used to come and walk with Miss Shaw, and I told mummy, and Miss Shaw was sent away directly!” and she cracked her finger joints till they sounded like so many squibs.

“And I don’t wish to be sent away,” I said with a smile, as I offered him my hand.

“Well, I wonder at that!” he exclaimed, “but, of course, it would be heart-breaking to part with that delightful child. Au revoir!” raising his cap; and as we passed down the hill, I felt unaccountably uplifted and consoled.

I noticed Mr. Sandars at evening church on Sunday, and he walked home with me, as if it were entirely a matter of course.

“I have friends who live here,” he said, “the Osbornes, and they have told me all about the life you lead with the smart Mrs. Hooper—joie de rue, douleur de maison.”

“Oh, please don’t listen to Naini Tal gossip!” I protested.

“Then please listen to me. You know this ball that comes off on Monday? My friends are going—Mrs. Osborne has met you at tiffin, and she desires me to say she will be delighted to take you.”

“It is most kind of her—but Colonel Hooper——”

“Will make no objection. I’ve squared him—he knows my people at home, and he agrees that it is time you had some little distraction.”

“I am sure Mrs. Hooper won’t like it—and I know no one——”

“So much the better,” he interrupted, “then you can dance all the time with me. I suppose you have a dress?”

“Yes, and I’ll wear the pearl necklace. I’ve not been to a dance for a year; it seems too good to be true!”

After all, it was Mrs. Hooper who chaperoned me to the dance (much against the grain), and good-natured Colonel Hooper who introduced me to partners. I spent a delightful evening, my card was filled in five minutes, and I could have danced every dance three times. I gave four waltzes to Mr. Sandars, and, for once, tasted the pleasures of a social success! In fact, I overhead whispers of, “What a pretty girl! Who is she?” and the invariable answer was, “Mrs. Hooper’s governess.”

But Mrs. Hooper was not pleased with her governess. Indeed the following morning she informed me that I had made myself too shockingly conspicuous, and was altogether such bad style; and kindly Teesie threw oil upon the flames, for a little later Mrs. Hooper, looking white and austere, came to me, and said in her most impressive manner, and in her deepest tone:

“Miss Harlowe, is it true that you have met Mr. Sandars in the upper Mall, and that he said you did not look happy—and asked you about the pearls?”

“He said I did not look well,” I corrected, “and as to the pearls, that was merely an old joke.”

“Bring them to me at once!” she commanded authoritatively. I brought them obediently, and placed them in her hands. “They were remarked on last night,” she announced, “someone said the Viceroy’s wife had no better! Yes,” turning them over as she spoke, “they are real,” and her voice vibrated with indignation, “real; splendid, and worth thousands! How can a governess on forty pounds a year afford such? But that is easily—too easily—explained. Mr. Sandars is the explanation—he gave them to you, of course! He was your partner most of last evening—it’s simply disgraceful! Now look here,” breathing hard, “I give you three days’ notice, a month’s salary, and you get out of my house!”

Mrs. Hooper absolutely refused to listen to any explanation. She would not allow me to speak. Crimson in the face, and hoarse with passion, she reiterated:

“You assured me that they were imitation! I know better now! It is you who are the imitation—the imitation of a decent, respectable young woman. I believe your references were forged!”

Luckily the children were at a party, not listening (as usual) at the other side of the portière, and I had the whole afternoon to myself. I wrote home, and also to Mrs. Mason, and carried my letters down to the post-office, as I intended to dispatch a wire. On the hill I came face to face with Mr. Sandars.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed, as he paused and surveyed me, “so you have been crying!”

I informed him that I had just been summarily dismissed, and all because Mrs. Hooper believed that I had not come honestly by the pearls. I also proceeded to tell him how nearly they had been stolen on two occasions, although they were worthless—and that there was certainly something peculiar about them—at any rate, they had brought me bad luck.

“It is extraordinary,” he assented, “and I cannot make it out! The pearls look magnificent. I noticed them last night; and yet you bought them yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and my sister was with me. I know the very shop in Regent Street.”

“Ah well, never mind the pearls now!” he exclaimed with an air of almost fierce determination.

“No, and I shall certainly not wear them in my next situation,” I replied.

“Your next situation?” he repeated.

“I think Mrs. Mason knows of one that will suit me.”

“If it comes to that—so do I.”

I stared at him in amazement. Then, with a gesture of impatience, he resumed, “Look here, I can’t talk to you here among this buzzing crowd” (we were now close to the landing-stage); “come out on the lake with me for ten minutes. Never mind Mrs. Hooper or Mrs. Grundy.”

When he had rowed some distance in dead silence, he suddenly rested on his oars and confronted me with a serious face.

“Miss Harlowe,” he said, “I’ve brought you out here, where you cannot escape, to ask you to marry me. Yes, no wonder you start—but listen. Ever since I first saw you, from the moment you sat down at table opposite to me looking so timid and white, I’ve been in love with you. My uncle knew all about it; he, too, experienced your charm, but he urged me to go slow—you were so young and so inexperienced. He improved your acquaintance in those long board-ship walks and talks, and made me furiously jealous; and as to that Bilton fellow, who started such running at first, I felt inclined to pick a quarrel and pitch him overboard. Perhaps you don’t know that I am ridiculously rich; I wish I wasn’t; it sounds a funny thing to say, but money is an immense responsibility, and Uncle Tom said I was bound to marry a girl who had a head on her shoulders, who could hold her own in society and be a help—and that you were a mere inexperienced child. However, he soon altered that opinion. He found you modest, accomplished, dignified and sensible. The next objection was far more serious. He declared that you did not care a brass button about me.”

It was not for me to enlighten him, and after a pause he gravely continued:

“You never seemed to mind which of us you talked to—indeed, of the two, you were far more confidential and friendly with the General, and never gave me any encouragement. However, I just ran up here to see you. I have had your face before me all the time I’ve been away shooting, and I seem to have arrived at what they call the psychological moment—when your affairs have come to a crisis; and the upshot of this long story is—will you marry me?”

Subsequently we spent an exciting quarter of an hour explaining, arguing, urging, and protesting, for somehow though I felt desperately agitated, and most unspeakably happy, I was frightened by his money and the responsibilities of my future ‘position.’ However, as might be supposed, it ended in my landing at the boat-house the fiancée of Alaric Sandars, and it was promptly arranged by my future lord and master that I was to go straight to the Osbornes as soon as I had put some things together, and there make my preparations for an immediate departure to England.

“Now that we have despatched our wires, letters, secured passages, and done no end of fagging things—including my interview with Mrs. Hooper—let us discuss the great pearl mystery,” said Alaric, as we paced up and down Mrs. Osborne’s long verandah, whilst the monsoon torrents poured and splashed outside. “You say you never had them out of your hands but once—and when was that?”

“The day before I sailed,” I replied, “when I was in London with Linda, I broke the string, and we went out and left the necklace at a shop, a middling sort of jewellers, near our middling sort of hotel, and said we would call back for it that evening, which we did. It was getting dusk, and after a little delay a woman, whom I had not seen before, found the pearls and handed them to me; the charge was three shillings, and we thought it extravagant for just a string of cotton!”

“I see it! I see light!” exclaimed Alaric, coming to a standstill. “By mistake, she gave you another necklace—a necklace of real pearls—and has never been able to trace it! Letty, it must be our first business, when we get home, to find this woman, and restore the treasure-trove.”

Alaric faithfully fulfilled his promise; he and Linda and I, after some difficulty, discovered the jeweller’s shop, but it was closed and “To Let.” We enquired for the late tenant, and were informed that his name was Hobhouse; he had had a lot of trouble, become a bankrupt, and completely disappeared. After long and vexatious delay we eventually traced the man to a small seaside town, where he was endeavouring to earn money as a working jeweller, whilst his wife took in a humble class of summer lodgers. In a little formal row of thin red-brick houses we knocked at number nine, and the door was opened by Mrs. Hobhouse herself. When she beheld us she turned a ghastly colour.

“Tom, it’s them!” she screamed to someone in the back of the premises, “the two girls come at last!” Then she staggered into a musty little sitting-room and collapsed on the sofa in floods of hysterical tears. Her husband now joined us, a thin, careworn man, who was evidently trembling with agitation. As soon as Mrs. Hobhouse could speak (she subsequently did all the talking) she informed us that a most valuable heirloom had been entrusted to her husband for some slight repairs. It was a family treasure, but her ladyship knew that Hobhouse was as honest as the sun. In the dusk she herself had given me the treasure by mistake, and next day handed the mock pearls to the countess! Of course there was an awful outcry—terrible work. Hobhouse had done everything he could to trace me; employed detectives, and advertised far and wide—even to America—but all to no purpose. They were sued by the countess, who had been deprived of her ancestral pearls—and implacably sold up.

Ruined alike in money and credit—and that just as they were beginning to make a start—no one would believe them—no, not their own relatives; but all the world wondered what they had done with the Warrenford pearls?

I handed them over to Hobhouse when he entered, and never, never shall I forget his gasp of relief. (Strange to say, my own imitation pearls still remained in their possession, and when I departed I carried them away.) Poor people, their joy, ecstasy, and thankfulness was touching; for my own part, I felt painfully overwhelmed as I listened to the list of extraordinary misfortunes of which I had been the unconscious cause.

That same evening I wrote to Lady Warrenford, the owner of the pearls; and thanks to her good offices, and a substantial cheque from Alaric, Mr. and Mrs. Hobhouse are once more reinstated, and doing a flourishing business.

Linda and I are no longer Miss Harlowe and Miss Letty Harlowe, but Mrs. Fortescue and Mrs. Sandars. It is Miss Pinfold’s proud boast that her prophecy respecting me has been nobly fulfilled; thanks to her urgent entreaties and advice, I was persuaded to adventure to India, and, as a natural consequence, had made a magnificent match!

I have no doubt that my inquisitive maid marvels, when arranging the famous Sandars’ diamonds and other jewels, she finds treasured among these, a string of very ordinary imitation pearls.

But thereby hangs a tale!

V
THE HELPER

“THE POWER BEHIND THE PEN”

When the Reverend Maurice Hay died suddenly of heart failure, his parishioners were full of solicitude and sympathy for his orphan girls, Rose and Josephine, who, in spite of youth and good looks, were very popular in Dullditch and its neighbourhood. As it was understood that they had no fortune beyond their pretty faces, no investments, except certain paltry accomplishments, their affairs naturally furnished a subject of burning interest; the villagers laid their heads together, and wondered what on earth the Hay girls were to do! Lady helps, lady nurses, companions, typists, these attractive and genteel posts were urged upon them, but the Hays decided that they would go together to London, and endeavour to find work as artists. The community disapproved and remonstrated—singly, in couples, and by letter. When these good-natured efforts proved unavailing, it was remembered that the Vicar’s daughters had foreign blood in their veins; their mother’s father was an Italian, and an Italian painter—two facts much to be deplored. His queer, roving, Bohemian ideas were manifesting themselves in his descendants; yet it was admitted that the Hay girls had some taste for drawing. Rose’s clever black-and-white sketches decorated most of her friends’ albums; Josephine painted quite recognisable miniatures—gratis. She had curly brown locks, a merry, round face, a pink-and-white complexion, and resembled one of Cosway’s masterpieces.

Rose, with her dark hair and eyes, and ivory skin, was like her own particular branch of art, a charming study in black and white.

The sisters had no near relatives, no one to advise, help, or control them; with regard to their future plans, they were not merely determined, but sanguine. It was their intention to settle in London, and with a few good introductions, and plenty of hard work, they expected to make their fortune, and by and by fly down to visit dear old Dullditch, in a splendid 45 h.p. motor-car!

Those who had interest through friends—or even friends’ friends—wrote letters, and did their utmost to give the orphans a start; and before very long, armed with introductions and fortified with advice, they departed full of hope and ambition. At first they dispatched glowing descriptions of their “upper part,” the cheapness of London, the numbers and quality of their invitations—and orders; but two years had now passed, correspondence had languished, letters had ceased to arrive at Dullditch, and there was no sign whatever of the 45 h.p. motor-car!

The truth was, the young amateurs had ceased to be a novelty—other more interesting strangers had arrived. London likes a change, the Hays had lost their hold on their little circle; their spirits and good looks were clouded, orders and invitations had become painfully rare, and in the pushing, hustling world the two pretty sisters were thrust aside, and forgotten.

It was a wet November evening, and Josephine Hay sat by a fire of cheap, bad coal, awaiting her sister’s return from an errand in the City. Their home was the upper part of a shabby little house in West Kensington; here they rented two rooms, back and front, as well as a den on the stairs, which served for cooking—when there was anything to cook. The front apartment was dining-, sitting-room, and studio combined; a deal table, covered with drawing materials, stood in either window, a decrepit horsehair sofa and a deformed cane chair were drawn up to the fire, and between them was placed a tray, with tea-things, as well as half a stale loaf and a pot of apple and blackberry jam.

By the capricious gleams of the smouldering coals, Josephine was counting the contents of her lean leather purse; count as she would, including coppers and one stamp, the grand total came to one pound, three shillings, and seven pence.

She hastily snapped the purse, and turned on the light, as the door opened to admit her sister, who was a wet and miserable spectacle.

“Oh, Rosie, you are drowned!” she cried.

“Not quite”—coming forward and putting down a flat parcel; “it is a dreadful night.” As she spoke, she peeled off her damp gloves with tender care, and then proceeded to remove her boots. Meanwhile Josephine prepared to make tea.

“There’s a boot for you!” Rose said, exhibiting a small dilapidated specimen; “it’s like a cullender—they both are; no charwoman would own them!”

“And your stockings are soaking!”

“Oh, they will dry on,” was the courageous answer, and she held her well-darned hose to the fire.

“No luck, I suppose?” said Josephine after a moment’s silence.

“None—I’ll tell you all about it, as soon as I’ve had my tea. I’m so thirsty, and so hungry—and——” Here she reached for the loaf and began to cut it.

“And tired,” said her sister, concluding the sentence; “you walked home, Rose, and it’s five long miles.”

“No, I took a penn’orth of bus—instead of a bun—and now I’ll take it out of the loaf, O housekeeper. Ah!” raising a cup of tea to her lips, “this is delicious. I was thinking of this happy moment, as I paddled along in the rain.—What have you done, Joe?”

“I went to Queen’s Gate with the miniatures, and saw Miss Wiggin. She was so disagreeable, and cross and dissatisfied. She said it was not the least like her—or if it is, she had no idea she was so plain.”

“I could have told her that,” declared Rose.

“And—she supposed, as it was an order—and she muttered something about charity, which I could not afford to hear—that she must take it—when it was altered to her satisfaction. She insists on a better complexion, and a new nose; so I have brought it home instead of the three guineas—and I know I shall never please her. How did you fare?”

“Much the same! It has been a bad day altogether. I took my illustrations of ‘A Drowned Girl’s Diary’ to Puffit & Smack, and the Art Editor, a superior young man, with a pince-nez and a high-pitched nose, received the sketches between two disdainful fingers, and then examined them through his glasses, and said:

“‘Dear me, Miss Hay! These will never do. You have no idea of anatomy; this girl has two elbows in her arm—and the man is a freak! The editor has complained of your work, and—er—I’m really afraid we cannot—er—accept any more of it; you might try the comic papers.’”

“Oh dear!” ejaculated the housekeeper.

“Fancy his attempting to be funny, whilst he took the bread out of my mouth. The Week End is my only employer, since the Kestrel dropped me—and died.”

“And Miss Wiggin assured me that I need not expect any further orders from her friends; she was in earnest, and a temper, so what are we to do?”

“Ask old Mrs. Mote to lend us five pounds—or go out and sell matches?”

“Oh, Joe, I’d rather sell matches. I should hate to borrow, though she is a dear old thing. Our affairs would be all over Dullditch.”

“If we are found in a garret starved to death, and the fact is printed in scare lines in the Daily Mail, our affairs will also be the talk of the village; however, never say die! I’ve brought back the sketches, and I’ll have another try—it means twenty-five shillings.”

“And the rent,” said Josephine. “I cannot understand how we do so badly—we got on swimmingly at first; visitors, orders, promises, payment, theatre tickets, invitations—and now!”

“People were kind. We were new, unsophisticated, fresh and green from the country; but only a pair of clever, self-confident amateurs. We have done our best; it is not in us to do more—to excel.”

“Unless we could go over to Paris, and work there.”

“Might as well talk of going to heaven.”

“Goodness knows I work hard,” continued Josephine, with a catch in her breath; “I study all the pictures I can, I run into the National Gallery on free days, and stare, and ponder, and wish, and wonder; but it’s all something so far above me—Genius—Genius—Genius!”

Her sister nodded a grave assent.

“I hear girls talking of effect, and atmosphere, and technique, but there is something spiritual in Art, and in the work of great masters; it seems such a waste of a precious gift, when they die, and their marvellous power is lost to the world for ever. Oh, if they could only bequeath their faculties as they bequeath their riches! How grateful I should be for a tiny legacy—even for a crumb.”

“And so should I,” agreed Rose, “the smallest contribution thankfully received; unfortunately there is no use in wishing. We are just a dull, plodding, stupid couple, who have exhausted our resources, and the patience of our—friends. I begin to see myself returning to ‘the Ditch,’ as mother’s help to Mrs. Gull, the baker’s wife; there I shall at least be sure of a roof and bread. Well, there is no use in looking at the worst side of a picture. To-morrow I intend to make a fresh start; I shall copy your figure, and if you like you may borrow my nose, for the miniature. It is nice and straight—my best feature.”

“Really, Rose, you are wonderful!” exclaimed her sister. “What spirits you have!—no matter what happens, they never seem to sink.”

“I hope we shall both swim—some day,” she answered, rising as she spoke. “And now that my petticoats and stockings are dry, I am going to bed.”

“’Pon my word—eh—it’s really—er—yes, quite good!” exclaimed the Art Editor. “Comes all right this time, Miss Hay; it only wanted a little pains, you see! You were getting slack. This is one of your best drawings—so much life in it—the anatomy correct—excellent. Did anyone help you?” and he gave her a sharp glance over his glasses.

“Oh no, indeed,” she replied eagerly, “it is entirely my own work.”

“Is that so?” he answered dubiously. “I must confess that people would hardly credit that this lifeless performance,” drawing out a former sketch, “and this,” tapping her latest production, “were the work of the same hand. One is the well-meant attempt of an amateur, the other is the—ah, I will not flatter you to your face—it is capital.”

“I am so glad you are pleased,” said Rose, with a tinge of colour in her pale face—praise and encouragement were indeed rare. “Am I to do the remainder?” she added timidly.

“Oh yes, but in your later style; you may always depend upon commissions if you stick to that. I expect you would like a little cheque,” and he sat down and scribbled one for twenty-five shillings; then, as he handed it to her, he cleared his throat, and said, “To be quite frank, this was intended to have been your last payment—but now that you have shown what you can accomplish, when you try, I hope we shall continue to do business together. It,” and he smiled, “was rather a narrow squeak. I cannot think why you have hitherto hid your light under a bushel. This sketch,” once more examining it, “is—er—really quite good.”

Here, as the telephone rang passionately, he offered his hand with an air of graceful dismissal, and bowed her to the door.

“Twenty-five shillings and compliments,” announced Rose, as she handed the little cheque to her sister.

“Three guineas—and gush!” rejoined Josephine, with a delighted laugh. “Miss Wiggin is enchanted with your nose—highly flattered, and said it was so admirably truthful to life! She took the miniature away to the drawing-room, and exhibited it to some friends—then she called me in. A man who was an artist talked of ‘fine technical achievement,’ ‘a subtle interpretation of a personality,’ and other grand terms. The main thing was, he liked it; and I received two orders. Miss Wiggin was so fascinated with her picture, she kept looking, and looking at it, and could not bear to put it down. She has ordered another copy, and she asked me such an odd question.”

“Your age?—your dressmaker’s address?”

“No, you silly, silly girl, but if I had painted it myself?”

“And you replied, ‘Of course—who else?’”

“Yes, but she said, ‘The reason I ask is, that it is so very superior to your general work—such dash—and yet such finish.’

“I can see that myself. When I was working on it I felt as if I were inspired, and influenced; I was in a sort of raging fever—my brush flew here and there, and instead of making a hideous muddle, every stroke told!”

“Imagine drawing inspiration from the face of a Miss Wiggin!” exclaimed Rose.

“Imagine it, indeed! The miniature is to be exhibited. It may make my fortune. It is good—I feel it in my bones.”

“Poor dear Joe—your bones are prominent enough!”

“At any rate, I believe we have turned the corner. We have four pounds five in hand, and the rent—how shall we spend it?”

“A good lunch, and a matinée?” suggested Rose.

“Certainly not. We spend it—but on boots, real boots, not brown paper—and gloves, the signs of gentlefolk. Perhaps hats—I know a very cheap place, and appearances are so important.”

“So is food,” broke in her sister; “let us celebrate our good luck with something for supper—sausages on toast, strawberry jam, and sponge-cakes? A feast for the gods!”

The artists continued to prosper; their tide of success flowed steadily—fortune increased with fame. Miniatures by J. Hay were much sought for; Josephine had more orders than she could execute—her reputation was firmly established. As for Rose—the name of “R. Hay” on a black-and-white sketch was a guarantee of excellence; she illustrated important books, and where once she was thankful for shillings, she now received sovereigns. Former acquaintances recalled the sisters—and their own active benevolence to a couple of struggling strangers—and prided themselves on their perspicuity. They looked up the Hays, deluged them with invitations, and enquired “where they had been hiding for the last twelve months?”

“Nothing succeeds like success.” The portraits of the sister artists appeared in popular papers and magazines, their names in paragraphs, and in lists of guests at various famous houses.

They no longer rented an “upper part,” but a smart and commodious flat in a fashionable locality, and employed two servants, and a Court dressmaker. Their strides in their art were amazing, even to themselves. Once, as Rose completed a spirited sketch, she exclaimed:

“Now this really is good! So good, that I can hardly believe I have drawn it myself, but that I am a mere automaton, worked by—a—a—certain—something—a hidden power!”

“Do you know, I have often felt that too,” said Josephine, “as if some masterful personality helped me—a peculiar inspiration directed my hand, guided it rapidly, and resolutely, to unerring achievement and success!”

Her sister looked at her with an air of grave surprise. “I wonder if this could be so?” she murmured.

The pen in Josephine’s fingers suddenly wrote on the margin of her work the words:

“Yes, it is so.”

She stared at the sentence in fascinated silence, then turning hastily about, said:

“Oh, Rose, do come and see what the pen has just written of itself! What can it mean? I declare on my honour I did not originate this.”

“I see.... I believe it is what is called automatic writing,” said Rose, after a significant pause. “I have heard of it. Do try if it will write more. See, here is a sheet of clean paper—now write a question.”

“Do you help my sister?” Josephine wrote obediently.

“Yes, and yourself,” came the reply.

“We are most grateful to you. Were you a great artist?”

“I am—a great artist,” wrote the power behind the pen.

“May we know your name?”

“No.”

“What may we call you?”

“Helper.”

“Can we do anything for you?”

“Pray.”

“Will you continue to help us?”

“Yes. Good-bye.”

“Is it not uncanny?” said Josephine. “Do you think I wrote this?—or the artist?—or is it one of the modern discoveries—my subconscious self coming to the surface?”

“Perhaps,” replied Rose, “but it explains all my success, and yours. The help arrived precisely when we were at our wits’ end. Don’t you remember, that wet November night—how we talked of lost gifts, and inspiration? I believe he came then.”

“Yes, I remember that night well.”

“We were two wretched little painstaking amateurs, without one spark, or glimmer, of genius. Now we are ‘true artists’; even the wickedest critic admits this. The Helper has been our master, has taught us, and set his own work once more before the public, drawn by our feeble fingers; it is the hand of the dead reincarnated in ours—we are in tune with some unknown mystery.”

“Yes, and we had better keep the mystery to ourselves,” said Rose the practical, and she stood up, and put the sheet of paper in the fire.

“Do you think it wrong, Rosie?—are we what is called ‘possessed’?”

“No—did he not ask us to pray? And we will. Why should not a departed spirit show kindness, and give charity to others? You and I are the objects of his benevolence—but for him, God knows what would have become of us!”

After this experience, it became an everyday matter to carry on a little correspondence with the Helper, who proved to be the Hays’ mainstay for many months; but at last he gave notice of his departure, in these words:

“You can now walk, and work alone—and another sorely needs assistance.”

“For a picture?” wrote Josephine.

“Yes, an important picture, which may make his fortune. A picture like this,” and with a few telling strokes the pen rapidly sketched a desert scene, a sunset, and a great caravan, with many kneeling figures; in the foreground two horses and two men; in the far distance, a passing sandstorm. Under this sketch the pen wrote, ‘Good-bye.’

“How we shall miss him,” said Rose, with a sigh; “though it is true that we are able to walk alone,—especially since we have had those lessons in Paris.”

“I shall always treasure the sketch,” said her sister, “our Helper’s last writing, and message. I shall lock it away in my desk.”

Two years elapsed, and ‘R. and J. Hay’ continued to prosper; they visited Dullditch—but not by motor—and during a holiday on the Continent happened by chance to enter a fine exhibition of modern paintings.

As she moved along slowly and conscientiously, catalogue in hand, Rose was accosted by Josephine, who looked so agitated and pale, that she was justly alarmed.

“Are you ill?” she asked. “What is it?”

“The picture is here,” she whispered excitedly. “Come, it is in the next room—the Helper’s picture of the desert. Oh, it is a masterpiece!—I could scarcely get near it for the crowd.”

Then, when at last an opening was obtained, Rose beheld the finished result of the sketch in her sister’s desk—correct in every particular.

There was the vast desert, the passing of a great sandstorm, the setting of a red sun, and a halted caravan. It was the hour of prayer and thanksgiving; a multitude of the faithful had prostrated themselves towards Mecca; in the foreground, two Europeans, dismounted, held their Arab horses, as they stood bare-headed, gazing towards the east.

On referring to the catalogue, the sisters read:

“409.—After the Sirocco. Anon.”

VI
THE FATAL PARAGRAPH

A TRAGEDY

It is scarcely possible that many women have led a more dull, monotonous, miserable life than Annie Fleude; actual want, and the real nip of actual poverty, with some variety and excitement, would have been preferable! All her days since she left school—and she was now thirty—had been dedicated to querulous old people. Her uncle, a paralytic, who lived at Camberwell—in a gloomy, semi-detached house overlooking a damp garden—had engrossed the entire summer of her youth. Her stagnant existence had been narrowed to the routine of the household, and the only breaks she enjoyed were an occasional Sunday School Treat, a Magic Lantern Lecture, or a Summer Sale!

When Mr. Jonas Fleude died he left his niece thirty pounds a year, and figuratively handed her on to his sister, Mrs. Pyzer, a deaf old lady residing in the Midlands, and here, if possible, Annie’s case was worse—she had jumped out of the frying-pan into the fire!

The locality in which Mrs. Pyzer resided was neither town, village, nor country, but combined all the drawbacks, and none of the advantages, of the three. Battsbridge was a collection of houses near a cross-road in Flatshire. These had been built in the immediate vicinity of a once celebrated posting inn—a hostelry of no little importance in the old coaching days. It was situated on the great North Road—cautiously aloof from the temptations of a market town—capable of accommodating many guests, and its stables received one hundred and fifty horses. But time and the railway had brought changes, and diverted the traffic elsewhere. The stables fell into ruins, the inn was turned into six cottages, and the inn’s parasites alone remained!—four substantial detached houses of the Georgian period, red-faced, ugly, and close to the road, with little mean enclosures, flagged paths in front, and large straggling gardens at the rear. They were of different sizes and ages, but were all at the same side of the highway, facing north, and resembled substantial suburban residences which had ventured into the country—and gone astray!

Besides these houses, Battsbridge boasted a large forge and a tiny post-office—where sweets, tobacco, and stationery were sold. The parish church was two miles by road—and one mile across the fields and stiles. The nearest town and railway-station was four miles distant along a dreary, monotonous stretch of the great North Road. Here, at Idleford, a fine old county town, were shops, a market square, a town hall, two churches, and a considerable railway-station. It was one of Ann Fleude’s few relaxations to plod to this station, buy a paper or two from the tempting bookstall, watch the passengers depart and arrive, and witness the great Scotch expresses, with their huge green engines, thunder by. She often lingered for the best part of an hour (there was nothing attractive awaiting her at home), solaced herself with refreshment-room tea and buns, and boldly pretended that she was expecting the arrival of a friend! These expeditions to Idleford station were her gala days—think of it! Her aunt, Mrs. Pyzer, was ill-tempered, tyrannical, rheumatic, and deaf. Her two servants, ancient retainers, were elderly women settled in their ways; the rooms were low and dark, and held a perpetual atmosphere of mouldy hay. No sun ever entered them, and with the consent of Mrs. Pyzer and her servants—no air. The furniture dated from the epoch of the old lady’s marriage—when black horsehair and solid mahogany was the rage; the beds were four-posters, with bolsters and mattresses stuffed with rank and noisome feathers of fabulous age: the whole character of the house was to correspond—nothing young or modern was ever to be found within it. Its mistress objected to new-fangled ways, she disliked cut flowers, pet animals, or even birds, and lived apparently in a world of her own—the past.

Mrs. Pyzer did not appear till lunch-time, and then she was always accompanied by shawls, cushions, and her ear-trumpet. Her food consisted of mince and milk puddings; her drink was hot brandy and water. She subscribed to the parish magazine, a local weekly paper, and some missionary journals, but set her face sternly against novels, cards and callers. The oldest and (in her own opinion) most respected residence of Battsbridge, she believed that she had done a deed of remarkable benevolence in giving a home to her niece Annie, whom she looked upon as a mere child—but nevertheless expected her to share the tastes of a woman who was eighty-one last birthday.

Mr. Jones, the doctor, and his wife, resided at Battsbridge, also two faded old sisters, the Misses Horn-Finch, and in the largest and most important of the four houses dwelt the widow of a late rector, a certain Mrs. Brandon, who considered herself, like her abode, to be vastly superior to her neighbours. She owned the largest garden, also a thatched arbour, and a greenhouse, kept three maids, and was visited by the County; and it was to Mrs. Brandon that Annie Fleude looked for all her little pleasures. Now and then she lent her a book—a new novel—or invited her to tea, or took her out driving, when she hired a brougham from Idleford, and made a few calls (leaving Annie meanwhile sitting in the carriage). Annie was not acquainted with the resident gentry; indeed, it was no secret that her father had been a bankrupt auctioneer—though Mrs. Pyzer, his sister, had married far above her deserts, a retired Major from a West Indian regiment, and always spoke of herself as “a Military Lady.”

Annie’s days were all precisely alike—week after week—month after month—year after year. As soon as she had breakfasted, she dusted the drawing-room, did some sewing and mending, and watered the plants in the frame. They dined at three o’clock; when she had settled her aunt, told her all the news, and left her to doze, she went forth on the household messages, such as to a farm for eggs and butter, to a cottager for chickens, or for a solitary aimless walk along the country road; then came seven o’clock tea, a game of backgammon, a bowl of bread and milk, and to bed—and the next morning da capo.

Annie Fleude had endured this existence for three weary years, notwithstanding determined and desperate efforts to effect a release. She walked to church twice on Sundays, and in all weathers, and taught laboriously in the Sunday-school, until the announcement of the curate’s marriage—the wretch had been secretly engaged for years! Then there was the Rector, a hale, rosy-cheeked old gentleman of seventy—he was undoubtedly flattered by her profound interest in his sermons; he lent her books, she knitted him socks, accepted his invitation to tea, and to see his roses; all was going admirably, till some wicked interfering person sounded a note of alarm, and one of his married daughters appeared upon the scene—so that chance of escape was barred! There was a yearly subscription ball in Idleford. To this Miss Fleude went once, wearing a new black net gown, her hair beautifully dressed, and chaperoned by the doctor’s wife—but alas, she was a wallflower! No one noticed her, or “requested the pleasure of a dance,” except the young man from the station bookstall, and the chemist’s assistant.

There were various bazaars, where Miss A. Fleude served on committees, and assisted at stalls, carried dolls for raffles, dipped in bran-pies, and was gay, vivacious, and useful, and pretended to enjoy herself! Local ladies, when comparing notes, said:

“That Miss Fleude at Battsbridge isn’t a bad sort of person—I shall ask her to help me at my rummage sale.”

But even at the rummage sales poor Annie failed to find a likely suitor! And yet poor Annie was not plain: tall, flat-backed, with rather a long face, thick brown hair, fine brown eyes, a passable nose, and beautiful white teeth. Sometimes she would stare at herself in her little spotted mirror, with a drawer beneath it, and shake her head at her reflection, and say:

“Oh, you wretched, blighted sort of creature! Whatever were you born for, I should like to know? Have you ever had one really happy day to look back upon—one splendid, dazzling hour? And yet you are not ugly, you are not an idiot, you have thirty pounds a year—and more to come. But what is the good of it all? No one wants you—you are like a thing in prison, and the best that could happen to you would be to have a nice, easy, painless sort of illness—and to die!”

As she thus wished for her own demise, tears would rise into her eyes and trickle down her face; then she would shake her fist at her reflection, and say:

“Annie, you must buck up! When things come to the worst, they mend. I’ll subscribe to the library, I’ll buy a bicycle, and I’ll stick up for myself more than I do; everyone imposes on me because I am so good-natured. I’m called ‘Gentle Annie.’ I mend Mrs. Brandon’s lace—yes, and her stockings—I go messages for the Finches, and I teach the Jones’ child music. I take the smallest piece of cake, the weakest cup of tea—but I’m not going to be good-natured and gentle any more, but fierce and aggressive, and fighting, and I’ll just see how that will answer!”

But these good resolutions were generally of short duration—her courage evaporated within an hour; she had arranged her aunt’s knitting, shrieked through the ear-trumpet till she was hoarse, undertook other people’s distasteful tasks, and was just as obedient, “gentle,” and good-natured as ever.

At last cruel Fortune remembered her captive, the unfortunate woman, who never had a gleam of sun in her life, who had no one to love and to care for—for who could care for Mrs. Pyzer? a passionate, selfish, and greedy old beldame—a woman whose life was passing away, as if she were a stone at the bottom of a disused well.

Light and hope came to Annie through the misfortune of another. Mrs. Brandon, who had been becoming more and more near-sighted, had recently consulted a specialist, who announced “cataract on both eyes.” This was a terrible verdict to a woman so fond of reading, so active in her garden, and such an indefatigable correspondent. However, after the first shock, she pulled herself together, and seriously considered the situation. She would be obliged to employ a companion and secretary—what a bore to have a strange woman (who would probably be odious) with her continually day after day, and she becoming blinder and blinder, and falling by degrees into that other woman’s power. A stranger would read her letters, would see her accounts, examine her bank-book, and would probably require a handsome salary. Mrs. Brandon began to look through a list of her connections. There was Constance Talbot, a woman of a certain age, who would no doubt be glad of a temporary home; but she would never stand the dulness of the place, and always be wanting to run about the country, to lunch, and bridge. Then there was her widowed niece, Mrs. Forrest; but she had such an awful tongue, and was a most dangerous gossip. No, no, Sissie Forrest would never do. Suddenly an idea dawned upon her! Why should she not make use of good-natured Annie Fleude, who had ample time on her hands, a pleasant voice, and wrote a good hand? She need not pay her a penny—on the contrary, Annie would look upon the employment as an honour, and a favour; she would be only too thankful for a few hours to escape from that odious, deaf old woman.

Mrs. Brandon in appearance was tall, commanding, and arrogant, with a high aquiline nose and piercing black eyes. In character she was hard, determined and ambitious; her manner to her inferiors was uncertain. One day she would be confidential, and even sympathetic, another distant, and disagreeable. It was no secret that she had a handsome fortune (twelve hundred a year) when as an heiress who was “getting on,” she had given her hand to the Rector of Froom, and resignedly settled herself to enact the rôle of parson’s wife. The Rector had survived ten years, and died, leaving his widow a well-to-do matron, with one son, who had now been in India for a considerable time.

As soon as Mrs. Brandon had made up her mind about a suitable companion, she sent in for Annie Fleude, and having bitterly bewailed her sad circumstances, threw herself upon her kindness and good-nature—but made no mention of any remuneration; and Annie, who was only too pleased to find that she could be of valuable assistance to such an important neighbour, entered upon her duties without delay. But the Misses Horn-Finch (ever interested in other people’s affairs) took counsel with the doctor’s wife, and the curate’s bride, and said:

“Mrs. Brandon really ought to pay—she can well afford it, but she is very mean in some ways. She uses Annie as a companion, makes her read all the papers, write all her letters, and manage the house.”

But Annie enjoyed this; Mrs. Brandon’s garden was pleasant to sit in, indoors her armchairs were delightfully comfortable, her tea was fragrant, and her cakes delicious. Annie had the pleasure of reading the latest news, and the newest books, she met numbers of nice people in Mrs. Brandon’s modern drawing-room—although she was never introduced to them—she liked to see their smart clothes, and listen to their smart talk. And as for acting as amanuensis—that was the best of all! Miss Fleude’s own correspondence was pathetically scanty, and if she liked one thing better than another, it was to receive a letter. The few who wrote to her were old school-fellows, at long intervals, and one or two neighbours in Camberwell. Sometimes for days and days the stolid postman would walk past Mrs. Pyzer’s door, and on two or three occasions Annie had actually addressed and posted a paper to herself in Idleford—simply in order to hear his familiar knock! Now she enjoyed the reading and writing of letters every day. Once a week Mrs. Brandon dictated a long epistle to her son, who had an appointment in India (something to do with indigo). Every one of Mrs. Brandon’s friends had heard of “Cecil,” of his extraordinary cleverness at school, his social successes, his devotion to his parent—but no one had seen him, for Mrs. Brandon had only come to Battsbridge within the last five years. How exciting it was to be corresponding with a young man, to receive and read all his replies; these came almost every mail, and were subsequently secured by elastic bands, and tidily stored in a japanned box. Annie had been obliged to explain herself, in her first letter, as the secretary who was temporarily his mother’s pen and eyes, and he sent her charming little messages of thanks, and said:

“How nice and clearly you write, Miss Secretary. It is delightful to read such handwriting.” Whereupon his mother exclaimed, “Tut, tut, tut!” but Annie took greater pains than ever. She, however, had wit enough to realise that Mrs. Brandon was a bitterly jealous mother, and that she must be extremely cautious, and never obtrude her own personality. The Indian letters were really interesting, and invariably full of Cecil Brandon; a less experienced eye might have considered his descriptions florid and exaggerated, and declared that there was rather too much of the wonderful exploits of the writer. It is always so easy to give oneself the beau rôle in a letter!

Cecil Brandon was in the local volunteers; his mother explained that he had failed for the Army at home, not through his own fault (of course), and that as she had a good deal of family interest, she had found him an excellent post in the Bengal Presidency. He was delighted with India; the life out there suited him, even the climate was not to be condemned. Poor Cecil had always a delicate chest, and the winters at home had been trying. Sometimes towards the end of one of his most interesting and affectionate letters, there would be a playful request for a little cheque.

“You see, he is obliged to keep up his position, and entertain,” explained his mother; “I’m afraid he is rather inclined to be extravagant, and that he can’t help, poor boy. He takes after his grandfather, Carlyon of Carlyon, and has blue blood in his veins.”

Then she would contemplate her own long hands, and say, “Blue blood!—blue blood is always generous,” and yet, at the moment, she was making use of Annie Fleude, and not giving her the smallest return. “Cecil is all I have,” she would exclaim, “and I am ambitious for him—ambition is my one weakness. There was never much outlook in the Church for the aspirations of a Rector’s wife—even if she is well born—but her son in India is different. I believe Cecil will make himself a name.”

Then she would take up his photograph, and hold it close to her dim eyes. Cecil’s photographs were numerous, in many styles and many sizes: in volunteer uniform, dark green and silver, in a racing jacket, Indian shikar kit, fancy dress, or plain mufti. His best portraits were large, merely the head and shoulders, showing a face with thick wavy hair, a wide forehead, well-opened eyes, and a large black moustache.

Between his letters, his mother’s copious reminiscences, and his many photographs, Annie was already in love with Cecil Brandon—her very first and possibly her very last romance. Once she stealthily slipped a violet into the envelope, and he, in return, sent her a leaf of lemon-scented verbena, with a line, “For the pretty secretary.”—Needless to say, she did not read this aloud.

She treasured the leaf and its inscription, and oh, folly! put them into a tiny gold locket—but then, you see, the poor thing had had so little in her life!

It had been a trying winter. Mrs. Pyzer, who had long been feeble, had now what is called “broken up.” The backgammon board and the big knitting-pins were put away in a cupboard—they were not likely ever to be wanted again. Owing to her aunt’s condition, Annie was more mistress of her own time; she ordered the meals, altered the hours, and the old servants offered no resistance. A will had been made, and they had reason to believe that they had both been “well remembered.”

“It won’t be long now,” they remarked to one another, as they discussed plans over their tea-pot; “the house and furniture and a small income will go to Miss Fleude; well, she deserves something—she has had a poor time, and is getting on.”

Meanwhile Cecil Brandon’s letters increased in number and interest; lately he seemed to have done a great deal of racing; he described his successes, the club dinners, the compliments paid him, and how he had been riding for a native prince who had overwhelmed him with thanks, and presented him with a magnificent pin. Of his own particular business there was little information, but a great deal respecting the Lucknow “week.”

One day a letter arrived; it was short, a mere scrawl, written in a shaky hand. It said:

“Darling old Mum,

“Don’t be frightened, but I have been very seedy; I have had a bad go of fever, which I can’t shake off, and the doctors say I must go home, so I start in a week.”

“In a week!” repeated Mrs. Brandon. “Why, then he will be here in a few days! Oh, oh, to think of it, and he will find me nearly stone-blind! Who is to get the house ready, and his room, and order things?—I am so helpless that I must leave this to strangers, my poor darling sick boy.”

It is scarcely necessary to mention that Annie worked con amore; fresh white curtains were hung up, new rugs were laid down, the garden was robbed of flowers, and the old house seemed quite gay and festive. As for Annie herself, she had become years younger, and did not look a day more than five and twenty. She invested in a neat tailor-made and an expensive hat, took lessons in dressing and waving her hair, and presented an unusually smart appearance. As the critical time drew nearer she could scarcely sleep with excitement; for once in her life, when she did wake up in the morning, there was something to look forward to! At last the great day dawned, and the traveller arrived from Idleford in a station cab, which rocked and tottered under piles of shabby baggage.

As Cecil Brandon descended at his mother’s gate, Annie with beating pulses inspected him over her window-blind. Oh, such a little shrivelled, sallow man! He looked fifty, and terribly ill! In spite of her severe disappointment, Miss Fleude’s kind heart went out to him on the spot, with a sort of almost maternal affection.

The following morning, with her hair beautifully waved, and wearing the new tailor-made, she went next door to resume her duties, and make the acquaintance of Mrs. Brandon’s celebrated son. She found him delighted to see her, most agreeable and charming. His mother, however, had one of her bad days, and was coldly patronising, and distant. No one would suppose for a moment that all the successful preparations and clever arrangements were entirely due to the exertions of her visitor.

It was really surprising the number of matrons with unmarried daughters who now came to call on Mrs. Brandon, and make tender enquiries about her eyesight.

Little Cecil was undoubtedly a ladies’ man, and enjoyed tea-parties and luncheons, dinners and bridge; but Annie was his first, his home friend. Many a day he stole in to see her, or they conferred together in his mother’s summer-house—he having assured his parent that he was about to walk into Idleford, or starting for an afternoon’s fishing, or golf.

“The mater is deadly jealous of you,” he explained, “but you must not mind her—she knows I am awfully gone on you, and that’s the reason she has got her frills up.”

And indeed, in these latter days, Mrs. Brandon allowed herself to be offensively rude to her secretary and companion. If she could have dispensed with her services she would have done so; but who was to write her letters? Who was to read her the morning paper? Certainly not Cecil, who rarely got out of his bed before eleven o’clock. Her increasing blindness made her frantic; she had an instinctive feeling that something hateful was going on around her, a something that she could not see, or divine. After all, Cecil might flirt with Annie as much as he pleased—a woman a head over him, thirty years of age, and a nobody! Her name was really Flood, but some of her insignificant relations had changed it into Fleude. They might change the spelling of the name, but they could not change their status in life. Cecil must marry well, a somebody, and an heiress, and as soon as her eyes had been operated upon she was determined to look about her in good earnest.

Meanwhile the happy pair were privately engaged; they walked together, they bicycled boldly into Idleford, they sat in the summer-house, and Cecil talked of himself continually. One of Annie’s chief attractions was the fact that she was a most patient and appreciative listener. He really never tired of relating his wonderful exploits: the mad horses he had ridden, the snakes he had destroyed, and the tigers he had shot; in all these stories he filled the rôle of a hero, brave to rashness; and it happened that one day Annie had an opportunity of judging of his courage for herself! A wild bullock, which was being led along the country road, had broken away from its drover, and, with tail up, and head down, came charging towards them.

“Look out, look out!” shrieked Cecil—it was almost the scream of a woman; without another word, he disappeared over a wall with the agility of a monkey, and Annie was left to face the coming adventure alone! She stood her ground bravely, and as the beast charged, she dashed at him with an open umbrella, which fortunately had the effect of scaring the animal; and the valiant lady found herself scathless and breathless. By and by, she saw two hands and a little head appearing above the wall, and a squeaky voice enquired:

“Is he gone? Is the coast clear?” On receiving an encouraging affirmative—and without blush, or shame—Cecil pulled himself up, and dropped into the road. “They don’t often attack a woman—at least, that is my experience in India,” he explained, “or of course I wouldn’t have left you; but the fact is—and I make no secret of it to you—since I have had this awful go of fever my nerves have completely gone to pieces! India has skinned them raw.”

After this episode, it is not improbable that Annie accepted her lover’s amazing experiences with more than a pinch of salt.

One evening, in the dusk in the summer-house, he confided to her that he had been in an infernal scrape in India. It was all about a race, or rather racing; of course he was as innocent as a new-born babe, but he had been obliged to chuck it, and bolt! The doctor’s certificate was a mere excuse. By degrees he would break this news to the Mum; she would be furious at first, but she would soon see that he had been a mere tool in the matter, the cat’s-paw of others; and she was so clever and influential that she would soon find him another and better billet.

Annie was not horrified by this confession; on the contrary she consoled him, comforted him with her assurance of his mother’s loyal belief in him, and herself swallowed every word of his plausible excuses.

These were Annie’s happy days; for if Cecil did play golf with the Miss Grants, or tennis with the Miss Thornhills, he spent his evenings with her, slipping in (after his mother and the servants had gone to bed) through an open back window, and they had chicken mayonnaise, and various other delicacies, prepared by Annie’s clever hands, washed down with Burgundy, or whisky and seltzer; and Cecil smoked—yes, actually a meerschaum in Mrs. Pyzer’s dining-room—a room in which a pipe had not been lit for half a century! It is scarcely necessary to mention that the two servants were fully aware of these secret orgies, but they held their tongues, assented to the preparations, and washed up the plates; for it would suit them, supposing, as they expressed it, “anything happened,” to remain on. Shortly after this, something did “happen.” Old Mrs. Pyzer died, and Annie Fleude, now mistress of the house, reigned in her stead.

The operation for cataract proved immediately afterwards successful; and Mrs. Brandon had her eyes opened in another direction, and an entirely different fashion, by a friend. Cecil, she was informed, “had got into a most shocking scrape about racing; it was really scandalous and notorious; the talk of all the sporting men in India”; but, after her first anger, the fond mother succumbed to her son’s plausible excuses and caresses, and endeavoured—since the East was closed to him—to find him another post. To this he was rather averse, and suggested living at home, and being her companion and comfort; but Charlotte Brandon was a Spartan mother, and determined that her boy should go forth once more into the world’s battle, and make himself a name. The benighted parent was ignorant of the fact that he had already made “a name” as the shadiest gentleman rider in India—and a thorough-paced little scamp.

Presently the engagement was breathed into her ear. To this, however, she failed to show the same indulgence. The ungrateful old woman was beside herself with fury, heaped abuse on deceitful, scheming Ann, and forbade her her presence, and her house.

Her tongue became venomous, as she assured her dear Cecil that it was bad enough for him to disgrace himself in India, but to come home and marry and settle down beside her, with a vulgar old maid—never!

“Give her up!” she cried, “give her up at once, or I will never leave you a penny, and I shall alter my will.”

She looked, as she was, cold, cast-iron, and nothing he could do or say would melt her decision. So he was compelled to agree. He had one long and tearful interview with Annie; this took place in the musty old dining-room—from which his sobs and hers were audible in the kitchen—but on the following day, when walking with his mother and encountering his lady-love out of doors, he passed her without acknowledgment—and looked the other way.

Poor Miss Annie Fleude was broken-hearted; she wrote Cecil many piteous, passionate letters, all unavailing; for he was a weak little fellow, ever dominated by a stronger will, and hence his defection and silence.

The story of his racing had somehow reached England. How tiresome it is that in cases where one would like to keep matters quiet, almost every person one meets has relations out in India! Girls and their parents now suddenly cooled; invitations ceased, even although Cecil Brandon would have £1,200 a year on the death of his mother, and was undeniably well connected. However, Mrs. Brandon exerted herself amazingly. She wrote letters (with her own hand)—dozen of letters, and she carried Cecil away from Battsbridge to London, and at last found him a promising appointment in the Belgian Congo. It offered fine pay; her son could stand a warm climate, he had a knack of picking up languages, and he would return home in two years. In short, it was a first-rate opening! When all had been arranged, the little man wrote to Annie to inform her of his prospects, and to say good-bye. In reply to this letter, she immediately went up to London and sought an interview with him and his mother at their hotel. She was desperate, and determined not to lose her little lover without a life and death struggle. At first she was piteous and heartbroken—foolishly endeavouring to work upon Mrs. Brandon’s feelings.

“I served you for a whole year,” she declared brokenly. “Could a daughter have done more for you than I did? Your son loves me, and I love him; I will make him a good wife. I have enough to live on, since my aunt is dead. The house is mine, he will be close to you, and you will have his society, and the comfort of his being near you. I beg and implore you not to send him away to the Congo; it is an awful place; he is all you have, and he is all I have—let us live at Battsbridge, and be happy. If you insist on his going to Africa it will break my heart, for something tells me that I shall never, never—see him again.”

Suddenly she began to sob hysterically, and falling upon her knees, endeavoured to take Mrs. Brandon’s hand in hers; but Mrs. Brandon pushed her away with surprising violence, and rising from her chair, said:

“Cecil is going to Africa—I am sending him there on purpose to place him out of your reach!”

“Oh, you are a hard, hard woman!” said Annie, struggling to her feet. “Will nothing I can do, or say, change you or soften your heart?”

“Nothing.”

Annie now turned and appealed to Cecil, and in vain. The battle between two strong women for a weak man raged, but in the end the mother won. Out on the lobby Cecil contrived to snatch a few moments with Annie, assuring her that it would be all right, and that they would be true to one another, and be married when he returned in two years’ time.

“Stand up for yourself now,” she answered fiercely, “stand up for yourself, and me; you are a man, you are five-and-thirty, and should know your own mind. We can be independent of your mother, and I am ready to marry you to-morrow!”

“No, no, no,” he replied, “the mater has so much in her power, I dare not risk it. Think of all she has to leave; and if she says that she will cut me off with a shilling, by Jove, she’ll do it! We will just bide our time—it will soon pass,” he declared, with cheerful optimism, “and you and I will be married when I come back.”

“If you allow your mother to drive you out of the country,” said Annie, and her face was white and rigid, “I tell you—that you will never come back!”

At this he gave a funny little cackling laugh, and said:

“I bet you I will! I lay you fifty to one—eh?”

But Annie made no reply. She turned abruptly away, walked slowly down the red carpeted stairs of the hotel, and never once looked back. It was done—it was all over! Useless to attempt to dissuade him—he was as wax in the hands of his parent.

Annie travelled to Battsbridge, a changed woman, and shut herself up in her dismal house for many weeks. From time to time—through the neighbours’ talk—she heard that Cecil Brandon was doing capitally in the Congo, had been promoted to a post in the rubber district, far up in the Interior, exerted a wonderful influence on the natives, and had achieved success at last!

Eight months had elapsed, when the district was electrified by the news of his death. A brief telegram announced that he had been suddenly carried off by a virulent fever, prevalent in the jungle. His mother was prostrate and inconsolable; but by and by she roused herself sufficiently to dispatch a beautiful white marble tombstone to be erected over Cecil’s grave. The common grief had not drawn her and her neighbour any closer together; on the contrary, Annie was now a hard, hopeless, embittered creature, who burnt with inextinguishable rage against a mother who had murdered her son. Oh, that she could punish her! Oh, that she might avenge him! Vainly and vainly did she cast about in search of a weapon. At last—she found it!

Miss Fleude, who was now comfortably off, expended a good deal of money on books, magazines, and journals; and, since Cecil had been in Africa, had subscribed to many African papers. By chance an ill-printed West Coast “rag” fell into her hands, and there she found, with other weird information, a terrible story of cannibalism—in which no ghastly detail was spared.

It appeared that a certain unpopular, tyrannical overseer had visited an outlying village; that in the jungle, on his return towards headquarters, he had become mysteriously separated from his escort, and some of the natives, finding him, seized and carried him off, a prisoner. These happened to be of the Lokele, a tribe of well-known river cannibals, who wore necklaces of the teeth of those whom they had eaten. Such had been unquestionably the fate of the unfortunate official, whose boots and pocket-book were found, and whose name it had been proved was “C. Brandon.”

When the agonised reader had come to the end of this description, she fainted dead away, and was subsequently confined to her bed for a whole week. At the end of the week Miss Fleude had recovered her strength, renewed her animosity, and rekindled her hatred; she marked the terrible paragraph with three crosses in ink, folded the paper neatly, and then addressed and posted it to her next-door neighbour.

It had even more than the desired effect!

Shortly after the postman’s arrival the following morning, a grating shriek rang through the house, and when the servants ran to see what had happened, they found Mrs. Brandon lying back in her chair, with staring open eyes, quite dead—with the fatal journal clenched in her hands.

Miss Fleude still continues to reside at Battsbridge; she is kind and charitable to the poor, but holds herself coldly aloof from her neighbours, who, to tell the truth, are secretly afraid of the lady, and no longer speak of her as “Gentle Annie.”

VII
THE SHIP’S CAT

Jack Truman, till recently the heir of a man of large property, but now a mere pauper without home or profession, sat in a big morocco-covered chair, with his hands in his pockets, listening to his future father-in-law, Boaz Pottinger, Esq., whilst he expounded his opinions, and more or less laid down the law.

Mr. Pottinger had acquired a fortune in chemical works, and it was his almost daily boast that he was “a self-made man.” His detractors declared that this was not much to be proud of, and that Boaz Pottinger, ugly, ungainly, uncouth, had omitted to supply himself with the letter “h.” However, he had a ladylike wife, a pretty daughter, and half a million, so when he bought a place in Kent the neighbours figuratively made room for him. No one was more friendly than the Squire of the parish, Hildebrande Truman, whose ancestors were Crusaders, and who had never earned a penny in his life. As times were bad for agriculturists, Mr. Truman attempted to make some money in speculation, but kept his endeavours to himself, intending to treat his wife and family to a delightful surprise! Unfortunately, the surprise was not of the nature he anticipated. On the collapse of a monstrous financial swindle he became liable, involved, ruined, and within a few months, Daines Place, its estates and messuages and heirlooms, were brought to the hammer, and sold. The shock, and the shame, had killed the Squire, and now here was the Squire’s son listening to Mr. Pottinger’s ideas on the subject of his future!

Mr. Pottinger enjoyed the sound of his own voice as he lay back in his chair, with his thick white fingers meeting at the tips, his eyes fixed on a corner of a bookcase. He said:

“You see, Jack, my boy, everything is altered now the poor Squire has gone, and scarcely left a penny piece—or anyway not more than will keep your mother and sisters in a small way. If he had only given me a hint of what he was after, I’d have warned him. I know all about the smiling scoundrels, that rob honest folks, not of shillings, but of ’undreds of thousands of pounds, and call themselves honourable men. Well, if I’d ’ad a ’int, you would not be sitting there—without an acre to your name!”

“No,” sighed the young man, “but there is no use in going over that now, and the governor meant it all for the best. The question is, what am I to do to make a living for Nancy and myself?”

“Talk of making your own living, my son.—We will leave Nancy out of the business.”

“But Nancy is engaged to me, with your consent, and she intends to stick to me—and I to her.”

“Circumstances have changed since this time last year. Then you were heir to a fine property, and would ’ave ’ad a suitable allowance. Now what ’ave you got? What are you and Nancy going to live on—tell me that? ’Ow are you going to put a ’ouse over ’er ’ead?”

“That is just the crucial question,” replied young Truman, rising to his feet. He was slight and well made, with a square chin, and fine head—the typical young Britisher who has been to Eton and Oxford; his clothes and boots were the perfection of cut—in short, he appeared what he was, a good-looking man of fashion, who had never earned, or lacked, a sovereign in his life.

“You have no profession,” resumed Mr. Pottinger.

“No, that’s the worst of it. I did not care about the Army—I wanted to be a sailor, and my mother struck; and here I am—at twenty-four—an incapable idiot!”

“But you can turn your hand to something.”

“I can ride to hounds, and manage a boat, I’m a bit of a carpenter, I can photograph, and I know something of machinery.”

“There’s not a penny in any of them for you,” declared the old man brusquely; “you’re a hamateur.”

“I was thinking if I took up a small farm, sir, I might——”

“Put it out of your ’ead,” brusquely interrupted Mr. Pottinger; “and now I’ve been thinking, and it comes to this. Of course I could say you and Nancy was never to see one another again.”

“Yes, you could say it,” rejoined the other significantly.

“Nancy will never go against me; if she did——” Here he nodded his head with alarming significance.

“Have you any suggestion to make, sir? You seemed to have some proposition.”

“I ’ave—it’s this. Suppose you go off for three years wherever you like—it must be out of Great Britain—and you will not correspond with Nancy more than every six months. You will go into the world like a man, not like a dressed-up young nincompoop, and make ten thousand pounds. When you bring me that, I will put forty thousand to it and give you Nancy.”

“My good sir!” gasped Jack Truman, standing squarely before him. “You might as well ask me to bring you back the moon! Ten thousand pounds—ten thousand pounds!”

“Some men pick it up in Wall Street in one afternoon—some make it by a stroke of the pen. Why! I’ve even been told—but I don’t believe it—that women get as much as that for a novel!”

“All these are clever people—they have capital, or brains, or both. I have neither one nor the other.”

“Oh ho! so you are going to cry off—and not take up my challenge, eh?”

“If I thought I had the very smallest chance—of—winning, you know I’d jump at it like a shot.”

“Well, take my advice, and jump,” said Mr. Pottinger, rising with a mighty effort—he was a seventeen-stone man. “I’ll give you two days to consider it, and now you may be off, and talk it over with Nancy. I like you, Jack, always did, you know; but I’m not going to give my little girl to a fellow that has not some stuff in him—that is not worth ’is salt. Why, look at me! I made myself what I ham! No, you just go and see if you can’t do something on the same pattern,” and he blundered heavily out of the library.

Nancy Pottinger was twenty, a pretty little dark-eyed girl, animated and energetic, clever, resourceful, and plucky.

“Such an idea, Jack!” she exclaimed. “The three years are horrible to contemplate, but imagine father thinking of anything so romantic! Lately he has been devouring old tales about knights sallying forth in quest of adventures, and returning, after many dangers, to their lady loves, to be crowned with wreaths and glory. I’m positive daddy got his idea from ‘Sir Baldwin’s Quest.’ I saw him reading it, the last month; he reads very slowly and digests every word. It has given him an idea, and he will stick to it. When he grasps an idea, he never lets it go. And if I were to run away with you, and marry you, and live with you on sixpence a week, he would be sorry for us, but he would never help us—never. He is like that—he would die of a broken heart, and leave all his money to charities! Now let us get a map, and see where you can go and make your—and my—fortune.”

“At best, I’m such a duffer,” he groaned.

“Not at all; you want self-confidence. You can do lots of things perfectly. You can mend a watch, or a bicycle, and doctor dogs.”

“Oh yes, I can do lots of odds and ends; I’m what you may call Jack-of-all-trades, and master of none!”

“Nonsense, I consider you most capable; especially with your hands. Now let us go over the map, and discuss your future field. America—well, they are so very clever over there themselves, no use trying that! India—no—mother’s uncle was there forty years, and only brought home some elephant tusks! Australia—too far from me. South Africa—the gold and diamond mines, there you are!”

And South Africa it was! For more than two years Jack Truman strove hard to accomplish his task. He saw many different phases of life, and if he had not gained a fortune, he had acquired experience, self-confidence, and a splendid physique. He had, of course, visited the Kimberley mines, been a barman in Johannesburg, and, in the intervals of dire poverty, tutor on a Dutch farm, and driver of an electric tram; but he resolutely set his face against work on the railway, or in the police, “steady regular employment open to respectable young men.” No, he wanted no permanent billet, he was looking for a big coup—and the big coup invariably eluded him. For instance, he purchased with all his savings a fine stone from a simple-looking Kaffir boy, and the splendid diamond proved to be pure glass. His next accumulation he gambled and lost; he caught enteric, and was laid up at Durban for three months. From Durban, he somehow drifted to Zanzibar, from Zanzibar to Suakim, and now despair began to lay hold of him, for but four months longer remained, and although he had toiled, and striven his utmost, he was no nearer that great prize than when he started. In Suakim he happened to encounter a naval officer—an old schoolfellow—to whom he imparted his story, and who listened with open-mouthed interest.

“Sounds like an Arabian Night’s tale!” he exclaimed, “but I say, old chap, I believe I could put you on to a good thing. If it comes off—I’ll be your best man.”

“You will be the best man I’ve ever met, if you put me on to that good job. I don’t care what it is.”

“Then listen. I know you don’t mind roughing it, and have got a level head, are a fair shot with a revolver, and don’t drink.”

“No; get along, Bobby.”

“You may have heard of the wreck of the Mangalore passenger steamer in the Red Sea?”

“Not I.”

“It only happened a month ago. She was bound from Marseilles to Singapore, and ran on something about seventy miles below here—and lies a total wreck.”

Jack nodded his head.

“She was a fine boat, eight thousand tons, carried three hundred passengers, and was heavily insured at Lloyd’s. The insurance is not paid yet; the underwriters want a few more particulars before they hand over £200,000—you see, it is a fairly stiff sum! She lies five miles off the coast, well away from the steamer track, and was out of her course. The captain talks of fog, and currents—and everyone knows the Red Sea is the very devil! I believe the rocks grow! The office people here, I happen to know, are looking for a trustworthy chap to carry on for a few weeks, whilst things are straightened out a bit; a man to keep off the Arab cut-throats, and have an eye to everything till she is formally taken over: you see, there is a lot of stores and liquor on board. They want a steady level-headed gentleman, who can turn his hand to most things, from a boat to a windlass; he is not picked up easily on this coast! Now, suppose you lend a hand, and go in for the berth; they will send you down in the steam-launch with a couple of Lascars, and pay you handsomely. I believe there is money in it besides—perhaps a big haul.”

“And that’s just what I am in search of, these two years, so I’m your man,” announced Jack with emphasis.

“Mind you, it is not a kid-glove job; you run a good many risks, both from the Arabs, and others.”

“I don’t mind that; nothing venture, nothing have. Can you give me a hint of the whereabouts of the coin?”

“No—not exactly; it would be libellous. However, unless you are a regular thickhead, you will soon see how the land lies, and if you do find out anything strange, communicate with Suakim at once.”

“And if I find nothing but stale stores, and rats?”

“You must risk that, and take your chance; it is just a bit of a gamble, but mind you, I’ve given you what you are hunting for all over the place, and that is, a straight tip.”

Three days later found Jack Truman en route to the Mangalore; he had received information and orders from headquarters, was to await full instructions from London, and to keep watch over the wreck—for possibly four weeks, or longer. The new commander was despatched to his berth in a little steam-launch, accompanied by two Lascars, and had provided himself with plenty of tobacco, a Martini rifle, revolver, screwdriver, pincers, matches, and a change of clothes. After some hours’ steady steaming, the Mangalore came into sight. She lay over at an angle of thirty degrees, with her decks awash, and sleepy seas breaking over them.

Her position was undoubtedly precarious, and she was anything but an inviting abode—in short, she was a water-logged wreck. Far away from the Mangalore lay the African coast, with a fringe of jagged hills behind which the crimson sun was setting; prominent among the hills, was one almost like a tower, but no tower—or even hut—was on that desolate shore.

When the two Lascars had come aboard, and beheld the condition of the Mangalore, they loudly refused to remain. She would go to pieces with the first gale—yes, but not with them as her crew; and in spite of every denunciation and expostulation that the captain of the launch could devise—backed up by Truman, with broken Arabic and forcible gestures—the two cowards deserted the ship, and returned to Suakim.

Previous to taking over charge, Jack Truman had gleaned some particulars of the wreck. She had gone aground most unexpectedly, when the passengers were all at lunch; there was no panic, everything had been managed with the utmost pluck and coolness. The weather was calm, and passengers had gone off comfortably in boats, had landed about four o’clock in the afternoon, and been subsequently transported on to Suakim. The level-headed captain carried away his log-book, chronometer, and most of his possessions in the steam-launch, and had been warmly applauded for his courage, and resource.

Jack accepted the desertion of the Lascars with surprising sangfroid; he was accustomed to being alone. This, however, was a new kind of solitude—a solitude at sea. He scrambled about the deck, and explored the abandoned steamer from end to end. There was the long saloon, the smashed crockery, the passengers’ cabins, with their clothes and belongings scattered about, precisely as they had abandoned them. He discovered quantities of stores, and quantities of rats, and as the result of a careful inspection, he decided to take up his quarters in the captain’s cabin. Here, he made up a bed, and after a light supper, turned in.

In a day or two the caretaker became accustomed to his novel position; he smoked a good deal, he read novels—the property of the late passengers—he sat and stared for hours at the sea, or jagged coast-line, and some distant rocky islands, but he never once saw smoke or sail. His sole companion was the ship’s cat, a bony, lean, uncanny looking animal, with the pointed face peculiar to the Eastern feline. Sometimes at night, listening to the wash of the waves, it had seemed to Jack that the grey Grimalkin was not his sole ship-mate, unless his imagination was playing tricks. He seemed to hear a footstep, a heavy and yet a stealthy footstep. The experience was distinctly unpleasant, as he knew perfectly well that there was not a human being but himself within many miles. Jack did not believe in ghosts, and yet when alone, as he was, even a strong man may succumb to superstition. Solitude and silence evoke strange thoughts. He had overhauled the entire ship, and even examined the cargo; to his surprise, it proved to consist of boxes full of scrap-iron; this at once raised his suspicions—scrap-iron, at eighteen shillings a ton, was not worth its carriage all the way to Singapore! Then he made another strange discovery—he was wonderfully agile in getting about, even when he had to crawl and creep; down in the hold were three great holes in the ship’s side, caused by dynamite exploded from within! This was astounding. Did it mean that the captain had deliberately scuttled the Mangalore? Now if he could but find a scrap of writing as clue, or a witness! If he could but prove that the steamer had been purposely cast away, his future was made! He would inform the underwriters, save them an enormous loss, and possibly secure a generous reward—say £10,000.

With such an incentive, Jack worked ceaselessly. He searched almost day and night, anxious to discover some clue before he was relieved, or the derelict went to pieces, and he was compelled to abandon her, and take to the boat. He believed he might find the desired object in the captain’s cabin, and every day he examined it. Every day he turned out the bunk, the drawers, the desk; he lifted the carpet—but all proved useless.

The cat and the caretaker had become close friends; she accorded him her society; twice a day he gave her some tinned milk in a saucer (for himself, he lived on the stores), and she in return showed her gratitude by occasionally bringing him a dead rat. The ship was alive with them; what they existed on was a mystery; but they overran the saloon, the lower deck, and swarmed up the rigging. Truman often shot them with his revolver—practice, to keep his eye in!

One hot, airless afternoon he was lying in his bunk trying to sleep, when suddenly he was disturbed by an extraordinary commotion behind the wainscot; a violent scuffling and scratching. The enterprising cat had evidently got in there, and could not find her way out. He had missed her, the whole day. So that was where she was! He called, and she began to mew piteously and continuously. Well, there was nothing for it but to break in the panel, which he proceeded to do, with a series of violent kicks. Presently, as a result, the cat crawled forth, looking extremely dusty and dejected, and as she emerged from the woodwork, a little ball of white paper rolled out after her. Jack Truman stooped and picked it up and examined it curiously. Was it a find? It was! He discovered a creased plan of the ship, on which were three crosses in red ink, indicating the exact spot at which the dynamite was placed, and there was also a scrap of a letter evidently addressed to the captain.

“Off coast. Lat. ... can’t miss it ... tower rock ... it daytime ... wire as arrang....”

So there was his fortune at last, thanks to the cat! he had found the clue, and the whole thread was complete! For some time he sat on the side of his bunk, with the paper still in his hand, revelling in an ecstasy of exaltation. The two morsels of dusty paper might bring him Nancy. What should he set about first? He must be cool, and collected, and not act hastily. It was full moon, and the sea was smooth as oil; after sundown he would get the boat, row ashore, and walk during the night to a little station thirty miles up the coast, and from there despatch a runner, or a camel man, to Suakim. Meanwhile he would be compelled to leave the cat in temporary charge of the Mangalore!

Talking of full moon, what was this enormous shadow on the sky-light? He looked up, and was confronted by a pair of watery grey eyes, and a large crimson face. In another moment the face was thrust into the cabin and a tall bare-footed man in blue shirt and trousers said hoarsely:

“Hullo, boss, so you have found something!” and he grinned, and pointed to the paper, and the broken boards. “I’ve had my eye on you! I always guessed this was a put-up job, and a mighty neat one too.”

“Who the devil are you?” demanded Jack, sliding off the bunk, and rising to his feet.

“Your gen’leman companion,” folding his bare arms. “I am Joe Todd—one of the crew; I was a bit ‘on’ when she struck, and in my berth; the boats forgot me in the scramble. I declare, when I woke, and found what had happened, I thought I was dreaming; however, I have been pretty comfortable—the best of liquor free, and I have not wasted my opportunities—a bottle of French brandy and a couple of fizz a day, eh? What beats me is having no baccy. The smell of yours drove me nigh crazy! So here I am—and in the nick of time!”

“Why did you not show before? Where do you stow yourself?”

“Aye, that’s telling! I suppose you’re in charge of the liquor—eh? The old Hooker has some of the best; I would have lain doggo still, but for the baccy—it drew me out, that pipe of yourn. What’s this?” suddenly making a snatch at the papers.

“Only a plan of the ship,” replied Truman, keeping his fury under control.

“Aye, and the three marks are where she is sunk. Oh, I have been poking round too. I say, boss, this will be a plum for the insurance people! You and I, go shares!”

“No you don’t!” cried Jack, making a dash to recapture his prize, but the other was too quick for him; and now began within the limited space of that small cabin a most desperate struggle between the two men. Round and round, and up and down, and to and fro they wrestled.—The cat, in alarm, took refuge in a little rack.—Jack was as hard as an open-air life, youth, temperance, and exercise could make him. The sailor’s was a bigger, heavier, more powerful frame—and he was half mad with brandy.

The chances were five to one that Jack would tire down his opponent, when his foot slipped, and he fell on the back of his head, with the sailor a-top of him.

The fall stunned him, and when he came to his senses he was lying on the floor, the contents of the cabin were scattered in all directions, and it was empty. He lay for some time endeavouring to re-arrange his ideas. He recalled the sailor, the struggle, and the fact that he had gone off with the clue in his possession. He rose, and with difficulty staggered to the door; it was locked on the outside.

Jack’s frenzy at having the cup of attainment snatched from his lips, his bitter disappointment, and his bad fall, combined to throw him into a fever. He lay half delirious all that night; with morning, he recovered, rose, and endeavoured to burst open the door; no use—it was strong and held fast; he could not blow off the lock, for his revolver was in the saloon. Parched with thirst, he emptied the water jug, which he had luckily replenished at night-fall. The sympathetic cat crept into the port-hole; later she returned bringing him a rat. A horrible idea came to him. Was it possible that he might yet be compelled to exist upon the cat’s bounty? No, no—he had not come to that; but by the second afternoon—after thirty-six hours’ imprisonment—he was nearly mad with hunger and thirst—especially thirst.

The moon rose; he stood with his face to the port-hole endeavouring to catch a breath of air, yet what was the good of prolonging the agony, since die he must? Hours passed, and then, as he stood, he seemed to hear a distant sound, not the lazy plash of the water, or the boisterous singing of the drunkard, but a far-away humming and throbbing—it was the steam-launch!

Yes, nearer and nearer it approached. His heart beat as if it would choke him. He trembled so violently, he could hardly stand. Now he could hear voices, and he shouted with all his remaining strength. After what seemed a whole week of waiting, he heard steps coming down the companion; the door was flung open, he was free. Here were two or three officers and officials, who were come to relieve him; they were amazed indeed to discover Truman locked into a cabin, and looking death-like, with staring hollow eyes, and parched, cracked lips. What had happened?

He pointed to his mouth, and whispered ‘water.’ Water and a stimulant brought him to himself; in a short time the little crowd was in possession of his story. He indicated the broken panel, and showed them where the precious papers had been concealed.

“Now we will go and find the ruffian,” said the principal official; “we must tackle him quickly, and not let him have a chance to make away with his prize.”

The sailor was easily discovered—his resounding snores betrayed him; he lay extended at full length on a sofa in the saloon, fast asleep, with an empty bottle beside him. His sleep was a stupor so profound that he had not heard the launch arrive, and he never stirred, whilst careful fingers removed two pieces of much damaged paper from his filthy trouser pocket.

Finally, when they roused him unceremoniously, he sat up, stared, and exclaimed, “Bless us if this b’ain’t another blooming dream!” Subsequently he admitted that “he had forgotten the other cove; he had not been, so to say, sober since he saw him, and fought him for a greedy swab—well, it might be a day ago—it might be two or three.”

The upshot of the business was, that Jack Truman, the sailor Joe Todd, and the ship’s cat were taken off the wreck, and brought to Suakim; here the papers were examined, and sworn to, telegraph wires put into requisition, and lawyers consulted. The underwriters proved the fraudulent casting-away of the S.S. Mangalore (but her clever captain had already made his escape to South America). Subsequently the wreck was sold to a firm of merchants in Suez, who disposed of her piecemeal. The saloon furniture now embellishes one of the smartest cafés in the town—who sits, may see.

Last, but not least, Jack Truman received a substantial cheque, which he immediately carried home, and laid before Boaz Pottinger, who gave him, according to his promise, £40,000, and the hand of his daughter Nancy.

VIII
HELEN, OR SEMIRAMIS?

Professor Julian Serle never intended to marry, and up to the age of forty-five clung bravely to this resolve. He was a well-known authority on Assyria, had written successful books, read impressive papers, and was precisely at that point in his career when much was expected of him. His mode of life fluctuated between periods of incessant and engrossing labour, and spells of “butterflying” in smart society.

The Professor was well off, and a world-wide traveller. When in London he occupied comfortable chambers in Whitehall Court, and was a member of the Athenæum and other clubs. Returning from Egypt, where he had spent the winter—working on an important book—he, so to speak, fell! Among the crowd of Anglo-Indians on board the steamer which he joined at Port Said, was Miss Helen Thursby, a popular girl among her fellow-passengers, handsome, lively, good-natured, and accomplished. She played accompaniments, amused children, interested their mothers, and fascinated men, both young and old.

Their charming new acquaintance made no secret of the fact that for the last two years she had been a governess in Simla, and was now returning to England, before joining her only near relative, a married brother in Canada.

The Professor, although hardened by many London seasons, was immensely attracted by the young lady’s bright eyes, her sympathetic manner and light-hearted gaiety. Together they played chess and bridge, and together they promenaded the decks, whilst complacent matrons looked on and approved. Julian Serle was a celebrity, a well-bred, good-looking little man, with, it was said, considerable private means.

“It would be a capital match for the girl. Much better for her to marry and settle in London than to rough it on a ranch in Canada.”

Ultimately, a moonlit Mediterranean night proved to be the undoing of Julian. As he smoked, and paced the deck alone, he had been meditating on Miss Thursby. What an agreeable companion Helen would be! So intelligent, sensible, charming. He had no near relations, merely a hungry, extravagant nephew, his heir. Why not marry and make himself a home, before he fell into the sere and yellow? Miss Thursby was clever; she would be a stimulating helpmate—one who could type and copy, and was interested in Assyria. Yes! Helen would be his Egeria, and his inspiration.

That same lovely night, leaning over the bulwarks, he spoke; deplored his lonely life, his lack of belongings, and figuratively laid himself and his fortune at his lady’s remarkably neat feet.

“I am not,” he pleaded, “the usual style of musty fossilised old professor; we will enjoy life together, and when I am working you can still have your own friends and amusements. And I think I can promise that you shall never be bored.”

His lady-love listened to him with shining eyes, and accepted his proposal with joy. Perhaps the little man beside her was not precisely her ideal. Her ideal had been someone in India, who was too poor to marry a penniless girl, and had subsequently taken a well-dowered wife. However, she had completely recovered from that heart attack, and honestly liked her present suitor.

Six weeks after the steamer had docked at Tilbury, the pair were married in London, and subsequently established themselves in a nice roomy flat in South Kensington.

All their friends crowded to call. The bride, though poor, was well connected, the bridegroom a popular celebrity, and the newly-married couple lived in a perpetual round of dinners and social entertainment. Serle had a large circle of distinguished contemporaries: philosophers, men of letters, and men of affairs.

This agreeable condition continued for months. Helen Serle was so hospitable and attractive that visitors invaded the flat from morning to night. She was invited to theatres, concerts, lectures, and dances, yet never neglected her home or husband, but wrote and typed industriously—that is to say, when Julian had a working fit—and found ample leisure for music, theatres, and other pleasures.

The Professor had at first joined con amore in the social whirl—he was a man who did nothing by halves. Lately he had been seized by a feverish inspiration, and was engrossed in a book, “The Life of Semiramis,” on which he had worked fitfully for years, in the hope that it would be his magnum opus. Resolved to secure leisure, he turned his back upon London, let the flat for six months, and retired to Brighton. But here his fate was no better! Helen had such a faculty for picking up acquaintances and coming across friends, that his precious time was broken into for hours and days and weeks!

From Brighton he fled to the Athens of the North. Here, alas, matters were worse, for literary society fell upon the author, so to speak, as one man! Dinners, from which he could not absent himself, were given in his honour. He was invited to read papers, and to lecture on his most notable subjects—“Sardinapolis,” and “Alexander the Great in Assyria.”

In short, his work was absolutely at a standstill. Summer was coming, but “The Life of Semiramis,” and her reign of forty-two years, was not advancing to any appreciable degree. Strong measures were his only resource. And in response to an advertisement, he secured a temporary home in a far-distant village in the south of England. It was off a main line, and buried in the country. Servants, dog, poultry, and pony were included with a most delightful furnished cottage. Helen Serle was enchanted. Edinburgh was a little bit too literary for her; she enjoyed the change from the thunder of trams in Princes Street to the cooing of pigeons in the woods, and fell in love at first sight with the cottage, the garden, and the village. Alas, in a place whose name he had never heard till he had rented “Meadow-sweet,” the Professor encountered an acquaintance—Canon Simpson, an old college friend, who happened to be staying at the Rectory.

“I say, fancy seeing you here, Serle!” he exclaimed, as he held out an eager hand. “I caught sight of you in church; and when I told the Rector who you were, he was most frightfully excited. He and his wife hope to see a lot of you. You know he has been to the Holy Land, and to Nineveh. Everyone for miles round is coming to call on Mrs. Serle.”

For the moment Mrs. Serle’s husband felt paralysed and speechless. Like the dove from the ark, would he never find a place for the sole of his foot? When he thought of his book, his notes, his elaborate bits of description, all clamouring to be copied out, and polished up, he was struck with a brain storm. “Desperate ills require desperate remedies.” If the whole country was threatening to call, and the cottage was to be overrun with visitors, there were precisely two alternatives: one to return to Meadow-sweet, and begin to pack—the other ... and the other he seized on. Clenching his hand on his stick, with his guilty eyes fastened on the ground, he jerked out:

“Er—ah! Strictly between ourselves, my dear old fellow, we don’t want any visitors; or rather visitors—er—are not likely to want us! The lady who is staying with me is——” Here the colour mounted to his hair. “Well, I need say no more.” And with a shrug of his shoulders, the celebrity turned away.

To do his conscience justice, Julian Serle felt miserably hot and uncomfortable, as he faced towards home; he had insinuated a most terrible lie—but there was nothing else for it! He would allow the neighbours to suppose that Helen was his mistress—since no other defence would secure complete privacy and isolation. After all, what did it matter in this God-forsaken part of the world, where they did not know a soul? And it was only for three months. Then Helen could return home, meet all her old friends, and as many new ones as she liked!

At first Mrs. Serle was supremely indifferent to the lack of callers. In fact, she never gave them a thought. The pony and trap, the dog, the garden and the poultry, kept her delightfully engaged. She had a weekly box from Mudie’s, some interesting embroidery, plenty of correspondence, and half a dozen new songs. After two or three weeks these pleasures began to pall, and she realised the want of a companion of her own sex, with whom to discuss new stitches, new novels, and new songs. Julian, plunged in the records of Semiramis and her times, and surrounded by stacks of musty old books, had no thought for anything but his absorbing work, and—as an occasional relaxation—a little trout-fishing.

But, once Helen had seen to the housekeeping, the flowers, and accomplished a certain amount of typing, her hours were her own, and proved both empty and solitary. As she walked out with the dog, or drove “Fat Tom,” the bay pony, she noticed that the neighbourhood was well populated. Within half a mile were two large places, whose gates delivered and received motors. There were also various country houses, where she caught sight of green lawns, and gatherings of active white-clad figures, playing tennis. Helen Serle loved tennis, and was quite a notable performer.

Strange that not a soul had come to look them up. And yet they had been at Beckwell a whole month. The villagers, too, seemed funny people. Their manners were surly, their answers brief to rudeness. And how they stared! (Perhaps her rather daring French hats and very smart high-heeled shoes lent some colour to her husband’s lie.) Mrs. Serle was not unaccustomed to being looked at, nor did she disdain a certain amount of respectful admiration, but in the expression of these people’s eyes lay curiosity, aversion, and contempt. The servants of the cottage—two well-trained maids and a gardener-groom—had, at first, been civil and satisfactory. Now they were off-hand and almost insolent; and yet she treated them well, and gave little trouble. Indeed, she dusted the drawing-room and did the lamps herself, partly to fill up her time. Nevertheless, the cook scowled, Annie flounced and slammed doors, and once she had been overpowered by a suspicion that the groom-gardener had winked at her! She turned and confronted him with a flaming face—and he had never repeated this enormity.

Latterly Annie had been openly impertinent, and one day when her mistress asked her what she meant by saying, “Good enough for you!” with arms akimbo, she replied, “Oh, you know what I mean well enough, and only for Miss Mills and me bein’ with her so long, and my promisin’ I’d do my best, I’d have been out of this the very day you come in. Up to now I’ve always lived with respectable people, and I’ve got my own character to think of. And Jim—that’s my young man—says he don’t half like it!”

“What do you mean?” cried Helen, white with anger. “I insist on knowing!”

But Annie merely turned her back, and began to arrange the ornaments on the chimney-piece.

“Answer me, Annie.”

“What’s the good of telling you what you know?” said Annie over her shoulder.

“You cannot remain here!” said her mistress breathlessly. “You must leave at once. Go now and pack your things.”

“Only too glad to be out of it,” was Annie’s retort, as with a toss of her head she tramped from the room.

Julian Serle was deep in meditation over the particular neat insertion of a “purple patch,” when his wife burst in upon him in a condition of extraordinary excitement.

“Oh, Julian, what do you think! That girl Ann has been most outrageously insolent. I found her just now trying on my best hat; and when I remonstrated, she said the most awful things—insinuating—I can’t tell you what. I think she must be crazy, for I’m sure she doesn’t drink. Anyhow, she shall depart within the hour. So please give me one pound, thirteen shillings, and four pence.”

“Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed. “Why mind her, Nell? It’s only her ignorance. The mental calibre of these rustics is abnormally low.”

“No, no, it’s not her ignorance!” retorted his wife. “On the contrary, Annie implies that she knows a great deal on some subject about us—but what it is she refuses to divulge.”

“But, my dear, how will you manage without her?”

“Oh, I’ll get in the laundress’s sister. I hear she’s been in service. Sooner than keep Annie, I would do the work myself.”

That afternoon Annie departed. As she bounced into the room to receive her wages, she said with a touch of sarcasm:

“I’ll not trouble you for a character. A character from this house would be no use to me—and only stand in my way. I hear you are getting Maggie King as parlourmaid—and when she comes there will be a pair of you!”

Then, seizing the one pound, thirteen shillings, and four pence, she swept out, to where a ruddy-faced young man was waiting to carry her box. He accorded Mrs. Serle a sort of up-and-down glare, and was presumably the “Jim, who didn’t half like it!”

After this little domestic storm, things subsided at the cottage. Maggie King proved humble and amenable, but her mistress noticed that she and the cook were barely on speaking terms—and that Maggie took her meals alone in the pantry.

One evening, as they sat in the garden after dinner, Helen said to her husband:

“Julian, don’t you think it very odd that not a soul has called?”

“Well, no, my dear; the fact is—they know who I am, and that I’m desperately busy, and only here for absolute peace and seclusion. They understand how hard I am working.”

“Yes, of course, that’s all right. But what about me? I’m not clamouring for a rush of callers, or chatterers; but tea in the garden, and a game of tennis, or even a walk with another woman would not disturb you. Do you know that I’ve not spoken to one of my sex for eight weeks? I really don’t want to grumble, dear—but it’s rather dreary for me. And I cannot understand why not even the parson’s wife has called—though I’m a regular attendant at church. I expect they’ve had an infectious disease in this house—and that not very long ago. The neighbours are afraid to come near us. What is your idea?”

“Um! Um!”—taking his cheroot out of his mouth and looking at it thoughtfully. “Maybe so. There may be something in what you say.”

Then he suddenly picked up the Spectator, and she resumed her embroidery with a sigh. After a few moments’ dead silence the author raised his eyes cautiously over the paper, and gravely surveyed his wife. The expression on his face was rather anxious and doubtful. As Helen caught his eye, she said:

“How soon do you think the book will be finished?” She had actually come to hate the great work! Solitude, silence, and loneliness had quenched her earlier enthusiasm.

“I am just commencing the last chapter but one.”

“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed with heartfelt satisfaction.

“I’m hoping that this work will definitely decide my position as an authority on Assyrian matters, and rank me with Blair, Usher, and Clinton. If so, my labours will not have been in vain”; and he smiled with easy assurance.

“But, Julian dear, do you think that it was worth it?”

“Worth what?”

“I mean sacrificing hours, days, and months, to a dusty, sandy old subject—that can only interest a comparatively small public?”

He put down his paper and stared as if he could not believe his ears.

“You miss so much,” she continued boldly. “Think of the beautiful summer you have wasted, stuffing indoors, from morning till night; only creeping out now and then to do a little fishing. Think of our friends, that we have scarcely seen for six months. You are sacrificing your best hours and days to the memory of a dead woman—a woman who has been dead nearly four thousand years! Even so, I am most frightfully jealous of her!”

“My dear girl, you’re talking the greatest nonsense! I thoroughly appreciate the beauty of the world. As for society, I have you—a host in yourself. If I had not taken determined measures, and buried myself here, this book of mine would never have been finished.”

“But I thought you were almost at the last chapter?” she protested, with tears in her voice.

“That’s true. But the complete work has to be carefully revised—rather a big job! However, when it is ready for the printers, you and I will go off, and have a couple of gay weeks in Paris.”

The long, empty days lagged on. Mrs. Serle, as she walked or gardened, felt more and more solitary and depressed. Alas, for the time when she rode high on the crest of popularity! She could not have believed it possible that she would have pined so incessantly for the society of one of her own sex. Was there something strange about the house they lived in? Was there anything peculiar about herself? Why did people cross the road when they saw her? Why had she a whole pew to herself in church? The situation presented was an extraordinary puzzle! Yet she dared not seek further enlightenment from Julian, for just now he was so immersed in his book that he scarcely snatched his meals. Her enlightenment came from another quarter.

For lack of amusement, it was her custom to drive far afield, the dog seated beside her as sole companion. In a remote country road she happened upon a lady resting on a bank with a bicycle beside her. She was evidently in distress, as she looked ghastly pale, and had taken off a boot.

“Can I help you in any way?” inquired Mrs. Serle, as she pulled up.

For a moment the stranger did not reply. Her pale face became crimson. At last she said:

“I’ve had a tumble off my bicycle. We went over a loose stone, and I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle. If you can give me a lift back to Beckwell I shall be awfully obliged.”

“Yes, with pleasure,” said Mrs. Serle. “The pony will stand, and I will get out and help you.”

Within five minutes the stranger, her bicycle, and the deposed dog were packed into the cart, and the Good Samaritan drove off.

For a long time her companion confined her conversation to monosyllables. Miss Piggott, the rector’s sister-in-law, had no desire to talk to the pretty young woman who shared the Professor’s address—but not his name. Strange to say, she was not “made up”!

“I suppose you live at Beckwell?” enquired Mrs. Serle.

“Yes, in the red house just as you come into the village.”

“It’s a pretty place, but extraordinarily dull. Do you know, I have been here three months, and have not spoken to a soul? I hope you won’t mind my saying that the residents of Beckwell are not very sociable to strangers.”

“No, I suppose we’re not,” murmured the other, who looked self-conscious, and uncomfortable.

“I can’t tell you how I am longing to depart, for I feel as if I should soon grow into a potato! You see, my husband is completely engrossed in his book—working alone all day. As it’s rather an important piece of literature, I never disturb him, and have rather a lonely time. I cannot understand what I have done to be ostracised!”

Mrs. Serle was allowing weeks of accumulated bitterness to find an outlet at last!

“We have come to the conclusion that there must have been smallpox or something in the house, and that is the reason that no one has ever come near us. Perhaps you can tell me if this is the case?”

“No,” replied Miss Piggott, “there has never been a case of smallpox in the village—as far as I know. But I think if you ask Mr. Serle, he will explain the reason why you have no visitors.”

“I have asked my husband.”

“Your husband!” interrupted the other, “your husband!”

“Certainly my husband. What else did you think he was?” And she pulled up the pony, and surveyed her companion with blazing eyes.

“Oh, this is most embarrassing!” bleated Miss Piggott. “That I should be called upon to explain matters is too—too—bad!” and her face exhibited bright red patches on its high cheek-bones. Never in a life of fifty years had she found herself in such a desperate situation.

“But please do enlighten me,” urged Mrs. Serle. “I shall be so grateful to you if you will.”

“Well then—I suppose—I must! A few days after you arrived here, Canon Simpson met Mr. Serle in the village. It seems they were old college friends, and when the Canon told your—er—husband, that we were all so pleased to have him amongst us, and were hoping to make your acquaintance, he gave the Canon to understand that—you were—er—not his wife!”

“What?” cried Mrs. Serle, and her voice was so loud and shrill that it startled the dog and pony.

“At any rate, that is what he implied, and wished to imply!”

“But I am his wife! We were married at St. Mary Abbotts, Kensington, a year ago; and there were nearly three hundred people at our wedding.”

“Then what did he mean?”

“I think I can explain,” she said, suddenly whipping up Fat Tom. “He wanted absolute solitude and leisure in order to finish his book. We left our flat in London for Brighton; but there we seemed to have as many friends as ever—people, especially my women pals, running in and out all day. We went to Edinburgh, and there the literary world lionised him. At last, when in despair, he saw an advertisement of Beckwell, and we moved here. When Canon Simpson accosted him, and told him that all the neighbourhood was coming to call, I expect he felt desperate, and just closed the door with my good name! Oh yes, I see everything so plainly now. Why people look over my head, and cross the street! Why Annie was insolent. Why I was not invited to help at the bazaar; and why young men kiss their hands to me! I understand why my husband was anxious to turn the conversation when I complained of being dull; and was so full of excuses for the neighbours. He holds my reputation at a lower price than his book. Well—we shall see about that!”

“I think he has behaved disgracefully, in a most shocking manner,” burst out her companion, “and I’m not at all surprised that you are upset.”

“Upset!” repeated the other, with an hysterical laugh. “I shall not be as much ‘upset’ as Julian, when we have squared up accounts.

“Well, here we are. I think this is your house.” She drew up as she spoke, helped the lady to descend, and lifted out the bicycle. “I am immensely obliged to you,” she said, cutting short the other’s voluble thanks; “if I have given you a lift—you have opened my eyes.”

Then, without another word, she got into the cart and drove away.

All that evening Helen was strangely white and silent; she complained of having a violent headache, and soon retired.

The Professor, unaware of the Sword of Damocles that was suspended above his head, started early next morning for London, in order to have an interview with his publisher. When he returned it was nine o’clock at night, and an appetising little supper awaited him. As soon as it was concluded he withdrew as usual into the study. The fire was out. The grate was full of ashes and scraps of paper—it looked as if a large bundle of manuscripts had recently been burnt!

“Hullo, Nellie,” he called to her. “Someone has been having a bonfire in here!”

She entered, closed the door carefully behind her, and set her back against it. “Who do you think? What do you suppose it is that has been burnt?” she asked. Her face looked rigid and strained as she confronted him. “Yesterday I discovered why no one came near me. Julian, you have been guilty of the basest and most dishonourable conduct. In order to enjoy complete isolation, I have been humiliated before the world, my reputation has been sacrificed to the book. My good name has counted as nothing, in comparison with Semiramis!” She put her hand to her throat, and swallowed. “I shall send a copy of our marriage certificate to the parson, and request him to publish the truth.”

“So this is your revenge!” cried the Professor, who was trembling from head to foot. “For what was a mere ruse, to keep people at bay, and prevent tribes of women swarming in and out all day long, and disturbing me with their damned giggling, and shrill, high voices. Another wife would have thrown herself heart and soul into her husband’s task—instead of being jealous of his labour. This book, which you have burnt, meant everything to me. I have had the subject in my mind ever since I was a lad at Oxford. Now it is all gone,” and his face quivered with emotion, “my toil, my notes, that I have been collecting for years!” He completely broke down as he added, “It is as if you had murdered my child.”

“You should never have married me,” she answered, wholly unmoved; “and I will now leave you to replace Semiramis with some other monumental work. I have cabled to my brother, and taken my passage in the Empress line for Quebec. This is good-bye.”

“So be it,” he groaned, as he sank into a chair, and bowed his head in his hands. “So be it—so be it!”

But matters were not altogether as desperate as the Professor had been led to believe. The day before she left England Mrs. Serle posted to her husband the priceless manuscript that she had merely pretended to destroy, and his relief and joy were naturally beyond description.

Before Julian Serle abandoned Beckwell—which he did almost immediately—in figurative sackcloth and ashes, he went and confessed himself to the parson, and received the severe admonition which he most undoubtedly deserved. Subsequently the guilty man returned to his flat in London—to a home which was empty, not to say desolate. He was miserably unhappy, and missed his wife at every turn; her friends, yes, and his own, were full of insistent and embarrassing enquiries, to which he replied with a very halting tale about Helen having received a sudden and imperative summons to Montreal. Her absence weighed upon him heavily; after all, a live Helen was ten times more to him than a long-defunct Semiramis! So leaving his precious book to see itself through the press, he took ship for Canada, where he sought out his outraged consort, abased himself appropriately—and received a full pardon.

IX
THE RED BUNGALOW

It is a considerable time since my husband’s regiment (“The Snapshots”) was stationed in Kulu, yet it seems as if it were but yesterday, when I look back on the days we spent in India. As I sit by the fire, or in the sunny corner of the garden, sometimes when my eyes are dim with reading I close them upon the outer world, and see, with vivid distinctness, events which happened years ago. Among various mental pictures, there is not one which stands forth with the same weird and lurid effect as the episode of “The Red Bungalow.”

Robert was commanding his regiment, and we were established in a pretty spacious house at Kulu, and liked the station. It was a little off the beaten track, healthy and sociable. Memories of John Company and traces of ancient Empires still clung to the neighbourhood. Pig-sticking and rose-growing, Badminton and polo, helped the resident of the place to dispose of the long, long Indian day—never too long for me!

One morning I experienced an agreeable surprise, when, in reading the Gazette, I saw that my cousin, Tom Fellowes, had been appointed Quartermaster-General of the district, and was to take up the billet at once.

Tom had a wife and two dear little children (our nursery was empty), and as soon as I had put down the paper I wired to Netta to congratulate and beg them to come to us immediately. Indian moves are rapid. Within a week our small party had increased to six, Tom, Netta, little Guy, aged four, and Baba, a dark-eyed coquette of nearly two. They also brought with them an invaluable ayah—a Madrassi. She spoke English with a pretty foreign accent, and was entirely devoted to the children.

Netta was a slight young woman with brilliant eyes, jet-black hair, and a firm mouth. She was lively, clever, and a capital helpmate for an army man, with marvellous energy, and enviable taste.

Tom, an easy-going individual in private life, was a red-hot soldier. All financial and domestic affairs were left in the hands of his wife, and she managed him and them with conspicuous success.

Before Netta had been with us three days she began, in spite of my protestations, to clamour about “getting a house.”

“Why, you have only just arrived,” I remonstrated. “You are not even half unpacked. Wait here a few weeks, and make acquaintance with the place and people. It is such a pleasure to me to have you and the children.”

“You spoil them—especially Guy!” she answered with a laugh. “The sooner they are removed the better, and, seriously, I want to settle in. I am longing to do up my new house, and make it pretty, and have a garden—a humble imitation of yours—a Badminton court, and a couple of ponies. I’m like a child looking forward to a new toy, for, cooped up in Fort William in Calcutta, I never felt that I had a real home.”

“Even so,” I answered, “there is plenty of time, and I think you might remain here till after Christmas.”

“Christmas!” she screamed. “I shall be having Christmas parties myself, and a tree for the kids; and you, dear Liz, shall come and help me. I want to get into a house next week.”

“Then pray don’t look to me for any assistance. If you make such a hasty exit the station will think we have quarrelled.”

“The station could not be so detestable, and no one could quarrel with you, you dear old thing,” and as she stooped down and patted my cheek, I realised that she was fully resolved to have her own way.

“I have yards and yards of the most lovely cretonne for cushions, and chairs, and curtains,” she continued, “brought out from home, and never yet made up. Your Dirzee is bringing me two men to-morrow. When I was out riding this morning, I went to an auction-room—John Mahomed, they call the man—and inspected some sofas and chairs. Do let us drive there this afternoon on our way to the club, and I also wish to have a look round. I hear that nearly all the good bungalows are occupied.”

“Yes, they are,” I answered triumphantly. “At present there is not one in the place to suit you! I have been running over them with my mind’s eye, and either they are near the river, or too small, or—not healthy. After Christmas the Watsons are going home; there will be their bungalow—it is nice and large, and has a capital office, which would suit Tom.”

We drove down to John Mahomed’s that afternoon, and selected some furniture—Netta exhibiting her usual taste and business capacity. On our way to the club I pointed out several vacant houses, and, among them, the Watsons’ charming abode—with its celebrated gardens, beds of brilliant green lucerne, and verandah curtained in yellow roses.

“Oh yes,” she admitted, “it is a fine, roomy sort of abode, but I hate a thatched roof—I want one with tiles—red tiles. They make such a nice bit of colour among trees.”

“I’m afraid you won’t find many tiled roofs in Kulu,” I answered; “this will limit you a good deal.”

For several mornings, together, we explored bungalows—and I was by no means sorry to find that, in the eyes of Netta, they were all more or less found wanting—too small, too damp, too near the river, too stuffy—and I had made up my mind that the Watsons’ residence (despite its thatch) was to be Netta’s fate, when one afternoon she hurried in, a little breathless and dusty, and announced, with a wild wave of her sunshade, “I’ve found it!”

“Where? Do you mean a house?” I exclaimed.

“Yes. What moles we’ve been! At the back of this, down the next turn, at the cross roads! Most central and suitable. They call it the Red Bungalow.”

“The Red Bungalow,” I repeated reflectively. I had never cast a thought to it—what is always before one is frequently unnoticed. Also it had been unoccupied ever since we had come to the station, and as entirely overlooked as if it had no existence! I had a sort of recollection that there was some drawback—it was either too large, or too expensive, or too out of repair.

“It is strange that I never mentioned it,” I said. “But it has had no tenant for years.”

“Unless I am greatly mistaken, it will have one before long,” rejoined Netta, with her most definite air. “It looks as if it were just waiting for us—and had been marked ‘reserved.’”

“Then you have been over it?”

“No, I could not get in, the doors are all bolted, and there seems to be no chokedar. I wandered round the verandahs, and took stock of the size and proportions—it stands in an imposing compound. There are the ruins at the back, mixed up with the remains of a garden—old guava trees, lemon trees, a vine, and a well. There is a capital place at one side for two Badminton courts, and I have mentally laid out a rose-garden in front of the portico.”

“How quickly your mind travels!”

“Everything must travel quickly in these days,” she retorted. “We all have to put on the pace. Just as I was leaving, I met a venerable coolie person, who informed me that John Mahomed had the keys, so I despatched him to bring them at once, and promised a rupee for his trouble. Now do, like a good soul, let us have tea, and start off immediately after to inspect my treasure-trove!”

“I can promise you a cup of tea in five minutes,” I replied, “but I am not so certain of your treasure-trove.”

“I am. I generally can tell what suits me at first sight. The only thing I am afraid of is the rent. Still, in Tommy’s position one must not consider that. He is obliged to live in a suitable style.”

“The Watsons’ house has often had a staff-tenant. I believe it would answer all your requirements.”

“Too near the road, and too near the General,” she objected, with a gesture of impatience. “Ah, here comes tea at last!”

It came, but before I had time to swallow my second cup, I found myself hustled out of the house by my energetic cousin and en route to her wonderful discovery—the Red Bungalow.

We had but a short distance to walk, and, often as I had passed the house, I now gazed at it for the first time with an air of critical interest. In Kulu, for some unexplained reason, this particular bungalow had never counted; it was boycotted—no, that is not the word—ignored, as if, like some undesirable character, it had no place in the station’s thoughts. Nevertheless, its position was sufficiently prominent—it stood at a point where four ways met. Two gateless entrances opened into different roads, as if determined to obtrude upon public attention. Standing aloof between the approaches was the house—large, red-tiled, and built back in the shape of the letter “T” from an enormous pillared porch, which, with some tall adjacent trees, gave it an air of reserve and dignity.

“The coolie with the keys has not arrived,” said Netta, “so I will just take you round and show you its capabilities myself. Here”—as we stumbled over some rough grass—“is where I should make a couple of Badminton courts, and this”—as we came to the back of the bungalow—“is the garden.”

Yes, here were old choked-up stone water-channels, the traces of walks, hoary guava and apricot trees, a stone pergola and a dead vine, also a well, with elaborate tracery, and odd, shapeless mounds of ancient masonry. As we stood we faced the back verandah of the house. To our right hand lay tall cork trees, a wide expanse of compound, and the road; to our left, at a distance, more trees, a high wall, and clustered beneath it the servants’ quarters, the cook-house, and a long range of stables.

It was a fine, important-looking residence, although the stables were almost roofless and the garden and compound a wilderness, given over to stray goats and tame lizards.

“Yes, there is only one thing I am afraid of,” exclaimed Netta.

“Snakes?” I suggested. “It looks rather snaky.”

“No, the rent; and here comes the key at last,” and as she spoke a fat young clerk, on a small yellow pony, trotted quickly under the porch—a voluble person, who wore spotless white garments, and spoke English with much fluency.

“I am abject. Please excuse being so tardy. I could not excavate the key; but at last I got it, and now I will hasten to exhibit premises. First of all, I go and open doors and windows, and call in the atmosphere—ladies kindly excuse.” Leaving his tame steed on its honour, the baboo hurried to the back, and presently we heard the grinding of locks, banging of shutters, and grating of bolts. Then the door was flung open and we entered, walked (as is usual) straight into the drawing-room, a fine, lofty, half-circular room, twice as large and well-proportioned as mine. The drawing-room led into an equally excellent dining-room. I saw Netta measuring it with her eye, and she said, “One could easily seat thirty people here, and what a place for a Christmas-tree!”

The dining-room opened into an immense bedroom which gave directly on the back verandah, with a flight of shallow steps leading into the garden.

“The nursery,” she whispered; “capital!”

At either side were two other rooms, with bath and dressing-rooms complete. Undoubtedly it was an exceedingly commodious and well-planned house.

As we stood once more in the nursery—all the wide doors being open—we could see directly through the bungalow out into the porch, as the three large apartments were en suite.

“A draught right through, you see!” she said. “So cool in the hot weather.”

Then we returned to the drawing-room, where I noticed that Netta was already arranging the furniture with her mental eye. At last she turned to the baboo and said, “And what is the rent?”

After a moment’s palpable hesitation he replied, “Ninety rupees a month. If you take it for some time it will be all put in repair and done up.”

“Ninety!” I mentally echoed—and we paid one hundred and forty!

“Does it belong to John Mahomed?” I asked.

“No—to a client.”

“Does he live here?”

“No—he lives far away, in another region; we have never seen him.”

“How long is it since this was occupied?”

“Oh, a good while——”

“Some years?”

“Perhaps,” with a wag of his head.

“Why has it stood empty? Is it unhealthy?” asked Netta.

“Oh no, no. I think it is too majestic, too gigantic for insignificant people. They like something more altogether and cosy; it is not cosy—it is suitable to persons like a lady on the General’s staff,” and he bowed himself to Netta.

I believe she was secretly of his opinion, for already she had assumed the air of the mistress of the house, and said briskly, “Now I wish to see the kitchen, and servants’ quarters,” and, picking up her dainty skirts, she led the way thither through loose stones and hard yellow grass. As I have a rooted antipathy to dark and uninhabited places, possibly the haunt of snakes and scorpions, I failed to attend her, but, leaving the baboo to continue his duty, turned back into the house alone.

I paced the drawing-room, dining-room, the nursery, and as I stood surveying the long vista of apartments, with the sun pouring into the porch on one hand, and on the green foliage and baked yellow earth of the garden on the other, I confessed to myself that Netta was a miracle!

She, a new arrival, had hit upon this excellent and suitable residence; and a bargain. But, then, she always found bargains; their discovery was her métier!

As I stood reflecting thus, gazing absently into the outer glare, a dark and mysterious cloud seemed to fall upon the place, the sun was suddenly obscured, and from the portico came a sharp little gust of wind that gradually increased into a long-drawn wailing cry—surely the cry of some lost soul! What could have put such a hideous idea in my head? But the cry rang in my ears with such piercing distinctness that I felt myself trembling from head to foot; in a second the voice had, as it were, passed forth into the garden and was stifled among the tamarind trees in an agonised wail. I roused myself from a condition of frightful obsession, and endeavoured to summon my common sense and self-command. Here was I, a middle-aged Scotchwoman, standing in this empty bungalow, clutching my garden umbrella, and imagining horrors!

Such thoughts I must keep exclusively to myself, lest I become the laughing-stock of a station with a keen sense of the ridiculous.

Yes, I was an imaginative old goose, but I walked rather quickly back into the porch, and stepped into the open air, with a secret but invincible prejudice against the Red Bungalow. This antipathy was not shared by Netta, who had returned from her quest all animation and satisfaction.

“The stables require repair, and some of the go-downs,” she said, “and the whole house must be recoloured inside, and matted. I will bring my husband round to-morrow morning,” she announced, dismissing the baboo. “We will be here at eight o’clock sharp.”

By this I knew—and so did the baboo—that the Red Bungalow was let at last!

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked Netta triumphantly, as we were walking home together.

“It is a roomy house,” I admitted, “but there is no office for Tom.”

“Oh, he has the Brigade Office.—Any more objections?”

“A bungalow so long vacant, so entirely overlooked, must have something against it—and it is not the rent——”

“Nor is it unhealthy,” she argued. “It is quite high, higher than your bungalow—no water near it, and the trees not too close. I can see that you don’t like it. Can you give me a good reason?”

“I really wish I could. No, I do not like it—there is something about it that repels me. You know I’m a Highlander, and am sensitive to impressions.”

“My dear Liz,” and here she came to a dead halt, “you don’t mean me to suppose that you think it is haunted? Why, this is the twentieth century!”

“I did not say it was haunted”—(I dared not voice my fears)—“but I declare that I do not like it, and I wish you’d wait; wait only a couple of days, and I’ll take you to see the Watsons’ bungalow—so sunny, so lived in—always so cheerful, with a lovely garden, and an office for Tom.”

“I’m not sure that that is an advantage!” she exclaimed with a smile. “It is not always agreeable to have a man on the premises for twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four hours!”

“But the Watsons——”

“My dear Liz, if you say another word about the Watsons’ bungalow I shall have a bad attack of the sulks, and go straight to bed!”

It is needless to mention that Tom was delighted with the bungalow selected by his ever-clever little wife, and for the next week our own abode was the resort of tailors, hawkers, butchers, milkmen, furniture-makers, ponies and cows on sale, and troops of servants in quest of places.

Every day Netta went over to the house to inspect, and to give directions, to see how the mallees were laying out the garden and Badminton courts, and the matting people and whitewashers were progressing indoors.

Many hands make light work, and within a week the transformation of the Red Bungalow was astonishing. Within a fortnight it was complete; the stables were again occupied—also the new spick-and-span servants’ quarters; Badminton courts were ready to be played upon; the verandah and porch were gay with palms and plants and parrots, and the drawing-room was the admiration of all Kulu. Netta introduced plants in pots—pots actually dressed up in pongee silk!—to the station ladies; her sofa cushions were frilled, she had quantities of pretty pictures and photos, silver knick-knacks, and gay rugs.

But before Netta had had the usual name-board—“Major Fellowes, A.Q.M.G.”—attached to the gate piers of the Red Bungalow, there had been some demur and remonstrance. My ayah, an old Madrasi, long in my service, had ventured one day, as she held my hair in her hand, “That new missus never taking the old Red Bungalow?”

“Yes.”

“My missus then telling her, please, that plenty bad place—oh, so bad! No one living there this many years.”

“Why—what is it?”

“I not never knowing, only the one word—bad. Oh, my missus! you speak, never letting these pretty little children go there——”

“But other people have lived there, Mary——”

“Never long—so people telling—the house man paint bungalow all so nice—same like now—they make great bargain—so pleased. One day they go away, away, away, never coming back. Please, please,” and she stooped and kissed my hand, “speak that master, tell him—bad bungalow.”

Of course I pooh-poohed the subject to Mary, who actually wept, good kind creature, and as she did my hair had constantly to dry her eyes on her saree.

And, knowing how futile a word to Tom would prove, I once more attacked Netta. I said, “Netta, I’m sure you think I’m an ignorant, superstitious imbecile, but I believe in presentiments. I have a presentiment, dear, about that Bungalow—do give it up to please and, yes, comfort me——”

“What! my beautiful find—the best house in Kulu—my bargain?”

“You may find it a dear bargain!”

“Not even to oblige you, dear Liz, can I break off my agreement, and I have really set my heart on your bête noire. I am so, so sorry,” and she came over and caressed me.

I wonder if Netta in her secret heart suspected that I, the Colonel’s wife, might be a little jealous that the new arrival had secured a far more impressive looking abode than her own, and for this mean reason I endeavoured to persuade her to “move on.”

However, her mind must have been entirely disabused of this by a lady on whom we were calling, who said:

“Oh, Mrs. Fellowes, have you got a house yet, or will you wait for the Watsons’? Such a——”

“I am already suited,” interrupted Netta. “We have found just the thing—not far from my cousin’s, too—a fine, roomy, cheerful place, with a huge compound; we are already making the garden.”

“Roomy—large compound; near Mrs. Drummond,” she repeated with knitted brow. “No—oh, surely you do not mean the Red Bungalow?”

“Yes, that is its name; I am charmed with it, and so lucky to find it.”

“No difficulty in finding it, dear Mrs. Fellowes, but I believe the difficulty is in remaining there.”

“Do you mean that it’s haunted?” enquired Netta with a rather superior air.

“Something of that sort—the natives call it ‘the devil’s house.’ A terrible tragedy happened there long ago—so long ago that it is forgotten; but you will find it almost impossible to keep servants!”