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Title: Given in Marriage

Author: Bithia Mary Croker

Release Date: October 12, 2022 [eBook #69142]

Language: English

Produced by: MWS, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GIVEN IN MARRIAGE ***





                           GIVEN IN MARRIAGE

                            By B. M. Croker

              Author of "In Old Madras," "Lismoyle," etc.

                       LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
                         PATERNOSTER ROW--E.C.




                               CHAPTER I

                        A STRANGER IN THE LAND


"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo
about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?"

An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together
they--or rather their horses--toiled up a sharp ascent.

"Oh yes, _I_ heard him," grunted the other with a shrug.

"And what did you think, Ted?"

"That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising
rejoinder. "Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out!"

"Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in
his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the
estates were chock full of gold."

"Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it,"
declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade.

"Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops--the
berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I've heard that lame
Maistrey--whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened
up--say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere
song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains--run
right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered
in jungle."

"Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I've heard these fool stories, but there's
nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling
subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of
ammonia.

The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up the
steep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated on
the western slopes of a hill range, in Southern India. Edward Dawson,
the elder of the pair, was a big, loosely put-together man, of five and
thirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardless
face), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clothes
were decent--which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt,
wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a battered
topee, completed his kit.

Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely invested
part of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had thereby
provided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes--a good, honest
fellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spoke
Tamil and Canarese, with effective fluency.

Nicholas Byng, his companion, cousin, and partner, was a slight,
young man, with neat features, quick, bright eyes, and a remarkably
clear idea of the importance of appearances--especially of his own
appearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode a
long-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouraging
name of "Mad Molly."

Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for the
Army, but was "spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared to
have become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end to
further efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him to
the Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career,
he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year's
apprenticeship, became partner and sub-manager. He liked the life.

Teddy, for all his unconventional, "jungly" ways, was a good sort;
a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was
master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays--oh, it was
not _all_ "coffee"--and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras,
and fashionable--alas! rather remote--hill stations; he got a bit of
shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet suited him
down to the ground.

The couple had been to the foot of the ghât on business connected with
the transport of their crops; every yard they now travelled carried
them further and further from dense, tropical forests, sweltering
heat, and swampy valleys, and nearer to the quiet beauty of the grassy
uplands.

Turning a sharp corner, they debouched into a little glade where three
tracks met, and here, with a slight shock of surprise, discovered that
prominent figure in early Victorian fiction, known as "a solitary
horseman."

Dawson, who was still expounding on the scandalous price of bone
manure, broke off his sentence with:

"I say,--who's this?"

"Hello, good afternoon," said the stranger, raising a smart topee, "I
heard your voices, and waited. I don't know these parts, and I'm afraid
I've lost my bearings."

The "lost one" was a well set-up, self-possessed individual, mounted on
a fine waler cob, and accompanied by a wiry, and more than half-naked
syce.

"I expect we will soon put you all right," said Byng,--ever the
speaking partner--"Where are you bound for?"

"A place called Fairplains; the estate of one James Fletcher."

"Then you are just five miles out; you overshot the mark by that native
village among the plantain trees, near the bridge. Why didn't you stick
to the road?"

"Well, I suppose because I'm an adventurous idiot," was the modest
reply, "and I was told that a bridle-path cut off seven miles."

"So it does,--but it depends upon _which_ bridle-path. This one has put
you on, a good ten."

"I say, what a confounded nuisance!" exclaimed the wanderer, looking
down at his blown, and sweating, steed.

"Our place is barely a mile from here," announced Dawson, speaking
for the first time. "Come on with us, have a drink, give the gee a
feed, and a rub-down, and we will send a coolie to put you on the way
to Fairplains--unless you'll stay the night?" he added, with true
planter's hospitality.

"Thanks awfully, but I'd better shove on. I'll be glad to stop an hour
at your diggings, and give the cob a rest--he's pretty well done."

"Not the usual 'Hirling,' I see," remarked Byng.

"No, I brought him from Cananore; he is awfully soft--that climate is
only fit for horned cattle!"

"Yes, beastly wet," agreed Byng, his bright eyes taking in the
well-knit figure and military bearing of the cob's master. "Your
regiment quartered there?"

"It is--my name is Mayne--Derek Mayne--an uncle of mine is a pal of
Fletcher's, he invited me up for six weeks' shooting--and naturally I
came like a shot!"

"But Fletcher has gone home--went off ten days ago!"

"What do you say?" cried Mayne, reining up his horse.

"It's a fact; he has been rather seedy, and ran down to see a doctor in
Madras, who ordered him to start then and there for London--it was a
case for an immediate operation."

"Poor chap! I'm most awfully sorry. Well," after a reflective pause,
"I'm in a pretty big hole. I had a line from Fletcher three weeks
ago, and I've got my leave all right, and have written to announce my
arrival, but the shoot is off! I suppose I must make for one of these
hill stations. I can't tell you how I've been looking forward to this
shikar trip--my first."

"Oh, I expect you will be all right," said Dawson reassuringly;
"Fletcher is bound to have left instructions; he is a most reliable old
boy. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dawson, and this," waving a
huge paw, "is my cousin, Nicholas Byng. We run a coffee estate known as
Chicknabullnay,--but called by our neighbours 'The Corner.' He is the
ornamental, and I'm the working partner."

"Come, I like that!" broke in his cousin: "I live with my nose to the
grindstone. I've been on duty since six o'clock this morning; down at
Burliar, making a bundobast for our crop."

"We would give you some shooting," continued Dawson, "but nothing like
what you'd get at Fairplains--that has always had a Shikari owner, who
knows the best grounds, and beats in the low country, as well as he
knows his A B C, and can call out any amount of good, plucky beaters."

"Well, I sincerely hope it _will_ be all right, as you believe, and
that the manager has been warned by Fletcher; otherwise, it's no great
matter, as I am a complete stranger to them both. I say, what a mixed
multitude!" pointing to the pack.

"Yes, all sorts and conditions," replied Byng, "and a real good
specimen of an average planter's pack, only ours are absolutely
healthy--no red mange."

"But what variety!" said Mayne, turning in his saddle to survey them.
"A fox hound, three beagles, a deer-hound, half a dozen fox terriers,
several--any other sort--a bull terrier, and what was once a poodle."

"Yes, and the poodle has the brains of the lot. You see how it is;
people going home are glad to leave their dogs in a good climate. Most
of ours, have a history! The deer-hound was given to me by a girl, the
poodle came from a French priest at Pondicherry, the fox-terrier with
the black head, belonged to a poor chap who died. They get on together
fairly well, all being fond of sport, and they have a rattling good
time."

"Lucky dogs!"

"Yes," put in Dawson, "hunting, drawing sholahs for sambur, and pig,
and at home, there are rats and bandicoots. Two dog-boys feed and brush
them--and a few live indoors."

"A _few_!" echoed Byng, "make it a dozen! The poodle and
fox-terriers,--like the poor,--are always with us, and I've found a
couple of beagles in my bed before now, and"--as an old retriever came
slowly towards the party, "here comes a pensioner to welcome us. This
is Chicknabullnay."

For the last quarter of a mile, the journey had been on a well-metalled
cart road, and through a crop of dense green coffee bushes; now, a
sudden curve brought the back of a long, low bungalow with adjoining
gardens, stores, and stables, into sight. As the trio rode down a steep
slope, dog-boys, and syces, hurried forward to claim their respective
charges.

The guest dismounted rather stiffly, and was escorted by Dawson
straight through the house, and into the front verandah. Here the view
that lay before them was startlingly unexpected; low hills to right
and left had, as it were, been cleft by some volcanic convulsion, and
disclosed a far-away, and exquisite, blue panorama of the plains.

"Oh I say!" Mayne exclaimed involuntarily.

"Hits you bang in the eye, doesn't it?" was Dawson's complacent
rejoinder. "Most planters manœuvre for a fine outlook--the one up at
Fairplains is the same--but Fletcher swears, ten times better. Now come
along inside, and have a wash."




                              CHAPTER II

                             "THE CORNER"


For a bachelor abode "The Corner" proved unexpectedly comfortable, and
well-furnished.

"Wouldn't you swear a couple of old maids lived here?" said Dawson, as
he ushered his guest into the dining-room. "This is all Byng's doing,"
pointing to a precisely-laid table,--where four little hill-ferns, in
four little white china wheelbarrows, supported a central ornament. "He
found things pretty rough and tumbled, when he joined me three years
ago."

"You may say so!" corroborated his cousin, now entering sleek-headed
and refreshed, unfolding a smart silk handkerchief as he spoke. "Why,
there was hardly a sheet or a towel--nothing but rags--only one
tumbler, one breakfast-cup, and two plates, both cracked!"

"Oh come, draw it mild!" protested the other. "Anyhow, the Missy--I
call him the 'Missy'--gives picnics and tiffins, we have an ice
machine, a piano, and lace-edged tea-cloths! Now sit down, I'm sure you
are starving."

A black-bearded butler brought in a substantial cold hump, salad, roast
potatoes, bread, butter, cheese, and a huge cake; whilst his satellite,
an attendant chokra, supplied each of the company with a long and
well-iced peg.

"Not much of the old maid in this quarter!" remarked Mayne, when he had
swallowed a few mouthfuls, indicating the splendid tiger-skins, and
heads, that surrounded the party. "That bison--I say, what a fellow!"
surveying the trophy with eyes of envious respect.

"Yes, a good specimen," assented Dawson. "You should see those at
Fairplains. Travers is the finest shot in Southern India. Have you ever
done any big game shooting?"

"Nothing bigger than a hare! I've always been mad keen on trophies, and
when my uncle wrote about this invitation, I nearly stood on my head.
Supposing Fletcher's manager has received no instructions, and gives me
the boot?"

"No fear," rejoined Byng emphatically. "Travers is the great shikari in
these hills, a magnificent shot, and absolutely without a nerve in his
body. If you are a keen sportsman--a red-hot enthusiast--he will love
you as a son, or brother."

"How splendid! What's he like?"

"I'll tell you all about him, when we adjourn outside. Have one of
these Trichys?"

With a Trichy between his fingers, Mayne followed his host into the
verandah, and there, subsided into a deep and seductive chair. His eyes
ranged over the unfamiliar outlook, of rich green coffee bushes, heavy
forestry, and vague, blue plains, as he meditatively rolled the cheroot.

"It's rather a painful story about Laurence Travers," began Byng,
blowing a cloud.

"Then--er--perhaps you'd rather----"

"Oh, it's common property--no scandal. Travers' father lived to
spend his last penny, and left nothing but debt for the family. So
Laurence, instead of going into the Army, came out here when he was
two and twenty; he had a little capital, and started coffee planting
at Fairplains. After a good season, he went home on three months'
leave,--and got caught, coming out!"

"Caught!" repeated Mayne.

"Fell head over ears in love with a fellow passenger; a young governess
bound for a situation in Melbourne. She had not a penny, needless to
say. They were married, and lived very happily, in spite of the wrath
of his relations,--whose chief asset was family pride. Mrs. Travers did
up the house, started a garden, rode about all over the place, and made
heaps of friends; she was Irish, very pretty, lively, hospitable, and
an immense favourite. Those were fat years for coffee too--and Travers
prospered."

"Oh, get on!--don't be so long-winded!" growled Dawson, who was nursing
a fox terrier, whilst jealous dogs of various sorts surrounded his
chair.

"Well," resumed Byng, "after a good while, there was the usual baby--a
girl. Travers was in the seventh heaven, but Mrs. Travers somehow began
to go down hill, though she would not give in; other people saw it, and
urged her to take a change, or to go home. She stuck it out, that she
was as strong as a horse. However, when the child was about a year old,
Travers, coming in late one afternoon, discovered her sitting in the
verandah,--as he supposed asleep,--with the baby on her lap. When it
turned out that she was stone dead, he went nearly raving mad; in those
days the place was a bit isolated, neighbours were far off; not like it
is now,--the Ffinches and Hicks within a couple of miles. Strange to
say, the servants had the sense to put away his razors and fire-arms,
and to send for the nearest doctor. He gave Travers a sedative, and
found that Mrs. Travers had died of long-standing heart disease. She
was buried in her garden.

"After this blow, Travers appeared to have no further interest in
anything in the wide world,--bar the kid. She had a superior English
nurse, and the most wonderful frocks, sashes, and dolls, that had ever
been seen on these hills. Travers could not bear her out of his sight,
and brought her about with him everywhere,--even shooting. When Nancy
was six, she got typhoid--our crystal clear streams are deceptive--and
she nearly went out, and had to be sent home. Her father took this
separation terribly to heart; after her departure, they say, he used
to sit for hours, in a sort of dream, just smoking, and staring into
space! Some people thought he was going dotty; and it sounds a funny
thing to say, but in a way, the child was his _ruin_! An irresistible
magnet, that drew him to England, and often at the most critical
seasons. There, he had no occupation; here, his coffee estate was going
to pot. Other planters warned him, but in spite or all they could say,
he would leave as manager, one, Doria, a cunning half-caste,--such an
oily persuasive rascal,--to take on his job.

"There had been bad seasons, and losses,--common to the whole
community, and this fellow urged Travers to raise a mortgage, and
Travers, who wanted ready money, and was dying to be off home, agreed,
and departed. Then Doria, left to his own devices, set about to rob
and plunder in the most shameless way; he pocketed a whole season's
profits, also large arrears of debts--and cleared out, leaving no
address."

"I believe he is in South America," interposed Dawson. "Go on,
Nicky--you'd make your fortune in the Bazaar!"

"I think," resumed Byng, "that it must be nearly five years since
Travers returned, and found himself completely smashed. He made a
desperate effort to pull things together, but it was too late; the
coffee was neglected, and blighted, the bungalow full of mildew and
cobwebs,--and the mortgagees were calling for their capital. I must
say, they behaved infernally badly; would not give Travers a dog's
chance; foreclosed, and sold up Fairplains. Fletcher bought it, lock,
stock and barrel, and kept on Travers, as his manager. He has a
bungalow, and four hundred rupees a month--and is worth _double_. When
Fletcher is away--he is boss, and lives in the big house."

"Where he was once lord, and master!" exclaimed Mayne. "What
frightfully hard luck,--I wonder he stayed on."

"Hobson's choice! He'd got to live, and to pay for the kiddie at home.
Now she is grown up, and out--and----"

"Do you mean to tell me," interrupted Mayne, pushing back his chair,
"that there is a girl at Fairplains?"

"I am thankful to say there _is_! She is the life and soul of the
neighbourhood. We should all be uncommonly dull without our Nancy--she
is full of energy, and true _joie-de-vivre_--does everything bang off
on the spur of the moment, and is the apple of her father's eye."

"And mine," supplemented Dawson, "apple of both eyes."

"Yes, she put new life into Travers," resumed Byng, "he is like another
man; goes all over the place to picnics, and tennis, and takes an
interest in his personal appearance--not like my cousin here," with a
contemptuous gesture of his thumb.

"Oh, go on!" grunted Dawson, "_I_ haven't thirty-eight ties hanging on
a string--I've no red silk socks--and no looks! Travers, though he is
nearly fifty, is far and away the handsomest fellow in these parts;
he's like a king! I suppose it's the old blue blood--and one of the
best, into the bargain."

Mayne listened with ill-suppressed impatience to this long eulogy.
What were the handsome planter, and the apple of his eye, to him? His
programme must be entirely revised.

"But I say," he broke in at last. "It's one thing to go shooting with
a bachelor, my uncle's old pal--but another pair of shoes, to quarter
myself on his manager, who has a grown-up daughter--even if he wanted
to go for a week's shikar, he could not leave her at home alone."

"Oh, she goes with him," was Dawson's staggering announcement, "she's
an A1 shot."

"Then _that_ settles it," declared Mayne, rising to his feet. "Two is
company! Only my baggage is on its way to Fletcher's, I'd ask for a
bed here, and start down the ghât to-morrow. Anyway, I won't stay at
Fairplains more than a couple of days."

"Oh, _won't_ you?" said Byng, with ironical emphasis, "I advise you
to 'wait and see.' Nancy won't be the fly in the ointment--she's
a rattling good little housekeeper, and will make you uncommonly
comfortable. She does not always go out shooting; sometimes Mrs. Ffinch
comes over, and keeps her company--they are tremendous pals."

"Yes, if you are really anxious to see first-class sport," broke in
Dawson, "don't let a scruple, or a little girl, stand in your way. Take
my advice, and make no arrangements, till you have seen Fairplains for
yourself."

"Well, I daresay you are right," said Mayne, after a weighty silence.
"It does seem rather rotten, to have taken this long journey, and be,
so to speak, headed off by a petticoat. I--might be sorry afterwards."

"You are bound to be," rejoined Dawson with conviction.

"All right then, I'll push on. Have the Travers any neighbours besides
yourselves, and this Mrs. What-you-may-call her?"

"Oh, yes, the Ffinches at Clouds Rest, are within two miles--there are
only the two of them. He, given over body and soul, to money-making,
and coffee--otherwise just Mrs. Ffinch's husband! She, is our local
dynamo, and keeps everything going;--extraordinarily clever woman,
absolutely wasted out here;--would make a great Prime Minister, or
Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Then we have the Hicks'. Dr. and Mrs.
and two girls; he was doctor on board a liner--and picked up a lady
passenger."

"More of a passenger, than a lady," corrected Dawson, "but a rare good
sort."

"And the girls ditto," continued his cousin. "These are our nearest--if
not dearest. You'll soon get to know everyone, and everyone will know
you,--and give you lots of sport."

"Well then, I think I'll make a start, if you'll send for the cob, and
syce; it's seven o'clock."

"It's a fine starlight night, and no hurry; only the Travers' are early
birds," said Dawson, when Mayne's cob was led up. "There's a coolie to
guide you. I expect we shall see you pretty often--mind you look in,
when you can."

"Upon my word, I don't know how to thank you! You have been most
awfully good in taking me in like this," said Mayne. "Perhaps Fletcher
has not written; and you may have me back on your hands to-morrow
morning," and with a laugh, and a salute, he sprang into the saddle,
and cantered away, closely pursued by syce, and coolie.

"A real cheery chap!" remarked Dawson, as he looked after the parting
guest; "no 'haw-haw' nonsense about him. I like his eyes,--and he
laughs like a boy."

"Boy! He must be seven or eight and twenty," said Byng, "may be more.
Money, I should say. I noticed his watch, and he paid a smart sum for
that cob. He's not a bad-looking chap--I hope he won't turn the child's
head?"

"Not likely!" rejoined Dawson, "Nancy's head is too well screwed on,
and she has no room for anyone in her thoughts, but her Daddy--as for
that fellow, his one and only object in life, is to bag a tiger!"

Having pronounced this dictum, Dawson flung himself into a long cane
chair, and picked up _The Planter's Gazette_.




                              CHAPTER III

                        THE GIRL AT FAIRPLAINS


Proceeding through the coffee estate at a sort of dog's trot, Mayne
was sorely exercised in his mind; being filled with serious misgivings
concerning the planter's daughter; probably a pert, autocratic little
minx, after the manner of the usual "apples of eyes," who would no
doubt prove--as far as he was concerned--a real spoil-sport! For days
he had indulged in glowing visions of a rough outdoor life; of camps,
long marches, exciting stalks, heavy spoils, and freedom!

Could a manager leave his estate? and if he did, and brought his
encumbrance, how hateful and irksome to have this girl tacked on to
the party! Well, he could soon see how the land lay, and if the
outlook was too discouraging, would hurry off and spend his leave in
Ceylon--where he might,--with any luck--get an elephant or two.

It was a lovely starlight evening, and after the hot and clammy
atmosphere of Cananore, the thin cool hill air, with its tang of
eucalyptus, was as refreshing as a draught of spring water. Up various
steep coolie paths, bordered by clumps of aromatic blue gum, and ragged
bushes, and round many sharp corners, Mayne followed his light-footed
leader. Presently they came upon a good metalled road, running through
coffee, and above them, on a raised plateau, stood Fairplains, with
lighted windows, and lanterns flickering like fire-flies about the
premises.

As Mayne approached, the barking of many dogs was deafening, and he
halted just below the bungalow. When he did so, the majestic figure
of an elderly butler, appeared at the top of a flight of stone steps,
brandishing a lantern in one hand, and salaaming profoundly with the
other.

"Is the sahib at home?" inquired Mayne.

"Yes, saar, please to come up, saar?"

Thus invited, the visitor dismounted, and ascended to the verandah; and
as he did so, caught sight, within a room, of a girl reading. By the
light of a shaded lamp, he invisioned a wisp-like figure in white, and
a bent head crowned with a mass of hair.

"Francis!" called out a clear young voice, "why are those dogs making
such a noise? Is it the panther again?"

"No, missy," replied the servant reassuringly, "no panther
to-night--only one gentleman."

Missy lifted her head, and beheld Mayne standing in the doorway. As she
rose to her feet, he discovered that the word "little" did not fit Miss
Nancy Travers, who was rather tall than otherwise.

"I hope you will pardon this late and audacious intrusion," he began,
removing his topee as he spoke. "My name is Mayne--Mr. Fletcher, my
uncle's old friend, invited me up here for some shooting. I only
discovered a couple of hours ago, that Mr. Fletcher has gone home, and
had no time to make other arrangements--but----"

"It is quite all right," she declared with serene composure, "this is
Mr. Fletcher's bungalow, and naturally you are welcome. Francis will
get you some supper at once."

"I suppose you had no letter--you did not expect me?" he inquired,
advancing to the table.

"No, but that makes no difference. We are accustomed to stray
visitors, and always glad to see them. Planters, doctors, chaplains,
and missionaries, drop in from time to time. Won't you sit down?"
indicating a chair; a half-finished game of chess was on the table
between them. "Father and I were playing, when he was sent for to see
to a sick coolie. He will be back in a few minutes."

"Did I hear you say something about a panther just now?" asked Mayne
abruptly.

"Yes, they come down from the rocks above us, and prowl round after
dark, and carry off dogs if they can; last week one of them took the
dhoby's best goat!"

"Then the shooting about here must be good?"

"I'm afraid father has not left much in the immediate neighbourhood;
for real sport, you have to go down the ghât--I mean for bison and
tiger--hereabouts, there are only sambur, and wild pig."

"And panthers?" supplemented Mayne.

"Yes, too many of them! Such treacherous, cruel, brutes, and very bold.
More dangerous in their way than tiger--Father says the tiger is a
gentleman--the panther a bounder."

"I wish I could get a shot at one."

"No doubt you will have a chance. Did you come far to-day?"

"From the railway. I arrived from Cananore last night, and stopped at
the Dâk bungalow. My guns and traps are following me, but I really
don't like to billet myself on you, and your father."

Since he had been in the company of Miss Travers, Mayne had been
anxiously endeavouring to distinguish her appearance; but a heavily
shaded lamp left, beyond the mere outline, everything to conjecture;
and, save an impression that she had a small face, large eyes, and a
thin brown hand,--the lady's looks, remained an unknown quantity.

At this moment, Travers, who had been prescribing for a stomach-ache
in the coolie lines, reappeared, unaware of the arrival of a visitor.
As he stepped into the verandah, he heard talking--a strange voice,
vibrant and attractive,--the voice of a gentleman; and there, sitting
in his own pet chair, was someone whose sleek dark head, and white
collar, appeared above its cushions.

He entered promptly, received a hasty and apologetic explanation, and
became at once the cordial and hospitable host. The dark-haired young
fellow, was evidently an Army man, with pleasant easy manners.

A description of his journey was presently cut short by the
announcement that "Supper was ready on the table," and as Travers
hurried his guest into the dining-room, the young lady disappeared.

Supper was laid out with an unexpected display of fine damask, cut
glass, and shining silver, and the new-comer did ample justice to an
excellent meal of which the _pièce de résistance_ was cold hump. There
was a sameness in the planters' homes, not only confined to food; here
again were dead trophies, and not a few live dogs; but dogs, trophies,
and surroundings, were all on a superior, and more imposing scale, than
that of the _ménage_ at "The Corner."

Travers, noticing his guest's attention fixed upon a valuable old
sideboard, said:

"I see you are looking at the Chippendale! This place is no mushroom,
and been established over eighty years. I took it from the executors
of a very old planter, who started it, and collected no end of good
furniture, plate and glass, from auctions and sales--the break-up of
families, who were pioneers in these hills."

Presently the conversation turned to the subject nearest to the
wayfarer's heart, "shikar." On such a topic, the two were in the
most profound, and, so to speak, deadly sympathy. Mayne listened
enthralled--to an excellent supper--to vivid descriptions of beats and
bags, "near shaves," and glorious triumphs. Afterwards the sportsmen
smoked in the verandah, and exchanged views on a surprising variety of
subjects, from the stars in their courses, to the preserving of skins,
and the imperative use of arsenical soap.

Later, as Travers escorted his guest to the spare room, he said:

"I expect we shall be able to show you some fairly good sport."

"I'm sure of it," responded Mayne, "but by no means so sure, that I
ought to trespass on your good nature. For all _you_ know, I may be an
impudent impostor!"

"Oh, I'll risk that," replied Travers with a hearty laugh, then as he
turned to withdraw, "Make yourself at home--and sleep well."

       *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, the dâk-wallah's brown leather bag carried the English
mail to Fairplains, and among papers and advertisements were two or
three letters for Travers, including one from Mr. Fletcher. He wrote
from a nursing home in London, and gave a belated notice of the
prospective arrival of the nephew of his old friend, Richard Mayne:

"I don't know the young man personally," he said, "but if he is like
his uncle, he will be all right. Mayne is in the Porcupines on the
West Coast, is mad keen to see some sport, and could not be in better
hands than yours. His father is dead, and his mother has married again.
My friend, a bachelor, is a man of large property, and I fancy your
visitor will be his heir. He has a little money of his own--and they
say, brains. Let him have my guns, and the brown pony, do your best
for him, and don't let him flirt with Nancy. I'm not much better, and
the doctors talk of having another 'go' at me. How did our ancestors
live without these operations? They died, I suppose. Well, we must all
go--sometime----"

The remainder of the letter was filled up with business directions,
suggestions, and interrogations.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Mayne came out of his room in the morning, he sat on the steps,
and greedily devoured the delicious pearly prospect; it was similar to
the one from "The Corner," but finer, and more extensive.

"Isn't it lovely?" said a clear voice, and looking round he beheld Miss
Travers.

Seen by the clear and impartial light of day, her appearance was
disappointing; a tall slip of a girl with deeply sunburnt face, in
which was set a pair of wide-open grey eyes; and Mayne was struck by
the intensely youthful expression of these eyes--that now regarded him
curiously; her hair, very thick and wavy, was of a tawny red--almost
the same shade as her complexion; a white linen frock emphasized a
slim, rather boyish figure, and made no attempt to hide a pair of
surpassingly neat ankles. Nancy's age was possibly sixteen, and to sum
up her personality in one word, Mayne's hostess was neither more nor
less, than a happy-looking, well-grown flapper!

"I never tire of it," she resumed; "if I am bored, or in a bad temper,
I just sit here and stare--and it always soothes me."

"Are you ever in a bad temper?" inquired Mayne, who had risen, and was
looking up at her.

"Don't ask _me_--ask Daddy," she answered with a gay smile, revealing a
set of perfect teeth, "I'm afraid he will say it's--fiery!"

"May be your hair has something to say to it?"

"Probably! When I was a small child, it was much worse,--other girls
pretended to warm their hands on my head. It has grown deeper in shade,
and I have hopes, that it may yet be black."

"It will be white before that."

"How smart of you!" she exclaimed, seating herself. "How did you sleep?"

"Like an infant."

"Really? Sometimes they scream all night! 'An infant crying in the
night,'" she quoted. "And so you lost your way yesterday?"

"I believe so--and only for two good Samaritans, I might be wandering
still."

"You met Mr. Dawson, and Mr. Byng?"

"Yes, they were kind enough to put me up, and to lend me a guide. I
say, what an oddly-matched couple to run in double harness!"

"They are; but it's so good for them; they counteract each other's
failings, and get on splendidly--the same as people who marry their
opposites."

"Do they? I see you know all about it!" said Mayne, now sitting down
beside her, and warding off the attentions of a fine bull terrier.

"Go away, Sammy," commanded his mistress, "I'll talk to _you_ by and
by." Then to Mayne, "Are you trying to be sarcastic?"

"Perish the thought!"

"And I _do_ know all about it--within our small circle, every married
person is the exact contrast to their partner. You will soon be able to
judge for yourself--as for Teddy Dawson--we are all christian names up
here----"

"May I call you by yours?" asked Mayne audaciously.

"In a few days--perhaps----"

"Thank you; and you were speaking about Teddy Dawson?"

"So I was; he is so practical and hard-working, and loves
coffee-planting, but is rather rough and untidy. If you had only seen
'The Corner' before Nicky arrived! The Bungalow was crammed with sacks
of coffee, tins of kerosine, and packs of dogs--scarcely a chair to sit
on. Ah! here is father at last!"

As Travers dismounted from a shaggy estate pony, and approached,
Mayne realized that he was undeniably handsome; dark, with finely cut
features, and noble bearing; the gallant air, that descends in certain
families, from generation to generation.

"Too hot for the steps, Nance!" he said, laying his hand on her head,
"and no topee! Away with you into the verandah." But Nancy merely
lifted a slender arm to thrust back a hair-pin. "How are you, Mayne? I
heard all about you this morning."

"_All_, sir? That's rather a large order; but I gather that you have
had a letter from Fletcher?"

"Yes, poor old boy, I'm afraid he is in a bad way. He is anxious you
should have good sport. I believe I can manage a big beat next week,
and I've arranged to draw a small sholah this afternoon." (A sholah is
a deep fold in the hills indicated by trees and undergrowth). "We may
get a jungle sheep, or a pig."

"Anything will be a novelty to me," declared Mayne.

"I can lend you Fletcher's rifle, till your own comes up; in fact, he
said you were to use his battery and----"

"But, father," interrupted the girl, "you have forgotten that this is
tennis day! The Hicks, the Ffinches, and the 'Corner' boys, are coming."

"Oh, by Jove, yes! but you will be all right without us. You can
tackle more than that, my little Nance." Aside to Mayne, "She manages
everyone."

"Now you are thinking of Mrs. Ffinch," protested Nancy, "what excuse
could I offer? You know Captain Calvert is still at 'Clouds Rest,' and
with the Hicks, Andrew Meach, and the Pollards, she said we ought to
make up three sets."

"To-day or to-morrow is all one to me," was Mayne's generous
announcement,--for he was secretly longing to be off within the hour.

"Oh, well, Mr.--or is it Captain--Mayne?" He nodded. "I will try and
arrange the tennis somehow, and let father carry you off to draw the
'Bandy' sholah."

The immediate result of such magnanimous permission, was an animated
dispute; each party clamouring to yield to the other; finally it was
decided, that the sportsmen were to remain at home.

"It will give you an opportunity of meeting some of our neighbours,"
said Travers; then turning to his daughter, "Nancy child, five minutes
ago, I asked you to go in out of the sun."

"Yes, dear, but you know very well that my hair is as thick as a roof
thatch, and my skull is bomb-proof."

"Ah, I'm afraid this is a day, when you don't feel very good?"

"Oh, Daddy--please----!"

"Come along," he interrupted, taking her gently under the arms, raising
her to her feet, and drawing her into the verandah. Then to Mayne--who
had followed them, "When this sun-worshipper was a small, and unruly
mite, she obligingly prepared me for the worst, by announcing, 'Daddy,
I don't feel very good to-day.'"

"Oh, that story has been told all over the hills since I was two years
old!" protested Miss Nancy. "People are always quoting it. Don't you
think, Captain Mayne, that it is too bad of Daddy to give me away?"

"Make your mind easy, my dear child, your old Daddy will never give you
away. Now come along into the dining-room, and give us some breakfast,
and let Captain Mayne sample our famous Fairplains coffee."




                              CHAPTER IV

                           THE COFFEE ESTATE


The Fairplains coffee, fully maintained its high reputation, and the
accompanying food was on the same satisfactory level; fresh cream,
bread and butter, apricot jam, and new-laid eggs, grilled ham and
chicken--what a welcome change, from the sodden West Coast fare, to
which Mayne had been accustomed. Besides the menu, he could not help
being impressed by the deep mutual affection, existing between Travers
and his daughter; how quietly she forestalled all his requirements,
how his dark eyes softened, when they met her glance, and how the pair
laughed, and chaffed, one another with light-hearted enjoyment.

Mayne cast a thought to the domestic atmosphere of his own home. What
a contrast to this! There, a fashionably youthful woman of fifty,
shrank from the too convincing appearance of a son of seven and twenty,
and her early morning manner was particularly chilly and acidulated.
Breakfast was never a convivial meal.

Lady Torquilstone, an only child and heiress, among her many suitors,
had, to the disappointment of her parent, accepted handsome Derek
Mayne, a mere officer,--and not even an eldest son! and accompanied him
when he joined his regiment in India. As soon as the glamour of a new
life, and a new world, had worn off, the lady drooped. In India, she
found a dreadful spirit of equality--no nicely partitioned sets, only
the sternest rule of "precedence," in short, from her point of view no
"society" whatever!

Money failed to give her the prominent position she considered to be
her right, she was merely Mrs. Derek Mayne, a Captain's wife, and one
of the herd! Unfortunately the marriage was not a success; the heiress
was discontented, and irritable, she snubbed and tyrannized over her
good-natured husband,--and spent most of her time in England.

Captain Mayne died in Jubbulpore of cholera,--when his happy wife
was dancing at a London ball,--and within the least conventional
period, his widow married Lord Torquilstone, an elderly, but well
preserved peer, and hardened man of the world; they shared the same
tastes--particularly racing, and Bridge--and lived for eight months of
the year in a gloomy, but imposing house in Mayfair,--where it required
a combination of three men-servants, to open the hall door.

Derek Mayne Junior had never been permitted to become "an encumbrance";
school, Sandhurst, and his Uncle Richard, lifted the weight of child,
boy, and man, from his mother's shrinking shoulders,--and he made only
an occasional and brief appearance at his so-called "Home."

"I'm afraid you will have lots of spare time on your hands," said
Travers to his guest. "This is our busy season, and I can only get off
for a shoot now and then,--but Nancy will take you on, when I have an
extra full day."

"What do you call a full day?"

"Well, when I start at seven, with roll call of the coolies, am out
till twelve; after a rest and tiffin, I go round and see how the
weeding and picking is done? then to the factory to weigh coffee,
afterwards attend to office work, which sometimes carries me on till
eleven o'clock at night."

"But I don't allow that _now_," said Nancy with a proprietary gesture.

"No," agreed Travers, "because this young lady wants a playfellow, and
has no conception of the labour and anxieties, that belong to a coffee
estate. Sometimes a planter will awake, to find what has been compared
to a fall of snow,--the blossom in flower! It is a pretty sight; but
for three days, he lives in a quaking agony for fear of rain--rain
would spell the ruin of the whole crop. To insure a good setting of the
bean or berry, we must have several days of sunshine."

"I suppose the picking is all done by hand?" said Mayne, who from his
place could observe various black heads bobbing about among the coffee
bushes.

"Yes, I get my labour from Mysore. I must take you down to the
pulping-house, and let you see some of the process."

"I gather that coffee-planting is an uncertain business?"

"You may say so!" replied Travers. "We are liable to leaf disease,
rain, and rot. However, a planter is a sanguine creature, and if he has
a bad season, his cry is 'next year.'"

"Now Daddy, we won't have any more coffee till _after_ dinner,"
announced Nancy authoritatively. "Captain Mayne has not been
introduced to the best dogs. This"--pushing forward a large white bull
terrier,--"is Sam. Uncle Sam, my property, and shadow."

"I say, what a splendid fellow!" exclaimed Mayne. "Come along and talk
to me, Uncle. I love dogs--have you had him long?"

"Ever since he was born. Bessie, his mother, was brought from England
as a puppy. She looked after me when I was small, and was so clever and
wise. I am sorry to say she died before I came home,--but her son has
adopted me."

"Well, Bessie lived to a ripe old age," said Travers; "she must have
been thirteen--an extraordinarily intelligent, almost human creature.
When the poor old lady felt that her end was approaching, she went
round every one of her haunts to bid them farewell--down to 'The
Corner,' up to 'Clouds Rest,' and even to the nearer sholahs and beats.
Day after day she was to be seen hurrying along all by herself--a
strange journey----"

"You have not talked to Togo yet," interposed Nancy, the irrepressible.
"Father belongs to him, and sleeps in his room. Come here, and show
yourself, my Togo! He is a shy, and eccentric person--nearly always
carries a stone in his mouth--a trick inherited from his retriever
ancestors."

The animal in question was a yellow and white, curly-haired,
long-legged spaniel, with a jaunty tail carried high over his back, and
a pair of beseeching dark eyes.

"What do you think of him?"

After a moment's hesitation Mayne replied:

"Well, I've no doubt Togo is a good sort--he reminds me of a variety of
dogs I've seen!"

"Variety--you mean he is a mongrel?"

"I'd rather not commit myself. Perhaps he is a particular hill breed?"

"No, but one of the best of our pack," said his owner, "and if he seems
all leg, he is really all heart. Come here, Togo,--'handsome is, that
handsome does,' eh Togo?"

And Togo went over and laid his head on his master's knee, and turned a
deeply reproachful gaze upon the stranger.

"I'm going down to the factory, if you'd care to come," said Travers.
"I'll show you the lie of the land, and Nancy can concentrate on her
tea-party."

Mayne accepted with alacrity, and in a few minutes, the two men,
followed by the two dogs, were to be seen descending the hill.

"I knew a fellow of your name long ago," announced Travers; "I was one
of the juniors, when he was in the sixth form at Harrow; a remarkably
good-looking chap, Derek Mayne. We small fry worshipped him--he was
Captain of the Eleven."

"It must have been my father; he was at Harrow, and his name was Derek
Mayne--so is mine."

"Then in that case," said Travers, halting for a moment, and
confronting his companion, "I am delighted to meet his son; although
I lost sight of him for ages and ages, I remember your father just as
well as if we had met but yesterday; such an active, cheery sort of
chap, with a wonderful influence, and personality. I know he went into
the Army, and died young."

"Yes, twenty-five years ago out here--cholera. I don't remember him at
all--I wish I could."

"Once he came and spent a few days at Lambourne, my father's place, and
I felt tremendously flattered, and proud. Everyone was taken with him,
and such a cricketer! Those were the pleasant days before our grand
smash. Are you an only child?"

"I am."

"What hard lines for your mother to have six thousand miles between you
and her! _I_ know what that means."

Mayne made no reply. He had good reason to believe, that distance was
of no account, and his absence, more or less of a welcome relief.

"Yes, I know exactly how she feels," repeated good, simple-minded
Travers; "when my little girl went away from me to England,--the whole
world seemed changed, and dark."

His love of Nancy was the keynote of the man.

"Well, here is what we call a factory--not much like your idea of one,
I'll swear,--and a bit of an eyesore into the bargain."

The factory was an ugly, solid brick building, with a flat zinc roof,
and vast verandahs; in and out of which, the laden coolies swarmed
like ants in an ant-heap. All seemed working at the highest pitch, and
everything pointed to a big crop; here Travers was the acute, energetic
and authoritative Manager; eyes and ears, hung upon his words, which
happened to be in fluent Canarese.

At the appointed hour, Mayne,--whose kit had arrived,--presented
himself in the drawing-room at Fairplains; looking very business-like,
in his well-cut white flannels, and tennis shoes. Here host and hostess
were already awaiting their guests.

The apartment was gloomy and old-fashioned--in spite of Miss Nancy's
obvious attempts to work a change, with gay cushions, white curtains,
and a wealth of flowers; these items entirely failed to overpower the
depressing effect of a double suite of Black Bombay furniture--sofas,
armchairs and tables; all heavily carved, and upholstered in shabby
purple damask,--the original Fairplains furniture, brought from Bombay
at vast expense, fifty years previously.

The walls were hung with a weird grey paper, covered with a pattern
that recalled urns, and weeping willows; the ceiling was crossed by
great beams, and the yellow keys of an aged piano, seemed to grin
defiance at every innovation! Mrs. Travers and her daughter had been
in turn defeated by the overhanging beams, and funereal furniture, and
so the apartment of the early sixties, remained more or less deserted.
Nancy generally received her friends in the verandah, or the cheerful,
shabby "Den," common to her parent, and herself.

"Is not this room hideous?" she said, appealing to Mayne. "No one likes
it. I think it's because when people die,--they are laid out here."

"Nancy!" protested her father, "you don't know what you are talking
about! The fact is," turning to Mayne, "this room was once the glory
of the old lady who first lived at Fairplains, and there was a sort of
understanding that it was not to be transformed,--so here it is, as you
see! We only use it on state occasions."

"Once in a blue moon," added Nancy. "The servants say it's haunted,
and I believe the old lady comes here still. If any article happens
to be moved, it's put back in its place, the same night--it really
_is_; flowers die in a few hours, and I always feel as if this was a
brooding, creepy sort of place--I don't like to be here alone after
dark--I feel a sense of something terrifying in that far corner--! Dad,
shall I take Captain Mayne down and show him the tennis ground? We are
proud of _that_."

"All right, Nan, I'll do figurehead, and receive the company,--and pass
them on to you. They will be here at any moment."

The four tennis courts had been, so to speak, scooped out of the hill,
and lay open on one side to a sheer descent, enclosed with stout wire
netting. A flight of steps connected the ground with the broad terrace
in front of the bungalow.

"It's A1," remarked Mayne, "kunkur courts, I declare!"

"My mother had it made in the days when Daddy was rich," explained the
girl, "but for years and years it was forgotten,--and overgrown with
grass and brambles."

"And you restored it?"

"No indeed, Mr. Fletcher resurrected the poor old tennis ground--wasn't
it good of him?"

"He plays himself, of course?"

"Oh no, he is quite old--much older than father. We have lived with
him, since I came out."

"Were you long at home?"

"Eleven endless years. Daddy came over four times to see me; only for
that, I believe I'd have died. Here are the Hicks!"--pointing to a
party who were riding up the road in Indian file. "The stout lady on
the white pony is Mrs. Hicks, or ''Icks'--she drops her aitches all
over the place; once someone sent her a sheet of paper covered with
them,--and she took it as a capital joke."

"Why not?" said Mayne. "After all, why make a fetish of _one_ letter?"

"Yes, and some people who cling to their aitches, work the poor letter
'I' to death."

"That's rather sharp, and very true too, Miss Nancy."

"I believe I am sharp in seeing some things. Mrs. Hicks is blind as a
bat, but immensely good-natured,--and so kind to animals."

"Do you call her kind to that unfortunate pony? She must weigh fourteen
stone if she weighs an ounce!"

"Oh, he's a 'Shan,' and well up to weight. Anyhow, she is active--wait
till you see her skipping about the tennis courts! Those two girls are
her daughters, Fanny and Jessie--they keep her in great order."

"Do they indeed--but why?"

"Because of her love for bright colours, her giggling, and loud laugh,
and the funny things she _will_ say--before they can stop her!"

At this moment, the lady in question loomed large upon the top of the
steps, and Nancy ran to meet her. A ruddy, dark-eyed matron, with a
rollicking expression,--wearing a stiff white skirt, comfortable canvas
shoes, and a flowing green sash.

"Well, Nance!" she called out, "'ow are you? This your
friend?"--indicating Mayne with a nod.

"Yes; Captain Mayne--Mrs. Hicks."

Mayne bowed, with slightly exaggerated deference.

Mrs. Hicks nodded approvingly, and said:

"These are my two girls, Miss Fanny and Jessie--Captain Mayne," and
she waved her bat towards two trim, lady-like young women. "They
are first-class tennis players," she continued, "and you can't go
wrong,--whichever you choose."

Mayne had not intended to make a selection, but the matter was taken
out of his hands by Nancy.

"I'm playing with father; and Mrs. Hicks, I know you like to play with
Andy Meach. Captain Mayne, you had better secure Jessie," and she gave
him a little push.

Thus committed to a decisive move, he asked if Miss Jessie would honour
him?

Her blushing acceptance was rudely cut short by her parent, who said:

"It's all very fine for you to make up sets, my good Nancy! but you
know as well as I do, that as soon as our commander-in-chief arrives,
she will upset the whole of our little bag of tricks, and make us
play with whoever _she_ chooses--and talk of an angel!"--lifting her
eyes--"here comes the Honourable Mrs. Ffinch."




                               CHAPTER V

                               "FINCHIE"


The Honourable Mrs. Ffinch was a woman of forty; thin, dark, rather
sallow, and not specially noticeable, until she spoke--then her face
became transformed; the half-closed, greenish-grey eyes, lit up; the
ugly wide mouth revealed beautiful teeth, and an enchanting smile.
"Finchie" as her intimates called her, had been endowed with an
attractive voice, inexhaustible vitality, and a big brain.

Even her enemies--and these were not a few--admitted her cleverness,
and powers of fascination; whilst her friends deplored the lamentable
fact that poor "Finchie's" great talents, had no suitable outlet within
the circumscribed orbit of a planter's wife. She was gifted with the
capabilities of a brilliant hostess, and could have held a _salon_, or
seriously engaged in political and diplomatic affairs; having the gift
of a strategic silence, wonderful success in extracting confidences,
and the capacity for holding strings;--unfortunately her talents
transcended her opportunities!

As the eldest girl of a well-born, but impecunious family, she had,
so to speak, "taken the bush out of the gap," for her five sisters,
sacrificed her Romance, and married Hector Ffinch; a prosperous
tea-planter, whose stolid reserved character, found an irresistible
attraction in vivacious Julia Lamerton,--who had the power of imposing
her personality on all her surroundings.

After a short and undemonstrative courtship, a quiet wedding and
handsome settlements, he carried off his bride to the East. India
fell far beneath the lady's expectations; a vivid imagination had
misled her; at "Clouds Rest" she found no gay, amusing cantonment, or
gorgeous, and amazing entourage--merely a vast tea estate, a large,
half-empty bungalow, and a tribe of brown retainers,--last, not least,
a dull enough husband! Hector was as heavy and immovable as a block of
granite; she, as mobile and restless, as a bit of quicksilver.

For a time, she secretly wept, and bitterly bewailed her fate. It was
all so utterly different to what she had expected! Alas, for her plan
of inviting her sisters one by one, and marrying them off with success
and _éclat_! "Clouds Rest" was as hopeless (from a matrimonial point of
view) as any dead-and-alive rural village.

However, she had one solid consolation--money; also, the still
undimmed halo of "the bride"; so she exercised her gifts of oratory
and persuasion, and pleaded most eloquently for the company of guests,
for a motor, for quantities of new furniture, and a trip home,--at
least once in three years. To all these requests, Hector lent a
favourable ear; even his lethargic mind realized what the change
of surroundings meant to a member of a large and talkative family,
and any amount of lively society. The couple had now been married
twelve years; and in spite of various visits to England, and many gay
excursions to the plains, Julia Ffinch was beginning to weary of this
comfortable exile; she could never be happy without a certain amount of
excitement--excitement was as necessary to her well-being, as petrol to
an engine.

She did a little racing (under the rose)--the telegraph peon's red
turban looming along through the tea bushes, gave her appropriate
thrills; she played Bridge for rather high stakes; but what afforded
her the keenest enjoyment, was intruding into other people's lives;
pulling strings, directing their affairs, and making her puppets dance
right merrily! This, she considered to be a legitimate and delightful
entertainment, and by dint of clever manipulation, contrived to make
her immediate neighbours perform with praiseworthy success!

It was thanks to _her_ offices, that a planter's wife at Tirraputty
had left her home in a cloud of mystery; she had stage-managed the
engagement between Blanche Meach, and a civilian; a notable match,--but
then Blanche was very pretty. On the other hand, to her, was attributed
the rupture of the affair between Fanny Hicks, and a young fellow in
the Woods and Forests, and the dire disgrace of a German Missionary.
Many and various matters in which Mrs. Ffinch had taken a part,
afforded scope for interviews, letters, stormy scenes (at which she
assisted), cables, telegrams, sudden entrances and exits. All of these,
the clever operator of the puppet-play, most heartily enjoyed.

Mrs. Ffinch descended the steps with leisurely precision,--offering
as she did so, an interesting display of brown silk stockings, and
neat brown shoes.--She was immediately followed by her grey-haired,
square-headed, and somewhat paunchy lord; and also a guest; a slim,
well-groomed gentleman, with closely set black eyes, and a slightly
vulpine nose. Some people thought Captain Calvert handsome; to others,
he unpleasantly recalled a well-bred greyhound with an uncertain temper.

"Well, Nancy darling," Mrs. Ffinch began in her clear high voice, "so
here we are at last! We had a smash--ran into a bullock bandy at a
corner--the bandy, like the 'Coo,' got the worst of it!"

Her glance travelled to Mayne, and as her eyes rested on him, they
brightened,--after the manner of a hunter who sees game afoot!

A tall, well set-up young fellow, with clear-cut features, candid dark
eyes, and an air of distinction--_quite_ a find!

"This is Captain Mayne," explained the hostess, "Captain Mayne--Mrs.
Ffinch. He only arrived last evening," she added.

"Oh, really!" murmured the lady; then turning to address him, "I did
not hear you were expected, and we always know our neighbours' affairs,
as soon as they do themselves."

"_Sooner_," growled Dawson, who had joined the group, in a hideous
green and yellow blazer.

"As a matter of fact," said Mayne, "I was not expected--but came."

"As an agreeable surprise, I am sure!" interrupted Mrs. Ffinch, with
one of her radiant smiles. "I must hear all about it later. Nancy, if
we are to finish before dark, there's not a second to lose. Do let us
begin? I shall choose Captain Mayne, and you Nancy, had better take on
Captain Calvert."

"Oh, but I'm booked to play with father!" she protested.

"Nonsense, child! how ridiculous you are! You and he can play all day
to-morrow--_now_ you must entertain your guests."

It happened precisely as predicted by Mrs. Hicks,--who made a valiant
but useless attempt to retain the young man of her choice,--the
Commander-in-chief took all arrangements upon herself. Mayne was
secretly amused to see the tall thin figure in a panama hat, the centre
of an eager and well-disciplined crowd--who presently scattered--each
to their allotted post.

After winning a hardly contested set, Mrs. Ffinch retired to a seat,
and called upon her partner to supply her with refreshments. At a
long table in their vicinity, two white-clad servants dispensed iced
drinks, and a tempting variety of cakes, and sandwiches. As Mrs. Ffinch
sipped claret cup, she asked for details respecting Mayne's visit, and
remarked as he concluded:

"So you fell from the skies into a crowd of strangers! Well, at any
rate Laurence Travers can get you fine sport. You have come to the
right shop for that!"

"Yes, but I am rather ashamed to take up his time; he is most awfully
busy just now."

"That's true; he works like a horse for another man, and yet he would
not put out a finger to save the estate, when it was his own. I suppose
you have heard the tale?"

"Well--Dawson did say something about trouble, and absence----"

"Yes, the death of his wife broke Laurence Travers' heart, and the loss
of the child nearly sent him off his head."

"He seems fairly sane now," remarked her listener.

"Yes, case of locking the stable door when the steed--or the estate--is
gone. Laurence is much too emotional for a man; it was lucky for him
that Fairplains was bought by Tom Fletcher, who was sent out here for
his health. He is rich, entirely independent of coffee; such a good old
fellow, who always looks kindly on the under dog!"

"And Travers was very much under?"

"In the depths," was the emphatic reply; "he was dragged into unknown
liabilities by Doria, his manager--an absconding thief. Thanks to
Tom Fletcher, he has been set on his legs again; but he only has his
monthly screw--should anything happen to Laurence, that girl will be
destitute."

"Well, we will hope for the best," said Mayne cheerfully. "Travers
looks as active as if he were five and twenty--more than a match for
young Byng," nodding towards the players. "I hope he may live long, and
be always as happy as he is now!"

"Happy! that is just the word. Did you _ever_ behold anything like
the absolute adoration that exists between father and daughter? She
is a dear child, but too elemental to be sophisticated, in spite of
her eleven years at home. You see her _heart_ was always out here. She
is quite a unique flapper, and plays tennis like a boy. What a strong
service--do look!"

Mayne looked as desired, and saw the light figure skimming about the
court, and noted the remarkable contrast between her brown face and
arms, and snow white linen frock; also the uncovered masses of rough
reddish hair that now and then caught a gleam of gold.

"No beauty, poor darling, is she?" murmured Mrs. Ffinch.

"If she would only give her complexion a chance!"

"She won't. She is making up now for years of strict hat and glove
wearing; and doesn't bother about her personal appearance; all she
really cares for are--her father, and Sam the bull terrier. She is
also rather devoted to _me_." A pause. "Well, Captain Mayne," and she
laughed, "I'm waiting for you to say, 'I'm not surprised at _that_!'"

He coloured a little, laughed too, and said:

"Somehow I don't fancy such a compliment would go down up here."

"You are right! We are a simple, and primitive community. If you will
dispose of my glass, I'll make you out a social A B C."

"All right," he agreed, as he resumed his seat.

"There is my husband, aged fifty-five, a hard-working enthusiast, who
lives for coffee, and sales; sales, and coffee. Ted Dawson too--though
he is a bit of a boor--is also an enthusiast, and will also be rich by
the time he is fifty--unless he finds gold."

"Gold," repeated Mayne. "What--up here!"

"No, down nearer the plains--some believe there are great reefs and old
workings swallowed up in the jungle. Learned people say that Herodotus
wrote of how the Indians paid Darius tribute in gold; also that Malabar
is _Ophir_! You know we are not far from there."

"I've just come up from the coast,--and there's no sign of gold--that I
am prepared to swear."

"Dr. Hicks believes in the reefs, and he is a very shrewd little man.
There you see the family. Mrs. Hicks has money; they say she was a
publican's widow; he doctors us all gratis, has a son in a Bank in
Madras, and the two girls, Fanny and Jessie. Jessie was extremely
pretty at sixteen; then suddenly her nose began to grow! We were
afraid it would never stop, but become a real proboscis--only for this
feature, Jessie is a beauty. She would look lovely in a Yashmak--her
eyes are so fine. Their mother is such an anxiety to those girls."

"It's usually the other way on!"

"Or rather it _was_--domestic affairs are upside down in these days.
The girls cannot control their parent's free and easy manners, her
love for bright colours, and dancing, and a good coarse story--a
_man's_ story! Do look at her now, leaping up and down like a great
india-rubber ball! Isn't it depressing to watch such misdirected
energy?"

After a moment's pause, she resumed: "There are two or three of the
Meaches here. Their old tyrant usually keeps them at home, toiling for
him, that he may gobble up all manner of delicacies, and live on the
fat of this land! I'm speaking of Major Meach, who owns a large family,
a small estate, and is our champion vampire; bleeds his descendants
white, and terrorizes over them all, from his chair in the verandah--he
always makes me think of a sick tiger."

"Your neighbours don't seem to be very attractive," remarked Mayne
dryly.

"I am beginning with the least interesting--keeping some as a _bonne
bouche_. Nancy, is what you see; refreshingly young, plastic, and
impulsive. The Meach sisters are remarkably pretty; their poor mother
is a dear martyred saint. The Pollards--those fair-haired boys and
the pink girl--are nice young people, but unfortunately a good way
off. Mrs. Pollard has a tongue! _she_ cannot be too far! Fairplains
is central and here we all meet. India provides its own amusements.
How Captain Calvert is enjoying himself with Nancy! Her saucy
answers delight him; he has a ridiculous fancy for very young girls,
and--_parle du diable_--here he comes!"

"Hullo, Mayne," he said, mopping his face as he lounged up, "I believe
we have met before--on board ship, eh?"

"Yes, the _Medina_, coming out last September."

"Fancy our forgathering on the hill top like this! Making any stay?"

"A few weeks--I've come for a shoot."

"Lucky chap! Well, I hope you'll have good sport. Can I get you
anything, dear lady?" turning to Mrs. Ffinch with anxious solicitude.

"Yes, a match; I'm simply dying for a smoke."

As he bent over her, Mayne rose and relinquished his chair to Mrs.
Hicks, who painfully out of breath, was clamouring for "a real big
tumbler of hiced 'Ock cup."

The refreshment table was now besieged by a noisy intimate and animated
crowd, making fixtures for tennis, picnics, or shoots; in short all
manner of social meetings and amenities, and into the midst of them,
Mrs. Ffinch glided, in order to contribute her veto, arguments,
commands, or consent.

Presently the sudden Indian dusk began to fall, enshrouding the view;
a cold blue haze was creeping nearer and nearer, and the congenial
company prepared to disperse.

A great "Napier" car belonging to "Clouds Rest" lingered after the
Hicks, Meaches, and Pollards had ridden away, and when the lamps were
lighted, Mrs. Ffinch said:

"Captain Mayne, I do hope we shall often see you; when Laurence Travers
is busy, come up to us. Nancy child, good-bye," embracing her with
motherly affection; "I intend to steal your new friend--whenever he is
bored here, send him to me," and with these words still trembling in
the air, the great motor slid silently away.

"That was not very complimentary to _you_, was it?" said Mayne, turning
to Nancy.

"Oh, she didn't intend it in that way," protested the girl. "She says
a great deal she does not mean--so do I!" and she laughed. "There are
no end of attractions at 'Clouds Rest'; a billiard table, an electric
piano, the motor, and a 'mug' cook, and here we have so little to
offer. No indeed--I'm _not_ fishing! but when father has an extra heavy
day, and you are idle, I do hope you will not worry about _us_--but
just take Finchie at her word, and ride over to 'Clouds Rest.'"




                              CHAPTER VI

                      THE PANTHER'S FIRST VICTIM


The tennis party had dissolved, dinner was an agreeable memory, and
Mayne with his new friends, sat out in the broad verandah, and gazed at
a moon,--which, like a pale golden disc, hung midway in the dark blue
sky.

The two men were smoking, Sam was circling uneasily round his unheeding
mistress, when she suddenly said:

"Do tell me, Captain Mayne, what you think of Mrs. Ffinch--isn't she
charming?"

"She seems to be awfully clever, and amusing, and full of go."

"Yes," said Travers, "she manages the whole community with the very
best intentions. I can't help feeling a little sorry for her."

"Sorry, father!" exclaimed Nancy, "why _sorry_?"

"Well, you see, she has no children, no positive home interests; her
wonderful talents and exertions, are squandered among strangers. Ffinch
has made a fortune--some say _two_--and yet he won't stir. He is rooted
in coffee; so poor woman, is she! If he only would take her to London,
there backed up by his long purse, she would be in her natural element;
an admirable organizer of important functions, bazaars, charity balls,
and political receptions; dealing with affairs on a grand scale,
instead of running our tuppenny-halfpenny concerns."

"But these, no doubt with success?" said Mayne.

"Well, yes, on the whole--there have been one or two lapses, but a
sacrificial goat was always on the spot!"

"Father!" broke in Nancy, "how can you be so horrid? You are
talking like an odious cynic. Finchie has done no end of wonderful
things--patching up all the quarrels, and getting people into good
posts. She is always right--if ever she wants a scapegoat--here am _I_!"

"Noble child!" Travers ejaculated, and he surveyed his daughter with
laughing eyes.

"Captain Mayne," she resumed, "don't you think Captain Calvert good
looking?"

"Um--no," then after a doubtful pause, "more the other thing,--since
you ask me."

"Bad looking, I suppose you mean. How funny!"

"I understand," said Travers, "that Mephistophelian cast--it does
appeal to women and children."

"You have got into the wrong side of your chair, Daddy. What dreadful
things you are saying--talking of Finchie's scapegoats, and seeing a
likeness to the old gentleman, in Captain Calvert."

"I must confess I am rather surprised to find him in this part of the
world," said Mayne, "he is not a sportsman--but a Society man, who
likes big functions, the theatre, and cards."

"Oh, it's pretty warm down below just now," replied Travers, "and the
Ffinches do their guests uncommonly well. Calvert is a pleasant fellow,
and comes over here sometimes for a game of tennis; he and Nancy are
pals. Well," rising as he spoke, "to-morrow I must be up and about at
five o'clock--so that you and I can shoot in the early afternoon. Nancy
child, it is time for bed, and just look how Sam is yawning!"

"Why, Daddy, it's only half-past ten," she protested, but all the same
she rose, and having bid Mayne good-night, and folded her father in an
overpowering embrace, went away to her own room, attended by her sleepy
shadow.

       *       *       *       *       *

Time at Fairplains flew with what seemed to Mayne, amazing speed; the
shooting surpassed his most sanguine expectations; his excursions to
the low country had resulted in two fine tigers, and several pairs
of noble horns. When Travers was unable to accompany him, Ted Dawson
and Andy Meach had come to the front, and shown the stranger capital
sport. Mayne found this simple life delightful; a novel perspective and
atmosphere; instead of familiar barrack bugles, here he was awoke by
the clanging of a gong, summoning the coolies to their labours.

With Mayne it was a case of a happy surrender to his environment;
the delicious life-giving air, good wholesome food, and congenial
society, all contributed to this condition. He enjoyed listening to
playful family arguments and squabbles,--when weary, after a long day's
tramp, he lounged at delicious ease, in a comfortable, if shabby old
chair; there was generally something piquante and provoking in Nancy's
conversation. He and she were now on the most friendly footing; he had
given her elaborate instructions in the important art of making a tie;
she mended his socks, replaced lost buttons, and had even cut his hair!
Also he called her Nancy, and was a little disposed to lecture, and
tease her, in big elder brother fashion.

Mayne, however, discovered that there were two distinct Nancies; one
of the morning, the other of the afternoon. The earlier young lady was
a serious person, with the heavy responsibility of a household upon
her shoulders. From chotah hazri till mid-day, she was occupied, first
with the cook--a bearded retainer, who had carried her in his arms.
The two conferred with the deepest solemnity over menus, the bazaar
accounts, and the contents of the store-rooms. Then she visited the
poultry yard, and the garden, superintended and helped to fill and trim
the lamps, and finally sat down to make or mend. Nancy was an expert
with her needle, and frequently extended a kindly hand towards the rags
and tatters of "The Corner"; altogether a grave, silent, industrious
mistress of Fairplains.

The afternoon Nancy was her opposite; neither grave, nor silent, but
an exuberantly irresponsible chattering chit, who broke into song as
she went about, in a sweet rather childish voice, waltzed her reluctant
parent up and down the verandah, played tennis, rode with boyish pluck
and abandon, sat with dangling legs on the ends of tables, talked
ridiculous nonsense to the dogs and ponies, and was rarely seen to open
a book, or to write a letter.

Mayne, who had no sisters, or girl cousins, mentally adopted Nancy as
something of both; but as Miss Travers, and a young lady, it never
occurred to him to take her seriously.

The Fairplains guest had been hospitably entertained by all the
neighbours; tennis parties at the Hicks', tiffin at "The Corner," and
dinner at Clouds Rest--where he was in particular request,--a request
that savoured of a command--for Mrs. Ffinch had discovered that she
knew his people at home--and her invitations were both frequent,
and imperious. Travers was far too busy to dine abroad, Nancy never
deserted her parent, and on several occasions Mayne went alone to
Clouds Rest to dine and sleep. This abode was more on the lines of an
English country house; here were curtains, carpets, elegant modern
furniture, and appointments; nothing shabby or ramshackle, in or about
the premises, which was staffed with first-rate native servants, had a
luxurious "go as you please" atmosphere, and kept late hours. Champagne
and caviare, and other important importations were offered at dinner;
after the best Havanas came Auction Bridge at high points.

Captain Calvert still lingered in these "Capuan" quarters. One morning,
he and Mayne awaited their hostess in the verandah, where breakfast was
served; she was an hour late, and Captain Calvert's sharp appetite had
undoubtedly affected his temper. After one or two nasty speeches about
"damned lazy women," and "rotten arrangements," his remarks became more
personal, and he twitted his companion with his mad craze for shikar.

"Upon my soul, I believe you'd go anywhere, even among half-castes and
natives, if they were to promise you an extra good bag."

"Perhaps I would--in fact, I'm sure I would," admitted Mayne. "By the
way, apropos of natives and shooting--what about _your_ shoot up North?
I heard you talking to a Nawab coming out on the _Medina_, and you put
in pretty strongly for an invite."

"Yes--did I?" drawled Calvert, lifting his thin black eyebrows, "I
forget--I believe. I--er--wanted to have a look at the country."

"So it did not come off, eh?"

"No, as well as I remember, there was some hitch about dates. Talking
of dates," he went on, with a significant glance, "are you putting in
_all_ your leave at Fairplains?"

"I hope so," was the bold rejoinder, "I shall be jolly sorry when it
comes to my last week!"

"Ah! Well, yes, the little red-haired girl is not half bad fun,--brown
as a coolie, but what delicious feet, and ankles! If she were to sit
reversed, with her feet above the table--I see," catching Mayne's
furious glance. "Well then, I'll give you another picture. Some day,
Miss Nancy will be a handsome woman,--though she's more of a boy, and a
tomboy now. She has odd flashes--that set one wondering, and I bet you,
will give her husband a lot of surprises!"

"That'll do!--don't let us discuss her any further!" exclaimed Mayne
impatiently.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Calvert with a loud laugh, "I apologize! Upon my
soul I'd no idea----"

"There _is_ no idea," interrupted Mayne. "Miss Travers and I are very
good friends. She is one of the straightest and the best. So natural
and simple."

"How nice for you!"

"I only wish she was my sister," persisted her champion.

"By Jove,--do you?" drawled Calvert. "Well, _I_ don't!" and he expelled
a cloud of smoke from his thin, well-cut nostrils. "I'm, as you
see,--smoking like the Indians,--to appease hunger. Presently I shall
take a reef in my belt. I say," after a pause, "look at old Ffinch
riding along the hillside. _He_ breakfasted hours ago! I can't imagine
why he does not chuck all this? Everyone knows he is quite too grossly
prosperous--and she, with her talents, and her energy, is thrown away
out here."

"Yes," agreed Mayne, "she's awfully clever, and go-ahead."

"A lot of what Americans call, 'Get up and go!' about her," said
Calvert. "Wonderful driving force,--and what a woman to talk! She'd
make a fine figure of a Sunday in Hyde Park; or taking a hand in some
big revolution. Yes"--slowly closing his eyes--"I can _see_ her in the
tumbril," he concluded, with morose vindictiveness.

"I say, what amazing pictures you have in your mind's eye," said
Mayne--who was not imaginative, "a cinematograph isn't in it!"

"Oh, here she comes at last!" said Calvert, tossing away his cheroot,
and rising, he added with his most courtly air, "Welcome, welcome, dear
lady--as the sun upon a darkened world."

Immediately after breakfast, Mayne ordered the cob, and rode away in
spite of Mrs. Ffinch's urgent appeals for him to remain, and "spend
a nice long day." He felt that at present, he could not endure any
more of Calvert's society. What a poisonous tongue,--what a shameless
climber; and there was such calculation and method in his schemes.
He, by his own confession, made a point of cultivating the right
people--chiefly through their womenkind--and cherished well-founded
hopes of a comfortable, and prominent post on someone's staff.

He insinuated that he (Mayne) was sponging on the Travers', he read
the accusation in the fellow's eyes--(Calvert himself was just the
sort to cheat at croquet, and sponge on old ladies).--With regard to
his host, he felt blameless. Travers treated him as the son of his old
school-fellow; he and Nancy made him one of themselves, and allowed
him to share in their interests, jokes, and even secrets. _He_ knew
all about the new habit, that was on its way from England for Nancy's
birthday. Here his reflections were put an end to by the sight to
Fairplains plantation, the motley pack, and Nancy herself.

That same night after the household had retired, and the premises
were supposed to be wrapped in sleep (though some of the servants
were gambling in their go-downs) Mayne was aroused by a wild piercing
scream. He jumped out of bed, and as he hurried on some clothes, saw
a bare-footed white figure, lamp in hand, flash down the verandah
shrieking:

"Sam! Sam! A panther has taken him! Daddy--Daddy--hurry!"

Mayne snatched his gun, and rushed out; the light was very faint, but
as he ran up the path, he was aware of a choking noise, and a something
large bounding along not far ahead. He followed the sound, in among the
rocks and bushes, and then suddenly lost it. By this time, the whole
place was swarming with men armed with sticks and lanterns, Nancy in a
blue garment, and her father half dressed, heading an excited crowd.
Alas! the tragic truth had to be faced--Sam was _gone_! taken from the
door of his mistress's room, and carried off in his sleep, by one of
those treacherous devils.

With bobbing lanterns, crashing sticks, and loud harsh shouts, the
whole of the rocks were most thoroughly beaten, but without result;
of dog or panther there was not a trace. After an hour's exhaustive
search, Mayne returned to the bungalow--his lamp had gone out. Here
in the verandah he distinguished a sobbing figure; Nancy, alone and in
uncontrollable grief. Between her sobs she moaned:

"Oh, my poor darling Sam! Oh, the cruelty--oh, Daddy, what shall I
do--what shall I do?" and she suddenly flung herself upon Mayne, and
sobbed out in the tone of a child asking for consolation, "Daddy,
Daddy, what _shall_ I do?"

They were the same height, and in the dark, she had mistaken him
for her father,--who was still pursuing a hopeless search among the
rocks,--but the situation was not the less embarrassing,--especially as
the girl clung to her supposed parent, with both arms clasped tightly
round his neck, and her face buried in his coat. Suddenly she realized
her mistake, and with a violent jerk, drew herself away.

"Why, you're not Daddy!" she gasped out, breathlessly, "I know by the
feel of your coat. It's Captain Mayne--I've been--hugging."

"It's all right, Nancy," taking her hands in his. "Poor little girl!
I'm just as sorry for you, as ever I can be, and I'll never rest, till
I bring you in the skin of the brute that has killed Sam. Here is your
father now," and Mayne tactfully withdrew, and abandoned the pair to
their grief,--Nancy's the wildest, and most poignant, that he had ever
witnessed.

The following day, Francis the butler, mysteriously imparted to Mayne
the news, that Sam's collar, and one paw had been found.

"But say not one word to the Missy. We bury in dogs' graveyard; the
beast is a big female with young cubs, therefore is she overbold. That
dog Sam," and his black eyes looked moist, "I also loved him, too much."




                              CHAPTER VII

                          EIGHTEEN ON TUESDAY


For two days after the loss of Sam, Nancy remained inconsolable; she
could neither eat nor rest, her face looked small, her tragic eyes
sunken and dim; also she wept for hours,--utterly indifferent to
consolation, or chocolates. "The Corner" after the day's work, ascended
to sympathize, Mrs. Ffinch descended with a similar kind intention, and
expressed shocked concern; but her kissing, endearments, and honeyed
words, were a waste of time and breath.

"I shall never get over it, Finchie, never!" moaned the girl, "and I
won't rest till the panther has been killed, and _skinned_. Daddy has
offered a reward of thirty rupees,--but so far it is no use."

"Take her out riding--_make_ her go," commanded Mrs. Ffinch, "she can't
sit here all day nursing her grief. Try what you can do, Captain Mayne,
take her up to the Meaches, Nellie has returned home, and Major Meach
always amuses Nancy."

"I don't think anything would amuse her now," he answered.

"Look at Togo," burst out Nancy, "_he_ knows. All yesterday he lay with
his face to the wall--here in the verandah--and he has not touched a
morsel since it happened. Oh, my poor Sam!" The name was almost a cry.

"If you and Togo starve yourselves, my dear, what good will that do
poor Sam?" inquired the practical visitor, "I'm sure he would not like
you to die too. You really must cheer up, for your father's sake. I am
awfully sorry myself; as the son of our dear old Dan, Sam was a sort of
nephew. We will all give him a great funeral----"

She stopped abruptly as it flashed into her mind that there were no
remains. Ultimately her powers of persuasion, proved effectual, and
Nancy reluctantly agreed to give her pony some exercise, and not to
indulge her emotions in such frantic ungovernable native fashion.
Travers was as usual busy among his coolies, and Mayne and Nancy set
off alone, and rode over to the Meaches, precisely as Mrs. Ffinch had
ordained.

It was a cheerful breezy trip; sometimes the road lay in hollows,
winding round a valley, and between blackberry bushes, wattles, ash
trees, and wild roses, recalling an English lane; or again, over grassy
uplands, with a delightful breeze, driving white clouds overhead.

By and by, Nancy recovered her self-control, and her tongue,--a member
that was never long mislaid.

The Meach family lived eight miles from Fairplains, on a poor worn out,
and out of the way estate; Major Meach, having spent all he possessed,
invested his wife's little fortune in this, so to speak "refuge," and
here she and her offspring slaved and struggled, in order to provide
their old man of the sea, with everything he demanded in the way of
attention, and comfort.

Part of the estate was let to a native, part was worked by Andy,
whilst Mrs. Meach and her three pretty daughters kept cows and
poultry, and sold eggs and butter among their neighbours. Blanche, the
beauty,--thanks to Mrs. Ffinch,--was satisfactorily married; Tom, the
youngest son, slaved in an office, and sent all he could spare to his
harassed mother who struggled to keep house, and maintain a presentable
family, on one hundred rupees a month.

The Misses Meach emerged into the verandah when they heard the glad
sound of voices, accompanied by the clatter of hoofs, and Gladys and
Nellie joyfully hailed Nancy, who instantly in a strangled voice,
claimed their sympathy for her irreparable loss.

"The dear faithful fellow!--how dreadful!" said Nellie. "I remember one
time, you went home by the old road, he missed you, and came back here,
and lay all night by the chair you had been sitting on."

"Bah! what's a dog!" snarled Major Meach, a preposterously fat man, who
now appeared, and with a curt salute to Mayne, sank with heavy violence
into a creaking wicker chair. "Lots to be had! We can give you half a
dozen--greedy, good-for-nothing brutes!"

Mrs. Meach, a worn, thin woman, with remarkably red hands, and a still
pretty face, who had been ordering tea, now came forward to welcome
her guests. Poor lady! her life had been, and was, a tragedy. Once a
beauty, she was thought to have made a fine match when she married
Captain Meach of the Light Lancers,--a man with a nice fortune. The
nice fortune, he squandered on himself; and poor Amy Meach, after
knocking about the world from garrison town to cantonment, saving,
pinching, rearing a family, and keeping up appearances, was now the
drudge, and servant, of her selfish and unwieldy tyrant.

Her hope, comfort, and joy, was in her children; possibly some day, she
may be in a position to sit down and be served by other people, to read
a novel, or even to take a morning in bed!

Everything at Panora seemed cheap and faded,--except the fat helpless
old Major, and his three pretty girls. He insisted on keeping up "his
position," as he called it; the shabby, timid-looking servants, wore
in their turbans, the badge of a regiment that had been only too
thankful to get rid of their master!

He, who was a notorious slacker, now posed as a former martinet, and
present authority, and his faithful family believed in the fable. The
truth was, that but for Mrs. Meach, who was popular, and for whom
everyone was sorry, he would not have been "let down," so to speak,
without a nasty jar.

The Tyrant liked to fasten on Mayne,--who occasionally escorted Nancy,
when she came to see her friends,--and to question him sharply on Army
matters, and utter high boastings of "my old regiment--Cavalry--_I_
never could stand being a mud-crusher!" and as he knew that Mayne was
an Infantry officer, this remark was, to say the least, tactless.

When they all sat at tea, he talked with his mouth full, helped himself
to hot cakes--two at a time--bragged, snubbed his family, laid down
the law, and made rude personal remarks. With regard to his daughter
Nellie, he said:

"We sent Nellie down to try her luck in Bangalore; but there was no
market, no buyers--and here she is, back on our hands like a bad penny."

Poor Nellie blushed till there were tears in her eyes.

"I'll give her to anyone with a pound of tea--ha! ha! ha!"

"If you were _my_ father, and made such rude speeches," said Nancy
fiercely, "I'd be very glad to give _you_ away, with a whole
plantation!"

"There you go, spitfire!" he exclaimed.--He rather liked Nancy, because
she boldly opposed him.--"You've been spoiled, my good girl; if your
father had given you some _sound_ thrashings, you would not be so
cocksey--and such a bad example to other young women."

"I think," said Mayne, rising, "it is time for us to make a start," and
he eyed the old bully, with a menacing stare.

"Oh, ho!" and he chuckled. "Nancy is used to me--aren't you, red poll?
_You_ don't mind!"

"I'll overlook the outrage this time, but as an apology, I must have
Gladys and Nellie to spend the day on Monday."

"Can't be done--no ponies!"

"Then I'll borrow the Clouds Rest car."

"Will you! You've cheek enough for anything! If you can get the car,
you shall have the girls, and the Missus thrown in--there's an offer
for you!"

Mayne, who felt a touch of sincere pity for poor Mrs. Meach and her
browbeaten daughters, experienced a sense of profound relief when the
farewells were over, and he and Nancy rode away.

"Look in again soon, young fellow!" shouted Major Meach. "Nancy, tell
your father to send me up a bag of his number one coffee--it can come
in the car."

"I don't know about that bag of coffee," said Mayne; "but old Meach
won't see _me_ again."

"Isn't he a horror?"

"I'm awfully sorry for his daughters; when he told the fair one to
'shut up,' I felt inclined to shy a plate at him!"

"And he is such an ungrateful old monster! Only for the way those girls
work, and go without things, there would be no cigars, no Europe hams,
tinned stores, or whisky and soda. He _must_ have everything he wants,
or he yells, and storms like a madman. I've told him one or two plain
truths about his selfishness."

"Have you? I must say you are fairly plucky."

"Nicky Byng admires Nellie, but it's no good; all the same, if I _do_
get the car, I'll let him know."

"Fancy trying your hand at match-making,--a child like _you_!" and
Mayne turned in his saddle, and surveyed his companion, with a broad
smile.

"Of course, I know it's no use. Finchie throws buckets of cold water
on the affair; she hopes to marry Nellie off, the same as Blanche
Sandilands. Blanche has a splendid car, lives in a big house on the
Adyar, and entertains half Madras. All the same, I think Nellie likes
Nicky."

"Then why mind Mrs. Ffinch, and her cold water?"

"We all mind her; she is so far-sighted, and clever--all but Ned, he
thinks her too meddlesome, and anyway, she _did_ talk Jessie Hicks out
of accepting him."

"Do you suppose, that Mrs. Ffinch could talk you out of accepting
anyone?"

"How can you be so silly! Anyway, there will be no occasion, for I
don't intend to marry."

"Bosh! Wait till you are older, and then we shall see what we shall
see."

"I'm quite old enough to know my own mind."

"Not you!"

"Don't be rude. Do you know, that I shall be eighteen on Tuesday?"

"I know that you are trying to pull my leg, miss! You are not an hour
over sixteen--if so much. I should put you down at fourteen if I were
asked."

"Well, if you won't believe me, you can see the certificate of birth
and baptism.--I was born at Fairplains."

"But, Nancy," suddenly pulling up his cob, "I've always understood you
were a mere child--if you really _are_ eighteen--I--I feel completely
_bouleversé_; in other words, shattered; for I've been treating you as
a little girl, and all the time, you are a young lady! I declare, I'm
so upset, I shall tumble off the cob!"

"Don't tumble yet; stick on, and I'll explain. Daddy likes me to look
a mere child, and can't endure the idea of my growing up. So I always
wear simple frocks, and short skirts--it was only the other day, I put
my hair up."

"Did you wear a pig-tail?"

"Yes, of course I did--it was a beauty, too."

"And I know I'd have pulled it! that's one temptation removed! Well,
let me here and now apologize for my many enormities. I'm most
frightfully sorry; I wish you were only sixteen."

"You may go on just as if I were. They all do."

"Thank you, Nancy. And so Mrs. Ffinch is law-maker, the local dictator,
and match-maker?"

"Yes. She is immensely proud of the Meach affair; but not so proud
of Fred Pollard's match. She married him off to a girl who was most
unsuitable--so much so, that Fred fled to Ceylon, and the Pollards are
not very good friends with Finchie! She does not wish Ted to marry
Jessie Hicks; for then Nicky would have to move out of The Corner, and
he might take it into his head, to run away with Nellie--and she has
magnificent plans for her."

"Wheels within wheels," exclaimed Mayne. "It strikes me all the same,
that these young people are not desperately in love; if they were,
they'd never take all this so tamely, or so to speak, lying down."

"Well you see, they are all very busy one way or another, and have no
time. When they _do_ meet at tennis, Finchie mixes the sets, and sorts
them out, as you saw!"

"Yes, I saw; but I must confess I did not notice the usual interesting
signs of mutual attachment."

"No? What are the signs?"

"I don't know much about it, but sitting in one another's pockets,
holding one another's hands, and obviously wishing us all at Jericho."

"Yes. Haven't you been in love yourself? You _must_--you are getting
on!"

"Getting on, you rude child! Why, I'm only seven and twenty. As to
being in love--no, never what you may call, seriously."

"Seriously?"

"That is to say unable to eat, or sleep--living solely to see _her_--or
if not her--the postman, who carries her priceless letters."

"Ah, you jeer at love! Perhaps it may pay you out one day."

"Perhaps! And what about you, Nancy? Has no smart young tennis champion
awakened your interest?"

She burst into a peal of laughter--her first laugh for four whole days.

"No, I've never been in love--or ever will; I haven't a tiny scrap to
spare from Daddy; and here he comes to meet us--with poor lonely Togo."

"Well, Nance," he called out, "I've just fixed up a splendid treat for
your birthday."

"What is it? Oh, tell me quickly--quickly!"

"We are going down to Holikul for three days for a shoot. There is a
big native holiday that draws off our coolies, and I've invited the
Corner boys; you shall undertake the commissariat, and play the queen
of the party."

"How delightful, Daddy!" cried Nancy; then as she glanced at Mayne,
"Oh, poor Captain Mayne!--your jaw has dropped four cubic inches; but
I do assure you, it will be all right--when I'm out on a beat, and sit
up in a machan, I'm so deadly, deadly, quiet, that you might hear a fly
sneeze!"




                             CHAPTER VIII

                      THE PANTHER'S SECOND VICTIM


The expedition down to the Holikul jungle, proved a triumphant success,
not only in the matter of sport, but of well-chosen and congenial
company; Nancy, far from being an encumbrance, largely contributed to
the comfort of the party.

The little camp was surprisingly well found; ice never failed, a
tablecloth and brilliant tropical flowers, gave a touch of civilization
to the alfresco meals, and after a long arduous beat among sweltering
undergrowth, it was agreeable and refreshing, to sit out in the
starlight, whilst Nancy and Nicky Byng sang solos and duets, the
servants squatted round at a respectful distance, and Togo kept
solitary ward.

Nancy proved to be well versed in forest lore. What she had picked up
as a small child, when accompanying her father on various shooting
expeditions, had never faded from a mind which held all impressions
with tenacity. She knew the names of strange trees, and gorgeous
flowering shrubs, and could relate, stirring legends and fabulous tales
of the mysterious white tiger.

In her own line, Miss Travers proved as successful a hostess, as
her great example at Clouds Rest, and in spite of her ingenuous
girlhood,--had a way of mothering, and managing, the entire circle.
There was not a spark of coquetry in her composition. She chatted to
Ted and Nicky, precisely as if she were their pal and comrade, and it
was evident to Mayne, that the "Corner boys," no less than Travers
himself, worshipped the sole of this wood elf's small brown shoe!

Her birthday was an auspicious occasion. The house-servants, and head
shikari, offered bouquets and wreaths; "The Corner" presented a tennis
bat, and Mayne had surreptitiously placed a little parcel upon Nancy's
plate. As she opened the blue velvet case, and beheld its contents, she
gave a scream of delighted surprise.

"Oh, Daddy, how dare you? you wicked man!" she cried; "it's far too
beautiful for me. I've always longed for a wristlet watch,--but never a
gold one like _this_--why, it's prettier than Finchie's," and she rose
to embrace him.

"Here is the wicked man," he protested, pointing to Mayne; "my present
has not arrived, but I expect it is waiting for you up at Fairplains."

"Captain Mayne," she exclaimed, with dancing eyes, "how ever so much
too kind of you! I declare I'd like to kiss you. May I, Daddy?"
glancing at him interrogatively.

Mayne looked at him expectantly, and stood up, prepared to accept this
astonishing favour.

"My dear child," said Travers, "you are eighteen to-day, and must not
go thrusting your kisses on young men."

"But I never did before," she protested.

"You should keep your first kiss for someone, who may come along one
day!"

"Oh, Daddy," she murmured, blushing deeply through her tan, "now you
have made me feel so shy, and uncomfortable. You all know," appealing
to Ted and Nicky, "that I only wanted to do something, just to show
Captain Mayne, how delighted I was--and am."

"You can do that in another way, Nancy," he replied, resuming his seat.
"Call me by my Christian name--the same as these fellows."

"Derek--yes--and it's much prettier than Ted, or Nicky."

"So now, Mayne," said Nicky, "you are paid off handsomely, and at _our_
expense."

It was a merry, not to say noisy breakfast party; Nancy with two long
white wreaths round her neck (in a third she had invested her father),
the wristlet watch on her mahogany wrist, was in the wildest spirits.

"I woke this morning very early," she said; "almost before the birds,
not because I was expecting presents in my stocking,--like at Christmas
time, but because I was going to be eighteen, and I seemed to hear
the bamboos--you all know how they whisper--murmuring to one another,
'Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen!'"

"Eighteen, will have to take to gloves and corsets," said Nicky, as he
fumbled for his pipe.

"Fancy mentioning such an article in the free-as-air jungle," protested
Nancy; "and anyway, my waist is only twenty inches."

"Nancy, spare us these particulars," protested her father. "One would
think you were among a pack of women."

"Never mind him, Nancy," said Byng. "Tell him it's too late to start to
keep you in bounds--and as for waists--Ted's is fifty."

"Daddy, I do wonder what you have got for me," she asked abruptly.
"Won't you tell me?"

"I know," said Mayne; "it's awfully nice, you'll like it better than
anything--and it's coming all the way from London."

"Then it must have cost a heap of money," she exclaimed. "Oh, Daddy!"

"Oh, Nancy," he echoed, "it's time we made a start; the shikaris are
hanging about, so don't let us waste any more time," and he rose, and
broke up the party.

Those three days in the Holikul jungles were a delightful, and
flawless memory, to all concerned. How rarely can mortals say this!
Sunburnt and weary, the Fairplains party returned to the shelter of
a roof, and a daily delivery of letters, and parcels. The habit had
arrived--moreover, it fitted.

Two evenings later, Travers and Mayne, Nancy and the head shikari, had
been for a short, perfunctory beat, round the base of the hill on which
the bungalow was situated. They were homeward bound, the bag, a mere
peacock. Mayne and his host were a little in advance of Nancy, and last
came the shikari, carrying the peacock, and Travers' gun.

"This day week," said Mayne, "I shall be on my way----"

As he was speaking, they turned an abrupt corner, and there, within
forty yards, on a slab of rock, lay a sleek panther, and her two fat
cubs! As she sprang erect, Mayne ran forward, and fired. But slightly
wounded, she instantly leapt at him, and with such headlong ferocity,
and impetus, that the weight of her body knocked him down, and sent
his gun flying. Without a second's hesitation, Travers, armed with
only a stick, rushed to where the savage brute was worrying her
prostrate victim, and with all his might, hit her a smashing blow
across the nose. Turning on him, with a furious snarl, she seized him
by the forearm, but before she could do more, Tipoo ran up, and shot
her through the head. She fell back, and after a few kicks, and one
convulsive quiver, rolled over stone dead.

The whole scene had taken place within less than the space of two
minutes. Nancy at first had stood by, a horrified, and paralysed
spectator, but when the panther attacked her father,--she ran forward,
and struck at it frantically, with her stick.

And now to take stock of the casualties! Mayne, thanks to a heavy
shooting coat, had merely a few bruises, and scratches--nothing to
speak of,--in short a miraculous escape. Travers also, had got off with
a scratch on his neck, and a bite on his forearm. The latter might
have been worse,--but his coat had also saved him.

"Sam's leopard--and you nearly got him!" he said to Mayne. "You fired a
bit too soon, my boy."

"I believe I did--I was so keen to get the brute before she
bolted,--I'm most awfully sorry."

"Oh, it's all right," replied Travers. "I'm well used to these
scraps--she's a fine size."

"Never mind the panther, Dad," interposed Nancy, "but come along at
once and have your arm dressed, and Captain Mayne too," and she ran on
before them towards the bungalow, to collect, and prepare remedies.

Nancy had learned "First Aid," and was accustomed to doctor the
household and coolies; she dressed the wounds, and scratches with
prompt and skilful fingers, forbade all stimulants, and commanded her
patients to rest till dinner-time. This was by no means the first time
that Travers had been in a "hand to claw" combat, with a wild beast,
but to Mayne, it was a novel experience, and he felt not a little
shaken, and excited. It is not a pleasant sensation to have a heavy,
evil-smelling wild animal, on the top of you, and murderous yellow
fangs within six inches of your throat.

The following morning, the two patients described themselves as
"quite fit." Travers with his arm in a sling, went about his everyday
business, and Mayne commenced to make arrangements for his impending
departure. That evening Travers appeared to be fatigued, his eyes were
unusually bright, and Nancy's smiling face, wore an anxious expression.

"Dad, I'd like to send for Dr. Hicks, to have a look at your arm," she
said, as they sat in the verandah after dinner.

"Certainly not, Nancy," he replied testily; "you have done everything
that is necessary. I daresay I have brought a touch of fever from
Holikul. That's all that ails me. The bite is nothing. Now look here,
little girl, I won't have you worry."

As his tone was authoritative, Nancy, whatever she may have thought,
said nothing further.

The next day Travers made a very early start, and did not return,--as
was often the case,--in time for breakfast; and Nancy and Mayne were
_tête-à-tête_.

"Father is so hardy and wiry, and so used to jungle accidents,"
she remarked, "he won't ever allow me to look after him properly.
On Tuesday, only for him and his stick," she paused and glanced
expressively at Mayne.

"Yes, by Jove! the panther would have had me! There's no doubt your
father saved my life. That brute was making for my throat. I saw her
yellow eyes glaring into mine, she had her claws dug into my shoulders,
and, Lord, how her breath smelt! Yes, for once, I was face to face with
death; and I'd be dead and buried _now_--only for that swinging stroke
across her muzzle."

"The cubs made her savage," said Nancy. "Tipoo has shot them both--such
well-fed, fat, little creatures. All the family skins are now being
dried. Only for those cubs, the panther would never have faced
you--they are such slinking, treacherous cowards."

"And only for your father, _I'd_ not be sitting here."

"And how dreadful for your poor mother, if anything had happened to
you! If I were to die, it would almost kill Daddy."

Mayne made no reply. Mentally, he was comparing his mother, with her
father. Nancy looked as if she would still be flourishing at the end of
half a century, but if anything were, as she expressed it, "to happen
to her," it was quite possible, that Travers would go clean off his
head.

Travers returned at tea-time; as he stumbled into the verandah, and
sank exhausted into a chair, he looked completely "done."

"Ah, I see you have been down to the lower ground," said Nancy. "Now
that was really _too_ bad of you,--when you have a touch of fever."

As she handed him his cup she added:

"Let me feel your hand--why, it's almost red-hot!"

"My dear child, don't make a fuss," he exclaimed irritably; "I'll take
a dose of quinine, and lie down till dinner-time,--will that please
you?"

Nancy said no more, but shut her lips tightly, and began to prepare his
special buttered toast.

"I can't touch anything," he protested, "but I've an awful thirst on,"
and he swallowed greedily, one after the other, two large cups of tea.

"I'm afraid I must worry you, dear Daddy, and dress your arm," she
urged. "I promise I'll be as quick as I can," and she led him away to
his own room. Presently she returned, and said to Mayne, who was still
sitting in the verandah: "I want you to ride over at once, and ask Dr.
Hicks to drop in this evening,--quite casually, of course. I simply
dare not tell Daddy I've sent for him; he always pooh-poohs doctors,
and illnesses, and he won't allow me to take his temperature, nor will
he go to bed. His arm has a queer, livid appearance, and is terribly
swollen; I must say, I cannot help feeling rather nervous."

"Oh, all right," said Mayne, rising; "I'll be off at once, and I'll
bring Hicks back with me,--dead or alive."

When Mayne arrived at Panora, Dr. Hicks happened to be out, and it
was nine o'clock when the two men reached Fairplains. By this time
Travers, who now admitted that he was "feeling a bit out of sorts," was
obviously worse.

As they rode over, Mayne had given the doctor full particulars, about
the panther affair,--including the bites, and scratches.

"There may be poison in them," said Dr. Hicks; "these old panthers eat
garbage, and putrid carcases, and are nasty brutes to deal with; and
if septic poison sets in, Travers is rather a bad subject, and it may
go hard with him. However," he added philosophically, "there is no use
meeting trouble half way, and whatever happens, we must keep a cheerful
face before Nancy. There's a good, single-hearted child, if ever there
was one, and if by any chance, she were to lose her father--mind you,
I'm not saying there _is_ a chance--I don't know what would become of
her!"




                              CHAPTER IX

                          "GIVE NANCY TO ME!"


Having examined his patient, Dr. Hicks came out into the verandah in
order to confer with Mayne. His face was alarmingly grave, and he spoke
with his eyes anxiously fixed on the communicating doors,--and in a
lowered voice.

"He's pretty bad; high fever, temperature 104; his arm is frightfully
swelled--it's the bite. I am sending for a nurse and vaccine, also
for my wife. She's uncommonly capable, and always comes well up to
scratch on these occasions, and of course, we must have some woman
here to look after Nancy--in case of"--he hesitated for a second, and
added--"delirium and complications."

"You don't mean to say it's as serious as all that?" cried Mayne,
aghast.

"I'm afraid it is; but I'll move heaven and earth to pull Travers
through. We can spare anyone, sooner than the Earl,--as we call him."

"Can't I go some message, or be of some use? For God's sake give me a
job," and Mayne paused, half choked. "You see, it was through saving
_me_, that Travers is like this!"

"Oh, all right," agreed the doctor briskly, "then you can ride down
to Tirraputty, and send off a couple of wires. It will take you about
three hours to get there,--riding hard."

"What about Mrs. Ffinch's car? I can drive a motor."

"She's away in it herself!--gone for a week's tour. She took my girl
Jessie, and Nellie Meach, and left no address. 'Expect me when you see
me' style. Ah, here comes Nancy!" as the girl, now looking strangely
worn, and haggard, came into the verandah.

"What are you two conspiring about?" she asked, with a startled
expression.

"I'm only telling Mayne a piece of news. Mrs. Ffinch is away on a motor
tour."

"Oh!"--evidently relieved--"is that all?"

"Word of honour, yes," the doctor lied with emphasis.

"Won't you stay and have something?" she urged.

"Oh, well, I don't mind. Just anything at all--a bit of cold meat, and
a hunch of bread.--I'll ask for a shake-down, too."

"A shake-down!" staring at him with widely-opened eyes; "then you
think----" and she paused, unable to utter another syllable, or
articulate her heartsick uneasiness.

"I think you're a silly girl!" he said brusquely. "You know as well as
I do, that I must dress your father's arm every three hours. You'd like
him to have the very best attention, my dear, wouldn't you? It isn't
everyone I'd do as much for. I can tell you,--losing my dinner, and
sleeping out. I'm sending Mayne here to Tirraputty to wire for a nurse."

"A nurse! Certainly not!" protested Nancy with energy. "_I_ am his
nurse."

"Now, my good Nancy, if you are going to be silly and obstructive, and
to stand in the way of what is necessary for your father, I'd like to
know what I'm to do with you?"

"But a nurse--an utter stranger!"

"Yes, a professional, clear-headed, experienced woman, who has no
emotions--to counteract her work."

"Father won't have her!!" declared the girl triumphantly.

"He will, if _you_ ask him," rejoined the doctor. "My dear child, I had
no idea you were so set upon your own way."

"Then I am to realize that father is--in _danger_?" she demanded, with
trembling lips.

"Nothing of the sort," he replied, now lying boldly and well. "You are
to realize that you must be a sensible girl, and instead of fighting
against remedies, and the doctor, to help him with your last breath."

Nancy gazed at him steadily, and after a moment's silence, she said:

"All right, you need not ask _me_ to do my best," and she returned to
the sick-room.

At eight o'clock the following morning, when, stiff and weary, Mayne
dismounted from his cob, he found that a dark cloud had settled down
on Fairplains. In the verandah, he discovered an anxious gathering,
talking together in low voices, and in groups. Here were Ted and Nicky,
Tom Pollard, young Meach--and Mrs. Hicks. They each nodded a welcome,
and the lady advanced, and said:

"I came over early; he is worse. The fever is septic," she added, and
her round black eyes filled with tears.

"He is sleeping all right," announced Dr. Hicks, who joined them;
"so is Nancy,--I put something in her tea. She was up all night,
poor child, and is thoroughly worn out. The nurse will be here about
eleven,--and another doctor."

"It's too awful!" stammered Mayne, who had grown ghastly white. "Do you
know, Mrs. Hicks, that by rights, I should be in Travers' place?"

"Tut, tut, tut!" she protested, giving him a push; "you go and have a
bath, and some breakfast."

"Tell me," appealing to her husband, "will he get over it? Is there no
chance?"

"There may be a turn at sundown, please God."

"If not----?"

"These cases last about four days--that brute's claws were so many
poison-bags."

Without another word, Dr. Hicks turned away.

At noon, the nurse and specialist, arrived together, and presently
there ensued grave consultations, whisperings, and ominous shaking of
heads.

On account of its superior size, and in spite of Nancy's frenzied
entreaties, the patient was moved into the drawing-room,--the most
spacious apartment in the bungalow, with a northern aspect.

Mayne did not venture to speak to Nancy, who looked as if she
scarcely recognized him, when she flitted about like a wraith between
the sick-room, and verandah. Kindly, vulgar Mrs. Hicks, at whom he
used to laugh, was now his support and comfort. She brought him
bulletins, insisted on his taking food, and appeared to keep the
whole establishment together; interviewing callers, writing chits,
dispatching messengers, concocting dainties, and altogether reversing
Mayne's opinion of "silly Mrs. Hicks." For her part, she was sincerely
sorry for this worn, haggard-looking young man, who seemed to dread the
impending tragedy, almost as much as Travers' own daughter.

Once or twice Mayne had been permitted to stand in the door of the
drawing-room, and there exchange a few words with the patient. Quite
late that evening, when he was disconsolately pacing the avenue, Mrs.
Hicks came out, and joined him.

"How has he been since sundown?" he inquired.

"Neither better nor worse. We have sent for Mr. Brownlow, the padre; he
will be here early to-morrow evening. Anyway, he'd have had to come up
for the funeral."

"The funeral! Oh, good Lord!" exclaimed Mayne in a choked voice,
"surely you are not thinking of _that_?"

"Now don't _you_ go and break down, my dear boy," said Mrs. Hicks,
thumping him on the back; "we must all keep up; while there's life
there's hope, and we have to put on a bold face before Nancy. I have
contrived to get her to bed. _He_ sent her. May God forgive me for all
the lies I've told that poor child. If this ends badly, it'll break her
heart. Poor dear! I can't think whatever is to become of her? She won't
have a penny of her own in the wide world,--and there's no relations to
speak of."

"What--no relations?" repeated Mayne incredulously.

"None that would come forward, anyhow. Her mother was an orphan, and
Travers' people broke with him; first of all, because he married a
governess, and lastly, because he lost his money. However, if Nancy has
no belongings, she has lots of friends up here; we will all do what we
can. Well now, I see Francis--he wants me," and she hastily abandoned
her companion, leaving him to meditate upon her information.

Mayne went slowly down to the tennis ground; the tennis ground,
entirely secluded, was a refuge, and here he could hold a long and
uninterrupted conference with himself. Considering the affair from
every point of view, he soon arrived at the conclusion, that _he_
was solely responsible for Nancy's future. Why should these good,
kind-hearted people offer her a shelter, when he, who was accountable
for a tragedy, that cost her a parent and a home, made no effort to
provide for her?

During one whole hour, he did a sort of meditative "sentry go" up and
down the kunkur courts. Mrs. Hicks' illuminating remarks, had presented
Nancy's situation, in its true light: the girl had no relations,
no income, and would be entirely dependent on the charity of her
kind-hearted neighbours; and he was answerable for the fact, that she
would be left homeless, and penniless. If her father had not interfered
when the panther attacked him, in another second, the brute would have
torn his throat out--the blow, transferred her fury to Travers. But
for Travers, he would now be lying in a new grave in the garden. The
least he could do, was to provide a home for Travers' daughter--though
nothing could make up to her, for the one she was about to lose. Had
his mother been like the usual run of mothers, Nancy could have lived
with her; unfortunately there were half a dozen "buts," and Lady
Torquilstone abhorred girls.

There was one alternative;--vainly he thrust this from him; but it
returned again, and yet again, to confront him inflexibly. Yes, he
was powerless against the malignity of events, powerless to evade the
inevitable. _He must marry Nancy._ It was the only thing to do! He
would thankfully have given her half his income; but, it was not to be
supposed, that she would accept his money; she might look upon it as
the price of blood!

He liked Nancy, she was a really good sporting sort; straight as a
die, a capital pal; but as a wife--he would not know what to make of
her? She would be such an unlikely and unaccountable Mrs. Mayne. She
looked a mere flapper too, in spite of her eighteen years, and was
occasionally capable of the most startling behaviour. He recalled
the kiss she had offered him on her birthday, and her various tomboy
tricks. What would the regiment think of Nancy? and what would Nancy
think of the regiment?

After many pacings to and fro, his mind became definitely resolved.
There are moments in the lives of individuals, when their conduct has
to be decided, not by material profit, but by instinctive loyalty to
what is best in their nature; and although marriage was the last step
Mayne had intended to take, nevertheless he determined to adventure the
great plunge! Yes, his decision was unalterably fixed, there was actual
relief in the sensation. He was turning about for the fiftieth time
when he noticed a figure in the moonlight beckoning to him violently
from the top of the steps. It was Mrs. Hicks, who screamed out:

"So you're down there, are you? I could not find you! Been looking for
you all over the place. He has been asking for you, and the doctors say
you may go in, and stay a quarter of an hour."

As Mayne entered the sick-room, he noticed even within the last few
hours, a grave change in Travers: a change that was the unmistakable
forerunner of the last change of all. The sick man's face looked drawn,
his sunken eyes extraordinarily bright and restless,--with a sort of
watching expression. There was also some strange element in the room:
something that seemed to be waiting--the silence was pregnant, with
significance.

"My dear fellow, I'm very glad to see you," Travers began, in a thin
weak voice; "come and sit down. They are making out that I am in a bad
way, and won't allow anyone near me, but Nancy, poor girl. I may pull
through, and I hope I shall, for her sake; she's such a child to be
left all alone to battle with the world."

"Not alone," said Mayne gravely, "as long as I am to the fore. By
rights I should be lying there instead of you, and if the worst----" He
could not go on.

"You are very good, my boy! Although I have only known you for six
weeks, I am as fond of you as of an old friend,--and indeed you seem
so. I've never saved money until lately. There will be enough for
Nancy's passage, and perhaps my sister may take the child; she was a
spoiled beauty, and is now, to all accounts, a hard, selfish woman. She
and I have not spoken for twenty years. Still Nancy is her niece--her
only near relative."

"Look here, sir," interrupted Mayne, "by rights I should be in your
place,--it was all my fault. I was in too great a hurry. I blundered
shockingly when I aimed, so deadly keen to shoot Sam's panther; but
I only enraged her, and made her charge. You knew my father, and are
good enough to say, you like me. I have five hundred a year, besides my
pay--give Nancy into my care. Give Nancy--to _me_!"

Travers gazed at him steadily; the sunken dark eyes were interrogative.

"As my wife, of course," he continued nervously. "I swear to you, that
I'll look upon her as a sacred trust, and do all I can to make her
happy. As it is, we are capital friends; I believe she likes me--and I
am awfully fond of her. We really know one another far better than most
people who marry--having lived here together for the last six weeks.
What do you say?"

"I am a bit surprised," replied Travers at last: "although the notion
of my little Nance being married seems preposterous, you have lifted a
heavy load off my mind, and God bless you." He put out a burning hand,
which Mayne wrung. Then he added, "But I cannot allow you to talk as if
I had sacrificed myself; it was all in the day's work, the fortune of
war--and--I'll be with my other Nancy before long."

"May I speak to Nancy?" asked Mayne, after a short silence, "or shall I
wait?"

"No, I never was a fellow to put off things. I'll see her as soon as
possible,--and look here, Derek," and he gazed up at him appealingly,
"would you think I was rushing you, if I asked you to have the marriage
before I go? Then she will not be left so desolate, my poor little
darling. She will have her natural protector. Do you mind? I know--it
may seem a bit sudden."

"No," replied Mayne firmly. "I think it will be best. I'll make
arrangements at once."

"All right, then I'll have a talk to Nancy by and by, and you shall
hear what she says. Of course I know there's never been any sort of
flirting, or love-making between you--she's just a child! but I'd
leave her with a happy mind, if I knew that my little girl was in
the care of a good, honest fellow, like yourself. It will be a queer
coincidence if Derek Mayne's son is to be the husband of my daughter.
The parson will be here to-morrow, and may find two jobs. Ah, Nurse,
all right--I'll stop! No, I've not been doing myself any harm--very
much the other way. Good-night, my boy."




                               CHAPTER X

                          MARRIAGE AND DEATH


Very early the next morning when Nancy came out of her father's room,
she found Mrs. Hicks already in the verandah, wrapped in a flaming
kimona, and sipping a cup of tea.

"Well, dear child?" she began, then paused, and looked at her
interrogatively.

"Daddy has been talking to me," she announced in a dull voice, staring
at Mrs. Hicks with a curious dazed expression, "and--he--he wishes
me--to marry Captain Mayne."

"Lors!" exclaimed her companion, jumping to her feet. "Whatever for?"

"Because I'm so alone in the world, and have no home!" replied the
girl, as if she was repeating a lesson.

"And what does the Captain say?"

"He wishes it too."

"And what do _you_ say, Ducky?"

"Oh," with a frantic gesture of her hand, "is it any matter about _me_?
Don't you know, that I would kill myself, that I would be cut in little
pieces, if it would give any relief to Daddy,--and I am the one _thing_
that seems to trouble him."

"Well, I won't say that it isn't a wise plan!" declared Mrs. Hicks,
folding her fat arms in her kimona; "the Captain is a fine young
fellow, and has everyone's good word,--even Mrs. Pollard, and you know
how she takes a bit out of people. But still, if you don't really fancy
him, dearie, I _wouldn't_. Marriage," now sitting down, "is a big
affair, not to be settled at a moment's notice, like a game of tennis.
This Mayne, they say, has high and mighty relations, and I don't
believe there's ever been a word of love talk between you--much less a
kiss."

Nancy made a movement of fierce repudiation.

"And from something Mrs. F. dropped," resumed Mrs. Hicks, "I know she
has her plans for you--as well as others."

"Don't!" cried the girl. "Don't talk of plans, and schemes--it's this
very second that counts. I shall do whatever pleases Daddy--and I'm
going to speak to Captain Mayne now."

"Well, maybe it's all for the best! Anyhow, it'll be a wonderful ease
to your poor father. God help you, my child!"

"They wish the marriage to take place to-morrow," said Nancy, and her
lips twitched visibly as she added--"when Mr. Brownlow comes."

"Well I _never_!" ejaculated Mrs. Hicks, and her round ruddy face
assumed an awestruck expression, "but there's sense in that too. If it
was put off, and you were to go home, things might happen. Some young
men are as slippery as eels. Mind you, I'm not saying one word against
Mayne; he doesn't seem that sort--his mouth has a tight look. Still,
one of you might be talked out of it--like my own Jessie."

During this oration, Nancy's face had become as rigid and set as that
of a waxen mask, suddenly laying her hand on Mrs. Hicks' arm, she said:

"If father dies, I don't care _what_ becomes of me! I only hope and
pray, I may not live long. I'll do anything he asks for now,--fancy
the horror that would haunt me,--if I were to say no, to his very last
wishes!"

"Nancy, child, if you could only cry, it would be such a wonderful
relief to your poor heart. Lors, here is Mayne coming! Maybe you'd
better take him into the Den, and talk it out face to face."

"You know all about it, Nancy," he began, when she beckoned him to
follow her into the little room, where both had spent such pleasant
hours.

She nodded assent. Within the last three days the girl appeared to have
undergone an extraordinary change; the childish air had vanished; her
face was shrunken, and drawn, all life and spontaneity had departed.
She wore a long white peignoir, which gave her height and dignity, and
looked years older--in short, it was another personality.

"You know I'm awfully fond of you, Nance," continued Mayne, stooping
to take a cold, limp hand, "and that I'll do my very best to make you
happy."

"_Happy!_" and she dashed his hand aside, "as if I could _ever_ be
happy again!"

"You will, by and by," he went on steadily, unmoved by her outburst;
"we shall settle down; you will get used to soldiering--and this awful
time will be as a bad dream."

"Never," rejoined Nancy with emphasis. "Bad dreams are forgotten.
Do you imagine, that I shall ever forget _this_?" and she stared at
him with a pair of tearless, glittering eyes. Then there ensued a
long, expressive, and uncomfortable pause, during which Togo trotted
in, and gazed at the couple. They seemed so odd,--almost like two
strangers: the girl sitting by the closed piano, the man with his hands
in his pockets, standing with his back to the wall. After a moment's
hesitation, and bewilderment, Togo trotted out.

"Well, Nancy, what do you think?" inquired Mayne at last.

"I'll do anything father wishes--anything to make him at ease. They
say," and she choked, then continued in a hard, metallic voice, "he has
only two days to live."

"I wish to God it had been me instead," burst out Mayne.

"So do I," agreed Nancy, with pitiless fervour, and something wild, and
hostile, looked out of her eyes as she added, "and only for Daddy, it
_would_ have been you."

"That is true; he gave his life for mine."

"And," said the girl, rising as she spoke, "I am to give mine to you;
well, since he wishes it, you may take it!"

Without another word or glance, she turned her back upon Mayne, and
departed to her post in the sick-room.

       *       *       *       *       *

During all this time, Mrs. Hicks, as her husband had boasted, came well
to the fore. Apparently accustomed to sickness, and death, she was
surprisingly energetic and practical, altogether a saner, more subdued,
and silent, Mrs. Hicks.

The doctor's verdict had now gone forth, and the whole establishment
was figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes. Neighbours from far
and near crowded the verandah; melancholy and dejected, these awaited
bulletins, and in some cases, farewell interview with their dying
friend.

Nancy never appeared among the callers,--everything remained in the
hands of Dr. and Mrs. Hicks. When a visitor entered the sick-room,
she noiselessly slipped away, but at other times, Travers' dog, and
Travers' daughter, were his chief companions.

The grim drawing-room had been completely altered to suit its present
use. Most of the hateful black furniture was piled up behind the
screen! A small camp bed, a long arm-chair, and a round table occupied
the middle of the apartment. On the latter, a few books, photographs,
and odds and ends--Travers' poor treasures--had been hastily collected.

The sick man was not in bed, but reclined in the long chair wrapped
in his dressing-gown,--with death in his face, a stout heart in his
breast,--the only cheerful inmate in Fairplains. His left arm and
hand were terribly swollen. With his right he had written a few lines
to his sister, and to Fletcher.--Short notes enclosed and addressed
by Nancy.--Also he had made his will, and given her many directions,
and much advice; to all of which the girl had listened with immovable
composure--knowing that to break down would be terribly distressing to
her father--who, with extraordinary fortitude, now calmly awaited the
end.

The following morning Mr. Brownlow arrived, and was hospitably
entertained by Mrs. Hicks. To his immense surprise, the wire which
summoned him, had invited him not only to visit a sick friend, but to
prepare for the solemnization of a marriage, and his amazement was not
lessened, when informed that Travers' little Nancy was to be the bride!

A lengthy interview with the dying man was interrupted by Mrs. Hicks,
who entered the drawing-room, bearing in either hand a large vase
of white lilies--a signal for the wedding ceremony. Presently Mayne
appeared in his Sunday suit, prayer-book in hand, followed by Dr.
Hicks, Ted Dawson, and, by special desire, Francis, a Catholic. The
last to arrive was Nancy wearing a fresh white linen frock. Then the
doors were closed, and after a little confidential discussion, and
whispering, the ceremony commenced.

The couple about to be married, took their places before Mr.
Brownlow,--who used an old prie-dieu as desk.--Nancy stood as close as
possible to her father, who, at the question, "Who giveth this woman to
be married to this man?" in a firm, loud voice, answered, "I do."

Accordingly "Eleanora Nancy" was married (with her mother's
wedding-ring) to "Derek Danvers Mayne." The bridegroom appeared grave
and anxious, the bride looked like an automaton, going through a
mechanical performance, for which she had been carefully wound up.

When the Service was ended, the certificate duly signed, and witnessed,
there was a celebration of the Holy Communion, and the little gathering
retired.

It was an ominous fact, that as soon as she found herself alone, the
first thing that the bride did, was to tear off her wedding-ring,
and lock it away. It had been decided by Mayne and Travers, that the
marriage was to be kept secret, at least until after the funeral, and
everything went on precisely as if it had not taken place.

With regard to the funeral, the presence of Mr. Brownlow awaiting the
occasion for his services, seemed to Nancy, Mayne, and others, a most
hideous and heartrending necessity: Laurence Travers was still in the
land of the living, and here was his friend Brownlow, waiting on at
Fairplains,--as all the world was aware,--in order to read the funeral
service over his dead body!

Nancy and Mayne encountered one another in the sick-room and at
meals,--for Mrs. Hicks was inflexible with regard to food. She scolded
vigorously, in a subdued voice, when the girl refused to eat; demanding
to know, what was the good of her starving herself, and of being laid
up, and no use to anyone?

Nancy rarely opened her lips, the dread of her impending bereavement
was beyond words. She had lost much of her deep tan colour, and looked
pinched, and haggard; it was a young face, aged and racked with
torture, yet so far, she had not shed one single tear. On the contrary,
her eyes had a fixed glassy stare, like those of a wax doll.

"Feed her up, and keep her going!" was Dr. Hicks' counsel to the
newly-wed bridegroom. "The girl is so unnaturally restrained, that I'm
afraid of some sort of a bad collapse."

But whenever Mayne urged Nancy to rest, or to spare herself, he was
met with an impatient shrug, or a brusque refusal; and realized the
uncomfortable fact, that she rarely spoke to, or looked at him, of her
own accord; but naturally every precious moment was devoted to her
dying father.

Travers' slight recovery on the day of the wedding was followed that
night by a grave relapse, turning to delirium, finally coma; and the
following day, he passed away at sunset. The prayers for the dying
offered by Mr. Brownlow were almost drowned in the clanging of the
coolies' gong. Their task for the day was over--and Travers' life's
work ended at the same hour.

That night the bungalow itself was silent as a tomb, but the peaceful
repose was broken by the weird death wail in the go-downs and coolies'
quarters.

The funeral was immense. People from great distances, hills and plains
alike, flocked to pay the last tribute to an old friend.--Laurence
Travers had been in Coffee for twenty-five years.

Among the most prominent mourners were Mr. and Mrs. Ffinch; she had
only returned home that morning, and was shocked by the news which
assailed her, almost before she had set foot in her house. Having been
beyond the reach of letters, this was the first that she had heard,
even of Travers' illness: and the sudden announcement of his death, was
a stunning blow. Although tired, and inclined to be hysterical, she
pulled herself together with a great effort in order to accompany her
husband to Fairplains.

During the Burial Service many of the women wept. Nancy never shed a
tear, but stood by the grave-side like a graven image in white stone.
Afterwards, she fled away to her room, where she locked herself in;
refusing admittance to all,--even deaf to the beseeching of her own
dearest, and broken-hearted, "Finchie."

Truly these were really miserable days for Derek Mayne! who weighed
down by the loss of a good friend, and his own share in the tragedy,
had now added to his trouble, a wife who undoubtedly _hated_ him! He
read this fact in her dull, but still expressive eyes. She avoided him
pointedly; even at the funeral, she had moved from his side in order to
stand by Mrs. Ffinch; and once, when he had made an attempt to offer
consolation and a caress, she had looked at him so fiercely; almost as
if she could have struck him! Of course the miserable child was nearly
off her head--and no wonder; but this was not an encouraging beginning
for a life-long partnership!

His leave would be up in three days, and what then? The estate must be
taken in hand at once: Ted and Nicky were working it at present, like
the good fellows that they were, but a capable manager who could live
on the spot, was in this, the busiest season, absolutely essential.

In the East, events march with amazing speed; as one man falls, another
fills his place--and so the world rolls on. Almost everything at
Fairplains, except such matters as books, guns, a few pieces of old
china and silver, belonged, as Travers had once expressed it, "lock,
stock and barrel" to Tom Fletcher; so the personal estate was easily
wound up. The assets were small; but on the other hand--there were no
debts.

Dr. Hicks had taken his departure, but his good, capable wife still
remained in charge of Nancy, and the household. Mayne and she dined
_tête-à-tête_; and somehow in her brusque matter-of-fact way, she
cheered him: she talked of Nancy as "a darling; a girl with a heart of
gold, who, when she had found her breath again, after such a terrible
experience, would make him the best of wives, and was fit for any
society."

"You only saw the jungle side," she explained, "but I can tell you,
that Miss Nancy is accomplished; she can play the piano, and sing and
dance as well as the best of your tip-toppers; she didn't waste her
time at school, you bet! She cost Laurence Travers about two hundred a
year, he never spared any expense upon his girl--we all know that."

When Mrs. Hicks had withdrawn--she was an early to bed lady--Mayne
wandered about alone in the bright moonlight, thinking sorrowfully of
the dead man.

Was it but a week ago, when they two, discussing a question of European
politics, had paced this very path, and since then, his companion had
set out for the undiscovered country? It seemed incredible.

By and by he went and stood by the newly made grave; something was
lying across it, crushing all the beautiful wreaths and flowers. What
was it? On nearer inspection it proved to be Togo; who recognized his
disturber with a threatening growl.

From the grave Mayne returned to the bungalow, and sat for a long time
alone in the empty verandah--what a change was here! The merry voices,
and the laughing that filled it a week ago, already belonged to the
past; every door stood wide, and a chill death-like stillness pervaded
the premises. Even in the servants' quarters--what a singular absence
of sound!

All at once a wholly inexplicable impulse impelled Mayne to enter
the room where Travers had breathed his last; the corners looked
mysteriously, and forbiddingly dark; but in the centre, where the
moonlight streamed,--it was as light as day. The little iron cot
had been neatly made up, in the long chair--Mayne started, the moon
discovered a prone figure--Nancy! with her head buried among the
cushions; and something in the absolute abandonment of her limp and
lifeless attitude, brought to his mind the picture of a dead white bird.

He stole away, noiseless as a shadow, with these two scenes indelibly
fixed upon his memory; Togo, keeping watch and ward over the grave,
Nancy prostrate in the death chamber. Surely few men had ever awakened
such profound grief, as Laurence Travers.




                              CHAPTER XI

                        MRS. FFINCH INTERVENES


The Honourable Mrs. Ffinch was not merely the happy possessor of
an energetic mind, but of an elastic physique. As soon as she had
recovered from the shock of Travers' death, heart and soul she set
about arranging his affairs--naturally beginning with his orphan
daughter!

Accordingly the afternoon after the funeral, the Clouds Rest car
once more glided up to Fairplains. On this occasion the visitor was
immediately admitted to see Nancy; who thanks to Mrs. Hicks' almost
violent insistence, had rested and eaten a mid-day meal. The white and
tearless girl submitted very patiently to her friend's caresses and
condolence. At last Mrs. Ffinch released her, and sat down,--still
holding her hand, as if she feared her escape,--began to talk to her
most seriously.

"Well, my dear child, I've settled everything! your room at Clouds Rest
is ready, the Dirzee is waiting to fit your mourning, and I have come
to fetch you away,--for I don't intend to leave you another day with
Mrs. Hicks."

"She has been so very, very kind," murmured Nancy, "I don't know what I
should have done without her."

The visitor dismissed this statement, with an impatient gesture, as she
resumed:

"And there's Captain Mayne! What is _he_ waiting for?"

"I suppose he is waiting for _me_," was the unexpected reply.

Mrs. Ffinch's large thin-lipped mouth opened, but no words came forth,
she merely gaped upon her young friend.

"We were married on Friday," calmly announced the bride.

"You were--_what_?" cried Mrs. Ffinch, hastily rising and towering over
the speaker.

"Married--married in the drawing-room here. Father wished it."

"And _you_?" demanded her breathless inquisitor.

"Oh no."

Here, within a few hours, was the second shock which Mrs. Ffinch had
sustained. To return to a hum-drum neighbourhood, after merely a week's
absence, and to find awaiting her, not only a sudden death, but a
sudden, amazing, and crazy marriage! Her head felt swimming; yet such
was the lady's ruling passion and ardour for managing, that even this
unparalleled situation, presented its compensations! With admirable
persistence and patience, she succeeded in dragging some facts from her
half-stunned and apathetic companion; and when all was made clear, she
said:

"Fancy! of all people in the world--you and Derek Mayne! Such a
hopelessly unsuitable couple to be chained together for life! _What_
have you in common?"

Nancy shook her head. She was not in a frame of mind to furnish either
reasons, or arguments.

"Nothing whatever," resumed Mrs. Ffinch, answering her own question.
"Certainly not sport--you merely went shooting, so as to be with your
Daddy: you know you hate killing things; you and Mayne agreed to
sacrifice yourselves, just to give that poor fellow an easy mind. My
dear, have you thought of the future?"

Nancy made no reply, her eyes were fastened on the corner of the room.
Undoubtedly her thoughts were miles away from her companion.

"Has Captain Mayne any plans? Come, come, Nancy, don't look so dull,
and dazed."

"I don't know."

"Don't know," repeated her friend, in a tone of exasperation. "My dear
good child, do try and rouse yourself, and think."

"I think," said the girl, speaking very deliberately and as if talking
was an immense effort, "that he is going away the day after to-morrow."

"And you too?"

"I suppose so," assented the bride, in a tone of stolid indifference.

"Good heavens--you 'suppose,' and you 'don't know.' Have you talked it
over together?"

"No," was the whispered reply.

Mrs. Ffinch threw up her shapely hands with a gesture of despair.

"This private marriage has taken place simply because your father saved
your husband's life."

"Don't call him my husband!" burst out Nancy, with a lightning flash of
her former self.

"Well, dear, I won't, if you don't like it. Your poor Daddy has left
you alone--and from what I hear--almost penniless."

These were hard words, and facts; but the Honourable Julia Ffinch never
flinched from the plainest of plain-speaking.

"And Mayne naturally feels bound in honour to provide for you."

An expressive silence followed this bald statement.

"Dear me, how you do stare, child! You know, I'm fond of you, Nancy,
darling, and I'm most frightfully upset about all this terrible
trouble; but just at the moment, I want to put my own feelings
_entirely_ aside, and try and act for your benefit. I had no idea, that
we were in the least likely to lose you, or that you were on the brink
of such an _awful_ leap in the dark. There's no time to be lost; now
is the moment for action. I shall go and have a good square talk with
Captain Mayne. I see him wandering about outside, looking for all the
world as if he were a lost dog."

As Mrs. Ffinch stepped down from the verandah to accost him, her first
words were:

"So you and Nancy are married!"

"Yes," he replied. "Don't you approve?"

"I am simply horrified," she answered, with deliberate emphasis. "Yes,
I _am_."

"But why?" he asked. "It was quite a sound thing to do."

"Only for the circumstances of the case, neither of you would ever have
dreamt of such a mad proceeding. Come, would you--honour bright?"

"Well, I don't suppose we should," he admitted reluctantly.

"Now look here, Captain Mayne," turning to pace beside him. "I
must speak my mind. You don't care a pin for one another. Nancy is
a mere child of freedom, a child still in many ways, and totally
inexperienced; you spend your life in military harness. What will
become of her as a regimental lady?"

Mayne coloured, and gave a short uneasy laugh.

"Oh, she'll be all right, I daresay."

"Why, only the other day you solemnly assured me, that you wouldn't
marry for years--if ever. I remember you quoted Kipling, 'He travels
fastest, who travels alone.'"

"That's true," he admitted, "but unexpected things happen. One never
can tell. I daresay Nancy and I will worry along as well as other
people."

"What a nice, cheerful way of looking at it," exclaimed Mrs. Ffinch.

"Well, of course we have made an awkward sort of start; and at present
Nancy, who used to be my best friend, cannot endure me in her sight.
I shall let her have everything her own way--anyhow for a time--for I
can thoroughly understand her feelings. Only for _me_, her father might
be here talking to you at this moment. However, I intend to do my big
best. Perhaps once Nancy has left these surroundings, she may not take
things so desperately hard. Our Colonel's wife is a rare good sort, and
will mother her; and I'll bring along the old ayah, the pony, and the
dog, so that she won't feel altogether too strange. I must go down the
day after to-morrow; and there are lots of things to settle up before
that."

"You will come over, and say good-bye to us, won't you? Hector would
like to see you, to talk business. He is arranging for a temporary
manager until he hears from Mr. Fletcher. He sent him a cable
yesterday."

After a little conversation respecting the new manager, and the
winding-up of the household, Mrs. Ffinch returned to Nancy, whom she
found precisely as she had left her, sitting with clasped hands, and
downcast eyes, staring hard at the floor.

"Come, come, my dear!" she protested briskly, "try and put away your
grief for a few minutes, and listen to me,--for I'm going to talk to
you, for your life-long good."

Nancy raised herself with an effort, and gazed at her adviser with a
pair of large, lack-lustre, eyes.

"Nancy, I have come to the conclusion, that you and Captain Mayne can
never be happy together. He is not one bit in love--I suppose you
realize _that_. He married you simply to fulfil what he considered
a duty,--the payment of an enormous debt! He belongs to a totally
different class--County people. I know his uncle--and I know his
mother--an odious, overbearing, cat! A super cat! I daresay you are
just as well born, but you will find that between you, and his people,
a great gulf is fixed. They will forget the true reason for the match,
and declare that he has been 'run in.' He has assured me more than once
that he had no intention of marrying; and is excessively anxious to
get on in his profession. I remember him saying that his sword was is
helpmate, and I know from my own experience, that an officer hampered
by a wife with no fortune, no helpful connections, is _too_ heavily
weighted."

"Then what do you advise me to do?" murmured Nancy, almost inaudibly.

"Remain with me at Clouds Rest, and let him return to Cananore alone.
Leave details to _me_; I can arrange everything,--I shall love doing
it! Scarcely a soul knows of the ceremony, and we shall keep it dark.
When once you are comfortably established with us, you shall write to
Captain Mayne, and tell him that he is absolutely released."

"But will it not be breaking a promise to father?" and Nancy rose
out of her chair, and stood before her adviser, a limp, and dejected
figure--an almost unrecognizable Nancy!

"No, my dearest child; you know, as well as I do, that your Daddy's
sole idea was for your _happiness_. This scrambled up 'shilling
shocker' affair would be for your _misery_."

Mrs. Ffinch waxed eloquent. She warmed with her subject; excitement,
and enthusiasm carried to her feet, and she stalked about the room,
declaiming with both hands. On more than one occasion, she had made a
marriage; here was a notable opportunity to break one! This idea, to
do her justice, was not the sole cause of her energetic intervention.
Nancy, more dead than alive, had apparently no interest in her future;
and was willing to drift wherever a miserable fate would take her; but
Julia Ffinch was not the woman to suffer a favourite puppet to be lost
to her in such a fashion! Nancy should have another chance, recover her
health, and spirits at Clouds Rest--and let Captain Mayne go his own
way.

Mrs. Ffinch had mapped out Nancy's future with a bewildering
thoroughness, and continued her exposition, and arguments with unabated
zeal. As for Captain Mayne, he would thankfully snatch at such a chance
of liberty; for never had she seen a young man so alarmingly altered,
and depressed.

"If you and Captain Mayne stick to one another, it will be," she
announced, "a deplorable calamity for both,--and his professional
ruin. If either of you were in love, of course I would not say a
word; but this is really _too_ cold-blooded! Mayne married you to
pay the price for his life--you married him--because your father was
naturally anxious to see you provided for; there is the whole affair in
a nutshell," extending two expressive hands, "and in my opinion, the
kernel is rotten!

"If I had been at home, this preposterous ceremony would never have
taken place. Thank goodness, it can be hushed up, and smothered
here--among the coffee bushes. Should it ever try to come to life,
the marriage must be annulled. As far as witnesses are concerned,
there will be _no_ difficulty. Doctor and Mrs. Hicks won't talk; and
Mr. Brownlow is about to settle in Tasmania. You will come and live
with me, and be my daughter," then with a cautious afterthought, "at
any rate for the present. As for Captain Mayne, he will rejoin his
regiment, and there won't be a whisper! He is coming over to-morrow
to Clouds Rest. I'll have a serious interview with him, and tell him
that he must really leave you with _me_. I know he will jump at the
offer, and be only too thankful to go off alone. Then as soon as he has
cleared out, you and I will put our heads together, and write him such
a clear, decisive letter, and put the matter so effectively, that he
will withdraw all claim."

Here Mrs. Ffinch paused, a little out of breath from this long oration,
and surveyed her companion judicially.

"Now what do you say, Nancy? Take your choice? Will you come to
_me_?--or go to _him_?"

"I hate him!" was the startling rejoinder.

"Ah, so I see you've made up your mind! Then the day after to-morrow,
I'll fetch you; I shall tell your ayah to put your things together.
I've given you the big room--so that you can have all your own
particular belongings round you--and I've ordered lots of mourning
paper. Well now, good-bye my own darling, don't think _too_ much; don't
let Mrs. Hicks worry you, and don't see more of _him_ than you can
help," and she nodded her head expressively.

Then Mrs. Ffinch went forth, and was ceremoniously conducted to her
car by Captain Mayne, who, as he walked beside her, dropping a casual
"yes" or "no," little dreamt of the scheme that was maturing in his
companion's ever active brain.




                              CHAPTER XII

                             "EXIT NANCY"


It was after sundown, when Nancy's eloquent visitor had taken a
prolonged farewell, and a reluctant departure. She was immediately
succeeded by Mrs. Hicks, charged with cheerful talk, anxious
interrogations and an enticing description of the forthcoming dinner;
nevertheless, the girl declared that she felt dead tired, and would
rather not appear, but have something sent in to her on a tray.

As soon as the servants' voices, and the clatter of plates, assured
her that the meal was in active progress, Nancy slipped out, and stole
down to the tennis ground, in order to breathe a little fresh air, and
secure an uninterrupted think. The tennis ground was the most secluded
resort about the premises,--being sunken in the hillside, and invisible
from the bungalow. It was a pregnant coincidence, that the recently
married couple had each sought the same sanctuary!

Nancy paced slowly to and fro; the agony of apprehension, and the
tension of a desperate hope, had come to an end. She was turning over
in her mind the various statements that Mrs. Ffinch had so frankly
disclosed. One or two stark-naked facts boldly presented themselves.
Fact number one: Captain Mayne had married her for no other reason,
than to discharge a debt, and to give her his protection, and a
home. This plain and odious truth, was unbearable. Once upon a
time--indeed only a week ago--she had liked Captain Mayne so much;
but now her feelings had undergone a sharp change, and all she
felt for him, was shuddering aversion. Yesterday, when he had put
his hand on her shoulder, she had felt inclined to scream! It was
undeniable--proclaimed another stout fact--that she had assented to the
marriage; but if it was ruinous to Captain Mayne, abhorrent to herself,
and unfair to them both,--_why_ hold to it?

Another glaring truth revealed, that she was absolutely
homeless--unless she followed her fate to Cananore, or accepted what
was neither more nor less than Mrs. Ffinch's charity! Surely there must
be a third alternative? For the last eighteen months, she had held the
purse-strings, and saved her Daddy many rupees, and after the servants'
wages and other expenses were settled, there remained sufficient money
to pay her passage home, and leave a margin of about twenty pounds.

She would go straight to her old school at Eastbourne: Mrs.
Beccles--who had always been her friend--would no doubt allow her to
remain there for a week or two, and assist her to find a situation
as companion, or governess. She was determined not to be carried off
to Clouds Rest; there, to become a pensioner, and non-paying guest.
She was really fond of Finchie, who was immensely kind, and generous;
but Finchie had more than once openly lamented, that "she so soon got
tired of people!" What if she grew tired of her? As Nancy cast her
thoughts back, she recalled the reigns of Blanche Meach; of Nicky Byng;
of Jessie; and there was no denying the fact that at the moment, she
herself was the official favourite. Even if she went to Clouds Rest for
a few weeks,--it would be only to prolong the present agony, and defer
a crisis.

To remain in the neighbourhood of Fairplains, where she and her father
had been so supremely happy; with strangers occupying their rooms,
riding their ponies, playing on this very tennis ground,--no, never!
And then all the talk and commiseration, although so kindly meant,
would drive her crazy! There was a loop-hole of escape overlooked by
Mrs. Ffinch. She would go down to her old nurse, Jane Simpson, at
Coimbatore, and start to-morrow night, leaving two letters, one for
Captain Mayne, and one for Finchie. Finchie would be furious; she could
almost see her face, after she had read and digested her leave-taking
epistle! But, after all, she must live her own life, such as it was;
and go her own way. What she did, or where she went, was of little
matter to anyone. Nurse Jane would not worry her with plans, and
questions--she understood; she always did; and later on, when she felt
stronger, not so queer, and dazed, and the monsoon was over, she would
go home--that is to say, to England.

As Nancy made up her mind to this plan, she beheld Togo coming slowly
down the steps, and looking about cautiously. Catching sight of the
object of his quest, he flew to her side.

"So you were afraid we were _all_ gone, dear, were you?" and she lifted
him,--a heavy armful,--sat down, and placed him on the bench beside
her. Togo endeavoured to make frantic demonstrations of affection,--but
was firmly restrained. His mistress held him fast with her arm round
his neck, and there the two sat, and gazed on the moon-flooded
plains,--an exquisite scene in silver. It all looked so still, so calm,
and in a word, so heavenly. "Oh, Togo," she murmured. "The world is the
same, but everything in it, is changed for you--and me."

Suddenly something in Nancy's throat seemed to give way, and she
buried her face in Togo's woolly neck; the ice had melted, and for
the first time, she wept,--but not for long. In a surprisingly short
time, she choked back her sobs--and with a supreme effort recovered
her composure, restrained her streaming tears, as she had done Togo's
caresses,--and administering a kiss in the middle of his forehead, rose
and returned to the bungalow,--stealing into her own quarters almost
like a thief.

Manœuvring among the shadows, she had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hicks
and Captain Mayne smoking together on the verandah. What good friends
they seemed to be! In her room she found awaiting her, a dainty
little meal (now cold), and offered it to Togo. As a rule the dog
had a healthy and unfastidious appetite, but to-night, he merely
sniffed at the plate, and turned sorrowfully away. To avoid a scene of
recrimination, and remonstrance, Nancy gulped down some cold soup, and
ordered the ayah to remove the tray, "quick, quick, quick," and when
Mrs. Hicks had gone to bed, to send Francis to speak to her.

Sounds in the still hill regions carry far, and the Clouds Rest "gurra"
would be heard striking ten faint strokes, when Francis appeared in the
doorway. Salaaming with grave dignity, he awaited Nancy's commands.

"Francis," she said, "you have known me as a baba, and have always been
good to me."

"No, no," he protested, "Missy good to me."

"Yes, you have," she contradicted flatly, "and you know it,
Francis--and I want you to help me now."

"Whatever the Missy says, that I do," and once more he salaamed with
both hands.

"Well, I want you to do a good deal! You know that I was married by the
Padre Sahib, because my father wished it, and I was thankful to please
him, but it is not a good marriage; and I do not intend to leave here
with the Captain Sahib on Wednesday, but will go down to Nurse Jane at
Coimbatore instead--and you must manage it."

"Nurse Jane, Missy," he repeated, "but for why? That very, awfully
foolish business. The Captain Sahib very nice gentleman. Master like
him,--everyone too much like him."

"And I," pointing to herself, "do _not_ like him! Francis, can you
understand?" and she gazed at him steadily.

Francis made no answer, but looked down, and gravely contemplated his
flexible brown toes.

"Listen to me," she continued, "to-morrow night, I am leaving
Fairplains; you will get a bandy, and coolies, for the luggage, and the
ayah; also I am taking Togo. If I return to England, he shall be in
your keeping. At present, he and I, comfort one another. I will ride
the grey pony down the ghât, and Tumbie syce can attend, and bring him
back. Later, all my belongings are to be sent to Coimbatore. Do you
bring them yourself. I shall have much to say to you--to-night it
hurts me to talk."

"May I speak one word, Missy? Now you are married to this gentleman
Captain,--suppose you run away, he making plenty bobbery; he not
swearing or calling names, that gentleman I know. All the same, I think
he is strong,--and there will be much trouble."

"It will be all right, Francis; you need not be afraid. I shall give
you a letter for him, and he will be _glad_ to let me go,--and never
see me again."

Francis made a noise like "tch, tch, tch." "Oh, Missy, already have we
got too much sorrow--will you thrust more upon us--and yourself----?"

"More--sorrow--we could not have," declared his reckless young
mistress. "Now for my plans," she continued.

"I want you to send a coolie with a telegram to prepare Nurse Jane. I
shall remain in this room to-morrow; sick--and I _am_ sick--and I wish
I was dead! At night, when all is still, I intend to ride away down to
the railway station. Francis, it is for you to make all the bandobast.
I know you will help me. Good-night," and he was dismissed.

By the first streak of dawn, the next morning, Nancy crept out to
visit, for the last time, the newest grave. She was so early that no
one beheld her, but the birds, and Togo.

During the long hours when Mrs. Hicks was busily engaged in counting
glass, china, and cooking pots (for the inventory), or reposing on her
beloved bed, Nancy and her ayah were occupied in making final, but
secret arrangements. When these were completed, Nancy sat down and
wrote two letters. The first was to Mrs. Ffinch,--and began:

    DEAR KIND FINCHIE,

    This is to say, that I am going my own way. Please do not be vexed.
    You will hear of me at my nurse's in Coimbatore. I feel somehow
    that I want her, as when I was a small kid, and had had a bad fall;
    later, I hope to go to England; for much as I adore the hills, I
    cannot endure them just now. Give my love to all my friends, and
    please _do_ understand, that I am most grateful to you for your
    kind offer, to have me with you at Clouds Rest,--and forgive,

                                                           Your loving,
                                                                 NANCY.

Having completed and addressed this, she sat for a long time with
a sheet of note-paper before her, resting her head upon her hand,
nibbling the penholder, and making up her mind how to frame a letter to
Captain Mayne. At last she began, and wrote--rapidly, almost without a
pause:

    DEAR CAPTAIN MAYNE,

    Before you read this, I shall have left Fairplains. I have been
    thinking hard the last two days, and am quite sure, that it is best
    for us to part _now_,--and never to meet again. Let us forget the
    dreadful ceremony of last Friday. You know, that we agreed to it,
    only to satisfy my dear father,--at least that was _my_
    intention,--so that he might be at ease in his mind, before he left
    me. On this point, our aim was accomplished; and there let the
    matter _end_. I feel certain, that you have no true wish, that I
    should live with you--'until death us do part.' Far from it. I am
    just a little hill girl, and not the least one of your sort. For my
    own part, the mere sight of you brings before me that horrible
    struggle with the panther, when Daddy interposed, and saved you. I
    _know_ you are honourable, and a man of your word, and wish to give
    me--as payment--a home and your name; but I cannot accept one or
    other, for--to be honest--I shall _never_ like you again, and if
    I were forced to live with you, I should loathe you.

    It seems dreadful to write this down in black and white, but it is
    the truth; and surely the truth is best? I am so absolutely
    miserable that I wish I was dead: I could easily kill myself with
    an overdose of chlorodyne--we keep a large store on account of the
    coolies--and I would be buried in the garden beside _them_, and be
    no further trouble to anyone; but Daddy always said, 'Suicide was
    a coward's act,' and I shall struggle on somehow. Mrs. Ffinch, who,
    as you know, is immensely clever, had a long talk with me yesterday.
    She pointed out that you and I were entirely unsuited; that apart
    from the circumstances, we would have been almost the last people
    in the world to think of marrying one another; that you had told
    her the idea of marriage had never entered your mind, and it would
    be the _ruin_ of your career. This can easily be prevented. No one,
    except the Hicks and Teddy Dawson, knows of the ceremony. The
    parson is about to settle in Tasmania;--they will _all_ be dumb.
    Here in India, people so frequently separate, scatter, and forget
    that they had ever met. I shall do my utmost to forget you, and I
    hope you will let me drop out of your thoughts as completely as if
    you had never seen me; and should we meet--which I trust is
    unlikely--let it be as strangers. Do not be at all concerned about
    my future. I have sufficient money to pay for my passage, I have
    friends at home, and if the worst come to the worst, I can be a
    lady's help, or governess. At any rate, I shall be independent. I
    hope you will not think, that in taking this step, I am also
    breaking my promise to father. You know, that his _one_ idea, as he
    lay dying, was for my happiness; and I shall be far happier--if
    I ever can be happy again--to feel, that I am free--also that you
    are free. I believe, that if I had followed my first intention of
    keeping to the letter of our contract, and accompanied you down to
    Cananore, we should have been the two most miserable people in the
    whole world.

                                                            Believe me,
                                                      Yours faithfully,
                                                         NANCY TRAVERS.

This was a much longer and fuller epistle than Nancy had intended to
send; but she was determined to make everything absolutely plain.
Possibly it was a stupid letter, and no doubt she had repeated herself
several times; also it was brusque, and rude. It might make Captain
Mayne dislike her extremely. In that case; so much the _better_! If
Mrs. Ffinch had written such a letter, how well it would have been
expressed; how beautifully she would have taken off the raw edges, and
made it almost a pleasure to read! Well, there it was; she would not
look at it again, in case she might alter something, so she thrust it
into an envelope, sealed it, and laid it beside her other despatch.

Mrs. Hicks was only too sympathetic with Nancy's severe headache. She
paid several visits, imparting remedies, and outside intelligence.
Captain Mayne had not yet returned from his round of farewell calls,
but all his baggage had been packed by his "boy," everything was ready
for a start the next afternoon, and he had ordered up a pair-horse
tonga, for the use of the ayah, and herself.

"I shall remain here to see you off, Nancy, my dear," she announced,
"and I've got hold of an old shoe that I intend to throw after you!"

"Dear Mrs. Hicks, you are always so kind," said the girl, "and I'll
never forget what you have been to me, during this last awful week."

Afterwards Mrs. Hicks remembered, that in Nancy's kiss there was
something soft and lingering--something in the nature of a farewell.

Nancy, having taken an emotional leave of Francis, handed him two
letters to be immediately delivered, and prepared to depart at twelve
o'clock that night. Under the auspices of a high full moon, she rode
away from Fairplains, accompanied by Togo, and followed by her syce.
The domestic servants were aware of her impending departure,--for is
not everything known in the cookhouse, and go-down? When she came up
the drive, they were all, so to speak, paraded--standing in one long
line, to see the last of their little Missy. As she passed, she nodded
to each individually, and when she had reached the corner, where the
private track joined the great cart road, turned in her saddle, to look
back on her home, and to wave a valediction to the crowd.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                          IN BLACK AND WHITE


Mayne, an early riser, was generally the first to appear at chotah
hazri; and when, with an impressive gesture, Francis laid Nancy's
letter on the table beside him, he instantly recognized the writing,
and felt a premonition that there was something in the wind! With
admirably concealed impatience, he waited until the servant had
retired, to open this, the first communication from his wife. He read
it standing; then he sat down with a sudden plunge, and went slowly
over it again, whilst a curious, rather grim expression stole across
his face. Nancy's strange attitude was here most fully, and frankly
explained. Her look of cold dislike, her frigid silence, and pointed
avoidance, were amply accounted for, by the fact that she hated the
man, whom in her heart she accused of being the cause of her father's
death. Her love for _him_, was so absolute and overwhelming, that it
had changed her kindly liking for Mayne, into horror, and detestation,
and she spurned what she termed his "payment." The information was
before his eyes in clear black and white--the girl wrote a good,
legible hand--she had shot her bolt and fled. So after all his anxious
heart-searchings, stifled reluctance, and sincere good-will, Nancy had
deserted him, and gone her own way, to live her own life!

His feelings were an extraordinary mixture; various and unusual
sensations, in turn swept over him; anger, humiliation,
astonishment--then finally, relief. It was a relief, to be free
from the desperate embarrassment of being married to a girl, a mere
playfellow, with whom he had never exchanged a word of love, nor for
whom he had ever felt the smallest touch of passion; yet on the
other hand, Nancy was his legal wife, and--in spite of her ignorant
confidence, and offer of release--to the best of his belief, it was
impossible to sever the bond between them. Also, he was in the position
of being sole executor of her father's will, and scanty personal estate.

The actual fact of the marriage was known to few. He could now
rejoin his regiment as a bachelor; and the distasteful vision, of
presenting himself at Cananore, in company with a stony-faced, abjectly
miserable bride, faded away into the background. He would still
continue to live at the Mess, and if later, there were any awkward
developments--"sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof!"

Mayne paused in his tramp to and fro, and was about to pour himself out
a cup of tea, when he beheld the shiny, copper-coloured face of Teddy
Dawson, appearing above the steps.

"So I hear you are off this afternoon," he began, "and I have just
looked in to know if I can do anything to help? I was the first to
welcome you, and I should like to be the last to speed you, from this
part of the world."

"You have come at an opportune moment," said Mayne, holding out his
hand; "the very fellow I particularly want to see. But first let me get
you a cup of tea."

"All right, I don't mind," said Ted, tossing down his battered topee,
and taking a seat at the table. "How is Nancy?"

"Nancy has gone."

"Gone! What the Dickens do you mean?--Nancy gone! Gone where?"

"As you were at the marriage, and are altogether behind the scenes,
also my first friend here,--I think I may show you her letter," said
Mayne, and he handed it across to his gaping _vis-à-vis_.

Dawson read it with irritating deliberation; going back over sentences,
and frowning heavily as he did so. When he came to the end, he looked
up and said:

"Nancy was always a queer child, and you will have to let her alone.
You couldn't well follow her, and drag her back--could you?"

"I shall not move a finger," said Mayne, with deliberate emphasis.

"It's just like one of her tempers; she'll cool down all right."

"And where do I come in?" inquired Mayne. "She has made a pretty good
fool of _me_!"

"Oh, you'll forgive her some day, for you're a real white man! I'm
awfully fond of Nan; she is clean, through and through--couldn't lie if
she tried; knows nothing whatever of love; or what's called 'sex,' and
that sort of thing. Her heart and soul were given to her Daddy; and now
that he is gone, the poor child feels that her life is smashed to bits."

"That's true," assented Mayne, "and I can understand her grief. I have
made every allowance, and never intruded on her for a moment. I have
not laid eyes on Nancy since the funeral; she has remained shut up in
her own room. This," holding up the note, "is the first sign that she
has recognized my existence, and it gives me my dismissal, or 'jawaub.'"

"Well, well," resumed Dawson, after an expressive pause (during which
he disposed of a large cup of tea), "it's rather a facer, I'll allow. I
believe I can trace the delicate hand of Mrs. Ffinch in it--she always
has a finger in every one's pie--and hitherto she has looked upon Nancy
as her own particular property. By the way, have you made any fresh
plans?"

"Yes. I leave early this afternoon. Nancy's baggage will, of course,
remain, and as not a word of this business is known to anyone, bar the
Hicks, Mrs. Ffinch, and yourself, I shall rejoin my regiment, as if
nothing had happened."

"And keep up the delusion?" said Ted, opening his large blue eyes;
"that won't be easy."

"Why not? I don't intend to follow, or to trace Nancy: she can go her
own way. Money affairs, I'll arrange with you. I shall make her an
allowance, paid half-yearly to your bankers. Who are they?"

"Grindlay and Co., but you may spare yourself the trouble, for Nancy
won't accept a penny--if _I_ know her."

"I shall lodge it all the same," said Mayne, looking obstinate. "Two
hundred and fifty pounds a year. I won't have her governessing, or any
of that nonsense. The inventory here has been seen to by Mrs. Hicks,
and the station-writer; I have wound up a few business matters, paid
off the servants, and, excepting a couple of yearly cheques, I shall
have no more to say to--Mrs. Mayne!"

"Is that so?"

"Certainly; it is Nancy who has left me,--and, as the natives say, 'one
hand cannot clap.'"

"I must confess, I don't wonder you feel a bit hurt."

"Hurt!" repeated Mayne, with an angry laugh.

"I've a good idea where Nancy is. She has gone down to her old nurse in
Coimbatore; an excellent woman, who married a chap in the Telegraphs.
Nance could not be better fixed up, for the present; the girl feels
like a mortally wounded animal, that wants to hide from its own sort.
It would have been a terrible ordeal for a child like Nancy, with her
hurt, so to speak, _raw_, to find herself launched amongst complete
strangers, with no one to hold on to, but a fellow she had known for a
few weeks. One of my coolies told me, that last night he had seen the
ghost of a woman on a white horse riding down the ghât road. Of course,
that was Nancy, making for the railway station."

"I'm fairly broad-minded," said Mayne, "and I can see the matter from
your point of view; naturally, you hold a brief for Nancy. I remember
the first time we met, you told me she was the apple of your eye!"

"Aye. And what queer things have happened, since we overtook you that
day on your way here. Now I wonder, if I had turned you back, would it
have made any difference?"

"No--I believe it was 'Kismet.' I wish to goodness, Kismet had left me
alone. However, I shall give the girl a wide berth,--and her freedom."

"Oh, will you?" Dawson's tone implied doubt.

"Yes, I shall hold my tongue; none of my brother officers would dream
of my having got married up on a coffee estate. Later, it may be a
bit awkward. You see I am my uncle's heir." He paused for a moment,
and fumbled with his tobacco pouch,--which, all unconscious, he was
holding upside down. "However, I'll manage somehow--even if there _are_
complications."

"And how about Nancy? When she has recovered from this blow, has gone
to England and grown up, how will it be, if she comes across a fellow
she takes to? If ever she falls in love, it will be the devil of a
business. A case of all--or nothing. What will happen then, eh?"

"There's no good in looking so far ahead," declared Mayne, preparing
to light his pipe. "Why meet trouble half way--one of us may die----"

"Who is talking of dying?" inquired Mrs. Hicks, suddenly launching
herself into the verandah. "Boys, I've overslept myself most
disgracefully! and I'm shockingly late; but I always _was_ a
lazybones,--and fond of my little bed. I've not even been in to see
Nancy yet."

When it had been carefully explained to her, that there was no Nancy to
see, her fat, florid face was a study.

"Well, this _is_ a nice how-do-you-do!" she exclaimed. "If I hadn't
been an old silly, I might have had my suspicions, from her being so
quiet. Well, well, well! Fancy her running away! I didn't think she 'ad
it in her."

"Oh, there's a lot in Nancy," declared her champion.

"She kissed me something extra last night," resumed Mrs. Hicks, "and I
suppose it was for _good-bye_. Lors! what will people say!"

"Nothing," replied Mayne emphatically. "They don't know anything about
_me_, and they will think it only natural that she should--as Dawson
suspects--have gone to her old nurse."

"And so it's--you know what I mean--to be a dead letter, and hushed up?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Hicks gave a shrill, unladylike whistle.

"Well, I declare! All the servants are 'in the know,'--but that doesn't
count; folks don't ever believe 'bazaar' talk, and of course Hicks and
I will 'old our tongues--you bet."

"That will be very kind of you, Mrs. Hicks--but----"

"But," nodding her head expressively, "if either of you go and marry
other people, it will be bigamy, eh?"

"I suppose so," replied Mayne. "There is one thing positively certain."

"What's that?"

"That I have been married for the first, and last, time."

"Well, there's no saying; queer things 'appen. I'm sure this day week,
you never dreamt you'd be a married man to-day; and you and Nancy are
married, just as tight as 'Icks and me. You've got the certificate?"

"I have, and I do not intend to shirk all my responsibilities. I shall
make Nancy an allowance; but I'll never see her again."

"Many's the woman that will be thankful to be married on _those_
terms," chuckled Mrs. Hicks, now lighting up.

The good lady was enjoying a thorough holiday, and being as free and
easy, and talkative as she pleased; far removed from the irritating
criticisms of her daughters. She and her would-be son-in-law were pals!
It was Jessie, influenced by Mrs. Ffinch--and Dr. Hicks--ambitious for
his daughter--who were the real obstacles to the alliance.

"I'll run down to Coimbatore," she announced, "and see the child. Hicks
doesn't like the look of her, and I'll just tell her what I think of
her, for giving me the slip, the sly little toad! I suppose you don't
send her no message?" suddenly turning to Mayne.

"Well, yes, perhaps I'd better. I'll go and write a line now, no time
like the present," and he rose and went towards the den.

Mrs. Hicks' eyes followed him steadily. Then she burst out:

"Nancy has been a fool!--fine, upstanding young fellows like him aren't
to be found on every coffee-bush, that I can tell you."

"Maybe it'll come all right yet," said Dawson soothingly.

"Maybe not. She has given him a nasty whack, and I think myself he has
a pride. My old boy will fetch me to-day, and everything here is now
settled, and cleared up, and the Travers' belongings are packed and
ready for the road. I believe the new acting-manager comes to-morrow.
My, what a change!" she added gloomily; "and all in one little week."

"Yes, and somehow I can't realize it," said Dawson. "As I sit here,
I half expect to see Travers riding up from the Factory on his brown
pony, and Nancy flying along this verandah, like a gale of wind."

"Aye, that's true," assented Mrs. Hicks, and she heaved a great sigh;
"we have all had good times here, and the Travers' can never be
replaced," and again she sighed heavily.

Meanwhile Mayne was writing rapidly on the estate note-paper:

    DEAR NANCY,

    I have received your letter, and accept the situation, all shall
    be as you wish. I am sorry to find that you dislike me so
    inveterately, and decline what you describe as 'Payment'--but it
    cannot be helped. Let me assure you, that I have no intention of
    coming into your life, and the marriage, as far as I am concerned,
    shall be as though it had never taken place. I have arranged to
    make you a yearly allowance (£250) which will be paid to our
    mutual friend, Ted Dawson. The estate and personal affairs have
    been satisfactorily settled.

                                                      Yours faithfully,
                                                   DEREK DANVERS MAYNE.

When he handed this note to Mrs. Hicks, she turned it over, looked at
the superscription, and remarked:

"I see you've addressed it to 'Miss Travers.'"

"Well, why not?" he protested; "I feel sure Nancy would not have opened
it, had it been addressed to 'Mrs. Mayne.'"

       *       *       *       *       *

Early that same afternoon Mayne rode down the ghât,--in what a
different frame of mind, to the blithe expectations with which he had
gaily ascended the same road! Near the foot of the hills he encountered
a syce, who salaamed to him profoundly! Could there be anything
ironical in that salute? The man was leading a remarkably hot grey
pony; the pony was carrying a side-saddle.--An episode was closed.




                              CHAPTER XIV

                       "NANCY SITS WITH SORROW"


Nancy, the ayah, Togo and the luggage, arrived at Coimbatore station
without any incident, much less a half-expected "hue and cry." Here
Mrs. Simpson awaited them with her roomy bullock cart, drawn by a pair
of huge Nellore bullocks, and carried the little party to her large and
comfortable bungalow on the outskirts of the town. She was delighted
to welcome her nursling,--to whom she had always been devoted.--She
made her eat, and insisted upon putting her to bed, and treating her
precisely as if she were still a small child!

When Nancy was at rest, in her spacious white cot, Jane Simpson sat by
her side, and listened with tearful sympathy to details of the illness
and death of her former master; for all this, she had been prepared,
but the unexpected news of Nancy's marriage, reduced her to a condition
of stunned, and horrified silence.

Jane Simpson was by nature excessively prim, a little narrow-minded,
strictly conventional, but a most worthy person. Her house, her
person, and especially her hands, were beautifully kept. When she had
deposited Nancy at school in Eastbourne, she subsequently turned her
attention to professional nursing, and after several years' experience,
had attracted the attention of one of her patients, married him, and
returned to India,--a country she abused for its slack unpractical
ways, but nevertheless liked it all the same. Bob Simpson's pay was
liberal, and although they had no family, Jane was a very busy and
contented woman.

From her point of view, everything should be foreseen, cut and
dried, punctual to a second, and absolutely proper and correct. This
sudden marriage of her little girl to an acquaintance no better than
a stranger, figuratively swept her off her feet! However, like a
prudent woman, she _said_ little. Nancy was looking desperately ill,
a different creature from the buoyant Nancy of Fairplains: so silent,
haggard, and lifeless. What further information Mrs. Simpson required
was eagerly supplied by the ayah, who though not actually present,
had witnessed the marriage ceremony in the drawing-room,--through an
obliging crack in the door.

"Mayne Sahib and the Missy, standing before the Padre, both looking
_too_ sorry. Mayne, he very nice gentleman. His butler telling, a
good sahib, and no evil liver,--everyone liking. He money got, too.
Yesterday giving me twenty rupees," and the ayah's black eyes glistened
greedily.

"Do you think he will come down here after Miss Nancy?" anxiously
inquired Mrs. Simpson.

"How I telling, Memsahib?" throwing up her small brown hands, "but
for what good? My Missy plenty sick, soon, soon, very sick--and maybe
die.--Ah ye yoh!" and she wrung her hands.

Part of this augury came true. The dreaded reaction set in, Nancy had
a bad attack of fever, and was seriously ill. She was lucky to find
herself in Jane Simpson's care, and with the help of a good doctor,
and the best of nursing, at the end of three weeks, she had recovered;
but rose from her bed a shattered wreck, wasted to a shadow, with a
small wan white face, from which all trace of sunburn and tan had now
completely disappeared.

During the fever, Mrs. Simpson kept all visitors steadily at bay.
Training as a professional nurse, had invested her with an inflexible
attitude, and even Mrs. Ffinch, who had motored down on two occasions,
could not succeed in interviewing the invalid; but when Nancy was
convalescent, the position was stormed.

Mrs. Ffinch brought her neighbour, Mrs. Hicks, with her in the car,
and during most of the journey, the two ladies wrangled, for they held
diametrically opposite views with respect to the protégée they were
about to visit. Mrs. Hicks declared "that it would be a great pity
there should be a complete breach between Nancy and Captain Mayne." She
was sentimental, and soft-hearted in her way,--fond of the girl, and
well disposed towards the man.

"By and by, if they're _let alone_, believe you me, they'll make
friends! After all, Mayne is a fairly good match. I am told he has five
hundred a year, and expectations from an uncle."

"Yes," broke in Mrs. Ffinch, who was not soft-hearted, and whose
own love affair had been strangled. "You can imagine the uncle's
delight--_I_ know the old man--when he hears that his nephew and heir,
has picked up a little nobody off an Indian coffee estate!"

"I don't think that's a very nice, or kind, way to speak of Nancy,"
gobbled Mrs. Hicks, swelling with indignation.

"My dear, good Mrs. Hicks, don't be angry; it's not _my_ idea, I do
assure you; only one that would undoubtedly present itself to this rich
old man! I propose to shelter Nancy under my own wing. I shall be going
home next spring, and as soon as she has recovered from her grief, I
shall take her about, and give her a good time--and----"

"And marry her off," broke in Mrs. Hicks, with challenging insolence.
"Match-making with you is just a play; all excitement and amusement.
However, you can't marry Nancy, for you know as well as I do, she has a
husband already!"

"Nothing of the sort," rejoined the other, "any claim that Captain
Mayne would put forward could easily be refuted. He won't do it though,
and I suppose if he chose, he could sue Nancy for desertion."

Argument waxed fast and furious, and Mrs. Ffinch had much the best of
the conflict. She kept her temper admirably, whilst her opponent was
in a red-hot towering rage. On such occasions she completely cast all
fear, and awe of the "Dictator," to the winds, and told her various,
plain, and unpleasant truths. On the present occasion, she said:

"You know very well, that if _you_ had been here and had a hand in this
marriage of Nancy's, you would have _made_ her stick to it through
thick and thin--but as it was all got up in a hurry, and, so to speak,
behind your back, you'll do all you can to smash it!"

Mrs. Ffinch's reply was an icy and dignified silence. The proper and
suitable punishment for her companion would have been to open the door
of the car, request her to descend, and allow her to walk the remainder
of the distance down to Coimbatore.

For a long time, neither matron spoke; and the motor skimmed rapidly
down the winding road, passing many familiar land-marks. The cold fit
was now on Mrs. Hicks. She had let herself go, and said too much, and
there wasn't the smallest doubt that her companion--from what she knew
of her--would hold a truce for the present, but in some way or another
"have it in for her" on a future occasion!

As they sped along the flat plains, in the direction of Coimbatore,
Mrs. Ffinch broke the silence.

"I propose to take Nancy back with me this evening; her room is ready,
and most of her mourning has been finished, so, dear Mrs. Hicks, on
our return journey, I'm sure you won't mind sitting in front with the
chauffeur, and I will take the poor child in beside me."

In her own opinion she was carrying out the part of a benevolent
friend--she was saving Nancy from a loveless union, and the misery of
being dragged round the world, by a man who did not want her.

The two well-meaning visitors were greatly shocked when they beheld
their young protégée. She looked so dull, and vacant, almost like
another creature! Her attitude resembled that of a wounded creature,
cowering, and withdrawing, from those who wished to do her good. She
resisted all Mrs. Ffinch's importunities and persuasions to accompany
her to Clouds Rest. This, was the one subject on which the girl seemed
to have a fixed opinion; nothing would induce her to return to the
hills. Otherwise, whether she was to remain at Coimbatore, or go to
England, to live, or to die,--was apparently a matter of complete
indifference.

Whilst Mrs. Ffinch was holding a whispered conference with Jane
Simpson, Mrs. Hicks seized the opportunity to give Nancy the note from
Mayne. The girl turned it over listlessly.

"It is his answer to yours," explained Mrs. Hicks. "He wrote it right
away, and gave it to me. I thought it better to wait until I could
bring it down myself."

"I suppose so, thank you," she said as she opened it, glanced over it,
and then tore it into four pieces. "_That's_ done," she said, looking
at Mrs. Hicks, with unexpected animation.

"Well, I'm not so sure!" rejoined the matron, "and I'm not of the same
mind as Mrs. Ffinch. We quarrelled about the business the whole way
down. Indeed, I think myself, she had half a mind to put me out on the
side of the road! I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me, and
said lots of things I'm sorry for now. I expect Mrs. Ffinch is bitterly
disappointed that you won't go back with her, Nancy. I shouldn't be
surprised if she carried her point yet, and you know we'd all be only
too glad to have you among us. Hush! here she comes!"

As the time passed, Nancy's grief and misery, instead of abating seemed
to increase. She was no longer an invalid, but helped Nurse Jane about
the house, knitted, sewed, and walked out daily. Her attitude was one
of an unnatural passivity. Grief had burnt into her very soul, and
her inner being was absorbed with one obsession: the memory of her
father. Apparently his image filled her thoughts to the exclusion of
all else. This much, Nurse Jane gathered, during their infrequent
conversations--for Nancy now was almost dumb. As for Mayne, the girl
appeared to have forgotten his existence! She was completely prostrated
by the loss of her parent, and gradually sinking into an apathetic
condition of mind and body, from which at all cost, she must be
redeemed.

As Bob Simpson's cheery good humour, and Jane's authoritative efforts,
had not the smallest effect upon this white-faced silent inmate, Mrs.
Ffinch and Mrs. Hicks and Ted Dawson were summoned,--and held, so to
speak, a committee upon the case. They decided that the girl must have
a complete change, otherwise, it would be impossible for her to regain
her normal balance! Mrs. Ffinch relinquished her efforts to induce
Nancy to live with her, had obtained her aunt's address, and sent her
one of her most diplomatic letters--to which there had been a cool, but
polite reply.

Mrs. Jenkins had also written to her niece, offering to receive her,
and to give her an asylum until she could make other arrangements.
Nancy, who had been two months at Coimbatore, was a wan, hollow-eyed
spectre of herself: it was evident, that in her present environment
she would never recover her mental poise. In the day-time she sat
and walked, and talked like some dull automatic figure--entirely
indifferent to her surroundings. As Mrs. Ffinch gravely considered
her--she mentally concluded that, "that way madness lies!" and
Mrs. Simpson's friends, who had known the gay and happy Miss Nancy
Travers, assured one another, there was no doubt at all, but that the
broken-hearted girl was either dying, or going out of her mind!

"She must be sent away at _once_!" such was Mrs. Ffinch's mandate,
after a protracted interview with Nurse Jane. "There is her aunt's
invitation--she has the money for her passage, her mourning is ready,
and, as it happens, most providentially, Mrs. Sandilands is going home
by the _Patna_. They can travel together. I shall wire to Cook, make
all arrangements, secure a separate cabin for Nancy, and this day week,
she will find herself at sea!"




                              CHAPTER XV

                           A FRIEND IN NEED


Thanks to Mrs. Ffinch's promise and her prompt exertions, within a
week's time Nancy found herself in the Madras roads, on board the P.
& O. steamer _Patna_, bound for London. The _Patna_ was a full boat,
carrying a mixed multitude of cheerful passengers. Among these was
Blanche Sandilands (née Meach), a remarkably pretty woman in exuberant
spirits,--embarking on her first trip to England in the character of
a rich, popular, much admired young matron. Her cabin was crammed
with flowers and books, friends to bid her good-bye were assembled in
flattering numbers, and among these, she anxiously looked about for her
charge.

Yes, there was that invaluable Mrs. Ffinch,--and could it be Nancy
Travers? Nancy, so altered as to be almost unrecognizable. The bright
school-girl, she remembered, as just out from England, brimming over
with happiness, and gaiety, was now a wan white creature in deep
mourning, with sad abstracted eyes. Thank goodness, they were not
sharing the same cabin, or she would certainly be flooded out with
tears! What, she asked herself, could she do with her? Mrs. Sandilands
had been looking forward to such a ripping time on the voyage: the
Bruffs, and the Colvilles, Captain Yates and Mr. Orme, were on board,
but there would not be much fun for _her_, if all day long she was tied
to such a wet blanket as this poor child--who appeared to be actually
stupefied with grief.

To her immense relief, the lively lady soon discovered that Nancy
Travers would be no encumbrance. It was true that she sat beside her at
meals (nobly representing the traditional death's head), but otherwise
effaced herself, seeming to prefer solitude, and her own company,
sitting aloof with a book, or disappearing for hours into her nook of a
cabin in the stern.

Mrs. Sandilands lent her novels, offered her chocolates, and little
toilet luxuries, kissed her perfunctorily night and morning, and
left her to herself,--assuring her friends, that such was the truest
kindness, and went her own light-hearted way to play deck games, and
Bridge; or to embark on such amusing and harmless flirtations, as are
expected of the prettiest woman on the ship.

At Colombo the passengers went bodily ashore, and enjoyed the few gay
hours at the Galle Face Hotel, explored the bazaars, or darted off in
rickshaws to inspect the Cinnamon gardens. With their return at dinner
time, they brought a horde of new comers,--tourists, planters, and
their belongings.

Among the crowd, one figure was conspicuously prominent, and proceeded
at once to dominate the ship.

"Yet after all, what was Mrs. De Wolfe?" asked a girl plaintively, "but
an ugly, rude, old woman?"

The lady appeared to know several of the passengers, and to be a sea
friend of the captain's; for a special place had been reserved at his
table, also she enjoyed a large double cabin, and was attended by a
hard-featured, but dignified maid.

In appearance, Mrs. De Wolfe looked formidable enough! Tall and bony,
with a long, wrinkled face, a commanding hooked nose (a family feature
descending through generations), sharp black eyes, heavily marked
brows, and a tightly closed mouth, which, when open, displayed two
gleaming rows of expensively fitted teeth. Her hands exhibited knotted
veins, and surprisingly large knuckles, but the lady's most distinctive
endowment was a far-reaching, masculine voice. Her style of dress was
tailor-made, and suitable, her only jewellery, a thin wedding ring.

What was her claim to the almost subservient homage which she received?
She was suffered to break into the most interesting conversation; her
remarks were listened to with profound respect, and she was waited on
with slavish assiduity. Perhaps the answer was, that the old lady had
influence, a strong personality, a sharp tongue, and great possessions.
She was a masterful, independent individual, who did what she liked,
went where she fancied, and said what she pleased! Nancy shrank from
her instinctively, and when on deck, kept well out of her orbit, and
beyond the range of those piercing eyes.

One evening, as she sat pretending to read, she was startled by a deep
voice speaking over her shoulder. It said:

"What's the matter with you? Why don't you go and play about? You look
like a sick chicken!"

As Nancy gazed straight up into the old wrinkled face, her lips
twitched, but she made no reply. Mrs. De Wolfe, who evidently expected
an answer, waited for a moment, still staring fixedly. It was something
like the children's game of "Who will laugh first?" Then with an
indignant "Humph!" she moved away.

The _Patna_, four days out from Colombo, had experienced fairly
fine weather, and real tropical heat. Nancy slept in the top berth
of her tiny cubby hole, with the port wide open, and was dreaming
a delightful dream, when it suddenly turned to a sense of horrible
reality and _drowning_. She was roused by a wandering green wave,
which, having discovered an inviting porthole, flowed in torrents over
her prostrate form, and completely swamped the cabin. As soon as she
had recovered her breath, and the shock, she endeavoured to close the
port. It proved much too stiff. Then she sprang down into the water
on the floor, snatched at her dressing-gown, and opening the door,
screamed for a steward. A man in the next cabin had evidently met
with the same catastrophe, and was in a similar plight. He and Nancy
faced one another in the passage, a dripping, shivering pair! Very
soon a bedroom steward appeared on the scene, there was loud talking,
splashing, mopping. In the midst of this, a door opened, and a gruff
voice demanded:

"What's all this noise about?"

Then the face of Mrs. De Wolfe appeared. She wore a large lace-frilled
nightcap, "and looked for all the world," as the young man subsequently
described, "like the wolf in Red Riding Hood."

"There's been a sea into these two cabins, ma'am," explained the
steward, "and this 'ere lady and gentleman has been washed out!"

The old woman now came forth, and surveyed them impartially; the smart
clean-shaven man in pink pyjamas, and a blanket; the girl in a blue
dressing-gown, with two long plaits of hair dripping down her back, and
instantly recognized the "Ghost," Nancy's nickname on the boat.

"You come along in here," she commanded, stretching out her bony hand,
and taking her by the wrist. "Steward, send my maid at once," and the
cabin door closed on the pair--the wolf, and the lamb!

"You shall have dry things immediately," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "and
Haynes shall make you up a bed on the sofa here."

"Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," chattered Nancy, whose teeth
were like a pair of castanets.

"Take a towel and dry your hair, Haynes will be here in a moment."

Almost as her mistress spoke, Haynes made her appearance in a trim
red flannel dressing-gown, and took the matter in hand with quiet
promptitude. Nancy soon found herself invested in a beautiful silk and
lace nightgown, which she regarded with unspeakable awe.

"It's quite all right, chicken," declared the old lady who had returned
to her berth, "I wear plain upper garments, and keep the show for what
I call my 'Undies.' It fits you to a T. Better sleep with the towel
round your head. How on earth do you manage to hide all that hair!"

"Less talking!" growled a voice from the neighbouring cabin.

"Haynes, you'll bring two teas at half-past seven," continued Mrs. De
Wolfe, totally unmoved by this command, "and now you may turn out the
light, and go."

In the ensuing darkness, Nancy was able to reflect at leisure upon
her novel position. She was actually sleeping in the cabin--and
the nightgown--of the woman she most feared and avoided of all the
passengers on board the _Patna_. Yet in spite of her overpowering
personality, she had proved to be a good Samaritan, and not so alarming
after all; consoled by this conviction, Nancy dozed off.

In the morning, Haynes--a celebrated Treasure--brought Nancy a cup of
delicious "private" tea, and when she had drunk it, and thanked her
hostess for a night's lodging, she slipped on her dressing-gown, and
fled into her own quarters--once more habitable.

The little episode of the "wash-out" had no immediate results beyond
the exhibition of two mattresses, and several blankets hung out to dry,
and Nancy's acquaintance with Mrs. De Wolfe went no further. She shrank
more and more into solitude and silence, and gave way to the gnawing
misery and loneliness of her heart--plunged in the agony of a terrible
loss, she was left to struggle in it quite alone.

One morning Mrs. De Wolfe encountered her face to face, at the top
of the companion ladder, nodded brusquely, and stared. The girl's
face subsequently haunted her. Oh, what a picture of real grief,--and
nothing but grief! Impressed by this vision, she proceeded to make
inquiries respecting the solitary young woman in mourning. Mrs.
Sandilands (a notable chatterbox) volubly related the tale of tragedy,
dwelt on Nancy's adoration for her father, their ideally happy life,
his death,--and her altered fortune.

"Nancy has no one belonging to her, except a disagreeable aunt," she
said, "a half-sister, who has been at daggers drawn with Mr. Travers
for twenty years; however she has offered what she calls 'an asylum' to
the girl, until she can find some job."

Mrs. De Wolfe nodded and grunted; she also marked, learned and inwardly
digested this information.

A grand fancy ball was got up on board the _Patna_, in order
to inaugurate her entrance into the Red Sea; the preparations,
arrangements and expedients, afforded almost as much enjoyment as the
dance itself. Such were its attractions, that Mrs. De Wolfe's special
Bridge table was ruthlessly dissolved. One of the keenest players was
appearing as Neptune, another as Mephistopheles, a stout, middle-aged
lady as Ophelia. Mrs. De Wolfe made no change in her plain rich evening
toilet--though more than one malicious tongue had suggested that "she
might get herself up as the Witch of Endor."

Tired of looking on at the whirling crowd, she went on deck, and
having descried a solitary figure leaning over the side, approached it
stealthily and, so to speak, pounced!

"No, don't go away, little sick chick!" she said, laying her bony grasp
on Nancy's arm. "Come over here, and talk to me," and Nancy was carried
away a helpless prisoner, to where two deck-chairs happened to be
placed close together. "You're not looking on?"

Nancy shook her head.

"No, I'm told you have had great trouble--and I'm very sorry for you."

"Thank you," said the girl stiffly.

"Come now, do you think it is right to give way to it like this?
keeping apart from your fellow creatures, and fretting yourself to
death?"

"I cannot help it."

"You could, if you tried."

"Oh, you don't know----" and Nancy caught her breath.

"Pardon me, I do know! Your chaperone told me all about it. I'm sure if
your father could see you,--and we have no proof otherwise,--it would
hurt him terribly to witness such hopeless, useless, misery."

"My father was the same himself," declared Nancy, "after my mother
died, and I was sent to England."

"I know; your friend, Mrs. Sandilands, an exhaustive talker, assured
me, he was so heart-broken, that he allowed his affairs to what is
called 'go to the dogs.' Did he not regret _that_?"

"Yes, he did--but I have no affairs."

"You have your life to lead, my dear. Come, do not play the coward, but
brace yourself for the race that is before you."

"Oh, I can't," she muttered; "if I could only _die_!"

"What nonsense," protested the old lady, "I've no patience with this
silly sort of talk."

For a moment there was no answer, and the silence was filled with the
blare of the band, and a rousing Two-step.

"Because perhaps you don't know what trouble is," murmured Nancy at
last.

"Don't I? I am not disposed to talk of my private affairs with
strangers--but for once, I will." A harsh tragedy looked out of her
old eyes, as she added: "Listen. You possibly see me a gruff, selfish,
overbearing old woman, with not a thought in the world beyond her
dinner, and a rubber of Bridge. Nevertheless, I have indeed known
anguish--the wounds throb still. My husband left me, when we were young
and happy; my eldest boy was killed at Magersfontein, my youngest,
died of typhoid in India,--all alone; and here am I, all alone,--with
nothing awaiting me but the grave." She paused, for a moment. "Now you
have, I trust, a long useful life, and many happy hours before you.
Why, you cannot be more than eighteen."

"I was eighteen three months ago."

"And eighteen wishes to die! Mrs. Sandilands tells me you are going to
live with an aunt in London. May I hear her name?"

"Yes, it is Mrs. Jenkins. She has a house in Queen's Gate."

"Strange, I think I've heard of her. She is a widow like myself,--very
comfortably off. Her chief interest in life, is her health, a _malade
imaginaire_. Do you know anything of nursing?"

"Not much, I am afraid."

"Well, then, my dear, I am well experienced--and I am going to
prescribe for you. You are to come along with me, and look on at the
ball; and then we will go and have a bit of supper. Yes, I _insist_!"
There was no gainsaying this old lady.

When Mrs. De Wolfe and her young friend parted that night in their
mutual passage, she said:

"I intend to take you in hand, Miss Nancy Travers. I shall not allow
you to sit idle in the market-place, eating your heart out. To-morrow
I'll give you some knitting, and teach you to play Piquet and Patience.
You can look upon me as your deputy chaperone."

As deputy chaperone, she took entire charge of Nancy--who felt
powerless to resist--the girl interested her surprisingly. When she
forgot herself, she could talk, she could sew, she could even smile!
By the time the _Patna_ was in the Canal, Nancy was better. The
sea-air revived her; her new acquaintance acted as a tonic, kept her
incessantly occupied, promenaded the deck with her, told her stories,
gave her sound advice, and from being a mere crumpled heap of hopeless
misery lifted her once more to a foothold in life.

It had been discovered that the "Ghost," as she was called, was an
excellent pianist, and consequently much in request to accompany song
or violin. This demand brought her into communication with other young
people--which was good for Nancy.

Mrs. Sandilands was amazed at the acquaintance which had been struck
up between two such incongruous characters as Mrs. De Wolfe, and the
Travers girl. What had they in common? However it came about, the old
woman had effected a wonderful change, and as it were restored the
Ghost to life, and the material world. She now went to and fro and
mixed with other people, and no longer spent hours shut up in her
little cabin.

When the _Patna_ was in the Channel, Mrs. De Wolfe said to her protégée:

"Do not forget to give me your address, my dear, and I will come and
see you."

"That will be very kind."

"I stay in London occasionally, but my home is in the country,--also in
the wide world--for I travel a great deal. Excuse my plain speaking,
my dear, but have you no income at all? I understand that your father
was a Travers of Lambourne, and I believe they went through every penny
they possessed?"

"I have twenty pounds a year," replied Nancy, "and I have had a good
education; but I'm afraid I look too young to be a governess. If the
worst comes to the worst, I might go into a shop. I think I'd rather
like that--millinery, or a ladies' outfitting--a sort of place where
there are no men."

"Are you afraid of them?"

"Oh no," and she laughed.

"No love affairs yet, I should imagine," said Mrs. De Wolfe, with
customary bluntness.

"No love affairs," repeated Nancy, but she coloured vividly.

"Ah! then there _is_ someone?" remarked her astute questioner.

"Yes, there was someone; someone I don't like; but it had nothing to do
with a love affair--and I pray that we may never meet again."

"I'm afraid that will be no use, my dear--we all meet the very people
we don't want to see!"

"Well, I shall always want to see _you_!" said Nancy impulsively.

"I'm glad of that, my child, for the number of people who never wish to
see me again, is fairly large. I hate cruelty, and snobbery; I speak
out my mind rather freely, as I tramp through life. Well, my little
chick, I've given you a lift on the road, haven't I?"

"You have indeed; I can't tell you all you have done for me, roused
me from a stupor, that was creeping over me,--and helped me to make a
fresh start. I can never thank you enough, never!"

"I don't want thanks. Give me deeds. You must write to me, Nancy. My
bankers, Coutts, will always find me, and if I don't answer, never
mind; I'm a shocking correspondent, my pen never saves my tongue. I'll
come and see you when I pass through Town, and I hope I'll find you
doing well. Be amenable to your father's sister: a rich, self-centred,
elderly woman. Accept hard knocks--they will brace you--later on,
you may find your life in pleasant places. I'd like to take you with
me to Scotland, but I am under orders to visit old friends, who fix
one's date of arrival, train, and room, with a firmness there is no
withstanding, and I dare not be a deserter."

Nancy's were not the only thanks received by this social missionary.
Pretty Mrs. Sandilands overwhelmed her with effusive gratitude, and
flattering speeches.

"You took the girl off my hands, dear kindest lady, and have turned her
into a new creature! I cannot imagine how you did it!"

"A little sympathy, and fellow-feeling, was all that was required."

Mrs. Sandilands coloured guiltily, and then replied:

"Nancy is like her father, you see--she takes everything so terribly,
so foolishly, to heart."

"But what a good thing it is, that she happens to have a heart to take
things to! Such folk are not common objects of the sea or shore in
these days."

"Perhaps because people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves,"
retorted Mrs. Sandilands sharply. At this moment, her companion was
summoned to receive a Marconigram, and she found herself unexpectedly
abandoned with all the honours of the last word!

Later that same day, the _Patna_ was berthed in the London Docks, and
her horde of passengers scattered afar, every man and woman to their
own; in most cases to forget within a few hours, those who had been
their daily associates for the last four weeks.




                              CHAPTER XVI

                             AUNT ARABELLA


Mrs. Arabella Jenkins (née Travers), a stout little widow of
sixty-four, occupied a large and lugubrious mansion in Queen's
Gate, S.W. She was also the mistress of five thousand a year, eight
servants--not including a permanent "char"--and one dog. Her mother,
a pretty Scotch girl, had been of "no family," according to various
disappointed dowagers--"just someone Charles Travers had picked up
when shooting on a moor, and by no means a suitable châtelaine for
Lambourne."

However, the poor despised lady reigned but a few short years, and
was succeeded, after a heartless interval, by a dashing damsel of
undeniable birth,--the mother of Laurence Travers, and his two
brothers,--who ably assisted her reckless husband to squander the
remains of a famous estate.

At nineteen, Arabella Travers was a beauty of the Dresden china type: a
fair, fluffy little creature, with sunny hair and an exquisite pink and
white complexion. Possibly she was shrewd enough to foresee how family
affairs were drifting, for at the age of one and twenty, she accepted a
rich elderly suitor from the City, and exchanged a cheery country life
for a somewhat gloomy establishment in town.

There had never been much in common between Arabella, her smart
stepmother, and riotous, high-spirited brothers. The Travers boys
laughed at, and mimicked old Sammy Jenkins, and old Sam openly abused
their mad folly, and extravagance, and rarely invited them under his
roof.

However, he made Arabella an adoring and indulgent husband, spoiled and
petted her most injudiciously, and permitted her to believe, that there
was no one in the whole world as important or as beautiful as herself!
Having entirely uprooted all that was best in her character, he died,
leaving his widow every shilling he possessed,--to the wrathful
indignation of his anticipating kindred.

A long impending crash promptly followed the death of Charles Travers.
The estate was sold for the benefit of creditors, Mrs. Travers retired
to Bournemouth, and there died within a year. Her three sons scattered
over the world; one went to India, another to Australia, a third
to South Africa. In a short time, the family were extinct, all but
prosperous Arabella, and handsome Laurence,--who, having made a fair
start in coffee, returned home for a few months' holiday.

As he was a most presentable relative, his stepsister saw a good deal
of him, proudly exhibited him at tea-parties, and dinners, and exerted
herself to find him a suitable--that is to say--a well-dowered wife. In
one direction, she had even made overtures on his behalf, but before
her plans had time to materialize, Laurence returned to the East, and
married a wretched, penniless little governess! If he had been guided
by his wise relative, he could have married a rich, rather plain young
woman, who had been greatly attracted by his personality, and have
enjoyed the easy life of a country gentleman, and revived something of
the Travers prestige; instead of which, there he was, grilling out in
India, grubbing away at a coffee estate.

Figuratively his sister washed her little fat hands of him; there had
been a brief interchange of disagreeable letters--such as appear to be
the copyright of near relatives--subsequently succeeded by a death-like
silence.

Mrs. Jenkins ceased to trouble herself further with respect to her
brother--"impossible," she declared, "to help those who refused to
help themselves"--but vague scraps of information had reached her
indirectly. She heard of the birth of a child, the death of his wife,
and his financial collapse.

Sunken in selfishness, and egoism, Arabella Jenkins had almost
forgotten her brother Laurence, when a twenty years' silence was
broken; a letter written by an unsteady hand, announced his impending
departure from this world, and appealed to a childless woman to give
his little girl a home. Later, she had seen the announcement of
his death in the _Times_.--It had been duly advertised by the ever
thoughtful Mrs. Ffinch.

So Laurence was gone--and only forty-seven!--and now there was his
orphan. What was she to do about her? As dear Mrs. Taylor truly said,
"at her time of life, and in her state of health, it was monstrous to
suppose, that she should be saddled with an encumbrance." Of course
she must receive the girl for a few weeks, and possibly some of her
many friends, such as Lady Constance Howler, or Mrs. Fitzallen Jones,
might find her a situation. As for being permanently troubled with this
responsibility, the idea was simply too utterly ridiculous.

The early beauty of Arabella Travers had not lasted--save in the lady's
own opinion. Bright hair and a rose-leaf skin, belong to the days of
one's youth. Mrs. Jenkins was now a stout, short-necked, squat little
body, with a pair of arrogant blue eyes, and an assertive nose. Happy
in the delusion that she did not look a day over thirty, she dressed
the age at great expense, and in the most villainous taste.

Her house was warm, dark, and stuffy; very thick red carpets led the
way from hall to drawing-room. Here again was a red carpet, heavy
crimson curtains, and solid furniture of the most debased Victorian
type, of which the crowning atrocity was a large distorted ottoman
in the middle of the room. The walls were covered with chromes, and
mirrors in ponderous frames: a life-sized portrait of the mistress
of the house hung opposite the fireplace, and seemed determined to
challenge attention; it had been painted more than thirty years
previously, and portrayed a slim young lady, with rosy cheeks,
snow-white neck and arms,--and a voluminous blue dress. On her satin
lap reposed a small King Charles,--which same animal, beautifully
stuffed, and sheltered in a glass case, confronted visitors on the
first landing, and struck terror into the hearts of his own species.

The portrait, the ottoman, and a grand piano, were the chief features
of the apartment, which also contained a good many "occasional" chairs,
and tables, various gaudy cushions, and lamp-shades (the spoils of
bazaars), and a large collection of small rubbish. Mrs. Jenkins was not
what is called "house-proud," and had made no alterations in what had
been her bridal home,--merely contributing the cheap little souvenirs
she had picked up on the Continent; such as Swiss carvings, Italian
delf, marble letter-weights, and paper fans. Her interest was mainly
centred in herself,--and the condition of her health; fortunately she
was as strong as the proverbial horse, and endowed with a hardy Scotch
constitution, otherwise she must have succumbed to the extraordinary
variety of medicines she sampled, and the different "cures" she
underwent. The lady took too little exercise, and too much nourishment.
Even when she was supposed to be completely prostrate, heavily laden
trays were welcomed by an astonishing appetite, which disposed of their
dishes with healthy voracity, and provoked much ribald jeering among
her retinue below stairs. The assimilating of prescriptions in the
shape of drops or tabloids, were with Mrs. Jenkins, a confirmed habit
and joy,--and took the place of cigarettes,--so soothing to other women.

Doctors who attended Mrs. Jenkins, were legion in number--occasionally
two or three, unknown to one another, prescribed for the same case.
According to her statement, she had been threatened with almost every
known complaint: arthritis, appendicitis, angina pectoris, seemed to
dog her steps, and yet her recuperative vitality was incredible.

One week prone in bed with nurses in attendance, and straw laid down
in the street: long ere the straw was removed, the invalid might have
been seen making a hearty lunch at "Prince's" or doing a matinée at the
Haymarket. Indeed, it was on record, that a bewildered caller had found
the knocker at No. 900 muffled, and on inquiring for the sufferer with
almost bated breath, was informed that she was at Ranelagh!

Arabella Jenkins endeavoured to make the most of two worlds: the gay,
hustling, social world, and the invalid sphere,--bounded by doctors,
friendly inquiries, flowers, and commiseration. Nothing made Mrs.
Jenkins more indignant--indeed furious--than any doubt of the bona
fides of her ailments.

She posed as an extraordinarily plucky woman, who bore her sufferings,
after the manner of the Spartan boy and fox; and those doctors who
refused to see eye to eye with her, or to take part in a medical
farce, were inscribed in her black books as not merely incapable, but
the deadliest of enemies. For all her masterful, despotic ways and
heavy purse, Mrs. Jenkins was more or less in the hands of her eight
servants, her old friends, and her numerous parasites.

She held a court of elderly women; ladies in waiting (for favours)
attended her, flattered her, and sung her praises,--particularly in
her own presence. These, she rewarded with dinners, presents, drives,
her cast-off gowns, and her confidence. They had all expressed deep
sympathy over the impending invasion of this girl; for it was no secret
that "dearest Arabella did not care for young people." Intensely
jealous of each other's influence, they combined in a solid phalanx,
against an intrusive outsider.

Two of Mrs. Jenkins' chief friends were sitting with her one afternoon
late in June. One had presented flowers, the other had propped her
up with cushions, and brought her a footstool--almost as if she was
recovering from one of her notable heart attacks. In reality, she was
awaiting the arrival of Miss Nancy Travers,--and Miss Nancy Travers was
late!

Mrs. Taylor, chief counsellor, and parasite, was a widow with a
masculine cast of face, a dark red complexion, and beetling black
brows; being tall and massive, Mrs. Jenkins' dresses required a vast
amount of letting out and letting down, before she could assume them.
She lived in a little flat in Earl's Court, and was dependent on
dearest Arabella,--whom she had known as a girl, a fact which made her
position as mistress of the robes impregnable,--for many an excellent
meal, a serviceable cast-off costume, and her summer holidays. In
return for these benefits, she offered continual incense in the
shape of flattery, and much engrossing gossip--having a wide, and
illegitimate knowledge of other people's affairs.

The other lady, Miss Dolling, was well and fashionably dressed--no
genteel mendicant this! but she was unfortunately plain: a long nose,
no chin, and fat flabby cheeks, largely discounted her string of
valuable pearls, and French toilette. Bessie Dolling, the original wife
selected for Laurence Travers, was as yet an unappropriated blessing:
after twenty years, she still hoarded Laurence's photograph, hugged
his memory, and firmly believed that if he had not been caught by an
adventuress, he would have returned to claim her. This fiction was a
sustaining consolation to the poor lady, did no one any harm, and need
not be begrudged.

The three friends were grouped round the open window overlooking
Queen's Gate; Galpin the butler had just removed the tea-things, and
departed with the tea-cloth neatly tucked under his arm. He was a
stout, clean-shaven man, with a considerable meridian, and a stern
mouth. N.B.--His mistress was not a little afraid of him.

"I wonder what she will be like?" said Miss Dolling suddenly.

"My dear Bessie, that is the tenth time you have made the same remark,"
peevishly protested Mrs. Taylor. "We shall know in a few minutes."

"She will be exactly like her father," announced Mrs. Jenkins as
if stating a fact; "a dark Travers, with black hair, and well-cut
features, especially the Travers' nose," and as she spoke, she put up
her hand and stroked her own organ, which was short, thick, and first
cousin to a _nez retroussé_.

"I shall send her to her room almost at once. These interviews are so
dreadfully trying for my poor heart."

"Yes, dear friend," purred Mrs. Taylor, "and we will take care, that
she does not talk to you about the panther, or how her father was
killed."

"Not killed at the time," contradicted Miss Dolling; "he died days
afterwards."

"It was the panther's doing all the same," argued Mrs. Taylor, "and to
think of Laurence Travers making _no_ provision for his girl,--I call
it downright wicked, leaving her entirely dependent on his dear, good,
golden-hearted sister."

At this moment, there was a sound of violent commotion, and deafening
barking on the stairs. The Pom who left the room in close attendance on
cream, and savoury sandwiches, had undoubtedly encountered a stranger.
Miss Dolling looked hastily out of the window and said:

"Yes--she has arrived! a four-wheeler, and several large boxes."

Further information was postponed, as the door opened, and Galpin
announced "Miss Travers." Enter, a thin, woebegone girl, with reddish
hair: dressed in a crumpled black muslin, and carrying a waterproof on
her arm.

Half way to the window, she paused for a moment, endeavouring to
discover which of these three women might be her aunt? Was it the big
one with the shiny red face, the thin one with the tortoise-shell
pince-nez,--that gave her such an owl-like expression,--or the little
fat one in pale blue chiffon? Evidently the latter, for she struggled
out of her arm-chair, and offered a podgy hand blazing with diamonds.

"How do you do--_no_!" drawing back. "No, no, please don't kiss
me!--I'm dreadfully afraid of microbes. My health, as you know, is so
uncertain, and I have to be very cautious. We have been expecting you
for the last half hour. What has kept you?"

"I believe the train was late," replied Nancy in a meek voice. Could
this little cross fat woman, be Daddy's sister?

"Oh, was it? Have you paid the cab?"

"Yes."

"How much did he charge from Charing Cross?" demanded Mrs. Taylor,--an
authority on fares.

"Four and sixpence."

"What!" The word was almost a shout.

"But I had luggage."

"Oh, yes, and your big boxes had better be kept below," said her aunt;
"I am so afraid of my poor walls being damaged. You can sit down,
Nancy. These are my friends, Mrs. Taylor, and Miss Dolling."

The ladies shook hands in silence. After a moment Miss Dolling said:

"Had you a good passage?"

"Yes, thank you."

Meanwhile her aunt was surveying Nancy with a look of puzzled
disappointment.

"So you are _not_ a Travers after all," she remarked. "How odd, and
unexpected."

"No, I believe I am a Blake."

"A Blake," repeated Mrs. Jenkins, "I never heard of the people," and
she knitted her light eyebrows as she reflected that possibly "Blake"
had been the maiden name of the adventuress? "I daresay you would like
to take your things off?"

"Yes, if you please, I should."

"Then will you ring the bell? It is close to the chimney-piece--on the
far side."

When Galpin awaited orders in the doorway, Mrs. Jenkins said:

"Tell Baker to come and show Miss Travers to her room."

Baker promptly appeared, took the new arrival, so to speak, in tow,
convoyed her to the fifth floor, and into a somewhat shabby apartment,
next to her own bower.

As soon as Nancy had left the drawing-room, the three ladies closed
in together comfortably, in order to discuss the new arrival with
unreserved enjoyment. The ultimate finding of the conference proved
unfavourable.

"The girl was not a Travers; her manners were awkward, and she was
quite hopelessly plain!"




                             CHAPTER XVII

                           AS POOR RELATION


Nancy soon fell into the routine of the household, and led an active,
useful life at 900, Queen's Gate. Undoubtedly it was good for her, that
she had no leisure, nor any opportunity for reflection and solitude,
save when in bed. Then she was so thoroughly tired, that she fell
asleep almost as soon as her head was on the pillow. After all, the
daily régime of this elderly establishment, was not so irksome to a
girl who had been for years, accustomed to the strict discipline of a
boarding school.

Within a week, the new arrival had learnt her aunt's chief ailments and
requirements, taken a sharp impression of her character, and was not
a little amazed at her own capabilities in measuring drops, picking
up stitches, and writing notes. She also read aloud, and went endless
messages. Many a tiresome errand did she save Baker, and the cook; many
a toilsome journey did she make up those long flights of stairs: the
excuse for such constant perambulation, being, "that she was _young_!"

At first, her visit had been spoken of as "temporary," Mrs. Taylor
and Miss Dolling being actively engaged in searching for a suitable
post for the interloper. The former, was particularly anxious to be
rid of this too useful, and obedient relative,--who accomplished her
tasks without complaint or murmur. The truth was, that Nancy had not
forgotten Mrs. De Wolfe's wise counsel, and inwardly soothed her _amour
propre_ by saying to herself, "Aunt Arabella is Daddy's sister, and
I must try to please her; though lots of the things I have to do,
are hateful,--and Mrs. Taylor is more detestable than everything put
together!"

Her most unwelcome task, was that of exercising the Pom twice daily on
a lead--a job that really belonged to Baker. He was a little animal
with an odious character,--and not a gentleman; quarrelsome, and
insulting to other dogs, shamelessly greedy and inquisitive, and with a
bark, that was almost worse than a bite!

Meanwhile Nancy plodded along, buoyed up by hope and letters,--hope
that "Finchie" would be home in the spring, and find her a nice
situation--with payment. Here, naturally, she received no salary; her
wealthy aunt was in some ways surprisingly stingy; a miser with respect
to stamps, and extraordinarily mean in the matter of coal, electric
light, cab fares, and newspapers. As for the electric light, they often
sat in semi-darkness, and yet Mrs. Jenkins thought nothing of paying
from twenty to thirty guineas for a gown, or a shilling for a plover's
egg!

Nancy's happiest moments were when the Indian mail arrived, and brought
her long despatches from "Finchie," from Francis, from the Hicks
family, and Teddy Dawson. The latter had once enclosed in a letter what
is known as a "fat" cheque, amounting to sixty-three pounds and some
odd shillings, which had been paid into Ted's account on her behalf by
Mayne. This cheque was promptly returned, and Nancy scribbled at white
heat, "I will not touch this money; please do not offer it again, or
ever mention Captain Mayne; all _that_ is a dreadful dream, which I am
doing my best to _forget_."

Letters from India were not the only ones addressed to Miss Travers
from the outer world. She had received a short note from Mrs. De Wolfe,
and several ill-spelt scrawls, indited by Mr. Fletcher's valet. He was
now living in a sanatorium in Switzerland, a confirmed invalid; indeed
the valet, who was a Scotchman, informed Nancy that his master was "far
through." Mr. Fletcher wished to hear how his little Nancy was faring?
if she had need of money, and if her aunt kept her well supplied?
otherwise she knew where to come for it. _He_ would be her banker. But
poor as she was, Nancy preferred to be independent. A portion of her
savings, still remained intact.

She sent frequent letters to her old friend, gratefully declining his
offer--telling him everything about herself, that she thought might
interest or please him,--carefully omitting all disagreeables; she
also added scraps of news, gleaned from her Indian correspondence;
in short, Nancy had the art of composing cheery epistles, which were
deeply appreciated by a sick, and solitary exile.

In August, Mrs. Jenkins journeyed to Harrogate, bearing Nancy and
Baker in her train. The lady much preferred Scarborough, and cast many
wistful thoughts in that direction, but then Baker had a married sister
living at Harrogate, so there it was--or rather, there _she_ was!

Mrs. Jenkins stayed for several weeks at a fashionable hotel, consulted
a new doctor, sat about the gardens, sipped the waters, and compared
gossip and symptoms with her friends. During the latter part of the
visit, she allowed Nancy to spend a short time with Mrs. Briscoe at
Eastbourne, whilst Mrs. Taylor, who had been languishing in her poky
little flat, stepped nimbly into her shoes.

Nine hundred, Queen's Gate, was reopened at the end of September. The
charwoman's parties came to an end, and the carriage horses no longer
took the coachman's friends to Hampton Court, Kew, or "the pictures."
Everything gradually settled into the usual routine, as far as Nancy
was concerned; exercising the Pom, changing the library books, shopping
at the Stores, and attending upon her relative.

One afternoon, as laden with parcels, she re-entered the house, Galpin
handed her a card, on which was inscribed, "Mrs. De Wolfe, Newenham
Court. So very sorry to miss you." The card was presently followed by
a note, inviting Nancy to lunch with Mrs. De Wolfe at her hotel, but
this, alas! she was compelled to decline, as the date fixed, happened
to be her aunt's weekly "day," and she was on duty with the teapot.

A second note from Mrs. De Wolfe, repeated her disappointment at not
seeing her young friend, especially as she was about to leave London,
in order to spend the winter in the West Indies. Her disappointment was
as nothing to Nancy's, for in her case, it was increased by despondency.

Ever since her arrival, under her aunt's roof, Mrs. Taylor had been
ceaselessly endeavouring to remove her elsewhere. She had sought out,
and suggested several situations, but these on examination had not
proved to be satisfactory. One, was as an apprentice in a ladies'
blouse and hat shop--to assist in the showroom and workroom, hours
eight to six, dinner provided--no remuneration, but then "it was
such a good opening," that Mrs. Taylor was enthusiastic. Another
"opportunity," of which Nancy refused to avail herself, was as typist
to a rising young dentist--and to give some assistance with the
patients!

"But I'm afraid of dentists, and I cannot type!" protested Nancy. "If
Aunt Arabella wishes, I can find a situation. Mrs. Briscoe will arrange
for me--she has offered to do so."

Greatly to her friend's dismay, Mrs. Jenkins was not at present
disposed to part with her useful slave, and sternly commanded Henrietta
to postpone the search.

Autumn passed without any particular change; Nancy developed into
a sort of extra lady's-maid, companion, secretary, and butt; Mrs.
Jenkins saw a good deal of company: when her health permitted she was
at home on "Tuesdays," and received many visitors,--as her teas were
proverbially well provided--fruit and ices, were not unknown. These
Tuesday afternoons, entailed weary hours for her niece, who stood
pouring out, handing cakes, and generally assisting Galpin.

Mrs. Jenkins also gave occasional solemn dinners. These banquets
were usually attended by various elderly men of her acquaintance,
as she had a notable cook, and a famous bin of superior old port.
At such festivities, Nancy was not expected to appear; her mourning
was too deep. It was for this reason also, that Nancy was never
invited to accompany her relative to any place of amusement. Mrs.
Jenkins declared, that she could not possibly go into society for a
full twelve-month. Her idea on the subject of mourning, was strict,
and old-fashioned--mourning by the year,--crêpe by the yard. When
the banquets took place, Nancy wrote out the menus, and name cards,
arranged the flowers, and Bridge tables, and then thankfully retreated
to the breakfast-room with a novel, and the Pom.

Sometimes she felt that this life was almost too difficult! Mrs.
Taylor's poisonous influence told heavily against her; her enemy was
so often with her in the Gate; she lunched or dined two or three times
a week,--and having a genuine appetite for small doles, carried away
fresh eggs, extra flowers, half-cut cakes, a box of scented soap, and
similar useful largesse! After her visits, Nancy always found her aunt
more than usually snappy, and ill to please; yet on the other hand,
Mrs. Jenkins had what her niece mentally called "her good days." On
these, she would talk glibly enough about her brother Laurence; his
mad pranks, his high spirits, his good looks, extraordinary love for
animals, and general popularity with old and young.

It also seemed to the girl--who was gifted with a vivid
imagination--that now and then, in her aunt's conversation, she
caught a faint echo of familiar expressions, and that she saw at long
intervals on the face of her despotic relative, a glimmer of her
father's smile! For these somewhat far-fetched, and flimsy reasons,
Nancy still clung to her post. After all, Aunt Arabella, with her funny
ways, was her only _near_ relative. She was Daddy's sister too, they
had been brought up in the very same nursery, and had shared the same
home.

The talks of "old times" at Lambourne, were considerably discounted
by Mrs. Jenkins' rosy and prosy reminiscences of her own personal
triumphs. On this subject, she could expatiate for hours,--content with
a silent audience, or an occasional ejaculation.

"I daresay, my dear," she remarked to her niece, "that your father
often told you, that I was the beauty of Blankshire, and how people
would stand upon the road to look at me, and push and fight each other,
to travel in the same railway carriage. The County ball was actually
postponed, until I had returned home. After I was married, when I had
a box at the theatre, it was most unpleasant the way the audience
stared--every opera-glass levelled at poor me--and people waited in the
vestibule, to see me pass out. Once when we were dining at a foreign
restaurant, the prince of a royal house, sent round to inquire my name?
Your uncle was furious, and I am sure it was the prince who sent me
every morning, a most beautiful bouquet of flowers!"

She also related at considerable length, how several great artists had
humbly implored permission to paint her portrait, but had been rudely
snubbed by dearest Samuel: who had never allowed her picture to be on
public exhibition.

Nancy listened with attentive interest to these tales of triumph, and
faithfully believed in them. It may have been due to this artless
confidence and appropriate deference, that she and her aunt were
perceptibly drawing closer to one another; Nancy would receive an
occasional kiss, a little patting of her hand, or even a word of
praise, and thanks.

Alas, shortly before Christmas, a slump in Mrs. Taylor's dividends and
a severe financial crisis, figuratively cast that lady at the feet
of her wealthy school-fellow. Dearest Henrietta was received with
open arms, offered the best spare bedroom, the second best, and most
comfortable arm-chair, and soon settled down with remarkable ease into
the position of an established resident.

Not long after this acquisition to the family circle, Mrs. Jenkins'
manner to her niece underwent a change; she became querulous and
fault-finding, and her "good days" were rare. Once, when the girl had
ventured to speak of her old home, her friends, the far-away blue
hills, and the coffee estate, Mrs. Taylor had coughed significantly,
and her aunt had said:

"There, that will do, Nancy, that will do! I don't want to hear
anything about those people; I am not interested."

As there were visitors present, Nancy was overwhelmed, and put to open
shame by such a resounding slap in the face. Perhaps, after all, it was
excellent discipline; Nancy the impulsive, was rapidly mastering the
noble art of self-effacement and self-control. Her sorest trial was
experienced of an evening, when Bridge was played, and Miss Dolling
made a fourth. The scoldings administered to Nancy--especially when
playing with Mrs. Taylor--made her so nervous that her mistakes were
flagrant. She had actually been known to trump her partner's best card;
more than once, she had been driven from the table in disgrace, and the
rubber had ended in "cut throat."

Only for Mrs. Taylor (whose dislike amounted to personal enmity), Nancy
believed that her aunt would have given her a small share of her heart;
and for her own part, she made a great effort to storm her affections;
but her attempts were invariably foiled by the sinister influence of
Mrs. Taylor, who had marked "darling Arabella" for her own! She had
reason to believe that her name was in "the will"--and naturally the
fewer legatees the better!

Arabella was so weak and impressionable, she might take it into
her head to make this niece her heiress! The girl was apparently
good-tempered, and willing--but in reality, cunning, and deceitful.
Arabella was of full habit; an apoplectic seizure might carry her off
in a few hours, and she (Henrietta Taylor) was bound to be on her
guard, and to take the situation firmly in hand. With this virtuous
intention, she made stinging speeches, transformed harmless remarks,
accused Nancy of untruth, and impertinence, and did her utmost to
figuratively crush her out of existence like a black beetle, and create
a wide breach between aunt and niece. Mrs. Taylor was particularly
careful never to leave the pair alone; a _tête-à-tête_ was always
a serious danger to be avoided: precisely as if Mrs. Jenkins was a
lovely young heiress--and Nancy, some unprincipled and discountenanced
suitor! If by chance, she entered a room and there discovered the
girl established with her relative, she looked so alarmingly black
and lowering, that Nancy received an impression, that she had been
caught in the act of stealing something that was the property of Aunt
Arabella's old friend!

On the other hand, when Nancy found the couple together, her appearance
was the signal for an abrupt and significant silence,--undoubtedly she
and her short-comings, had been the topic of conversation.

In spite of this, Nancy had an instinctive impression that her aunt was
a little afraid of her towering, black-browed inmate; once, when she
made her a trifling and inexpensive present, she added:

"Don't show it to Henrietta," and on several occasions, she had
whispered, "Not a word of _this_, to Mrs. T.!"

Mrs. Taylor was now enjoying what might be called "the time of her
life." Of an afternoon, she accompanied her friend in the comfortable
landau, behind a pair of fat brown horses,--royally arrayed in a
superior, if secondhand, ermine stole, and muff. She was carried to
theatres, lectures, concerts, and At homes: was suffered to make the
first pounce upon new novels, enjoy breakfast in bed at pleasure,--and
glasses of port at discreet intervals. Moreover, she had been endowed
with several imposing costumes; and yet she was not happy! for Nancy
Travers represented "Mordecai the Jew," in Queen's Gate,--and until she
was dislodged, her enemy could know no peace.

It was ten months since Nancy had arrived from India, ten months of
suppressed grief, hard work, and complete isolation. She had recovered
her health,--thanks to incessant occupation, early hours, and good
plain food. "The girl was picking up," as her aunt expressed it, and
once or twice, she had actually been moved to remark, that in Nancy's
now flawless skin, she saw something of "the family complexion!"
(meaning her own). In spite of "the family complexion," Nancy was not
treated as a relative, but an employée; her status in the establishment
was that of a superior "tweenie"; as time went on, there were no longer
any references to "old days at Lambourne," no affectionate pattings or
strokings, no confidences, or small gifts--much less a condescending
kiss.

Mrs. Taylor made as much mischief as lay in her power, and fomented and
instigated "rows." She never gave her adversary credit for one good
trait, but held up all her short-comings, in the domestic limelight.
Late at night, when established at her ease in her friend's bedroom,
she "talked over" the iniquities of the day with unctuous eloquence.

She (the chief parasite) loudly bewailed her poor darling Arabella's
fate, in being compelled to support a thankless hanger-on! Pointed out,
that Nancy was secretive, that she wrote too many letters, wasting
her time and stamps; that she was cruel to the Pom, and flirted with
the new doctor--even going so far as to lie in wait for him in the
hall! Every one of these indictments was a deliberate and inexcusable
falsehood; and perhaps Mrs. Jenkins, at the back of her mind, reminded
herself that Henrietta "exaggerated"; but at last, after many vigorous
efforts, Henrietta succeeded in rousing her effectually. One night, as
soon as she had settled herself for the usual talk, she began abruptly:

"I do believe that girl has been complaining to Mrs. Devine, telling
her that she is miserable here,--at least, that is what _I_ inferred,
from what Mrs. Devine said to me to-day. She was quite sniffy and
stand-off, and refused a cup of tea."

"What did she say?" demanded Mrs. Jenkins fiercely.

"She said, that it was noticed how Miss Travers always went about
alone; quite a well-known figure in Kensington Gardens, a tall girl in
mourning, taking a Pom for exercise. That she was never to be seen with
her aunt in the carriage, or at any place of amusement."

"Why, of course not!" burst out Mrs. Jenkins; "her year of mourning is
not nearly up. What else?" she demanded dramatically.

"That she appeared to have no young friends."

"Is it likely, my good Henrietta, that I would allow my house to be
overrun and turned upside down by a pack of young people, simply to
amuse a girl who has to look to _me_, for her daily bread? I never
cared for Mrs. Devine, but I had intended to invite her to my next
large dinner-party. Now I shall cross her name off the list--she shall
eat no more dinners or luncheons, _here_!"

"I should hope not!" said Mrs. Taylor emphatically, "for Mrs. Murray
told me privately, how Mrs. Devine had remarked to her, that the girl
was treated more like a servant, than a relative: said she was shabbily
dressed, neglected, and snubbed, and that if Miss Travers had a spark
of spirit, she would find another situation--and clear out!"

This conversation proved extremely agitating to Mrs. Jenkins. It came
as a revelation; a shattering mental avalanche: that anyone among her
acquaintance should dare to find fault with _her_! The extraordinary
influence of Mrs. Taylor, was entirely due to her unfailing supply of
the most honeyed flattery! Misguided Arabella, was invariably told the
things she wished to hear, and lived under the impression, that she was
beyond the reach of criticism; everything she did was right; she had
felt complacently assured that her neighbours and friends unanimously
applauded her, for her benevolence in giving a home to her orphan niece!

The recent exciting and unexpected information, brought on a sharp
attack of nervous palpitation.--Whenever Mrs. Jenkins was annoyed,
she immediately complained of "palpitation."--Mrs. Taylor had swift
recourse to the usual remedy, a bottle of drops--and as she handed the
wine-glass to her patroness, she said impressively:

"Darling Arabella, you _know_, you will never have any comfort
or peace, until you get rid of that girl. She is accomplished, I
understand, and now she is nineteen, and looks years older than when
she arrived, surely her friend Mrs. Briscoe can find her a situation as
governess?"

"No, no," protested Mrs. Jenkins, "I won't have that--Nancy is useful;
clever with her fingers, active on her feet; the Pom is fond of her,
and you know how few people _he_ likes! Baker, too, though terribly
against Nancy at first, thinks her a nice young lady. Of course, I need
not tell you, that I never bargained for a girl in the house; and I
daresay I should be happier without her, but if I were to allow Nancy
to go away, and take a situation--just think of the _talk_!"

"It would be much better to have one big talk,--and get it over,"
declared Mrs. Taylor philosophically, "better to clear the air, than
to have perpetual whispering. Some people are never happy, unless they
are picking holes in such as you--whose shoes they are not fit to
clean. And now, dearest Arabella, I cannot bear to see you worried,--as
you know. If you could only make up your mind to let Nancy take a
situation, we should all be so _much_ more comfortable. Remember she
is not actually your own niece; only your stepbrother's daughter. Do,
_do_, think it over--good-night, my own--darling!"

"Good-night, Henrietta, and be sure you turn out the electric light on
your landing. Last week, you left it on all night, and just think of
how _that_ will add to my quarterly bill!"




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                               A RESCUE


The winter had been long and dreary, and held no bright gleams for
Nancy, who was sensible of a continuous atmosphere of suppression and
oppression! It was now the capricious month of April, and in sympathy
with its showers, she secretly shed many tears. Mrs. Jenkins had
arrived at the definite decision, that her niece was "unsatisfactory"!
This expression had been specially coined by Mrs. Taylor, who put
it into daily currency. It was true that now and then the girl had
absented herself for an hour or two in the afternoon, taking prolonged
walks round the Park, or Kensington Gardens,--attended exclusively
by the Pom.--She wasted time in the Victoria and Albert Museum, the
Natural History Museum, and had even penetrated to the National Gallery!

Also, she had found her tongue, and ventured to talk to and make
acquaintance with the elderly crowd assembled every Tuesday. More than
all, she had become careless! She had broken a pet vase, value three
francs, and--incredible enormity!--lost a library book--dropped it
into the street from the top of a motor-'bus. Her last misdeed was of
such gravity, that she had been formally summoned to the drawing-room,
there to appear before her judges, and be sharply reprimanded. As Mrs.
Jenkins, Miss Dolling, and Mrs. Taylor awaited the culprit, the latter
said:

"My dear, you can see for yourself, how that girl is growing worse and
worse, and becoming more unsatisfactory every day."

(It should be here explained, that Miss Dolling took a lenient view of
Nancy's delinquencies, and was on occasion her ineffectual champion.
She had even offered to take her to places of amusement--these
invitations never came to Nancy's ears--for Miss Dolling cherished
a mild, sentimental regard, for the daughter of her one and only
love,--whose photograph, enshrined in silver, she treasured as a sacred
relic).

Nancy's latest misdeed was of far-reaching consequence. Detailed to
fetch her aunt's best transformation from the hairdressers' (where
recently it had been renovated), she had left it in the Tube; abandoned
it to the heartless jeers of railway officials, and the publicity of
the Lost Property Office! The truth was, that Nancy had that morning
heard of the death of Mr. Fletcher, and her thoughts were sad, and far
away, as she travelled to South Kensington.--This valuable work of hair
art, had cost no less than twelve guineas,--and what was poor Mrs.
Jenkins to wear that evening at dinner?

The scolding had been so bitter, and impassioned, that Nancy's humility
had at last given way, and as, with heightened colour and shining eyes,
she seemed inclined to protest and expostulate, the enemy brought
heavier guns to bear.

"Is it true?" demanded Mrs. Jenkins, sitting Buddha-like, with folded
arms, "that you write to young men?"

"Yes," replied Nancy, "I do."

"She couldn't deny it!" broke in Mrs. Taylor; "I've seen the letters
myself, lying upon the hall table."

"And you smoke cigarettes up in your own room," she added.

"Yes, occasionally," admitted the sinner.

"And waste the electric light, reading in bed," resumed Mrs. Jenkins,
raising her voice with each accusation. "Mrs. Taylor saw the light
under your door after eleven o'clock at night!"

"I do read in bed,--I've no time to read in the day," answered the girl
defiantly.

"Keep your temper, miss!--that is not the way to speak to _me_,"
shouted her aunt, in an angry voice.

"No indeed, darling," chimed in Mrs. Taylor, "and after all you have
done for her--taken her in, when she was a penniless orphan, and----"

"Yes," interrupted Mrs. Jenkins, "and I hear you have gone behind my
back, and complained to Mrs. Devine,--oh, you abominable, ungrateful,
double-faced minx!"

"To Mrs. Devine?" repeated Nancy. "I have never spoken to her in my
life!"

"I don't believe you!" declared the accuser, her face alarmingly
aflame; at this sharp crisis, the door was pushed open, and Galpin
announced:

"Mrs. De Wolfe."

Mrs. De Wolfe, handsomely dressed, and completely self-possessed,
walked forward to where Nancy stood before her accusers, and said in
her masculine bass:

"Oh, my dear Nancy, I'm delighted to find you in at last! Pray
introduce me to your aunt?" and she glanced at Mrs. Taylor,--who was
still heaving with virtuous indignation.

The atmosphere was heavily charged with electricity, and for a moment
Nancy was speechless. Then, hastily recovering herself:

"This is my aunt, Mrs. Jenkins. Aunt Arabella, here is Mrs. De Wolfe,
with whom I travelled home in the _Patna_."

The shock of such an unexpected interruption had suddenly sobered Mrs.
Jenkins: for a moment, she had been threatened with palpitation,--but
thrust the temptation aside. Recently, she had heard Mrs. De Wolfe
referred to as a woman of wealth and social importance; she therefore
made an effort to recover her poise, and accord her a gracious
reception. After a somewhat breathless and incoherent conversation with
her hostess, Mrs. De Wolfe turned to Nancy.

"Have you been here ever since you came home?"

"Yes," she replied, and then boldly added: "I have not taken a
situation yet; but I intend to see about one immediately," and she
looked straight at her aunt, who encountered her gaze with sullen
hostility.

This unexpected reinforcement by Mrs. De Wolfe had given Nancy a
species of ephemeral, or "Dutch" courage.

"Oh, are you, my dear? But before you arrange anything definite, I hope
you will come and pay me a little visit. I am staying for a couple of
weeks at Brown's Hotel, in Dover Street, and shall be glad to have your
company at once."

The eyes of Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Taylor met; their expression was
significant.

"You are very kind," replied the former, now addressing her visitor,
"but my niece is not leaving me--as far as _I_ am aware--but I shall be
pleased to spare her to you, for a few days."

"Thank you very much," replied Mrs. De Wolfe. "Then if you will allow
me, I will call for her to-morrow."

At this moment other visitors were announced, and Nancy's ally rose and
took leave. As she pressed the girl's hand she murmured:

"Had you not better come down with me to the hall,--and see that I
don't carry off the umbrellas?"

On the landing, she halted opposite the stuffed dog, and said:

"My poor dear child! The door was ajar, and I heard every word about
the cigarettes, the electric light, the reading in bed, the penniless
orphan, and Mrs. Devine. What people! As for the big, dark woman, with
the red face, positively she frightened me!--she is like a Gorgon!"

"I was getting on all right until just before Christmas when Mrs.
Taylor arrived," replied Nancy; "she is dreadfully poor; she hates me,
and thinks I am an interloper, and a fortune-hunter. Ever since she
came into the house, Aunt Arabella is completely changed."

"I intend that you shall be completely changed," declared Mrs. De
Wolfe. "Oh, I must go! I see the man is waiting at the door. I'll call
for you to-morrow before twelve o'clock,--and I think you had better
bring most of your luggage."

A visit to Mrs. De Wolfe proved a change indeed. Nancy felt another
creature, living in another atmosphere, and another city. Oh, the
blessed relief, from hearing the ponderous tread of Mrs. Taylor,
Galpin's pompous announcements, and the Pom's maddening bark!

She and her hostess shopped in the mornings, motored in the afternoons,
and at night, went to concerts, lectures, and the theatre. Within a
few days, it had been decided, that Nancy was to be Mrs. De Wolfe's
companion for the present,--and to receive sixty pounds a year, on
which to dress. Already the girl had felt the stimulating effects of a
new and fashionable outfit!

"Without flattering myself, I think I may say, that you will be happier
with _me_, than with Mrs. Jenkins," observed her benefactress; "though
I am by no means an angel! Every character has its odd corners, its
limits, and its secrets. You are too young to harbour any secrets
yet--whilst I have dozens!"

She also added, that later, should anything more satisfactory turn
up, Nancy was not to consider herself bound in any way; and so the
arrangement, or engagement, was concluded--an engagement which existed
for little more than a week.

One afternoon, Nancy, who had just returned from the Park, was
informed, that someone who had brought a message, particularly wanted
to see her, and she was a good deal surprised, when the door of the
sitting-room was opened, and no less a person than Galpin emerged from
the passage. He was surprised, too,--as he subsequently confessed, when
he imparted particulars of his visit to the lady's maid.

"There was Miss Travers, looking like another girl! her hair all
fluffed out, wearing a great big hat covered with feathers--quite the
fashionable young lady. I declare to you, Miss Baker, I hardly knew
her!"

Galpin, who carried a packet of letters in his hand, peered cautiously
round the room, made a stiff little bow, coughed, and said:

"Mrs. Jenkins sent me over special with these letters for you, Miss.
She said, there was one that looked like a business matter, and is
anxious to know what it is all about? She thinks, as you have been
doing secretary work for her--that maybe there's a mistake in the
name--as it's from a firm of lawyers. I was to bring back the letter,
Miss, and to give Mrs. Jenkins' love, and to tell you how the Pom
misses you."

Nancy received and hastily examined the letters. The Indian Mail was
in. There was a thick one from Finchie, a thin one from Nellie Meach,
and a postcard from Francis, on which was inscribed, "The dog Togo
is too well." Besides these, one was in a blue envelope, on the flap
of which was printed, the name of a legal firm. She sat down to open
this,--in order to at once satisfy her aunt; whilst Galpin waited, hat
in hand, with an air of respectful curiosity.

As Nancy glanced over the neatly-written lines, she faintly grasped an
almost incredible fact. Mr. Fletcher's will had recently been read; he
had endowed her with Fairplains, and an income of two thousand a year!
This was the substance of what she gathered, through a maze of legal
expressions. For a moment, she imagined that she must be dreaming. Then
she slowly went over the pages, and noted, that the firm requested an
immediate interview, and that one of their clerks would wait upon her
at an hour, and date, to be hereafter fixed.

For a moment or two she sat motionless, endeavouring to collect her
faculties; then, with considerably heightened colour, she raised her
head, and looked up at Galpin,--who almost conveyed the impression that
he was in attendance at table, and waiting to remove her plate!

"Please tell Aunt Arabella, that the letter was really for me, and
contains good news. I will write to her to-night."

"Very well, Miss. Is that all--ahem--_no_ particulars?" Galpin's tone
expressed extreme disappointment.

"No particulars," rising as she spoke; "good afternoon, Galpin, I think
you can find your way down," and she indicated the door.

As soon as this had closed behind Galpin's broad back, Nancy, letter in
hand, rushed into Mrs. De Wolfe's bedroom. The old lady, who had only
recently come in, was changing her boots, assisted by the invaluable
Haynes.

"I've just had this," announced the girl breathlessly. "Aunt Arabella
sent it over by Galpin; she wanted so much to know what it was all
about? Do look at it--and tell me if you think it's _real_?"

Mrs. De Wolfe hastily dismissed her maid, and with one boot on, and one
boot off, assumed her glasses and deliberately studied the letter; then
she looked up at Nancy, and said:

"An heiress, I declare! My dear, I congratulate you. I _am_ glad."

"Do you think it's true? I can hardly believe it! Oh, I feel I'd like
to run about, and tell the whole hotel of my wonderful good fortune.
It's not the money so much,--but Fairplains--how splendid of Mr.
Fletcher, and oh, if father were only alive!"

"Fairplains. Yes, it was your father's once, now it is yours; you
were born there, and love it; but a solid income is a satisfactory
fact. Well, now you are independent, and can engage a companion--or a
chaperone."

"I want to stay with you!"

"But what will Mrs. Jenkins say?" and Mrs. De Wolfe laughed. "How I
should like to see her face, when she hears that you are no longer 'a
penniless orphan!'"

When Mrs. Jenkins received the news, she was so startled, and upset,
that she felt compelled to ring for Baker to bring her some special
heart drops; and yet she was gratified in a way. To have a niece who
was an heiress, increased--if that were possible--her sense of her
own importance. Mrs. Taylor was also gratified. There would now be
no question of the return of Nancy to Queen's Gate; no fear of her
inheriting Mrs. Jenkins' substantial fortune; she would without further
exertions, have the house, and the, so to speak, "field" to herself.

When the heiress arrived to pay her formal visit to Queen's Gate, she
found her aunt in her most agreeable temper. Nancy might almost have
been a titled acquaintance, so effusive was her welcome! After a few
preliminaries, she said:

"Well, Nancy, so you've come in for a coffee estate, and a large sum of
money! That is nice for you."

"I suppose there's no fear of the will being disputed?" said Mrs.
Taylor--ever ready with disagreeable suggestions.

"I think not," replied the heiress. "I remember Mr. Fletcher telling
us, that he was the last of his family."

"You won't know what to do with all your money," declared Mrs. Jenkins
with a complacent smile. "Of course you will return _here_."

"Return!" repeated the girl blankly.

"Why, certainly, you must live with _me_; it is your natural home. It
would be most extraordinary if you did not! What would people say? I am
your only near relative. You will be putting off your mourning, and
I shall take you out this season,--and perhaps give a dance for you.
You shall have a room on the next floor,--and I daresay you can keep a
maid."

Mrs. Taylor's face clouded over as she listened to these luxurious
arrangements. How close Arabella had been; the sly old thing had never
dropped a word of these plans, during their nightly conferences.

"Thank you, Aunt Arabella," replied Nancy, "but I am going to travel
with Mrs. De Wolfe. We shall probably be abroad for a year. I have
never been on the Continent; and I think we shall start as soon as the
lawyers have finished with my affairs."

"That is a monstrous idea; I shall not give my consent," declared her
aunt with a very pink face. "Mrs. De Wolfe is a complete stranger.
Ten days, or a fortnight, is all very well, but you cannot go about
the world with a woman who is nothing to you beyond being a fellow
passenger. It would be most unseemly. Remember that you are not of age
yet,--and have no right to do just as you please."

"I see no objection," murmured Nancy.

"You see _me_," announced Mrs. Jenkins with emphasis, "_I_ am the
objection. You cannot deny, that I stand to you in the place of a
parent--that I have received you,--and adopted you"--here she paused to
sneeze.

"I was not aware that you had adopted me, Aunt Arabella; and I think I
had better say at once, that I should be sorry to have any disagreement
with you, but I cannot admit that you have any right to control me.
Mrs. De Wolfe and I, are starting for Italy in a few days, and this
visit is not merely to tell you about my plans,--but to say good-bye."

"My dear, I think Nancy is _very_ wise," proclaimed Mrs. Taylor,
advancing unexpectedly to her rescue. "You know, that she has seen
nothing of the world as yet; and she is so young; the tour will
complete her education. Mrs. De Wolfe is a friend of the dear
Foresters, and the aunt of Lady Bincaster, _quite_ all that she ought
to be! Judging by my own feelings, I am sure that Nancy would not care
to go into company yet; and anyway, the state of your health could
never stand the strain of playing chaperone, and keeping late hours.
Now _could_ it?" laying her heavy hand upon her friend's fat arm. "Of
course we all know, that you are always only _too_ ready to sacrifice
yourself for others; but your friends could never permit you to
undertake, what would be practically, a sort of prolonged suicide!"

"Well, I suppose there is something in what you say," admitted Mrs.
Jenkins, after a moment's reflection, reluctantly releasing the vision
of a wealthy niece on show--and so to speak, bearing her own train.

Indeed, such was the effect of Mrs. Taylor's soothing, and cooling
remarks, that by degrees, her old school-fellow recovered her temper
and complacency. She talked about the Continent, of her triumphal
progress through various cities, and related the tale of a tragic
experience in the Tyrol, where it had been whispered "that a gallant
young Austrian officer had precipitated himself from a mountain peak,
solely on her account!"

After half an hour's discourse,--chiefly reminiscent,--Mrs. Jenkins had
talked herself into a condition of the utmost good humour, and with
the promises of letters, and many picture postcards, the visitor was
permitted to take leave.

As Nancy departed, she noticed Baker peering at her over the banisters,
and nodded to her affably, as she descended the stairs,--on which she
had made many weary journeys--also it seemed to her, that Galpin the
pompous, held the hall door extra wide, and was impressively benignant,
as she passed forth.




                              CHAPTER XIX

                      "A MYSTERY ABOUT MAYNE----"


More than two years had elapsed since Derek Mayne left Fairplains.
Almost immediately afterwards, his regiment had been removed from
Cananore, to the distant cantonment of Bareilly,--a station which
instead of lying on the damp seaboard of the Malabar Coast, was
situated in the heart of a sugar cane district, with the white
Himalayas glimmering on its horizon. Here, in hard work, and strenuous
play, parades, manœuvres, inspections, cricket, polo, and fishing in
the Sardar, time passed only too rapidly; thanks to new surroundings,
new friends, and incessant occupation, the memory of Nancy became a
little blurred.

Mayne recalled her existence, when he dispatched his half-yearly cheque
to Teddy Dawson; for although his friend had assured him, that the
money would lie untouched, nevertheless he persisted in lodging the
amount at Grindlays. Teddy had volunteered the news, that Nancy was now
living in London, with her father's sister; but of this information,
Mayne vouchsafed no notice, and correspondence, save for the bi-annual
cheque, had completely lapsed. The yearly sum of two hundred and
fifty pounds,--which was half of his private income,--left Mayne
somewhat pinched in his finances. To keep a couple of ponies, to go on
fishing, and shooting trips, required a certain number of rupees; and
occasionally Captain Mayne found considerable difficulty in making both
ends meet! His brother officers wondered why the deuce Mayne was now so
economical? and what he had done with his money?

An incredible story had leaked out through Mayne's Madras servant--who
had accompanied him to the Hills; it whispered, that when there, he had
got into some sort of entanglement with a girl! This tale was frankly
discussed, and believed, in the Gorrah bazaar at Cananore, but had
never risen in any substantial form to higher circles,--such as the
club or mess; and yet all the time, though nothing was said, there
was a vague uneasy feeling, that Mayne was keeping back some incident
or experience, connected with his six week's leave on that coffee
plantation. It was noticed, how, although he had apparently enjoyed
extraordinarily good sport, he was strangely reserved with regard to
his hill friends; rarely referred to his expedition, and sat dumb when
other fellows less successful, loudly bragged of their "shikar."

Also it had been remarked, that when he returned from the Neilgherries,
he had appeared to be extraordinarily depressed, and that Mayne always
such a cheery fellow, with lots to say for himself, hadn't a word to
throw to the traditional dog. Former enthusiastic letters received by
his friends, describing his delightful quarters, his first-class sport,
were subsequently discounted, by a mysterious, and significant silence.
One surprising fact, had been much discussed; Mayne was just the
ordinary young man, and not in the least eccentric, and yet when his
trophies were unpacked, displayed and praised (two magnificent tiger
and three panther skins, all in first-class condition), as the largest
panther skin was unrolled, he seemed strangely put out, and gave a
hasty order to his bearer. Later, but four skins were exhibited, and
when the fifth was inquired for, the bearer promptly answered that "the
Sahib had given orders, that it was to be taken away and _burnt_!"

In a small Mofussil station such as Cananore, topics of conversation
are but scanty. There was a good deal of talk and conjecture,
respecting this same panther. Why had Mayne ordered such a prize to
be destroyed? Why could he not have given it to someone--if he had a
particular down upon the animal?--the Colonel's wife would have been
proud to accept its skin.

No satisfactory answer to this was obtained at the time, but later, it
became known that Mayne's friend, the coffee planter, had died, as the
result of an encounter with a panther; it was conceded that possibly
_that_ was the reason of Mayne's agitation, and the order for the
destruction of an unusually fine trophy.

Skin or no skin, there was some mystery connected with Mayne's visit
to the Neilgherries. Since then, he had been obviously short of money,
and given to unwonted economy. He drank cheap claret, refused himself
a new rifle, and another polo pony. A hard player like Mayne, found it
difficult to manage with less than three. Whatever the trouble was,
he did not avoid society; he was popular with women; his good looks
and good manners, made him a general favourite. He went to dances
and picnics, was conspicuous in gymkhanas, and every afternoon, when
nothing was "on," he played rackets or tennis at the club. Once or
twice, when a particularly active girl happened to be his tennis
partner, he recalled Nancy,--not one of the lot could approach her as
far as play was concerned. Who would have believed that her thin brown
arm and wrist, was capable of such smashing strokes, and disastrous
service?

Mayne had now been three years in India, and never exhibited any
intention of taking leave home. Apparently he preferred an excursion
into Thibet, or Cashmere. At the back of his mind, he had a conviction,
that as long as he remained in the country, he was safe from any
awkward developments that might result from the ceremony which had
taken place in the drawing-room at Fairplains.

Yet at the same time, he had an impression that some day, like murder,
it would all come out,--and there would be a holy row! Meantime he
thrust the hateful prospect into the lumber room of his brain; the
poignant memories of the last week of Travers' life had now become
a little dim. Supposing he had held back, and not suffered himself
to be moved by an exceptionally tragic situation: by Mrs. Hicks'
observations, and carried away by an almost irresistible impulse? he
could have guaranteed an acceptable income to Nancy, which would have
left them both free!

Now, they were bound together by that deadly certificate in his
despatch box, on which were inscribed the names of Eleanora Nancy
Travers, spinster, and Derek Danvers Mayne, bachelor. Nothing but death
could release them. Occasionally plunged in contemplation, he would let
his mind work; endeavouring to trace some way out of this desperate
situation. His thoughts would travel to and fro, as in a maze,--vainly
seeking some safe, and honourable exit. Sometimes, during these moods
of reflection, his companion for the moment, would wonder at Mayne's
abstraction? Once or twice, he had been offered "a penny for his
thoughts," but had invariably dismissed the offer with a laugh.

Finally summing up the affair, he assured himself that some day or
other--perhaps in twenty years--the whole business must be disclosed.
Supposing Nancy wanted to marry someone?--supposing he were to meet
_the_ girl, and fall in love with her? what a complication that would
be! After all, the present was calm and peaceful, he could discern no
clouds on the horizon, and soothed his uneasiness, with the well-worn
sedative,--"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

Such were Mayne's sentiments, when he received a cable from home,
informing him that his uncle had met with a serious accident, and
begging him to return at once. As there could be but one answer to such
an appeal, Mayne instead of taking his intended sixty days' shooting
leave into Garwalb, immediately applied for three months to England--on
"urgent private affairs."




                              CHAPTER XX

                      NEW SCENES AND NEW FRIENDS


Nancy and her chaperone spent a year on the Continent, visiting several
capitals, and various scenes familiar to Mrs. De Wolfe. Not a few
foreign hostelries knew and respected the dominating personality, and
heavy purse, of this hawk-eyed "bird of passage."

Nancy was now twenty. Like a flower she had expanded in the sun of
happiness, and developed into a strikingly beautiful girl. The mahogany
tint had given place to a matchless complexion: her figure no longer
boyish and angular, was slender and graceful, her dress was dainty,
and she carried herself admirably. After a long and complete eclipse,
Nancy's vitality and vivacity had returned with undiminished vigour:
the girl was never tired, idle, bored, or--silent; the mere fact of
her presence, seemed to neutralize weariness and depression. Yet the
death of her father was a never forgotten grief; he stood apart, as the
one impressive, and beloved figure connected with her life in India.
Memories of Finchie, the "Corner boys," and the Hicks', had become a
little faint; as for the acquaintance of a mere six weeks, she had
thrust him entirely out of her mind. At first, like some pernicious and
persistent insect, he had returned again and again; but for many months
she had been free from this hateful visitation.

Possibly when a young woman determines to evict from her thoughts a
disagreeable lodger--such banishment is complete. Nancy had assured a
quaking heart, that the ceremony of her marriage might be dismissed to
the limbo of a bad dream. It had been carried out solely to comfort and
relieve the anxiety of her dying father; but as a binding contract,
Finchie had positively declared, that it could be easily annulled.

It was more than two years since Nancy had heard of Captain Mayne,
"out of sight, is out of mind," especially as her mind was full to
overflowing of new scenes, new interests, and new friends.

During their wanderings, Mrs. De Wolfe had encountered various
neighbours, acquaintances, and connections. Her circle was world wide.
At the Hôtel National, Lucerne, she came across the Miller family,--who
lived within a motor drive of her home in Moonshire.

Truly, it was a strange and startling tale that Lady Miller poured
into the ear of her neighbour, when she had carried her off to her own
apartment, and could there talk without restraint! It appeared that
the four Miss Millers, had combined to break loose, had cast off all
obedience, and so to speak, flung the fourth commandment to the winds!
Headed by Wilhelmina--the eldest--they revolted against home life,
and clamoured to be taken abroad, in order to see something of what
they called, "the world." "Wilhelmina," continued Lady Miller, "has an
iron will and enormous influence over her father. It took her a whole
fortnight to gain her point, at the end Lucas yielded, and, my dear old
friend, I know you will pity us, for 'here we are!'"

Yes, Wilhelmina's triumph had been remorseless, and complete!

Glancing round the luxurious bedroom, whose windows commanded a fine
view of the lake, Mrs. De Wolfe was not disposed to offer much sympathy
to the lachrymose lady.

"Of course I don't approve of the present ordinance," she said:
"Parents obey your children, but possibly a little change may be no
harm for any of you. Your girls are grown up. Why! Billy must be six
and twenty! The twins are a charming couple, and so far, have been born
to blush unseen! Millfield Place _is_ rather isolated, and surely you
would not wish to have four old maids on your hands,--now _would_ you?"

"_I'm_ no husband-hunter," declared Lady Miller with considerable
warmth, "and if girls are to be married, they'll _be_ married."

"Well, that depends on circumstances! I remember an Irish servant who
gave, as her reason for leaving an excellent, but dull situation, that
'she was out of the way of Providence.' I think there is the same
drawback to Millfield."

Millfield Place was situated in a remote part of Moonshire, and in
the days of Charles II., it had been the nucleus of many a robust
and rollicking festivity: but time works changes, the Place was now
generally referred to, as the "Back of Beyond." It was six miles
from the nearest railway station: on the mere outer fringe of County
Society, and to many of the rustics in Millfield village, the word
"pictures" or "telephone" carried no meaning! Here years had passed
swiftly--as they generally do, when spent in an uneventful, and
monotonous round.

The four Miss Millers were endowed with an unusual amount of good
looks, and intelligence; Wilhelmina, the eldest and heiress, was small,
active, clever and outspoken: with a heart that knew no fear, and
full of devotion to her sisters. Minna and Brenda (twins) were tall,
vivacious and very fair to see. Amy, the youngest, aged twenty, had a
wonderful mop of dark red hair, a pair of twinkling sea-green eyes, and
uncontrollable spirits; she was still addressed as "Baby!"

For some years, the sisters had contented themselves with tennis,
the sewing club, village entertainments, and the rearing of prize
poultry; and then Wilhelmina, when her twenty-sixth birthday struck,
began seriously to consider the situation. As alone she paced the
long terrace, she held a solemn debate with herself, and this was the
burden of her meditations: "Here we are embedded in the country, and
growing into fossils. We haven't even a motor--because mother loathes
them! We never see a soul, except the same old set, the Rector and Mrs.
Puddock, Doctor and Mrs. Frost, father's elderly shooting friends; and
once in a blue moon, the Hillsides, or Mrs. De Wolfe. Other girls go
about, and visit new places, make new acquaintances, and have a good
time; and we are young but once! I shall urge the Pater to transport
us all to the Continent, for one whole year. If he resists, and won't
listen to reason, I shall just tell him, we will leave home; the twins
to go on the Stage,--front row,--Baby, to an A B C shop, and I to be
a stewardess; I know I should love the sea,--which by the way, I have
never seen!"

When Wilhelmina cautiously opened the subject to her mother, that
lethargic matron was almost as startled as if a bomb had exploded
on the hearth-rug! When she had recovered her senses (momentarily
paralysed), with unusual animation, she expressed indignant horror at
the mere suggestion of such a move. She pointed out to Billy that she
and her sisters were extraordinarily fortunate; they had carriages,
maids, saddle-horses; and every possible indulgence; the newest library
books, a handsome dress allowance; what more did they want? Besides,
how could such a pack of girls go dragging about the Continent!
Certainly she would be no party to the crazy undertaking. Of course if
they had been _boys_, it might have been different!

"Yes!" retorted Billy, "boys always get everything they want, and girls
go to the wall."

"Well, boys or girls, nothing will induce _me_ to leave my comfortable
home," declared Lady Miller. "Paris, Switzerland, Egypt!" slightly
raising her voice, "why, Wilhelmina, you must be mad! You know
perfectly well, that I've not been even to London, for more than two
years."

Lady Miller, a pretty, plaintive, fragile-looking woman, had been
a celebrated beauty in her day,--but was now disposed to rest
on such laurels, as remained. She relinquished visiting, and
entertaining--beyond a small tennis party, or a few neighbours to
tea,--pleading the state of her health; which, as it happened, was
excellent; but the poor woman suffered from the dire and mortal malady
of inertia; which is known to attack victims who live remote, and
idle. The disease had grown from bad to worse, and Lady Miller had
now abandoned herself to an existence of self-indulgent indolence.
She was contented with her comfortable sofa, her embroidery, novels,
patience cards, visits from newsmongering matrons,--and on fine days,
an inspection of her celebrated rock garden! Wilhelmina had relieved
her mother of all housekeeping worries: she managed the school, the
village,--and her father.

The younger girls were amusing, chattering creatures: fond of racing
through the rooms, banging doors, and bringing in dogs, but remarkably
pretty--especially Brenda, who at times, was almost startlingly lovely!
Once or twice, Lady Miller had murmured to her husband "that she
wished Brenda's rich godmother would invite her to pay her a visit in
London,"--and her husband had accorded an indifferent assent--_he_ did
not wish to part with _any_ of his girls.

Sir Lucas Miller was an active, fussy, little gentleman of fifty-five,
whose time was absorbed by tenants, shooting, the county club, and the
Bench! Little did he suspect, how soon the pleasant current of his days
was to be diverted. One evening after dinner,--a particularly good
dinner,--the bold, adventurous, and _cunning_ Wilhelmina, accompanied
him to the smoking-room, and as he enjoyed a Havana, calmly proceeded
to lay her plans before him.

Everything had been most carefully considered: the whole itinerary
minutely sketched; reasons for the expedition were confidently
advanced, and dilated on, and when at last, Wilhelmina had ceased
to speak, she discovered that her communication had left her father
speechless! For quite a surprising interval, he remained silent,--Sir
Lucas was thinking things over! He liked to see his pretty, lively
girls flitting about the house and tennis courts, but it had never once
dawned on him, that they craved either change, or other diversions.
"Why, they had the Hunt Ball in January,--weather permitting,--the
cricket week in July,--also weather permitting!"

In his opinion, they were remarkably well off; and as Billy, his
favourite, had carefully unfolded her schemes, he could scarcely
believe his own ears.

"Close the house for twelve months! take you all abroad!" he cried at
last. "What a monstrous idea. How about the estate, and the shooting?"

"You have an excellent agent, Dad, I've often heard you say so,--and
now you may as well give him something to do. You know you're one of
the people who keep a dog,--and bark yourself!"

"Rubbish! rubbish! preposterous nonsense!"

"I know you won't mind, dear, if I speak a little plainly. Looking
at it from our point of view, do you think you are quite playing the
game? You and the Mater have had your good times! You talk of Ascot,
Scotland, and Paris; of dances and balls, operas, and races. Now _we_
should like to be in a position, to enjoy the same experiences. We are
very ready to be amused: or even employed; but there is not enough
work here for the four of us. Are we always to content ourselves with
visiting old women, rearing Buff Orpingtons, and finding our chief
excitement in scraps of village news! Why, it was only yesterday, that
Baby ran the whole way home, to tell us that the Postman's parrot
was dead! _I_ can jog along all right, I'm not in my first youth,
and I never was pretty; and being the eldest, I can find plenty of
occupation, and interest of sorts; but, dear Daddy, _do_ consider the
three girls; please think of what I've said," and Wilhelmina patted her
parent encouragingly on the shoulder, and walked out of the room.

In the end, after some remarkably stormy scenes, Billy prevailed; for
Billy, as her mother complained, "could twist her father round her
little finger." Then what Brenda termed, the "great Exodus of the
Millers" actually took place, and poor Lady Miller found herself with
her husband, four daughters, two maids and a mountain of luggage,
carried off to Paris; and from Paris they journeyed to Lucerne.

At Lucerne, to his audible consternation, Sir Lucas was thrust
into the too prominent post of chaperon--his wife having declared
that her health was not equal to society. Nevertheless, she took a
certain amount of comfort in a sofa, her lace work, and patience
cards,--although the rock-garden, was far, far away!

At first, Sir Lucas instinctively shrank from following five grown-up
women into a dining-room, or restaurant; but most of his party were so
handsome as to draw all eyes, and in this fact, he found considerable
compensation; also, when he beheld other men doing similar duty, he
became more resigned; and by and by actually began to enjoy this
amazing, and absolute change! He and his girls played golf on the
Sonnenberg, and made excursions, whilst her ladyship and maid, sat in
the shade, listening to the band, or ventured on a little shopping,
purchasing Swiss embroidery, and Italian tortoise-shell.

In spite of their already large party, the Miller girls good-naturedly
invited Nancy to join them. She and Billy became immediate allies, and
on the Sonnenberg links, laid the foundation of a lasting friendship.

"We are such a squad of women," she said to Nancy, "but it had to be
all, or none; people get used to us, and find we are quite rural,
and harmless. I think Mr. Holford, and Major Berners are becoming
accustomed to Minna and Brenda, and I'm not the least surprised. At
home, we thought little of their good looks! They were just nice,
cheery, accomplished, girls. Minna has a lovely voice; but here, they
stand out as beauties, and the Pater looks as proud as a peacock with
two tails! They are the prettiest girls in Lucerne, bar yourself!"

"Oh, what nonsense!" Nancy protested, but Billy signed to her that she
was about to make a drive, and thereby closed the argument!

At the Grand Hotel, Locarno, Mrs. De Wolfe again encountered
neighbours; Lord and Lady Hillside, their son, and daughter; these were
not merely neighbours, but connections,--and not only connections, but
friends! It turned out, that Lord Hillside and Mrs. Ffinch were brother
and sister, and on the strength of her intimacy with a relative, Nancy
was welcomed by the family.

Lady Hillside had been an heiress: her fortune had paid off heavy
mortgages on the estate, and repaired the dilapidated castle. So
flourishing now were the Hillside concerns, that Theodore Lamerton, the
heir, a young man in the Guards, was looked upon as a desirable parti.
His mother, was a little woman with a yellow, haggard face, in which
burned a pair of jet black eyes,--eyes of the reformer and fanatic.

Lady Hillside was feverishly energetic, and full of philanthropic
plans: her name was well known on Boards, and Committees, and she
cherished a secret passion for being, what is called "Chair." Her
interests abroad, were so wide, and so various, that she could spare
but little time for her own family;--in fact, she was something of an
aristocratic Mrs. Jellaby. Her correspondence was enormous; she kept
two secretaries, but rarely looked into her housekeeper's accounts--or
answered what might be termed "a domestic letter."

Recently her health had broken down from overwork, and a specialist had
ordered her abroad, with strict injunctions, as to absolute rest. Rest
was impossible to a woman of her temperament! It was true that she now
left correspondence in abeyance, but she was actively engaged in making
a wonderful collection of seals and rings,--which enterprise carried
her far, and wide.

Lord Hillside, a handsome, bearded individual, a great authority on
Egyptology, lived much to himself, and took his walks apart. With his
chiselled aquiline features and well-trimmed beard, he might almost
have passed for an Egyptian Tetrarch himself. Next to Egyptology--and
Rameses the Second, his chief interest in life was his daughter
Josephine Speyde, a widow of eight and twenty. "Josie," as she
was called, had not inherited the family good looks, but had been
endowed with some of her father's brains, and more of her mother's
inexhaustible energy,--which in her case, took the form of a tireless
pursuit of amusement. In appearance she was thin, and hipless; her
complexion was sallow; a pair of magnificent black eyes illuminated
a long, but expressive countenance. Such was her art in dress, and
deportment, that she actually persuaded her world, that she was as
handsome as she was amusing, and otherwise attractive. Married at
twenty to a distant cousin, the alliance had proved unfortunate, and as
Josie herself confessed, "they had found one another out too _soon_."
She was restless, capricious, and extravagant: Victor Speyde was
dissipated, ill-tempered, and jealous.

The relatives put their heads together, and predicted "_trouble_,"
but the death of Captain Speyde in a motor accident, relieved their
apprehensions, and liberated his wife. As a widow, with an independent
income, she returned to live with her parents,--a changed young woman,
who had seen the seamy side of life; she rode hard, smoked incessantly,
and had the reputation for a keen appetite for adventure, and stories,
more or less risky! Mrs. Speyde belonged to a smart Bridge Club,
possessed a car, and a latch-key--and claimed all the prerogatives of
a self-chaperoning widow,--whilst enjoying as she described, "a really
topping time."

Possibly because they were such a complete contrast in appearance
and character, Mrs. Speyde took a violent fancy to Nancy Travers,
called her by her christian name the second time they met, graciously
instructed her in a new style of hairdressing, offered her the name
of a _very_ private dressmaker, and imparted amusing information
respecting the affairs,--love and otherwise,--of her very dearest
friends.

Not the least among Josie's accomplishments, was her art of
story-telling; she drew little word-pictures with audacious and
dramatic effect, and her voice, if slightly guttural, immediately
claimed an audience. Nancy wept and screamed with laughter, as she
found herself unexpectedly in the company of Lady Miller,--and all
her invalid airs; not to speak of several of the inmates of the Grand
Hotel; and Josie's own aunt, Julia Ffinch, was also taken off to the
life!

Nancy was dazzled, flattered, and enslaved. Josie Speyde was so
clever, so gay, and entertaining: she read aloud scraps of delightful
letters,--chiefly from men in foreign parts,--related stirring little
episodes in her own past, and more or less opened the girl's grey-blue
eyes, to their very widest extent.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                                ON COMO


Mrs. De Wolfe rarely remained long in one place; she assured her
friends that she must have gipsy blood in her veins, and offered this
idea as a sufficient excuse for her unexpected, and erratic movements.
Weary of Locarno, she adjourned to familiar quarters at Cadenabbia, and
as soon as she was comfortably installed in her favourite sitting-room,
proceeded as usual, to scan the lists of visitors at the various hotels
in the neighbourhood.

"I see the Gordons are over at Bellaggio," she remarked. "The
Mackenzies are back at the Villa d'Este, the Wynnes are in this very
hotel; and oh! what a piece of luck!--Dudley Villars is here too,"
and as she made this announcement, Mrs. De Wolfe turned an unusually
beaming face upon her companion.

In answer to Nancy's glance of interrogation, she explained: "He is the
son of my greatest friend; I held him at the font, tied his sashes,
heard his prayers, and if I am not greatly mistaken, smacked him
soundly.--I am very fond of Dudley."

"Do you think the smackings give him a certain claim?"

"No, indeed, poor fellow; he makes a stronger appeal than that!"

"And is he really a poor fellow?"

"On the contrary, he is rich; but his life has been spoiled, he has
no fixed home; Shandmere is let. Years ago he made an unfortunate
marriage: after a few months of cat-and-dog life, he and his wife
parted, he has no near relatives, or ties, and spends his time rambling
about the world."

"One of the idle rich?"

"Idle rich yourself! Dudley is always intensely occupied; in pursuit of
new schemes, the development of a voice, or some literary undertaking.
He is a charming fellow, so popular, and remarkably handsome!"

"I'm simply dying to see him," exclaimed Nancy.

"Do not die just yet; I'll send him a little note, and ask him to look
me up as soon as he returns. I thought he was in Greece, but Italy
always draws him. His grandmother was an Italian, one of an ancient
Roman family, and from her, he has inherited his graceful manners,
and taste for art. She has also bequeathed him her olive skin, and
matchless dark eyes."

"I don't believe I can possibly wait until he calls," said Nancy. "I
think I shall go down, and hang about the hall."

"Oh, you may laugh, my dear, but you won't make such an acquaintance as
Dudley, in a month of Sundays. He is one of my boys--although he _is_
getting on for forty--and a particular favourite."

"So I see."

"And not without good reason; Dudley is so attentive and thoughtful, to
an old woman. His tender solicitude is quite touching! For instance,
he _never_ forgets my birthday; he knows my tastes in flowers, and
books, and people; remembers my likes and dislikes, the little remedies
I use,--and how I hate sugar, and adore asparagus. Besides all this, I
am his godmother, and since his dear mother is gone, I think he is a
little inclined to look to _me_."

"I hope he will not be furiously jealous, and insist on turning me
adrift," said Nancy.

"On the contrary, my dear, you will become friends,--great friends,
and in one way, he will complete your education. He knows Italy, '_au
bout des ongles_,' and every yard of these lakes. He will widen your
literary horizon, take you out sketching--he really _is_ an artist. It
is marvellous how, in a few strokes, he can place a scene or a face
before you. And not only does he sketch, but write; his books are
praised in the Press, his poems, called masterpieces. Strictly between
ourselves, I buy his books,--but I cannot read them. His poetry is
rather, rather ..." she paused, momentarily at a loss for a word.

"Improper!" suggested Nancy, raising her brows.

"No, you evil-minded girl! or if there is anything of the sort, it is
too deeply hidden for _me_. His writing is vague, and--er, what I may
call nebulous! There are rhapsodies about colour, sunset, perfume, and
eyes. It all seems to me a sort of hotch-potch, but I keep my opinion
to myself, and when anyone asks me what I think of Dudley Villars'
last? I throw up my hands and say 'it's amazing.'"

"Does he do nothing but write amazing poems, paint, and travel?"

"Oh, yes, he goes into society. You will see him in London next season.
He is what I may call in 'fierce demand' for balls. Women intrigue and
squabble, to get him to their houses. He knows all the right people,
and dances like.... Give me a simile."

"A moonbeam."

"Thank you. It is considered a very high distinction to be his partner.
I've been told that girls, whom he has overlooked, have actually been
seen with tears streaming down their faces."

"Poor idiots!" and Nancy laughed heartily, and heartlessly. "So much
for Dudley Villars. Now please tell me something about his wife?"
"I've never seen her; she lives in Florida, I believe, and it is an
old, old story,--they parted many years ago, and possibly people over
here do not suppose that she exists! I happen to know, because I sent
her a wedding present. It is a most unsatisfactory state of affairs, I
must say."

"I wonder they don't get a divorce? Isn't there some place in America,
where it can be managed,--just while you wait at the railway station?"

"You mean in Dakota? Well, it's not quite so rapid as all that, and my
dear child how gliby you talk of divorce! What can you possibly know
about it?"

"I have seen and known divorced people. Don't you remember the pretty
American at Locarno? She had been divorced twice, and was going to
marry that Swedish baron! I believe one of her former husbands happened
to be passing through, and left a card, and a bouquet!"

"Pray who told you all this?"

"Josie Speyde!"

"Oh, Josie," and Mrs. De Wolfe made a gesture of angry impatience.

"Well, she said the lady was really charming: they made great friends,
and played poker together,--she gave Josie lessons."

"That reminds me," said Mrs. De Wolfe, looking round, "I see Hardy
has brought down the card box; we shall just have time for a game of
piquet, before we dress for dinner."

The two ladies had scarcely settled down to piquet, when the door was
flung wide, and a sonorous voice, announced, "Sir Dudley Villars!"




                             CHAPTER XXII

                         "SIR DUDLEY VILLARS"


The meeting between Sir Dudley, and his godmother, was warmly
affectionate. Nancy gazed in amazement, as she beheld him kiss the
old lady foreign fashion, on either wrinkled cheek. After one or
two ejaculations, and explanations, he was presented to her, and
wonderful to relate, neither fell short of her lofty expectations, nor
her chaperon's glowing description. Sir Dudley was slightly built;
admirably turned out; he had clear-cut features, wavy dark hair,--the
front locks picturesquely powdered with white;--his smile was almost
an embrace; whilst his eyes, which were dark, were the very saddest,
and most arresting, that Nancy had ever encountered.

But these tragic, heart-broken eyes, had no connection, with their
owner's real disposition, and feelings; they were merely a notable
family endowment, and had been for generations, a valuable asset in
the fortunes of the noble Casserini. It was whispered, that these same
eyes, had won vast estates, a ducal palace, and even,--but this is in
your ear,--a cardinal's hat! In the present instance, the eyes were
allied to an agreeable voice, a cultivated taste, and a captivating
personality. Indeed one enthusiastic friend, had been heard to speak of
Villars, as "a delicious fellow!" Delicious or otherwise, he was not
to the taste of various married men, and one or two nervous chaperons.
These, viewed him with no favour; but rather, as a shepherd beholds a
strange, and suspicious dog!

The visitor and Mrs. De Wolfe immediately embarked on an animated
conversation, an eager exchange of plans, and news, and Nancy,
after listening for some time to the sayings and doings of complete
strangers, made an excuse about dressing in good time, and left the
friends to enjoy a _tête-à-tête_. No sooner had the door closed upon
her, than Sir Dudley said:

"My dear Auntie Wolfe, where did you get hold of such a beautiful young
lamb? Is she the new companion you mentioned?"

The old lady nodded a complacent assent.

"You never were much given to companions, were you? I only recollect
two; unprepossessing elderly females. What an amazing change!"

"Yes, I couldn't stand either of those elderly females; one had such
decided views, and argued every question,--from the proper way to boil
an egg, to the age of the world. The other, had a maddening sniff, and
read all my letters. Still, an old woman cannot live entirely alone.
There are wet days, and long evenings! I want someone to read to me,
and play piquet. Nancy is pretty good for a beginner, but not like
you,--a foeman worthy of my steel!"

"Nancy! What a nice simple name," said Sir Dudley. "Miss Nancy has
lovely eyes; I admire their clear, crystal gaze of childlike innocence.
Do tell me _all_ about her?"

In a few short but pithy sentences, Sir Dudley was made acquainted with
the history of Miss Travers,--that is to say, as known to her chaperon.

"An orphan with tons of money, no undesirable relations, and a
truthful, affectionate, nature; dear Auntie Wolfe, allow me to offer
you my warmest congratulations! And how long do you suppose this
delightful alliance will last?"

"To the end of my days, if I could have my wish," was the prompt reply.
"The child is my right hand, and simply radiates happiness; however,
some odious man is sure to snatch her from me, and carry her off as
_his_ companion for life!"

"Yes," he assented, nodding his head, "I'm afraid your partnership
is doomed! A beauty, an heiress, and launched by Mrs. De Wolfe--your
chance of keeping her, is not worth the traditional button! But how you
will enjoy yourself in the meanwhile! You who are always so interested
in love affairs, and happy marriages."

"Well I give you my solemn promise, that I shall be in no hurry to
marry off Nancy."

"Has she had any love affairs, do you think?"

"No, indeed. Why, my dear Dudley, you've only to look at the girl's
face, to see that she has yet to experience the heart's awakening."

"_Dio mio_, and what a delightful task for some too lucky fellow!"

"Now look here, Dudley," and Mrs. De Wolfe suddenly sat erect, and
tapped his sleeve with her pince-nez. "No experiments if _you_
please,--no philandering. I'm not in the way of seeing the gay, and
gallant aspect of your character; you turn the good and steady side to
my old eyes,--but I have _ears_, and I have heard tales."

"No doubt you have, dearest Auntie Wolfe, but you know you should
never believe anything you hear, and only the half of what you see. I
grant you, I have amused myself, _pour passer le temps_, but only with
hardened, and accomplished flirts, who know how to play the game; never
with girls,--and I thought you barred girls yourself?"

"Yes, I do, the usual run, who giggle, and whisper, and have silly
secrets, and make faces at me behind my back. Now Nancy hasn't a secret
in the whole world; if she had, she couldn't keep it! Her life is
an open book, 'who runs may read.' A coffee plantation, an English
school, once more a coffee plantation; her father's death, a year's
slavery to an abominably selfish aunt; from this aunt she came to
me--and there's her history!"

"How old is she?"

"Past twenty, and in some ways, absurdly young for her age."

"And I am thirty-eight, and absurdly old for my years, so I think you
had better appoint me deputy-chaperon. Well now, I must be off to
dress! May I look in again after dinner?"

"To be sure," assented Mrs. De Wolfe, "come in and out, whenever you
please, just as you always do, and arrange to sit with us in the
restaurant. Don't let _Nancy_ make any difference!"

"All right, then, I won't! I've got a capital motor-boat; I'll take you
both on the lake, all day, and every day, and anywhere you like."

Sir Dudley Villars promptly installed himself as one of Mrs. De
Wolfe's party, whilst Antonio, his valet, enacted the part of
_cavaliere-servente_, to the two lady's-maids. He sat with them at
meals, entered their sitting-room, when so disposed--which was often;
played piquet, sang tender and emotional love songs in a melting tenor,
to Nancy's accompaniment, and was even suffered to smoke! He was
evidently attached to his godmother, and full of _petits soins_ on her
behalf. His manner to her was charming; that of a cheery, sometimes
teasing, and yet always devoted son! He went her errands, carried her
wraps, brought her flowers, books, and papers; also occasionally, his
letters from mutual friends; made a capital sketch of her for Nancy,
a sketch of Nancy for his godmother, and altogether lived up to his
reputation.

Mrs. Wynne, her daughter Flora, her fiancé--a young diplomatist on
leave from Rome--joined forces with Mrs. De Wolfe. A party of six, just
filled the motor-boat, and were admirably paired--two matrons, two
lovers, Nancy and her new friend. Sometimes the younger people, went
up and spent a long afternoon on the links above Menaggio; but as a
rule the days were devoted to picnics and excursions, about the lake.
Mrs. De Wolfe was anxious that Nancy should see all her old favourite
"beauty spots," and proved an active, and indefatigable chaperon, but
a long tiring day at Grave-dona, was too much for her seventy-four
years. Returning amid the late mists, she caught a severe chill, and
was confined to her room for one whole week; and as the Wynnes had
betaken themselves to Bellaggio, Nancy and Sir Dudley were abandoned to
a _tête-à-tête_!

The invalid would not suffer her young companion to sit what she
called "stuffing,--in a sick-room," and drove her forth to enjoy the
exquisite autumn weather; to walk, to boat, and to sketch,--and so it
came to pass, that Nancy and Sir Dudley--a rather striking pair--went
about together, to play golf, to visit old villas and lovely gardens,
or to climb the hills to well-known holy shrines,--also to flit around
the lake in the motor-boat; now to Como, now to Varenna,--in short,
wherever their fancy carried them!

Nancy had found old friends in Menaggio; the two Clovers (her
schoolfellows), and their belongings,--which included their parents
and an elder brother. They were eager for her company; she played golf
with them on several occasions, but somehow most of the shining hours
were claimed by Dudley Villars,--who pronounced the Clover family to
be "bourgeois," and the son,--who exhibited a fervid interest in Miss
Travers, "as a blundering lout, with a calf-like smile, and dull to the
verge of idiocy."

Dudley, to do him justice, was a delightful companion; so entertaining,
so thoughtful, always ready to fall in with the slightest whim; and
he did things so well! To Nancy his painting was a revelation and a
delight, his voice was sympathetic, and he told her many entrancing
tales, of his wanderings in the far-away East, and then his good
looks,--what a haunting face!

Sir Dudley's manner to his charming companion, had been partly that of
a kindly teacher, and comrade; tinged with an infusion of chivalrous
reverence.

Oh, how different to Teddy and Nicky, who never hurried to open a
door, or stand up, when she entered the room. Once or twice Nancy had
asked herself, if she was not growing to like this charming friend,
_too_ well? After all; he was no relation. Simple Nancy! And she could
not forget, that when he had gone to Milan for two or three days, she
had missed him even more than his godmother; and once or twice, when,
looking up suddenly, she had met his eyes, she found herself blushing
to her hair.

That he liked and admired her,--Nancy felt instinctively, and a
chilly little inward voice asked, if she was going to what is called
"fall in love?" She dismissed the idea with horror. Sir Dudley was
married, and had a wife living; she too was married, and had a husband,
somewhere--incredible as it seemed, even to her own thoughts. One
night, she took herself solemnly to task--sitting at her bedroom
window, looking down at the stars, reflected in the lake, she held an
inquiry. Dudley had often given her flowers; he had lately assumed an
attitude of exclusive protection and possession; once it had seemed to
her,--though it might have been imagination,--that he had pressed her
hand, as she alighted from the motor-boat. There must be no more of
_that_. What would her father have thought of his Nancy, if she gave
her heart to a married man?

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. De Wolfe had recovered from her chill, and resumed her
responsibilities, but she no longer went on expeditions and
picnics,--contenting herself with going across to Bellaggio, to call
on friends, or to prowl about among the antiquity shops; whilst her
companion sketched in the villa gardens, or endeavoured to immortalize
the tall cypresses, above San Giovanni.

With the exception of one or two eloquent glances, and an involuntary
hand-pressure, Dudley's manner to his godmother's beautiful companion,
was admirably guarded. With the fear of his old friend's displeasure
before his eyes, it had been a case of what he mentally termed "paws
off," but how could any man under eighty years of age, withstand
such an exquisite creature? So simple and transparently innocent; so
warm-hearted and intelligent, and beyond and above all, what a lovely
vision of glorious youth! It was this, that enthralled the _blasé_
dilettante.

He had played the part of genial comrade,--for he knew instinctively
the sort of girl he had to deal with; how easy to alienate, and scare!
She had been informed that he was married, and her Irish spirit and
Irish chastity, were inscribed upon her exquisite lips. He and Nancy
had many talks, and interesting discussions, as they took their daily
stroll along the romantic thoroughfare, which leads from Cadenabbia
through and beyond Tremezzo. Mrs. De Wolfe frequently accompanied them,
and then, when half way, a half-hearted chaperon, sat down on a low
wall to rest, and there await their return.

Nancy, who always enjoyed the sound of her own voice, and an
appreciative listener, was neither shy, nor self-conscious; at a very
early period of their acquaintance, and with consummate ease, the
subtle man of the world, had made himself master of her simple history.
He enjoyed listening to her vivid descriptions of the Indian hills, and
to confidences as fresh, and pure as the dew of the dawn. He heard all
about her school-days, her father's money troubles, and his splendid
character. She spoke of the Corner boys, and Sir Dudley's old friend,
Mrs. Ffinch. Once and once only had she touched on the tragedy of her
bereavement,--when with averted face, and broken voice, she related
particulars of Travers' death.

"And what became of the fellow who missed the panther?" inquired
Villars, after a pause.

"I don't know; he is somewhere in India," she replied, almost under her
breath.

"Well, I suppose, he was ashamed to show his face." But to this remark
there was no reply.

Late one afternoon, Sir Dudley and his pupil,--having finished a sketch
of the Baptistery, at Lenno, crossed over in the boat to the Villa
Arconati,--which stands on its promontory half surrounded by water,
and embowered in shade. Here the pair sat on the edge of a low wall,
overlooking the lake, and carried on a lively discussion,--of which
Mrs. Ffinch was the subject. Nancy did gallant battle for her friend,
and patroness, and spoke with enthusiasm of her generosity and kindness
of heart.

"Of course I am not denying old Julia a few good qualities; I've known
her since I was a kid,"--and Sir Dudley unkindly added--"she's four
or five years older than I am.--I remember her in the nursery, a big,
overbearing girl, _very_ stingy with jam. In those days the Hillsides
were terribly hard up, and had a large family. Ju Lamerton was a
sensible young woman, with no romantic nonsense about her, and she made
room for her sisters, by marrying the biggest bore in the whole of
India."

"Well, at any rate, they seem quite happy."

"_Seem_," repeated Sir Dudley; "that's her cleverness; she manages him.
She manages everyone! She married off Emma and Mabel, and last time
she came home, got a lout of a brother, into a capital sinecure." Then
turning to look at Nancy, he added--"I wonder she didn't try her hand
on _you_,--but I suppose you were too young?"

Nancy felt herself colouring up to the roots of her hair, and carried
off the suggestion with a rather embarrassed laugh.

"I expect you had all the young planters on their knees, young as you
were? Come now, own up, strictly between ourselves! How many scalps did
you bring home?"

"Not one," she answered, with decision, "we were just good friends,
like you and I,--nothing more."

"I am delighted we are good friends," murmured Villars; and after this
sentence, there fell a strange and dreamy silence. The surrounding
scene was exquisite, the beauty of Italy's lake land, tinged with
a kind of roseate romance. Above them to the left, towered hills,
clothed with olive and chestnut woods; at their feet gently lapped the
jade-green water of the lake. The glow of a wonderful sunset touched
the quiet landscape, and the only sound that recalled one to a workaday
world, was the chime of the Angelus, stealing across from San Giovanni.

The stillness and solitude, had a compelling effect upon Villars;
turning to Nancy, he said abruptly, "I must speak! Here is the hour,
and the place! I want to tell you, that I have not had such a happy
time, as this last five weeks--for many a long, long year. Nancy, may
I call you Nancy?--everyone does, and Miss Travers sounds so formal!
I may, may I not?"--as Nancy made no reply, but nervously twisted a
rose between her fingers. He moved an inch or two nearer, and in a low,
seductive voice continued: "There is no one to object,--is there?"

"No one," she answered, raising her head, and meeting his burning dark
eyes, with a flash of pride. He gazed at her critically and in silence.
What a darling she was! From the very first he had been enthralled by
her high spirits, _entrain_, and beauty; here, he assured himself, was
the perfect treasure for which he had vainly sought; and in many and
far lands. He had made this discovery on former occasions,--but the
prize had eluded him, or proved a bitter disappointment. Close beside
him, twirling a red rose in her taper fingers, sat his one, and only
love.

If that devil Cassandra, would but divorce him, here was her
successor,--the future Lady Villars! But Cassandra, the most obstinate
and malignant of her sex, was adamant; hitherto, his appeals, prayers,
threats, and flagrant indiscretions had failed to move her. This was
her revenge; she refused to release him!

Something in this long and unusual silence, filled the girl with a
sense of vague uneasiness: and this uneasiness was not dispelled, when
her companion broke the long pause, with the startling question: "May I
kiss you, darling?" His voice was very humble and pleading, but there
was a smouldering fire, in his melancholy dark eyes.

"Certainly not," she answered sharply.

"But why?" urged Villars, moving still nearer, "since we are such
friends?"

"Because I should hate it," she declared decisively.

"_Une jeunesse sans amour, est comme un matin sans soleil_," he quoted.
"I suppose no man has ever touched those perfect lips?"

Nancy tossed the rose away, but made no reply: she was feeling
excessively uncomfortable.

"So you know nothing about it, darling little girl?" he went on. "No
one has ever yet drawn your soul through in one long kiss! Listen to
_me_, Nancy," and he made an effort to take her hand. "Won't you make
room for a very lonely fellow in your heart? You _would_, if you only
knew how miserable his life has been."

Nancy slipped down off the low wall, and stood erect, surveying her
companion with a heightened colour, and irrepressible tears glistening
in her eyes. She had received a tremendous shock, and felt a horrible
impression of degradation, and insecurity.

"Sir Dudley, please don't talk to me in this way. I," and she gulped
down an inclination to burst into tears, "I--I don't like it!"

Then with a desperate snatch at her ebbing self-possession, she added:
"Will you be so kind as to signal for the boat?"

"Horrified! frightened! affronted! easy to see _she's_ new to the
situation," he said to himself. "I must go slow, _chi va sano--va
lontano_. I've been a bit of an ass, but the sunset and the Angelus
were too much for me."

"You know I wouldn't offend you for the whole world," he murmured, as
in strained self-consciousness they awaited the boat. "Only forgive
me for this once! One never can tell. Most girls like admiration, and
kisses--I see you are different."

Nancy made no reply, but picked up her red Lugano umbrella, and got
into the boat, without a word.

"She has taken the little scene seriously," he said to himself, as he
looked at her set profile, and it was now his turn to be uneasy, and
alarmed! Supposing she were to go and lodge a long complaint with Aunty
De Wolfe? He must make his peace before they returned to the hotel.
Accordingly on their way there, with all the eloquence, cleverness,
and guile of a well-experienced diplomatist in emotion, he pleaded
with his companion, for forgiveness; his misery and regrets appeared
to be so acute, that they touched her sensitive feelings, and cooled
her indignation. How _could_ she withstand, the tears that stood in his
wonderful eyes?

Notwithstanding this patched up peace, Mrs. De Wolfe might have noticed
a certain constraint, between her young companions that evening, and
there was no singing,--but as it happened, the mind of their chaperon
was occupied with a recent interview, and the old lady was happily
unconscious of any cloud.




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                               A WARNING


Among Mrs. De Wolfe's friends at Bellaggio, was a certain lady, known
to her intimates as "Sally Horne," a well endowed, unencumbered widow
of sixty; her daughter was married to an Indian official, her son was
quartered in Cairo,--and her London house was let! She and her maid
were staying at the "Victoria," where she had many acquaintances, and
vainly endeavoured to inveigle Mrs. De Wolfe to cross the water, and
establish herself in her company,--but Mrs. De Wolfe declining the lure
of Bridge, preferred to remain where she was!

The afternoon that Nancy and Sir Dudley set out to sketch the
Baptistery, Mrs. Horne came over to see her friend. The old lady was
sitting in the little garden by the lake, and recognizing her visitor
on the boat, hastened to meet, and welcome her.

"Would you like to go inside, Sally?" she asked, "or shall we have tea
out here?"

"I've had tea, thank you," said Mrs. Horne, "but by all means let us
sit outside. Where's your girl?" she inquired, looking round, and her
air was inquisitorial.

"Gone up to Lenno to finish a sketch."

"With Sir Dudley?"

Mrs. De Wolfe nodded a careless assent. After a moment's hesitation
this bold visitor announced: "I have something disagreeable to say to
you, Elizabeth."

"You needn't tell me that!" rejoined her companion, with a grim smile,
"I saw it in your face, before you came off the boat."

"I wonder if I shall make you very angry!"

"_Try_," said Mrs. De Wolfe; the word was a challenge, "I've not been
in a good wholesome rage for ages."

"Well, it's about Nancy, and Sir Dudley Villars.--People are talking."

"Bah!" ejaculated Mrs. De Wolfe, "let them talk!"

"But do please listen, my dear! I am fond of Nancy, and I can't bear to
hear it said, that she is being compromised."

"Compromised," shouted Mrs. De Wolfe. "What nonsense! What infamous
scandal."

"Yes, it's all over my hotel, and only this morning, as we sat in the
garden, Lady MacBullet, said she was sorry for Miss Travers; such a
pretty young creature, and she understood an orphan, making herself so
cheap and conspicuous, with a man of the character of Dudley Villars.
They were on the lake together all day,--and the hotel was full of
stories."

"Only cat women's gossip,--I know the style! I'm sure the men don't
talk of Dudley's character! Men are not gossips!"

"Oh! and why not; what about men's clubs?"

"Well, I've never heard a _man_, say anything against Dudley."

"No, because he is straight enough with _them_, I believe;--both rich
and generous. For women, he has a different code! Elizabeth, I know
you are devoted to Dudley Villars,--and although an old grandmother,
I am not altogether insensible to his fascinations, _myself_! When he
chooses, he can be irresistible, so do pray imagine the spell he can
cast over an impressionable young girl like Nancy?"

"_No_ spell has been cast," protested her friend, sharply, "and really
I'm surprised at you, Sally, taking the trouble to come over here, and
tell me your hotel was talking scandal. Dudley Villars is my godson, I
have absolute confidence in him you may be sure, or I would never have
suffered him to be the continual companion of Nancy."

"Well, at least I meant well," said Mrs. Horne, stiffly, "and my good
intention must be its own reward. I like Nancy, otherwise I wouldn't
have bothered." Then rising, "I see the Tremezzo boat coming in, and I
will go back in her!"

"No indeed, Sally," pulling her down, "you will do nothing of the sort.
I'm an ungrateful, ungracious old harridan, and I'm sincerely obliged
to you for your interest in Nancy. I confess, that I have never seen
anything but the best side of Dudley; I believe, and I feel in my
bones,--that he has behaved most honourably, with regard to the girl;
not one indiscreet word has he spoken! _That_ I can guarantee; and
she is not susceptible! Every scrap of love in her heart was absorbed
by her father, and since his death, I do not think she has much to
spare for anyone. Dudley and Nancy are good friends, and no more. I've
allowed them a little extra liberty, to go sketching and boating, not
knowing that _every_ eye was fixed upon them! I have already told
you, I trust Dudley, and as for the girl, before she ever saw him, I
informed her that he was a married man."

"Sometimes that makes no difference," remarked her companion.

"Oh! my dear Sally, I'm afraid you are getting infected; let me again
assure you, that Dudley's friendship with Nancy, is entirely platonic!"

"Then, my dear Elizabeth, it's something entirely new for Dudley
Villars," and Mrs. Horne, imparted to a reluctant ear, a brief account
of one or two affairs of which he was the hero.

"I suppose you haven't heard that the Bellamys are separated on his
account, and Daisy Bellamy has gone home to her mother?"

"_I've_ never believed that Dudley was responsible for that business!
still I'm afraid, Sally, that I've been a little slack as a chaperon;
so I'll put an end to the talk, by taking the girl on to Florence."

"A very wise move, my dear, and I sincerely hope it will not be a case
of 'locking the stable door, when the steed is stolen.'"

"No indeed! _my_ palfrey is safe. Nancy is heartwhole. I am getting
rather tired of the lake, and am such a well-known old tramp, that when
I bundle off at a couple of days' notice, it never excites remark."

"Do you think that Dudley Villars will make his way there too?"

"No," rejoined his champion with decision, "for although it is a
perfectly harmless friendship, I draw the line at followers."

After the boat had carried her visitor away, Mrs. De Wolfe remained for
a long time buried in profound meditation; then she rose, went into the
hotel, despatched a prepaid wire to Florence, and give notice of her
intending departure.

The next morning as the little party were at _déjeuner_, Mrs. De Wolfe
received a telegram. Having read it, she laid it aside and said: "Well
that's all right, we have got our rooms! Nancy, prepare to march on
Florence, the day after to-morrow!"

"You are not serious!" exclaimed Sir Dudley, setting down an untasted
glass.

"Perfectly serious, I wonder that I was not away long before this! My
campaigns, like Napoleon's, are rapidly organized."

"But _you_ have no campaign."

"No! but what about Nancy?"

"Beginning with this forced march, Auntie Wolfe, I wonder you can
exchange this lovely clear air, for the gloomy streets of Florence."

Mrs. De Wolfe laughed, and said: "I am tired of looking out on water;
in my hotel, which is not on the Lung' Arno, I can lie at my ease in a
comfortable bed, and stare at the Duomo; think of that!"

Dudley realized how foolish it was to argue with Auntie Wolfe at
present, but when Nancy had departed to give instructions to her maid,
and the old lady was alone, he said:

"Why are you going off so suddenly?"

An unwelcome idea flashed into his brain. Could Nancy have confided in
her chaperon?

"To a plain question, I'll give you a plain answer, my dear boy. There
are two kinds of discretion: one voluntary; the other enforced. I find
that people have begun to notice that you and my little girl are very
much together, and although it is a most innocent friendship, still it
does not do for Nancy to be talked about, so we will remove ourselves."

"What an infernal shame," exclaimed her godson, looking surprisingly
vexed. "The venomous tongues of some devils wouldn't leave an angel
alone."

"And you, my dear Dudley, are by all accounts, far from being an
angel!--I have heard some sad tales."

"Which of course you don't believe! Have you ever known me to play
the fool with any of your friends?" He paused for a reply. As none
was forthcoming he continued, "I cannot tell you what a happy time I
have put in here. You know I always feel so much at home with you,
dear Auntie Wolfe!" and he stooped and kissed her on her cheek. Then,
straightening himself, he said, as if struck by a bright idea: "I've
not been in Florence for a couple of years,--I believe I'll run down
there next week."

"_No_, Dudley," protested his godmother, raising her thin old hand,
"_that_ I positively forbid. You will see us in town,--and later at
the Court, but abroad, no more! It is so easy to be conspicuous in a
small do-nothing circle, and I'm sure you are quite as sensitive about
Nancy's reputation--though that is too big a word--as I am myself."

During the remaining two days, Dudley's manner to Nancy was perfect,
and entirely of the kindly elder brother type. He gave her sketches of
their favourite spots, supplied her with books for the journey, and
went all the way to Como, to put the ladies and their parcels into the
train, himself. Then returned down the lake alone, in a condition of
most abject misery. For days he walked and boated in the neighbourhood
of Cadenabbia; a melancholy object of picturesque dejection. Those who
witnessed and marked this change, said to one another, "Dudley Villars
has been badly hit this time; serves him jolly well right!" He wrote
cheerful (and exchangeable) letters to both ladies, giving them to
understand, that he was excessively gay, and well occupied.

But do what he would, he could not get Nancy out of his head; however
he consoled himself with the belief, that time and persistence would
be his staunch allies. And how he longed to see her! Sometimes
this longing overpowered him, and he nearly drove Antonio crazy by
his conflicting, and capricious orders. Twice, he arranged to go to
Florence, twice, he changed his mind; at last, he positively took his
departure. Was not Florence free to all the world?--Auntie Wolfe's
attitude implied that she had it on lease,--and even if he only saw
Nancy in a church, a picture gallery, or the street,--that would be
something!

On his arrival in the city of flowers, he boldly drove direct to Mrs.
De Wolfe's hotel; and here he had the mortification of learning, that
"the Signora and the Signorina, had left that morning for Palermo!"

       *       *       *       *       *

From Sicily, the ever wandering Mrs. De Wolfe, took ship for Egypt,
where she put up at the Savoy Hotel, Cairo; here she discovered her
friend, Mrs. Horne, already established, and heard that all the Miller
party were at the Mena House.

"Six months' travelling had wrought a surprising change in her family,"
as Billy explained to her friend Nancy,--to whom she paid an immediate
visit.

"I declare we are so altered, you will hardly recognize any of our
party,--except myself. There is the Pater, he has cut off his little
side whiskers, and wears up-to-date collars, and looks years younger;
he plays golf, is very keen about excursions, and actually dances at
our hotel balls! He has met crowds of old friends, and has come out
of his shell in a most remarkable manner. Then mother has floated to
the surface. She now goes about with us; dresses very smartly, has
taken madly to Bridge, and can ride a donkey with the best. I think it
was Minna's engagement that aroused her from her torpor. She was so
immensely interested in a love affair at first hand! Minna is making
a splendid match, and we _all_ love Major Brently; he has become our
brother, and what he calls, 'wheels us into line'; and is awfully good
to us. Mother having, to use a sporting expression 'tasted blood,' has
now great hopes of Brenda; and many people consider Baby, our beauty!
The fact is, what with this inspiring climate, heaps of new friends, a
whirl of excitement and amusement, our existence has been quickened,
and we don't know ourselves, we are so happy!"

"Then your exodus has been a wonderful success! What a triumph for
_you_, Billy? No one now dare call you 'Silly Billy!'"

"Yes, it has turned out all right, and even if nothing particular had
occurred,--like Minna's engagement,--we would have had enough to think
and talk about, for years. As it is, we have souvenirs to fill a room,
and thousands of picture postcards; have enlarged our ideas, and made
many friends,--even mother has her pals."

"You like Egypt, I can see," said Nancy.

"I just love it, the sand, the delicious desert air, the cloudless
blue sky, and then Cairo itself. You and I must go about together,
Nancy. I've been here six weeks, and am getting quite clever at finding
my way, and making bargains. I can even talk a little Arabic. I have
collected ever so many presents for the people at home."

"I am sure you have," said Nancy; "how I wish that I had people at
home, I could take presents to."

"Oh! that will all come in time, my dear. Do tell me, have you come
across any interesting young men?"

"Yes, several; good dancers and tennis players, but not otherwise
specially engaging."

"You don't appear to have lost your heart?"

"No, I don't believe I've _that_ sort of heart to lose."

"It remains to be seen. When I've married off my three sisters--I'll
see about settling you."

"Thank you, Billy."

"And talking of settling, I wonder how father and the Mum will content
themselves at home, after this gay and giddy whirl about the world?"

"They won't settle; they will be continually on the move. I warn you,
that you have started an avalanche."

"A good thing I did! better than being an iceberg all one's days. By
the way, I hear you have done some exquisite water-colours of Como; do
show them to me."

"Oh! how good!" she exclaimed, after Nancy had displayed her
treasures,--artfully keeping the best to the last--

"Nancy, these are quite top-hole,--who taught you?"

"I had a good master at school, but a friend of Mrs. De Wolfe's, who
was at Cadenabbia, gave me lessons. We went out sketching together,
almost every day."

"With a chaperon, of course?"

Nancy shook her head.

"Who was he; had he a name?"

"Certainly he had! Sir Dudley Villars."

"Oh! Some call him 'Prince Charming,' others, 'a Deadly villain.'
He is not very young,--but so handsome, isn't he? and a merciless
lady-killer."

"Well, here am I, alive and well, so you see he has spared _me_," said
Nancy, who had almost forgotten a certain conversation which had taken
place on the low wall, by the Villa Aconati.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cairo is said to be the most typical Eastern city in the world, and it
appealed very strongly to Nancy Travers. The palm trees, the dark faces
of a gesticulating voluble throng, the dense blue sky, the warm and
golden sun, in some ways recalled India. In February Cairo is socially
at its gayest. Nancy and her chaperon were in flattering request.

However, it was not society, but this land of tombs, temples and a
river, that engrossed her interest, and fired her warm imagination.
One afternoon, towards the end of her stay, as Mrs. De Wolfe and Nancy
drove out to the Mena House, behind a dashing pair of long-tailed
Arabs, as they sped along Ismail's road, the old lady discussed her
plans.

"I must give you a bit of the season, Nancy, and you shall be presented
at a May Court."

"Oh! no, no, please no!"

"Well, you know, you will have to make your curtsey to your sovereign,
some time! Shall we say on your marriage?"

Nancy made no immediate reply, but the cheek nearest to her friend, was
unusually pink--Why? She appeared to be engrossed in watching a long
string of clumsy, heavily-laden camels. Nothing to blush at there!

"After June, we will go down to the Court," resumed Mrs. De Wolfe; "it
is such a dear old place, you will love it."

"How can you desert it, as you do?"

"That is what my neighbours ask, but I don't mind their remonstrances,
I yield to the _Wanderlust_. The Court is too large for one old woman,
and though I am attached to it,--it holds agonizing memories, and I
cannot endure it, unless it is packed,--so to speak,--to the roof,
when my guests and their doings monopolize my attention, and distract
my thoughts from the long illness, and death of my dear husband, the
parting with my two sons,--who never came back to me. One was killed
at Magersfontein, the other died of typhoid in India. The Court is full
of reminders, of Freddy, and Hugh. Their bedrooms, with their personal
belongings, are precisely as they left them, with their pictures,
books, birds' eggs, and butterflies. The gardens they worked in, are
still kept up, and planted with their favourite flowers; their old
pony, Barkis, only died two years ago, at an immense age. I often ask
myself, why the lives of those two promising young men should be cut
short? and a useless old woman, their mother, still cumbers the ground?"

To this question Nancy--who had a large lump in her throat--could make
no reply, and there fell a long silence.

"I wonder what you see in me, my dear?" began Mrs. De Wolfe suddenly.
"My life is now behind me, you are young and stand upon its
threshold,--a radiant, and expectant figure."

"Radiant! I'm afraid not; you are too partial, and as for
expectations--they are strictly moderate."

"That at least is something. On the _Patna_, they were positively nil.
Poor forlorn child, I took pity upon you, as I would on a drowning
kitten!"

"You did," assented the girl, with laughing eyes, "and here I am on
your hands, a full-grown young cat!"

"Claws and all complete, a most formidable responsibility! Well, I
threw you a plank and brought you to land,--some of these days I may
float you off again, upon the sea of matrimony."

"No, no, dear Auntie Wolf," laying her hand on hers, "I'm very happy as
I am,--please don't dream of such a thing."

"Well, if I do not,--others will. Ah, there are Sir Lucas and Major
Horne, waiting for us," she added, as they turned into the garden, and
dashed up the entrance of Mena House. "I wonder if the Millers have
secured their cabins in our steamer?"

"I think so, and you will find Major Horne will be of the party,--I
have a presentiment, that he hopes to marry Billy."




                             CHAPTER XXIV

                       A LITTLE DINNER FOR THREE


The end of April found Mrs. De Wolfe and her protégée in London,
installed in a fine suite at the Hyde Park Hotel. The position suited
the old lady, as here she was surrounded by connections and friends.
There was her sister-in-law in Park Lane, her niece in Belgrave Square,
the Hillsides within a stone's throw, and the Millers in Pont Street.
She and her young companion were soon sought out, and overwhelmed with
invitations, and Nancy lived in a whirl of agreeable engagements.

First an early ride in the Park, then the morning shopping; luncheon
parties, receptions, dinners, and above all, dances! Spare moments
were devoted to "fittings," and hurried visits to girl friends.--These
various claims, literally devoured the long summer days.--Nancy
was very gay and happy in this new life, a conspicuous figure in
her immediate circle! admired in private, stared at in public, and
favoured with yet another gift besides beauty, and youth. Wherever
she went, she appeared to bring sunshine; and those who knew her,
revelled in her endowment. Among her chief partners and cavaliers
were, Sir Dudley Villars, Major Cathcart--now enjoying a nice soft
staff appointment--Toby Lamerton, Lord Lanark, and various others too
numerous to mention.

Soon after her arrival in London, Nancy had reported herself in Queen's
Gate, and waited upon her aunt,--unsupported by her good friend, Mrs.
De Wolfe. Mrs. Jenkins' little blue eyes opened to their widest extent,
when they beheld her niece, no longer a shrinking and humble satellite,
but a self-possessed, well-dressed, and independent damsel.

As her envious glance wandered over an elegant toilet, she realized
that this "bird of paradise" would be entirely out of place, in her
own ordinary "Hen Run." It was evident that the girl had a good maid,
and a good conceit of herself; she resolved to secure Nancy for a
visit,--which would include at least, two state dinners,--in order that
her own friends should have an opportunity of beholding a niece whose
success and striking appearance, would add to her own importance.

Mrs. Taylor and Miss Dolling happened to be both in attendance,--the
one as faded and sentimental, the other aggressive, and glum--as of
old. At the end of twenty minutes' conversation,--chiefly questions and
answers,--Miss Dolling rose, and said, "I'll just go and fetch the Pom,
I'm sure he'd love to see Nancy."

"And I'm sure he wouldn't recognize her _now_," said Mrs. Taylor, with
significance, and for once Mrs. Taylor happened to be right. The Pom
merely sniffed indifferently at Nancy's smart gown, and then rudely
retired into his comfortable padded basket.

"And how is the Coffee?" inquired Mrs. Jenkins, in a condescending
manner.

"Oh, doing well. One of my old friends has taken over the management;
and gold has been found on the estate."

"Gold? well I never!" ejaculated Miss Dolling. "Fancy owning a gold
mine!"

"It's a reef, I believe," explained Nancy, "and has been taken over by
a company."

"So you're _quite_ a millionaire," remarked her aunt, rather sourly.
"And what are your plans for the summer?"

"We are going down to Mrs. De Wolfe's place, Newenham Court--later on."

"Oh, so she _has_ a place; I always understood, that she lived in
hotels and steamers, and had no home?"

"She found it so lonely, living all by herself."

"Then why not have a companion?" demanded Mrs. Taylor, "goodness knows
they are cheap enough!"

"She has a companion now,--she has _me_," declared Nancy with a smile.

"Oh, _you_!" with an impatient sniff, "you won't last her long; young
women with money, are soon snapped up. You'll marry within six months."

"I assure you, I shall _not_."

"Ah, that is how girls always talk," broke in Miss Dolling, "I used to
say the very same things myself; you have yet to meet your fate," and
she heaved a heavy sigh, as with her head on one side, she dreamily
contemplated Nancy,--the daughter of her one, and only love!

Before the visitor took leave, she was invited, nay, almost commanded,
to come and stay at Queen's Gate. This invitation she firmly, but very
civilly declined. Mrs. De Wolfe could not possibly spare her.

"Well," said Mrs. Jenkins, looking alarmingly pink and angry, "I do
think your own aunt has a claim before _strangers_; I shall expect you
to give me at least a week."

But the niece of her own aunt proved to be adamant, and submitted a
long, and imposing list of her engagements. She, however, consented
to appear at a dinner-party,--the date of which Mrs. Jenkins, diary
in hand, fixed so far ahead, that excuse or evasion, was out of the
question.

One Sunday afternoon Nancy, and a party of friends, betook themselves
to the Park, chaperoned by Mrs. De Wolfe and Lord Hillside. The usual
rendezvous near Stanhope Gate, was crowded, and the promenade bordering
the grass, so thronged that progress was difficult. Nancy and Tony
Lamerton lagged somewhat in the rear of their companions, and during
a block in the seething mass, she descried a face she hadn't seen
for more than two years: the beaming visage of Teddy Dawson, wearing
a wide smile upon his half-open mouth. Oh, how funny he looked! His
coat sleeves and trousers, inches too short; an old-fashioned tall
hat crammed on the back of his head, otherwise the same blue-eyed old
Teddy. Nancy instantly extended a delicately gloved hand, but instead
of grasping it (as expected), he failed to recognize a friend in this
smart young lady, and became the colour of a boiled beetroot.

"There must be some mistake," he said to himself, "_he_ had no
acquaintance with this dazzling creature, who had so to speak, summoned
him to halt,"--but when Nancy smiled at his overpowering embarrassment,
and he looked into her eyes, he exclaimed, "Great Christmas, can it be
_Nancy_?"

"Why not?" she demanded. "Of course it's Nancy."

The pair were unaffectedly glad to meet, and exchanged very cordial
greetings.

"When did you arrive?" she asked. "Yesterday?"

"Now, how in the world did you guess?"

"By your wardrobe; Jessie will have to take you in hand."

"Oh, so you've heard!" he replied, with a conscious grin. "My coming
home was a bit sudden; but at the very last moment I got a passage in
the same boat, with Jess, and her mother. Where are you stopping?"

"At present, we are _both_ stopping the public thoroughfare,--but you
will find me at the Hyde Park Hotel. I've no end of things to hear, and
to say to you. Will you and Jessie come and dine to-morrow night at
eight?"

"I can't answer for Jess,--I believe she has no frocks yet, but I'll
come all right."

"Don't be late," and with a parting nod, she drifted on.

"I say! that's a rum-looking chap," said Tony. "Did you ever see such
boots?--like coal boxes, and what a hat! no gloves, hands the size of a
ham,--where on earth did you get hold of him?"

"In India, he was our nearest neighbour; I've known him since I was in
socks. He is one of the best; something quite extra! You mustn't judge
him by his clothes! If you had put in ten years on a coffee estate,
perhaps you wouldn't be so _very_ smart yourself!"

"Perhaps not! Well, I hope when Jessie has got her frocks, she will do
something for him, poor chap! His coat would be a find for the wardrobe
of our regimental theatre. Is _he_ a specimen of the men you met out in
India?"

"He is a specimen of a successful planter, a first-rate sportsman,
and a real friend. He was like a kind elder brother, when I was in
frightful trouble. Well!" in a totally different voice--"there are Mrs.
De Wolfe and Sir Dudley beckoning--I do hope, they have kept us chairs!"

"Mr. Edward Dawson," as announced in Mrs. De Wolfe's sitting-room,
arrived to dine, alone, bringing a long epistle from Jessie, who was
staying in West Kensington, with some of her mother's relatives. Teddy
had invested in a new black tie and a pair of shiny shoes, and looked
quite passable when presented to Mrs. De Wolfe,--who gave him a cordial
reception. She knew all about him,--and had even read his letters!

The two ladies, who were "going on" to a ball, were in full dress;
Nancy so transformed and lovely, that Teddie could scarcely take his
eyes from her. His surprise and bewilderment were such, that several
times, he entirely forgot what he was going to say, and blundered
about, with spoons and helpings, as if he had never dined in company
before! He and Nancy had much to discuss, and he spoke freely and
openly before the "old lady," as he mentally called her.

"I must confess, I wonder how you got round Finchie?" said Nancy.

"Oh, you mean about Jess? You see she was away up in Cashmere, and
the mice played about! She declares that Jessie's mad,--and that I'm
a savage and belong to the Stone Age; but Jessie stood up for me and
said, 'At any rate, he is a rock of sense.' Rather smart, eh?"

"Yes," agreed Mrs. De Wolfe.

"And then the General, that's my father," he explained to the old lady,
"has come forward nobly, and is going shares in the rent of Fairplains;
he and I, will be your tenants, Nance."

"Yes, and I shall go out and stay with Jessie and you, for such
ages,--that you'll be obliged to leave home!"

"And what about the gold?" inquired Mrs. De Wolfe.

"I believe it's paying hand over fist. Nancy, you will remember Nicky
always swore that there was gold in those old workings. I thought it a
fairy tale, but when some engineer chaps came sniffing round for reefs,
Nicky put them on, and went down with them himself. The gold was all
right, and he has stuffed several thousands a year, into your pocket.
Mind you don't forget _that_!"

"You may be sure I won't.--And so he is staying on at the Corner?"

Teddy nodded.

"Alone?" Her tone was significant.

"I don't think so! Perhaps you can guess the name of the new partner?
By the way," lowering his voice, as he noted that Mrs. De Wolfe was
absorbed in the menu, "what about that chap?" ... name indistinct, to
the sharp-eared chaperon. "Do you ever hear anything of him?"

"Never!" was the emphatic reply.

Mrs. De Wolfe waited to hear more, and continued to stare steadily at
the word "asparagus." "He pays in the money for you to the day; it is
lying in my name at Grindlays--about six hundred pounds."

The anxious matron felt immensely relieved; of course the money, had
to do with _coffee_. She laid down the card, and glanced over at
Nancy,--never had she seen her with so high a colour; and yet it was
not a warm evening, and the girl hadn't touched anything stronger
than barley water. Nancy, too, had violently assailed her with her
foot. Why? She was not aware that she had made a social blunder, or
_faux pas_; and how the girl chattered! Undoubtedly these tidings and
reminiscences, and "Plain tales from the hills," had excited her, and
made her rather odd and unlike herself!




                              CHAPTER XXV

                    THE MEDITATIONS OF DEREK MAYNE


The cable dispatched to Mayne, had been so urgent and alarming, that
he half expected to hear bad news when the mail steamer called at
Port Said,--however, neither cable nor letter awaited him. Arriving
in London early one May morning, he drove up to his mother's house in
Charles Street,--intending to ask for news and a meal. The door was
opened by a somewhat dishevelled footman, who informed him that "her
ladyship was out of town."

"But was I not expected?" inquired the caller, glancing at his
luggage-laden taxi, "I am Captain Mayne."

"Oh yes, sir, you were ex_pected_, but her ladyship said as 'ow you
couldn't possibly be here before Monday, and she and his lordship has
gone down to Brighton for the week-end."

This was but a tepid welcome after an absence of some years; however,
there was nothing for Mayne to do, but re-enter the cab and have
himself driven to his club. Here, he encountered various old friends,
lunched, paid a hasty visit to his tailor, bought an umbrella, and took
the afternoon express to Campfield, the nearest station to Maynesfort.

Maynesfort was a venerable, but well preserved Jacobean house (with
artfully hidden Georgian patches), and stood amidst delightful and
rural surroundings. On the south side, lay a prim Dutch garden,
beyond that, an undulating heavily wooded park,--both overlooked by
the windows of a once famous library. This library was now the chief
reception room; ever since the death of Mrs. Mayne, the drawing-rooms
had been closed!

Here, the master of the house received his guests and tenants, here he
smoked, gossiped and read the newspapers--_The Times_, _The Field_,
_Country Life_, and with special avidity, the local Rag,--but he
never opened a book,--although encompassed by thousands of neglected
volumes.--He was not, as he boastfully declared, "a reading man."
"Jorrocks" was his favourite hero; his, was an outdoor temperament;
hunting, shooting, gardening, and farming were all to his taste; and
the house was merely a sort of refuge, where he ate, and slept; four
weeks' incarceration indoors, was to him an unexampled experience. On
a lounge in the library, surrounded by a volume of tobacco smoke, and
attended by a buxom nurse, the invalid was found by his nephew and heir.

Richard Mayne, J.P. and D.L., was a remarkably active little man, some
years over seventy; he had keen dark eyes, flexible brows, a firm,
clean shaven mouth, and a pleasant smile. The arrival of his nephew,
afforded him real and unqualified pleasure, and he greeted him with
outstretched hands, and a full resonant voice--by no means the feeble
squeak of an invalid.--"Got your wire this morning, sent the car, glad
to see you, my boy--very glad!"

"And how are you, Uncle Dick? you look fairly fit. Going on all right,
eh, nurse!" glancing at his companion.

"Yes, Mr. Mayne has made a remarkable recovery," she rejoined, "I
expect in a few weeks, he will be quite out of my hands," and she rose
and retired, leaving the uncle and nephew to themselves.

"It's the healthy outdoor life, eh, 'um, 'um, that's what has stood to
me--but I tell you, when that brute rolled on me, I thought it was a
case for the undertaker!

"Yes," assented his nephew, "from that cable, I was afraid you were in
a bad way, Uncle Dick, and I'm awfully glad to find you so well."

"We wrote to Port Said to tell you I was going on all right,--but I
daresay we missed the mail. You are looking uncommonly fit, not a bit
yellow or tucked up! India has taken no toll off _you_: good stations,
good sport, 'um, 'um?"

After such a long absence from home, there was much for Mayne to hear,
and for his uncle to impart; the old gentleman was a fluent talker,
and enchanted to get hold of a listener, to whom all his news was
absolutely fresh. He was ten times more anxious to relate, than to
listen, and unfolded a heavy budget,--without displaying any curiosity
as to what the traveller might have to offer in exchange?

First, there were the full details of his accident,--including the
weather, the condition of the ground, the character, and pedigree of
the horse; then came "the case," the doctors, the specialist, and a
warm eulogium of his nurses. After this, the county news; succeeded by
estate and domestic intelligence; who had come, and who had gone, how
the pheasants had done; how the great fig tree was dead,--also the hen
swan, and the old woman at the west lodge.

Mayne found the place but little changed--everything in the same
apple-pie order. Maynesfort was his uncle's hobby, he loved the old
place with an absorbing passion,--and to tell the truth found her a
very extravagant mistress! A series of reckless predecessors, had
dissipated and gambled away the property, till but about a thousand
acres remained; and although the owner lived, so to speak, rent free,
there was much to maintain; the ancient house like its kind, was in
constant want of repair; the drains, the roof, the chimneys, called for
outlay, and supervision; the gardens, greenhouses, and avenues, had to
be kept up,--as Maynesfort had a reputation to support, and there were
no nice fat farms, to bring in a steady revenue.

The late Mrs. Mayne, had been a woman of fortune, and her money
had assisted to maintain Maynesfort, as a sort of show place.--Its
mullioned windows and heavy chimney stacks, were a great feature on the
local post cards.

As the long May days went by, the heir of Maynesfort found time to hang
heavily on his hands,--although he successfully concealed the fact.
There was no shooting, except a few pigeon of an evening; naturally
there was no hunting, he was not a fisherman; most of the neighbours
were in London for the season, and the Parsonage was in quarantine
with scarlet fever. Mayne rode about the lanes on an elderly cob,
strolled through the park and gardens, played cricket with the village
team,--but still the days were long and empty.

He read the papers to his uncle, played dominoes and backgammon, and
even "cut-throat" Bridge with him and the nurse. He smoked many pipes,
and listened to many stories: descriptions of the season's good runs,
and best days' shooting.

Strange to say, the old gentleman exhibited but little or no interest
in Indian sport,--nor wished to hear, in what way his nephew had passed
the last four years? It was sufficient for him to know that he was
there, sitting opposite to him, looking a little older,--but both hale,
and hearty.

Richard Mayne was a man of one idea at a time,--but that idea, excluded
all others, and would occasionally hold the fort of his mind for
months. His present obsession, was, that Mayne should, could, and
must, marry,--and that without delay. At first his nephew had put
the suggestion aside with a joke, and a laugh; but he soon realized
that indifference and frivolity raised his uncle's ire; the flexible
eyebrows went up and down, or met, alarmingly; the "'um, 'um, 'ums"
came thick, and fast,--he resigned himself to the situation, and
suffered the old gentleman to talk and talk, and even to arrange a
formal, and imaginary parade of all the available spinsters in the
county!

"You see, my dear boy," he urged, "that time, when I was lying on my
back, and they were not quite sure, if I was internally injured, I
could not help thinking of this dear old place,--and its new master."

"What nonsense, Uncle Dick," protested Mayne, "you will be master here
for years, and years."

"No, no," waving away the idea, "if I'd snuffed out, you would have
had to come back, and take over my shoes, and sit here all alone; no
mistress for the house; so I made up my mind, that if I recovered, I'd
take right good care to see you _married_; married to some nice girl
with money; family not so important, you have enough family for both!
Now tell me, Derek, is there any young woman, you have a fancy for?"

"No, not one."

"Well, then, my dear boy, you must look round, now you are at home, and
find a pretty girl, with a pretty fortune, that will keep the old place
on its legs,--otherwise it might have to be _let_, and if that came to
pass, I believe I'd come out of the family vault! You know your aunt's
money goes back to her own people; the property itself is not worth
much. There is the grazing, and the woods, and Jones sells some of the
garden stuff, but the men's wages and coal and coke, run into hundreds
a year; our gambling ancestors staked farms and livings, and fishing
rights on the length of a straw, or the activity of a snail, and I tell
you, my blood boils when I think of them!"

"To marry, to look out for a nice girl with money," was the "motive,"
which, like the ever recurring air in an opera, ran through all Mr.
Mayne's jokes, reminiscences, and solemn exhortations to his nephew;
the subject became intolerable; his good nature and patience were
wearing a little thin, and it was an immense relief to escape into the
park of an afternoon, whilst the invalid dozed, there to wander about,
accompanied by two happy brown spaniels.

To find himself thrown entirely upon his own society, was a rare
experience for Derek Mayne; opportunities to meditate, and hold counsel
with his subconscious self, were invariably passed over and neglected;
his impulse was for action, to be up and doing, not thinking, or
mooning; but for once he found his thoughts arrested, and intensely
occupied, by his uncle's "idea," for once, he approached a subject,
with which he had hitherto refused to grapple,--and a swarm of
thoughts, not hitherto entertained, suddenly invaded his brain.

It was his nature to face things--but there was one stern fact, he had
always thrust aside. "Nancy!--their marriage! What was to be the end
of that coil?" Was he to go through life alone?--to live in that place
in the hollow, with no companionship, and no affection,--save what was
offered by the dogs? He might, he believed,--though he had never looked
into the subject,--obtain a divorce for desertion; but the idea was
repugnant,--such an action impossible!

He thought of Travers, who had given his life for him,--his anxiety
about the future of his little girl; the subsequent relief, and
gratitude he had read in those dying eyes; how could he drag "the
little girl" into the blaze and publicity of "a case in the courts";
oh, it was altogether a deadly business, and yet, where had he gone
wrong? Possibly, when he had suffered a mere chit of eighteen, to
take command of the situation; on the other hand, he recalled with a
guilty qualm, his sense of profound relief, and satisfaction, when he
discovered that she had cut the knot, severed their bonds, and fled!

The haunting vision of a miserable, white-faced, blighted, flapper,
accompanying him back to Cannanore, had undoubtedly had its terrors;
his colonel did not encourage matrimony,--it spoiled the mess,--and all
his little world would marvel at his choice! He wondered what Nancy was
like now? and what were her surroundings? Possibly she lived in some
third rate suburban circle, was prominent in the local tennis club,
wore home-made frocks, adored (platonically) some preacher or actor,
and led her old aunt by the nose. Only for the secret tie, which held
him, he might have been married long ere this. There was that lively
little girl up at Murree. What marvellous red hair, how she danced and
chattered; and she had liked him too,--but he had never gone beyond
the flirting stage, or dropped into serious love-making; the memory of
Fairplains constrained him.

A pretty face, had always appealed to Mayne, and certainly Nancy was
no beauty,--possibly by now, she had improved in appearance,--when her
complexion was no longer exposed to the sun, and her hair was properly
dressed, she might pass in a crowd; she would always be quick witted,
quick footed, and quick tempered. After much serious reflection, and
many pipes, he came to the conclusion, that now he was at home, it
was his business to find out something about _Mrs. Mayne_. The name
made him pause, and laugh aloud,--to the great bewilderment of the two
spaniels.--He need not necessarily seek an interview, no, far from it;
but he might as well make cautious inquiries, and discover where she
lived? and what she was doing?

Mrs. Ffinch was the right woman to lend him a helping hand, and as she
was expected home within the next few weeks, he would ask her to look
up Nancy, without bringing him into the question. Here was a field for
her particular activities; it was just the sort of commission she would
eagerly undertake, and thoroughly enjoy.

At the end of a fortnight, Mayne prepared to take his departure for
London; not without a half expected, and feared, opposition on the part
of his uncle; but to his surprise and joy, the old gentleman received
his hint of a move, without demur,--for he assured himself, that Derek
was about to act on his advice, and "look about him," and the sooner
he commenced his quest, the better. It was true that he had given no
definite promise; he had said but little; just lounged, and smoked,
and stared at the carpet, or out of the window; however, it was a well
known, and well proved adage, that "silence gives consent."

It was with a blissful sense of escape, that Mayne found himself seated
in the car, and once more bound for Campfield station. The sensation
was unusual,--for it was the first time, that he had ever felt glad to
leave Maynesfort, and he was secretly ashamed of his joyful relief. The
old man, accustomed to a life of constant outdoor activity, was putting
in a dull time,--and it had enlivened his empty hours, to build castles
in the air,--instead of model cottages,--and reckon upon the future
of his successor's wife, yes--and children! The nurseries had not been
occupied for nearly fifty years; but as the car skimmed round the last
bend in the avenue, and the tall chimney stacks sank out of sight,
Mayne, as he lighted his cigar, sternly assured himself, that as far as
_he_ was concerned,--Maynesfort would never have a mistress.




                             CHAPTER XXVI

                              THE MEETING


The new arrival in Charles Street soon discovered that he had by no
means bettered his position, on the contrary, appeared to have gone out
of the frying-pan, into the fire! Four years had wrought surprising
changes in the ménage: Lord Torquilstone had become "more so," as
Mayne mentally expressed it; his moustache was blacker, his coat more
padded, his temper more irascible, than formerly. He belonged to a type
of club man happily becoming extinct,--loud, aggressive in argument,
quarrelsome, gouty, and greedy. He and her ladyship did not now hit
it off,--and saw as little of one another as their mutual ingenuity
could contrive. She, never appeared before one o'clock; he, lunched,
and frequently dined, at his club,--unless they happened to have a
few guests, or were engaged to present themselves, at some particular
function.

Mayne noticed a woeful alteration in his mother; she looked faded, and
worn, there were deep lines about her mouth, her voice was querulous,
and her attitude the pose of one enduring "the bitter winter of her
discontent!" In her cold, unemotional way, she was glad to welcome
Derek, a handsome, creditable fellow and like his father; but in
character much stronger, and more self-assertive.

He seemed to be thoroughly capable of shaping his own life, had
excellent manners, plenty to say for himself, and judging by the number
of his letters, with regimental, and other crests, was claimed by hosts
of friends! In honour of his return, Lord Torquilstone dined at home,
and abused the dinner; and he and his wife passed the young man under
the harrow of a searching examination, with respect to his life, during
the last four years. Mayne found it useless to protest, "But Mater, you
had my letters."

"Yes, my dear boy,--they were rather dull. Not your fault I know, I
always hated India,--the deadly paradise of the middle class. It's just
what was _not_ in your letters, that I want to hear about."

"Oh well, if you mean manœuvres, camps of exercise----"

"Don't be so silly," she interrupted impatiently.

"Your mother wants to hear about those lively grass widows up in
Simla," broke in his lordship; "come now, own up!" and he chuckled
diabolically.

"I have nothing to own. Never had any use for the frisky matron, at
home, or abroad."

"Oh, Derek," protested his mother, "what about Josie Speyde?"

"Yes, what about _her_?" leaning back, with his hands in his pockets.

"You were one of her boys, I know!"

"She taught me to dance,--I'll say that for her."

"She taught you to flirt too."

"Don't expect the fellow wanted much teaching!" broke in Lord
Torquilstone. "Any nice little girls out in India?"

"Oh yes, lots."

"I hope you didn't leave your heart, behind, Derek? I warn you that as
daughter-in-law, I refuse to receive an Indian spin."

"Oh, there's no fear of that," replied Derek, lighting a cigarette, and
tossing the match into the fireplace.

"I suppose you know your uncle is very anxious that you should marry."

"I suppose I do know! I suppose he has it on the brain, I've heard of
nothing else,--he has driven me to the verge of idiocy."

"You were twenty-nine last April; time to be looking about, Derek. I
know some charming girls; I do hope you will let _me_ have a say?"

"Oh, my dear mother, you are welcome to as many says as you like, but I
haven't the smallest intention of marrying."

"That's the way you young fellows talk," declared Lord Torquilstone,
setting down an empty glass, "and then before you know where you are,
you're _caught_," and he glanced at his wife with deadly significance.

"I'd like to see the girl, who could put salt on my tail," rejoined his
stepson with extravagant confidence.

"Well now, Mater," glancing at his watch and rising as he spoke, "if
you'll excuse me, I'm going out."

"Going out!" she repeated blankly, "_where_ are you going?"

"To look on at a boxing match; I have promised to join a couple of
fellows at the Sports Club."

"A boxing match, how horrible--disgusting!"

"Well, I admit that it's not exactly a pretty sight sometimes; but I
like to see an active muscular fellow, that knows how to use his fists;
I do a little in that line myself. I won't be in till all hours,--so
I'll take a latch-key."

Before her ladyship could offer any further objection, he had kissed
her on her powdered cheek, nodded to his stepfather, and departed.

"Quite his own master!" remarked his mother, as she heard the whistle
for a taxi, "and I had promised to take him to the Rutherfords' 'at
home!' Last night he was at the Opera,--it's almost impossible to get
hold of him."

"You'll find some young woman will get hold of him," snarled Lord
Torquilstone. "I hope she'll be, er! er! respectable. It's just those
young fellows home on leave--that the worst of women pounce on."

Upon this subject, arose an immediate argument, Lady Torquilstone
declaring, that "no man with good blood in his veins, would be likely
to marry out of his class." Her husband held the opposite view, and
backed his opinion, with an imposing string of names. The argument
waxed louder, and presently developed into a personal quarrel, and
(unmindful of the grey parrot's warning cry, of "Hullo! Hullo! Police!
Police!") they continued exchanging nasty thrusts, until a footman
brought in the ten o'clock post, and her ladyship having collected her
letters, left the smoking-room, fortified with the consciousness, that
the last word, had been _hers_.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the day of a very "Big" race at Sandown, the weather was
perfection, and half society, and all the racing world poured out of
London in a long succession of specials.

Captain Mayne and a brother officer, had secured the last two seats
in a smoking carriage; the train was just about to start, when the
door was wrenched open, and a tall young man, leapt in, and hauled a
girl after him. A stout individual by the window, rose, and offered
the lady his place, and he and her companion, stood,--blocking up
the compartment. "By Jove, that was a near squeak," exclaimed the
young man, breathless, but triumphant. Mayne recognized him as an
acquaintance--the Honourable Tony Lamerton.

"Yes!" panted his companion, "what a race! I wonder what has become of
the others?"

"Left behind, I'll bet. I'll swear her ladyship could never leg it down
the platform, as you did!"

"Then pray, what am I to do for a chaperon?" and the girl laughed.

There was something in the voice and laugh, that sounded oddly familiar
to Mayne, and suddenly leaning forward, he looked round the substantial
figure, which was planted directly in front of him. The first glance,
gave an impression of a remarkably pretty girl; then with a shock, it
dawned upon him, that the pretty girl was _Nancy_! A Nancy altered
almost beyond recognition: beauty the crown of her youth!

It seemed to Mayne that nothing remained of the original flapper,
but her merry blue eyes, and sweet, high-pitched voice. Her face was
rounded, her complexion--if real,--was dazzling. She was dressed with
surpassing elegance, in a gauzy white gown, touched with green; a large
hat wreathed with green feathers, half concealed masses of reddish
brown hair, a string of splendid pearls encircled her throat, and in
her little white gloved hand, she held a gold bag, and a card of the
races. Undoubtedly her aunt was a woman of wealth, and did not spare it
upon her niece.

The niece was so engaged in laughing and chattering with Tony Lamerton,
that Mayne had ample time to collect his wits, and make a prolonged and
critical inspection. Nancy carried herself, with an air of graceful
confidence, and the manner of one who was aware of her own value; and
yet the face wore the same eager, almost childish expression; and a
look of innocent mockery danced in the eyes that were raised to Tony
Lamerton. Here was a beauty! an assured, and fashionable young woman;
she and Tony appeared to be on the best of terms, and he noticed that
the Guardsman's attention, was entirely absorbed by his lovely charge.

As the train cleared the suburbs, a clear young voice, said, "How
dreadfully hot it is!! may we not have the other window down?" and as
the stout gentleman instantly moved to obey her request, Nancy became
suddenly aware of Derek Mayne! He was seated in the far corner, and
hitherto concealed behind a bulky screen.

His grave dark eyes, encountered her startled glance, with the most
penetrating composure. Yes, it certainly _was_ Captain Mayne,--but
little changed, beyond the transformation effected by London clothes,
a tall hat and a buttonhole. How different to the rough Shikari garb,
in which she had been accustomed to see him! When their eyes met in
recognition, Nancy was sensible of an overwhelming shock; she gave
little outward sign, beyond a quick indrawing of her breath, but her
heart had made such a violent plunge, that it seemed about to leap out
of her mouth!

Here within three yards of her, was the last man in the world, she
expected, or wished to see. A man, she had almost succeeded in turning
out of her mind, and to whom for weeks she never cast a thought. The
discovery left her nerveless; every morsel of colour deserted her face
and lips. The last time they met, was when they had stood beside her
father's grave: that was exactly two years and four months ago, and
although she had instantly averted her eyes, he was still before them;
vividly different to her somewhat faded mental picture--that of a
worried restless young man, smoking endless cigarettes, as he paced the
terrace at Fairplains.

During this little scene, Tony and the stout gentleman had taken it
in turn to struggle with an obstinate window sash, and as the former
turned about, his eyes fell upon an old acquaintance. In a voice of
hearty welcome, he exclaimed,

"Hullo! Mayne, when did you get back?"

"Three weeks ago."

"And never came near us,--how is that?"

"I've been down at Maynesfort."

"Oh yes, to see the old man! Getting on all right, isn't he? and now
you're doing a bit of town, eh?--What are you backing for the big race?"

As Mayne discussed the favourites and weights, he noticed that Nancy
had recovered her composure and colour; her self-possession was
marvellous; but then he was not aware, that she had been through a
rigorous training in a stern school, and had learnt to successfully
repress her feelings and emotions. For the moment, she appeared to be
engrossed in the study of her race card; but unless Mayne was greatly
mistaken, it was not altogether the oscillation of the express, which
caused that pretty little hand, to shake quite perceptibly!




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                     OLD FRIENDS AND STRANGE NEWS


By some unexplained miracle it turned out that Nancy's chaperon--Lady
Jane Wynne--had actually caught the train, and Mayne overheard the
party volubly congratulating one another, as they moved out of the
station. And so that slim girl in white, carrying a green sunshade, was
Mrs. Mayne! Among all that great crowd, there was no one to approach
her in looks and distinction. If people were to know the truth, how
widely he would be envied!

His uncle clamoured for him to take a wife, and there she was,
strolling up the path in front of him--supported on either hand by
an assiduous escort. Supposing he were to claim her? Here was a
very different individual to the poor little girl in India, who was
distracted with grief, and misery. There was something amazingly
attractive about this new, and radiant Nancy. His inspection in the
railway carriage, had shown him, an undeniably _happy_ face!

Meanwhile the object of his reflections,--for all her assumed
animation--felt shattered, by her recent experience, and talked the
wildest nonsense to her companions, as she made her way to the stand.
Here numerous acquaintances accosted, and surrounded her and her
party. To-day, Miss Travers' gaiety was feverish, her colour unusually
high, and her laugh almost hysterical. Soon after the second race, she
complained of a headache, and sought a seat on the way to the paddock,
where, attended by Sir Dudley Villars, she sheltered behind her
sunshade.

Sir Dudley was not a racing man; cards, he could understand; but
betting, and backing horses, he looked upon as childish! Races, were
all right, as institutions--where you met your friends, had a fair
lunch, inspected the newest beauties, and heard the latest gossip. To
sit by Nancy Travers, studying her exquisite complexion, listening to
her somewhat disjointed chatter, was a thousand times more agreeable,
than being precariously perched on the top of a stand, following with
a field-glass, the speedy movements, of a little bunch of thoroughbreds!

During a lull, before one of the big events, a seemingly endless
procession passed backwards and forwards between the paddock, and the
stand. Sir Dudley pointed out various celebrities to Nancy,--adding in
each case some pithy, or cynical remark. She did not wish to be noticed
and accosted, and kept her parasol well before her face, but the hat of
her companion seemed to be scarcely ever on his head; his acquaintance
appeared to be as the sands of the sea!

"There's the Duchess of Doncaster,--I see she is bringing out her
second girl,--hard luck on Lady Alfreda. There's Claverhouse of the
Blues, and the little American widow; I wonder if _that_ will come off?"

       *       *       *       *       *

These and other remarks were received by his partner, with nods
and monosyllables. Her thoughts were elsewhere; her mind was in a
tumult of fear, and bewilderment. Supposing Derek Mayne were to come
forward, and claim her; what was to be her attitude? What would
Mrs. De Wolfe think?--yes, and all her girl friends,--who talked to
her so frankly, of their love affairs; Nora Wynne, Brenda Miller,
and various others,--for she looked and was, a born confidante, and
sympathizer,--what would be their feelings, when they were informed,
that their simple Nancy had actually a _husband_ in the background? Her
reflections were interrupted by her companion suddenly asking, "I hope
you had a good day?"

"'A good day?'" she repeated to herself. It was one of the _worst_, she
had ever known! But she smiled faintly, and replied, "Oh, yes,--I've
won! Tony Lamerton has given me tips. I put ten shillings on 'Dear Me.'"

"So I see that fellow Mayne is home again," remarked Sir Dudley;
"strolling about with his old love,--Josie Speyde. She is looking
remarkably well to-day,--those daring colours, suit her bold, black
style."

Nancy raised her sunshade a couple of inches, and peeped out
cautiously. There they were! promenading slowly together, Josie talking
and gesticulating with unusual animation, and Mayne?--she surveyed
him critically,--yes, he was remarkably good-looking; well set-up,
well-dressed, and could hold his own, even with her present companion!

"Do you know him?" she faltered.

"Who? Oh, Mayne?--yes. Not very well, he's in my club, and we just pass
the time of day. Not a bad-looking chap; one of the rough-and-ready
sort: goes in for polo, boxing, and soldiering. He's afflicted with the
most appalling stepfather, Torquilstone,--I actually had to leave the
High Light Club, as I simply couldn't stand him; he seemed to _live_
in the smoking-room, and never gave us a day off! I hear that Mayne's
people are keen to get him married, and that Lady Torquilstone is
looking about for a suitable daughter-in-law,--no penniless beauty need
apply."

It did not strike Sir Dudley that he had said anything particularly
humorous, yet Nancy had burst into rather a wild, and unexpected
laugh. How odd, and jerky she was to-day! headaches affected people in
different ways: as he looked at her shining eyes, and brilliant colour,
he leant towards her, and said in his most seductive manner:

"If you will be a good little girl, you won't sit here in the sun, but
allow me to take you straight home; and go and lie down, and have ice
on your head."

"Ice!" she repeated; "you have put it _into_ my head! I'm dying for
one, and here comes Tony; I promised I'd let him take me to their tent.
I'll be quite all right to-morrow; we were such a frightful squash
in our carriage coming down, that I was nearly suffocated with the
heat,"--then rising as she spoke, "Here I am, Tony! I'm coming; did I
_really_ win five pounds!"--as he handed her a note. "Well, I'll give
it to the Dog's Home."

Sir Dudley, who felt himself injured, and deserted, relinquished his
pretty companion with what grace he could assume, and swept off his
hat in his very best style. As he looked after the couple, he said to
himself, "'Dogs' Home!' Much better return it to that bumptious young
puppy,--who by all accounts is uncommonly hard up!"

Mayne, man-like, was not nearly so overwhelmed by their recent
encounter as Nancy. He was still able to make bets, talk sanely to
friends, and to follow the racing, with the keenest interest (although
running through his thoughts, and keeping well ahead of the horses,
was Mrs. Mayne). His present idea, was to make a move; a quiet cautious
move, and try to find out, how the land lay? He had not failed to
notice Nancy's numerous admirers; more than once, he had focussed
her through his glasses, and though she played the "Ostrich," he was
perfectly aware of the identity of the girl, who was sitting on the
lawn, with that tame cat, Dudley Villars!--A tame, but _not_ domestic
cat! he knew something about him; and what he knew, was not to his
advantage. A song-singing, insidious, unscrupulous, rascal,--and no fit
companion for any innocent girl.

The sight of Villars, and his proprietary attitude, had awakened
Mayne's jealousy, and materialized his intentions; he must see, and
that without delay, how he could approach Nancy? Possibly some friendly
third person, would assist him? It would be, he was aware,--a most
delicate enterprise, yet "nothing venture, nothing have!"

As Mayne and a friend, were leaving the paddock, they almost ran into
Teddy Dawson, Mrs. Hicks, and Jessie; he halted at once. This amazing
encounter, was as unexpected, as it was providential! Here, as it were
spirited from the ends of the earth,--were two of the witnesses to his
marriage! and Dawson his best man, would stand by him now, as formerly.

The greetings of the little party were exceedingly cordial. Mrs.
Hicks, Jessie and Ted were unaffectedly delighted to see Mayne. Teddy
was now presentable, and "more,"--as his fiancée said,--"like a human
being!" Mrs. Hicks radiantly happy, and attired in a bright green gown,
with a pink silk frill round her neck,--recalled to Mayne, the common
parroquet of India!

To secure a word with Teddy, Mayne presented his brother officer to the
two ladies, and drawing him aside, said in an undertone:

"Guess _who's_ here?"

"Yes, I know; I've seen her," replied Teddy; "isn't she ripping? Takes
the whole cake, eh? Have you met?"

"We came down in the same carriage just now; she cut me dead!"

"Oh well, I expect she was a bit taken aback----"

"Look here, Dawson, I want to see you,--I _must_ see you! I know
your time is not your own,--but fix an early date to dine,--or
something!--My club is the 'Rag.'"

"And mine's the 'Oriental.'"

"I say, you two," interposed Mrs. Hicks, laying a yellow claw, on
Mayne's arm, "I won't have this! When two men get so confidential, I
know they're after no good! Oh, I'm up to all your little games!" and
she poked Mayne sharply with her fan. "If you are fixing a dinner,
you must both dine with _me_! I know of such a nice, risky little
restaurant, in Soho, where they do you 'A 1' for half a crown; and
we'll all go on to a music-hall afterwards. Now, you come along, and
get me a cup of tea," taking possession of Mayne; "I suppose you have
tickets?" and still holding him fast, she led him captive towards
the refreshment room. "I'm awfully glad you're home at _last_," she
remarked, with significant emphasis.

"Thank you," said Mayne,--meeting the amused eye of a friend, who
stared hard at the lady on his arm.

"It's on account of Nancy," she continued, confidentially; "have you
_seen_ her?"

"Yes; to-day."

"Now, who would have thought, she'd bloom out into such a beauty! But
her mother was rarely pretty,--and you saw the Earl for yourself.
Jessie and me lunched with Nancy, and the old lady yesterday; the old
lady has a voice comes out of her boots, and Nancy is just the same as
ever!"

"Is she?"

"Come now; don't you be so stiff, and stand off; it isn't every man who
has a beauty, and a real nice girl for a wife. And then there's all the
_money_!" and she nodded her head complacently.

"Money? What money?" he asked.

"Oh, Lord! haven't you heard? Why, she's got _tons_ of it."

Mayne stared at his companion interrogatively.

"Just squeeze me in there, and get me a cup of tea,--two lumps! and
_then_ I'll tell you all about it in a jiffy!"

With a teacup in her hand, Mrs. Hicks resumed: "Do you _mean_ to say,
that you never heard, that Mr. Fletcher left Fairplains to Nancy?"

"No. Did he really?"

"Yes, and a couple of thousand a year, as well."

After a long pause, he asked, "How long ago?"

"About eighteen months. She was living with an aunt,--a real terror,
by all accounts, and having a mighty poor time, and then she came in
for this legacy. An old lady who had a fancy for Nancy, took her in
hand, and they have been knocking about the Continent for quite a time.
Now they are staying at the Hyde Park Hotel. The old lady, who has no
family, is just wrapped up in Nancy. She's one of the 'ordering-about
sort,' and has a man's nose, and deep voice. Her name is De Wolfe!"

"De Wolfe!" repeated her listener, in amazement. "Are you quite sure?"

"Yes, I'm both sure, and certain,--how could anyone forget such an
outlandish name as that?"

"I know Mrs. De Wolfe well," said Mayne, "she and I come from the same
part of the world."

"I am glad to hear it, and you can take over Nancy. It is not fair or
respectable, that she should be going about as Miss Travers, turning
all the men's heads,--when you and I know, that she's a married woman!"

Mayne made no reply, but accepted an empty teacup in silence, and Mrs.
Hicks continued: "Of course, you will leave the service, and take a
fine country place; for there's not only the Fletcher money, but the
gold mine. I see! you've not heard of that, I suppose! They are working
a big reef on Fairplains,--you know the place near Chuttibutti?"

"I've heard nothing whatever about Fairplains, since I last saw you,"
said Mayne, after a considerable pause, during which an agreeable
day-dream, had been completely dispelled.

"You've only yourself to thank for that!" said Mrs. Hicks, shaking the
crumbs from her green plumage. "You went away to the north of India,
and dropped the whole lot of us, like so many 'ot potatoes. Those
old workings have turned out very valuable,--Hicks always believed
in them.--They say, they are bringing Nancy in about eight thousand
a year, and will be worth more, as time goes on! What do you think
of that?"--and she poked him facetiously with her pocket-fan. "Why,
I declare, to look at you, one would say you'd lost a fortune! Come,
come! buck up!"

"Mother!" interrupted Jessie breathlessly, "I've been looking for you
everywhere; we are going to try, and catch the next train. You know we
are dining in town, and doing a play,--so _do_, do make haste! Captain
Mayne, you'll come, and see us, won't you?"

"Why, of course he will," replied her mother; "he and I have no end to
say to one another,"--then turning to him, "Our address--have you a
pencil, and I'll write it out on a bit of the race-card,--Torkington
House, Baron's Court, quite in the wilds; but you're used to that! It
was in the wilds that we met, ha! ha!"

"Oh, _do_ come, mother!" cried Jessie, and seizing her by the arm,
she dragged her parent almost forcibly away, but Teddy hung back
for a second,--and said, "I'll telephone to your club, and fix a
meeting!"--then he ran.

A change had come o'er the spirit of Mayne's dream; a bolt had
descended from the blue! If Nancy had ten thousand a year, or
thereabouts, how, he asked himself, could he come forward, and claim
her? He had suddenly lost all interest in the meeting,--he had also
mislaid his companion, and strolled over, and leant on the rails;
not as others, watching an exciting race, but digesting Mrs. Hicks'
unwelcome information. Her news, had altered the whole of his plans.
Plans hastily made; and as hastily shattered.

Suddenly a heavy hand smote him on the back, and turning about he
beheld Major Cathcart, looking remarkably spruce, and cheerful. "Glad
to see you, old man," he began. "All the world seems to have turned up
here to-day; and what a rare good meeting! I have pulled off a nice
little haul." Then, after an expressive pause.... "_You've_ had a bad
time, I'm afraid!"

"Oh, no," replied Mayne, standing erect, and facing the speaker,
"_I've_ done pretty well, too."

"I say," now indicating a flowing tide of departures,--"if you are
going by this train, we may as well toddle down together, and discuss
old times."

Mayne nodded assent, and turned to accompany him.

"Where are you staying?" inquired Cathcart.

"With my mother, in Charles Street."

"And what leave have they given you?"

"All I asked for--three months."

"Of course you'll get an extension! Do you know that there has been
quite a gathering of the hill tribes here to-day? I spotted Mrs.
Hicks,--by George, what a sight! she ought to be in the Zoo, among
the cockatoos. Her eldest girl, and Teddy Dawson, were with her, and
then there's you and me,--and last but not least, Miss Nancy Travers!
There's a transformation! She's a tremendous success, I can tell you.
Men actually biting, and scratching one another, to get hold of her
at dances, and so on. She's deuced ornamental, and well gilded too!
and has slipped into the rôle of heiress, and beauty,--as easily as
an old glove. You'd never believe she is the same girl as our little
red-haired flapper! Have you come across her?"

"Not ... er ... to speak to."

"Well, all in good time; you and she used to be rather chummy, and by
Jove, she could play tennis a bit! Mrs. De Wolfe, her chaperon, is a
crafty old woman, and knows all the best people. She will do her best
to fix a coronet, on that girl's head. I hear Lord Lanark is in the
last stage of idiocy. I must confess I am rather surprised, that Mrs.
De Wolfe allows Miss Nancy to be seen about with that fellow Villars.
I am told, that he was always one of the little family party, on Como;
painting, boating and caterwauling and all that sort of thing! He got
the girl a good deal talked about,--but that's his little way!"

"Mayne never had much to say for himself," thought his companion, "now
he did not seem to have a word, to throw at the traditional dog; but
appeared to be totally dumb, and an absolutely uninterested listener.
Well, there were crowds of other fellows, with whom he could improve
the shining half-hour, to town," so with a "See you later on," Cathcart
shook off this deadly wet-blanket, and hailed a passing acquaintance.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII

                            "ADVICE GRATIS"


For once, Mrs. De Wolfe was hopelessly puzzled; something had happened
the day of the races at Sandown; for ever since that date, Nancy was
a changed creature; her amazing spirits appeared to have evaporated;
she no longer entered into plans, with the same keen enthusiasm, but
was restless, nervous, and given to surprising fits of silence. Her
anxious chaperon dated this phase, from the afternoon when she had
confided her charge into the hands of Jane Wynne; yet Jane Wynne could
throw no light on the matter--although her aunt had approached her
with the most careful, and subtle questions. The girl did not bet,
she had no quarrel with anyone, nor had she lost any treasured bit of
jewellery,--something had gone much deeper than _that_. What was it?

Nancy described in somewhat laborious detail, the crowd, the
heat,--which had given her a headache,--she had met masses of people
she knew, including the Hicks, and Teddy; the Millers were there in
great force, including Lady Miller in a wonderful French frock; but the
glare was dreadful, and she had not enjoyed herself one bit. "How I
wish I had stayed at home, with you, and sat out in the cool under the
trees," she concluded, as she had bent over her old friend, and kissed
her between her somewhat bushy eyebrows.

Subsequently, Mrs. De Wolfe (who was credited with eyes in the back of
her head) noted, that when they were in the park, at a polo match, or a
dance, Nancy seemed to be looking about her nervously, as if in quest
of someone: some individual whom she was half afraid to see! Her talk
and her manner suffered; she had become preoccupied, absent minded,
and silent.--It was a puzzle.--Meanwhile, her young friend was going
through a crisis of feeling, almost too terrible to support.

For a whole fortnight, Nancy never caught sight of Mayne, and then she
encountered him riding in the park one morning early. He was with a
lady. They passed within a few yards of one another; but made no sign.
She had felt half inclined to bow, but her impulse had arrived too late.

Mayne had waited in due form upon the Hicks, sent a handsome present to
the bride-elect, and invited Teddy to dine with him at his club; but
Teddy preferred a _tête-à-tête_ luncheon--his evenings were sacred to
Jessie.

"I'm awfully glad you were able to come," said Mayne, as he ushered his
friend into the stately dining-room of his club. "I couldn't get half a
word with you the other day, and I wanted to have a _bukh_."

"Oh, it's all right,--Jessie let me off this morning; she is up to her
neck, shopping! You see, we are to be married in ten days, and want to
do our honeymoon at home, before I get back to the coffee. We intend to
live at Fairplains, which belongs to Nancy,--as you know."

"Yes! Mrs. Hicks told me. I hadn't heard a word."

"Well, how could you? when you never wrote to any of us. Nancy was a
jolly sight better, she used to send me screeds, when she lived with
her aunt, and did Companion, and Tweenie, and Scapegoat. However,
that's all over now; as she and Mrs. De Wolfe will live together: they
are going down to her country place, after July. I dined with them the
other night, and I have heard all their plans."

"Mrs. De Wolfe lives in our part of the world; she and my uncle are
old friends, so Nancy and I, will find ourselves in the same boat,
meeting every day, sitting next to one another at dinner; in fact, I
see nothing for it, but to chuck the rest of my leave, and go back to
India."

"Don't be a fool, Mayne! Why on earth should you do that?"

"Knowing what you know,--need you ask? How can I go about, and
associate, with a girl----" He paused expressively.

"You can make it up."

"No! I did my best, and Nancy made a fool of me."

"Yes, but the poor child was out of her mind with grief; the whole
tragedy got upon her nerves; to tell you the truth, she grew so
strange, that they thought she was really going off her chump, and
bundled her home,--where I believe some real hard knocks and shocks,
brought her to her senses. She has a face you can't forget; awfully
pretty, isn't she?"

"She is," assented the other.

"Look here, Mayne, if you will take _my_ advice,--you will sit
tight--and brazen it out!"

"But my dear fellow, how can I brazen out, what is a dead secret?"

"Everyone will know some day,--and there will be a most tremendous
rumpus. Nancy is famous for her good looks, she has a whole string of
admirers,--Finchie's nephew is making great running, and----"

"He may run till he is black in the face," interrupted Mayne, "he can't
marry her."

"Aren't you rather a manger dog; you don't care about the girl
yourself,--some day she may lose her heart to a fellow, and _then_ what
is to happen?"

"I'm afraid, I have not been quite candid with you, Teddy old man!
although I have only seen this new Nancy twice; I find, that I _do_
care for her. In old days I admired her character, and liked her
as a pal, otherwise she only struck me as a sunburnt, talkative,
tomboy. Now, added to her good points, she has become beautiful, and
attractive; and if she hadn't a penny, I'd have come forward, have
asked you to be my ambassador, and endeavoured to make friends. On
these lines, I believe matters would have worked out all right, in
_time_. Travers liked me, and I'd score there; but to find that Nancy
is not only a beauty, but also a great heiress, is a bit too much to
face. I couldn't stand a wife with heaps of money, and mines! I'd be
buried in gold and grandeur, and lose my own identity--such as it
is! I only wish I saw a clear and honourable road, out of the whole
diabolical business!"

"That is to say, if the mine were to burst up, and the coffee to go
smash. I suppose," added Dawson, after a moment's reflection, "there
was no flaw in that hurried-up ceremony?"

"None! I made particular inquiries at the time. The parson had the
Bishop's licence all right; they sent an express, and routed his
lordship out of bed in the middle of the night. Without this licence, a
marriage is no more valid, as a binding ceremony,--than taking a woman
down to dinner."

"So there's no loop-hole in _that_ direction," said his companion. "If
Finchie were at home, I bet you anything you like, she'd clear a path
somehow. Shove you and your queer wedding into limbo, and marry Nancy
and her money, to her nephew, Tony Lamerton!"

"Yes, perhaps she'd have a good try, but she couldn't bring it off all
the same."

"You're coming to see me turned off on Wednesday week, eh,--you really
_must_ support me, and Nancy is to be one of the bridesmaids."

"Is she? well don't put me down for best man,--I'm not eligible, but
I'll afford you my presence, and moral support. Is it to be a big
affair?"

"I'm afraid so! lots of Mrs. Hicks' old friends, every planter in
London, and most of our fellow passengers; we've had some thumping
presents. Nancy has given us a car, a piano, and a fine canteen. She
takes the deepest interest in our affairs, and is with Jessie to-day.
We are sending some new furniture out to Fairplains."

"Well, I must confess, I rather liked the old sticks. There was one
lame chair in the verandah, the most comfortable I ever sat in,--just
took you nicely in the back, and didn't poke your head into your
chest."

"It shall be preserved, and kept ready for _you_ whenever you come for
a shoot."

"I'll never shoot again at Fairplains,--or set foot on Nancy's estate."

"What a stiff-necked beggar you are! and yet I think it is quite on the
cards,--that you may never return to India."

"Yes, I see your meaning, why swither out there, when I have a rich
wife in England? As it happens, I bar a rich wife, and never intend to
claim her."

"Supposing she were to take it into her head to claim _you_? What then?"

Mayne stared at his guest for a moment, and then burst into a loud and
hearty laugh. "Sooner than that, from what I know of Nancy, she would
take a header off Waterloo Bridge."

"Well," replied Teddy, looking at his watch, "I must be off. Jessie is
the soul of punctuality,--and I have to be, what the Americans call,
'on time.'"

"I score over you in one way, Teddy," said his friend, "I was never on
duty; I had no long engagement,--at the outside, it wasn't more than
thirty-six hours!"




                             CHAPTER XXIX

                        "THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES"


During these sunny summer days, although Nancy looked remarkably gay
and pretty, and went what is called "everywhere," she was secretly
miserable,--but bravely concealed her sufferings and kept her anxieties
to herself. For more than two years, she had lived in a sort of fool's
paradise, or as if she had been in a dream. Now, she had been awakened
with a shock, and like a newly-aroused sleeper, began to look about
her, and realized a changed world. She had never supposed that Derek
Mayne would re-enter her life: he was in India,--that land of vague and
indefinite banishments,--and she was in England.

How could they ever meet? Then she had his promise: his letter,
treasured in her jewel-case. Nevertheless, here he was in London,
actually within a few streets, and he had it in his power to ruin and
upset the whole of her life; he could if he chose. She recalled his
expression of cool scrutiny, and aloofness, as he looked at her across
the railway carriage: his glance was direct, dominating, and almost
stern.

Although the future horizon was vague and misty, recently life had
gone smoothly for Nancy; she had been gliding along, as it were on
a wide placid river; now all at once she seemed to be approaching
unknown falls, and to hear the roar of the rapids! In her short life,
she had known days, and days of intense mental anguish,--the agony of
bereavement. This present pain was neither so sharp, or so poignant,
but of an unceasing aching, and gnawing description.

She slept badly; she had little appetite for food, or amusement; each
succeeding day she expected the sword to fall! Every time she and her
chaperon re-entered their suite, her first impulse was to rush to the
table, where cards and letters awaited them, and these she turned over,
and examined with a throbbing heart. Would Derek Mayne call, and seek
an interview with Mrs. De Wolfe? Would he claim her? He might try,--but
she would resist,--or would he merely inform people that she was his
lawful wife, and leave her, so to speak, to face the music!

By an amazing coincidence, two of the witnesses to her marriage were
in London: Teddy and Mrs. Hicks; and she lived in quaking fear that
_they_ would open the subject! Much to her relief, it had never been
approached. At present, Teddy and his future mother-in-law were far too
much engrossed in their own more interesting affairs.

Lady Belmont's long expected and belated ball, eventually took place at
the "Ritz"; and more than fulfilled the most exigeant anticipations.
Many of the best people, the pretty girls, and the smart young men
were present. Nancy and her chaperon,--who, surprising to relate,
delighted in a ball,--were early arrivals. Nancy loved dancing, danced
beautifully, and was much improved since Dudley Villars had been her
constant partner. She looked very lovely, and a little out of breath
as she came up to Mrs. De Wolfe at the end of a long waltz, and found
the old lady talking with unusual animation to some man,--who, when he
turned about, she saw to her consternation, was Captain Mayne!

"Nancy," said her chaperon, "I want you to give a dance to an old
friend of mine; one of my boys, Captain Mayne!--Derek, this is my young
friend, Miss Travers."

Captain Mayne bowed, and said, "Miss Travers and I have met before.
May I?" looking at her steadily, "have the honour of a waltz?"

Nancy, who had paled rather suddenly, glanced down at her crammed
programme, and murmured, "Number twelve," and with a bow, he backed
away into the crowd.

Nancy's card had been filled ever since she had appeared in the
ball-room; nevertheless, she mentally threw over Lord Lanark--whose
name was scribbled before number twelve waltz, "Destiny." She must
speak to Captain Mayne, and learn the worst! what he intended to do? or
not to do? and face this horrible ordeal.

Waiting and uncertainty had become unbearable; and yet the dread of the
approaching interview, filled her with terror. For a moment she was
seized by an overwhelming reluctance. All the fears of the last weeks,
had now become real, and verified. She was fired by a wild desire,
to feign illness, and rush home; but soon overcame this preposterous
temptation. It was imperative to stand to her promise, and to listen to
what her partner had to say--nothing agreeable, that was certain--she
had glanced into his face, and there read an expression of cool and
absolute indifference.

However, now they had been formally made known to one another, and
were liable to meet, she must learn the rules of the game in which
she was expected to take part! There it was, the first part of
"Destiny!" and here he came; edging his way towards her through the
crowd. She accepted his arm in dead silence, and in another moment
they were launched among the whirling throng. Mayne danced extremely
well,--steering his course with remarkable skill. (Nancy had noticed
him waltzing with Josie; their steps suited admirably; graceful, lissom
Josie, moving with a sort of foreign swing and abandon, murmuring into
his ear all the time they floated round,--unquestionably they were
_old_ friends). He was not perhaps so accomplished a performer as Sir
Dudley, but he held his partner with greater respect, and did not use
an Oriental perfume on his sleek dark hair.

They exchanged one or two formal remarks about the floor, and the band,
danced until the music ceased, and people began to pour out of the
ball-room; then Mayne led his companion to a secluded little settee,
and took a chair close by. Here was the supreme moment! He looked at
Nancy narrowly: how young, fresh, and slim,--and yet how woefully
white, and scared!--he could actually see a little pulse throbbing
in her throat, her hands were tightly locked in her lap. Yes! brutal
thought, he was getting a little of his own back! At last he said:

"Well!"

Nancy raised her frightened eyes, glanced at him quickly, and looked
down; and there ensued an expressive silence, more eloquent than words.
The pause was broken by Mayne, who quietly quoted:

"Gentlemen of the French Guard,--fire first!"

"I suppose you mean that _I_ am to speak," said Nancy in a low voice.

He nodded shortly.

"But I don't know what to say."

Nevertheless she realized that she was fencing with her future life.

"Oh, of course I don't expect you to say you are _glad_ to see me," and
he gave an abrupt laugh.

Nancy made no reply,--but her lower lip quivered.

"May I offer you my congratulations?" he continued. "I hear you are now
a great heiress; a goldmine! and Fairplains."

"Fairplains, yes! Oh, if only Daddy had been alive!"

"Yes, I know," he assented promptly, "please don't _spare_ me! If I
hadn't missed the panther----"

"I'm not quite so malicious as you imagine," she interrupted, "and you
need not be so bitter--for you know as well as I do, how Daddy adored
Fairplains."

"Pray accept my apologies," he said coolly, "I was not aware that you
had modified your opinions. I wished to speak to you,--and here is my
golden opportunity! You see, by most shocking bad luck, we happen to
find ourselves in the same set! Your chaperon, Mrs. De Wolfe, belongs
to my part of the world; she knew me in pinafores, so I am afraid we
shall often knock up against one another."

"I suppose so," asserted Nancy, without raising her eyes.

"We may even find ourselves staying in the same house, and this would
be a bit awkward; for if we were dead cuts, it might excite remark!
However, this preposterous position, won't last long; I shall be
returning to India." He paused for a moment and then added, with a
smile, "Ah! I see you look relieved!"

"Do I? I did not know,--I rather wish I was going back too!"

"What, tired of the gay world already?"

To this she made no answer.

"Well, Nancy, you and I are in a queer fix, if ever there was one! God
knows I meant to do the square thing," he went on gravely, "but I made
a most awful hash of the whole business!"

"I believe you _did_ mean well," she murmured, speaking with evident
effort, "and I behaved--ungratefully; but I was crazy with grief.
Everything was so awfully sudden, and, and----" she hesitated.

"And you couldn't bear the sight of me," he interjected, "and I
accepted the situation. You made everything fairly plain in your
letter,--didn't you?"--Another immense pause.

Nancy wondered how long this hateful scene was to continue--it seemed
to have lasted for hours. Then in a meditative tone Mayne began:

"Now I wonder, if I had followed you to your hiding-place, and dragged
you off to Cananore, how would that have answered?"

"It would have made me hate, and abhor you, as long as I lived," she
rejoined with startling vehemence.

"Oh! and do you hate, and abhor, me now?"

She raised her eyes, and considered him gravely; but made no reply--she
did not wish to be his wife, but in her secret heart, she knew she
would be glad to be friends. Something in his voice, and his honest
eyes, recalled old days, and the many happy hours, they two had spent
together. Then he was so manly, and good-looking; also she began to
feel, that she was not really afraid of him.

"What I wished to say to you," he continued, "is this: that, owing to
the pressure of circumstances, we must meet, and pretend to be friends."

"Or be friends, and pretend?" she corrected timidly.

"What an explosion, if the truth ever leaked out! Think of your friends
and relations; my friends and my regiment. However, you may rely upon
me to keep my promise,--and to hold my tongue." After a moment's
silence, he added: "How do you hit it off with Mrs. De Wolfe?"

"Extremely well,--I am very fond of her."

"Somehow I shouldn't have thought that she was your sort!--I've seen
you going about, with her godson, that fellow Villars."

"Yes, he noticed you that day at Sandown, and he was speaking about
you," replied Nancy, who had somewhat recovered her colour, and her
courage.

"That was kind of him,--I am flattered. What did he say, anything
libellous?"

"Oh no indeed; he only told me, that your uncle, is very anxious for
you to marry."

"Well that's a true bill,--he _is_!"

"But _can_ you?"

"What a funny question. No, not unless I wish to be run in for
bigamy,--a Mrs. Mayne already exists."

"You mean me?"

"Yes, who else?" slowly turning his head to look at her. The question
was sarcastically enforced.

After a short silence she murmured: "And is there _no_ way out?"

"I imagine there is; but you see, I've not had much to do with
matrimonial intricacies,--I believe, I could divorce you--for
desertion!"

"Oh!" putting her hands up to cover her face, "and it would be in all
the papers!"

"It would; and probably headed, 'Great military scandal,' and
illustrated with our portraits."

"And what _would_ Mrs. De Wolfe say?"

"Mrs. De Wolfe can stand a good deal,--she's had some pretty bad
shocks in her time; and is a regular old brick; and you would achieve
notoriety!--Then on the other hand, _I_ might give you reason to
divorce _me_," and he looked at Nancy with keen significance.

Nancy blushed to the roots of her hair: her very ears were red.

"But make your mind easy," he continued, "I am not going to wade
through mud,--even to break our chain."

"And is there _no_ way out of it?" she repeated with a sort of sob.

"I'm afraid not. With every good intention, your father and I made
a serious mistake. It is not so easy, to order the lives of other
people,--each must go his own road. You have no wish to walk in mine;
or I in yours. I don't want you as a wife,--official or otherwise,--and
I have excellent reason to know, that you have no desire to play the
rôle of Mrs. Mayne."

His tone and expression, made Nancy wince--and yet this announcement
was a profound relief. She glanced at him, as he sat in a favourite
attitude, nursing his foot,--a very neat foot, and well turned ankle,
in black silk hose.--She remembered how her father had chaffed him, and
he said, "When I was at school I hurt my foot rather badly at rugger,
and nursed it on my knee to keep it out of harm's way,--the trick has
grown on me, I do it unconsciously."

"May I look at this?" he said, leaning forward and picking her
programme off her lap.

"I'm not sure that it isn't one of my prerogatives. Hullo! so you threw
over Lanark, and gave _me_ his dance; I hope he won't shoot me? eh!
Villars, Villars, Villars,--_toujours_ Villars, _why_ so much Villars?"

"Oh, because I know him rather well."

"I bet you _don't_."

"I see you don't like him."

"No: a fellow who can't play cricket, either physically or morally, who
can't box, or shoot; just a good-looking blighter, with a glib tongue,
and a face of brass."

"At any rate, he is clever, and accomplished; he sings and plays the
violin, paints better than many professionals,--he dances like a dream."

"So _you_ seem to think!"

"But _everyone_ thinks it! I've been told, that girls have actually
wept, because he ignored them at a ball."

"More fools they! shall _I_ ever see the proud day, when a girl howls,
because I haven't asked her to dance? Look here, Nancy," and his voice
took a certain peremptoriness, "don't have anything to do with that
chap Villars,--he is _not_ a safe acquaintance!"

Nancy made no reply, and apparently assuming that silence gave consent,
he continued--"I see our old friend Cathcart here, no doubt repairing
his shattered nerves, after a spasm of work! He appears to be in great
force. You have not favoured him,--how is that?"

"He didn't ask me for a dance."

"What!" staring at her. "Oh, so you've had a row!"

"Not exactly a row," and she hesitated.

"Exactly what? come, own up, we are not likely to have another
interview, for some time."

"Well then if you _must_ know,--he asked me to marry him!"

"To marry him!" echoed her companion, now no longer nursing his foot,
and sitting erect.

"And was very angry indeed, when I said no, in fact he has cut me dead
ever since."

For some time Mayne was silent, at last he said:

"Asked you to marry him; by Jove, that was too funny! I think I must
propose to some girl,--so as to make us quits; though it might be
rather awkward, if she happened to say 'yes'! However, of course I
could easily jilt her!" Then in quite another tone, "No doubt you
encouraged his hopes?"

"I did nothing of the kind," she answered hotly, "I've always disliked
him."

"Ah! Well on one point we agree; I don't love him either. There's your
programme; I wonder if you are aware, that we have sat out two whole
dances? Time has flown,--hasn't it? Look here, one word before we part.
We are bound to meet at home,--I mean in Moonshire. Mrs. De Wolfe and
my uncle are tremendous chums, old lovers and that sort of thing, and I
daresay she will wonder, that since we knew one another in India,--why
you have kept me so _dark_? You must play up! You'd better say,--we had
a quarrel."

"Very well," assented the girl.

"And don't let her run away with the idea,--that it was a _lovers'_
quarrel," he added, rising as he spoke.

To this, Nancy made no reply, and they returned to the ball-room in
absolute silence. The moment she appeared, she was instantly claimed
by Sir Dudley Villars, who upbraided her with having "cut his dance."
Meanwhile Mayne walked off in search of his own partner.

How pretty Nancy was; indeed lovely! How her colour went and came, and
how her little under lip, had trembled. Perhaps he had been a bit rough
on her! The old outspoken, spirited, Nancy he remembered, was gone! At
first, she had seemed as frightened as a newly caught bird. But, after
all, why should he not bully her a little? considering that he was
her lawful lord, and master; and that his share, so far, had been the
kicks,--whilst she, had collared all the half-pence!




                              CHAPTER XXX

                      CRITICAL MOMENTS FOR NANCY


Captain Mayne's remark with regard to no further interview, proved
correct; he and Nancy merely encountered one another as very slight
acquaintances, who have friends in common. She noticed him riding
in the Park with Josie,--they never joined her, but merely cantered
by with a cheery salute. At a polo match at Ranelagh, where Mayne
had played and distinguished himself, she looked on, whilst friends
gathered round to congratulate him, and she saw Josie go up and pat the
damp neck of his considerably blown pony. That same day, at the polo
match, his mother, Lady Torquilstone, was pointed out to her by Mrs. De
Wolfe; a tall, supremely well dressed, well preserved, arrogant woman,
who looked as if the whole of Ranelagh was her private property, and
most of the crowd, insufferable intruders.

"So that was her mother-in-law!" said Nancy to herself. Her
mother-in-law's husband, was a dapper, prancing sort of little man,
with fierce eyebrows, and a hard stare.

As Mrs. De Wolfe and her companion were motoring back to town, they
passed Captain Mayne, who waved to them from the coach.

"It's most extraordinary," said the old lady, "that since he has come
home, I've seen so little of Derek. Long ago when with his uncle, he
was in and out of my place like a dog in a fair! Now he has merely left
a formal card, and although I have twice asked him to dinner, he has
been engaged. _My_ conscience is clear, I have not offended him in any
way, and I can't bear to be dropped by my young friends, to say nothing
of old ones. By the way, Nancy," glancing at her companion, "perhaps
you are the guilty party. Did he by any chance make love to you?"

"Oh, no; no indeed," replied Nancy, with reassuring emphasis.

"Well of course in those days, you must have been a little girl in
short skirts, with your hair down your back, and I'm quite sure that
Derek Mayne would never look at a flapper."

Although Nancy and Captain Mayne maintained a cautious distance,
they were brought in spite of themselves into close contact at the
Hicks--Dawson, wedding. The ceremony was a grand affair; everything was
done in a lavish, if somewhat showy way. Nancy was not a bridesmaid,
for Mrs. Hicks had intervened, and helped her out, with a series of the
most extraordinary excuses,--these being accepted by Jessie, with a
somewhat indifferent grace.

The church, which was rather small, was handsomely decorated, and
crammed to the doors. With respect to the guests, Mrs. Hicks had
figuratively "gone forth to the highways and hedges, and compelled them
to come in." Old planter friends; recent fellow-passengers, and even
the inmates of her "family hotel." Mrs. De Wolfe and Nancy were among
early arrivals at the church, and the latter drew many admiring eyes;
her gown and hat were white; she looked bridal herself! white suited
her wonderful complexion, and reddish-brown hair. Almost at the last
moment, and when the bridesmaids were actually assembled in the porch,
Captain Mayne,--very smart in frock-coat, and lavender gloves,--came
strolling up the aisle, glancing from side to side, in search of an
empty space! Mrs. De Wolfe's quick eye caught his. She made a little
signal, he crushed into her pew, and took a seat between Nancy, and the
door.

The organ pealed, the choir leading the procession, advanced slowly up
the aisle. Jessie, carrying herself with dignified self-possession,
looked unusually well,--indeed quite at her best. Not so, the waiting
bridegroom; for if his new coat was creaseless, his countenance was
painfully distorted. He appeared to be pitiably nervous, and was
struggling with a (happily groundless) fear, that he had lost the
ring! Jessie was staunchly supported by her mother, rustling in a
brilliant blue costume,--destined to open the eyes of the Meaches, and
other neighbours. Meanwhile Nancy, whose attention had been riveted
on Jessie, became suddenly alive to the appalling consciousness, that
the last time she listened to these prayers, and adjurations, they had
been addressed to herself,--and the man who stood beside her! She felt
overwhelmed by the shock of this poignant memory; how mean and cruel of
fate to drag them together in such a heartless fashion; each sentence
now felt like a separate stab.

At Fairplains, the service had fallen on more or less deaf ears; here,
she was acutely alive to every syllable. Did her companion remember?
She stole a swift glance at Mayne; he was looking straight before him,
and his profile was absolutely impassive. Such were the close quarters
in the pew, that their elbows were almost touching: could he feel how
she was trembling? When it came to the words, "_forsaking all other,
keeping only to him, as long as ye both shall live_," Nancy, in spite
of a determined effort at self-control, felt herself shaking from head
to foot. The position was to the last degree embarrassing, and painful;
compelled to listen to the celebration of Holy Matrimony, side by side
with the man to whom she had been married,--and from whom she had run
away! was an ordeal almost too terrible to be endured. Her face seemed
to be on fire, her lips were twitching convulsively, as she kept her
head down, and supported herself by the front of the pew.

Oh! what a relief, when they knelt, and she could more or less hide
herself; but she was so unstrung and agitated that she let fall her
prayer-book and her bag! Mayne picked them both up, and as he gravely
restored them, he glanced at her heightened colour, and averted eyes.
It seemed positively cruel to scrutinize her,--his bride of two and a
half years! for in spite of his apparent composure he had not failed to
realize the extraordinary situation, and Nancy's miserable confusion.

Strange to say, Mrs. De Wolfe was totally unaware of the little drama
beside her; her attention had been closely engaged in viewing with
much amusement the extraordinary collection of people that Mrs. Hicks'
cards of invitation had assembled.--The end of the service found Nancy
calmer; bodily release was at hand; but her mind had been grasped by
a penetrating thought. She had made a vow more than two years ago;
a vow to this man beside her, a vow she had deliberately broken.
Would God punish her? It was the first time she had been invaded by
this idea.--She glanced instinctively at her companion. Apparently
he had not given the situation a moment's thought; and was carefully
extracting from its haven of refuge, a beautiful, glossy new hat. And
now the bride and bridegroom came pacing down the aisle, and Teddy, who
had completely recovered his poise, halted as he passed, and said "You
two," glancing from Mayne to Nancy, "must come out, and sign."

There was nothing else for it! Mayne at once stepped forth, Nancy
followed him, and they fell into line behind the bridesmaids, and not a
few who saw them, thought, "What a strikingly good-looking couple!"

They entirely eclipsed the real pair. Such a crowd in the vestry, such
kissing and chattering!--Mrs. Hicks' voice, high above every other,
Jessie radiant, with veil thrown back, kissed Nancy,--and Mayne kissed
_her_!

When it was his turn to sign the register, he wrote, "Derek D. Mayne,
Captain," then passed the pen to Nancy. For a moment she hesitated;
she felt his eyes fixed upon her, and with a sudden and inexplicable
impulse, and a very shaky hand, she scrawled, "Nancy Mayne": it was
almost illegible; an inkstained spider could have done as well, if not
better. She happened to be the last to sign, and no one looked over the
register, except Mrs. Hicks,--who saw to everything;--little escaped
that sharp-eyed matron, who instantly recognizing this unexpected
signature, glanced quickly from the page to Mayne, and gave him a bold,
and unmistakable wink.

The reception, which took place at a neighbouring hotel, was very
crowded, very noisy, and very lively,--precisely what was to be
expected from anything in which Mrs. Hicks had a hand! The presents
on show, were well worthy of exhibition,--the refreshments were
first-rate, the band not too blatant, and the champagne unexceptional.
It was agreed by their many friends, that the Hicks' had spared no
expense, and given the marriage "Tasmasha" in great style.

The crowd, crush, heat, and striving to be gay, natural, and like
herself, left Nancy to return to her temporary home, figuratively in
the condition of some half-dead, battered flower!

The memory of the ceremony, held her in a vice-like grip; as for
signing the register,--_what_ had possessed her? Was it a compelling
look in Mayne's eyes, or was it a spasmodic effort of conscience? In
the crush, at the reception, although she did not actually come across
Mayne, she had seen him more than once. He had assisted to tie a shoe
at the back of the motor which was to bear the happy couple away, and
was active and prominent among the mob that threw rice. There had been
neither slipper, nor rice, at _their_ wedding!

Soon after this eventful occasion, one morning in the Row, Mrs. Speyde
rode up to Nancy, and said to her escort, "Do you go away, Tony,--I
want to have a talk with Nancy."

"No fear!" was the brotherly reply.

"But you really _must_," she persisted. "I particularly want to tell
Nancy a secret,--though Mrs. De Wolfe says she can't keep one,--and
that her face always gives her away."

"One of your good stories, I suppose; well, _I_ may as well hear it
too!"

"No, no," protested Nancy, with a nervous laugh, "I never listen to
Josie's stories,--one, was more than enough!"

Mrs. Speyde knew from long experience, that her brother could be
stubborn when it suited him, so she said, "Well, don't ask me to oblige
you, dear Tony, next time you are in a hole, or otherwise." Then
turning to Nancy, "I'll come in early this evening and talk, whilst you
are dressing," and with a nod, she wheeled her horse about, and rode
away.

At half-past seven, as Nancy, seated before her glass, was taking down
her masses of hair, there was a sharp knock at the door, which the maid
opened, and Mrs. Speyde sailed in. A shimmering cloak covered her smart
French gown, and a diamond bandeau sparkled in her black hair. As she
advanced, she discarded the mantle, and displayed a smart, and very
_décolleté_ red gown.

"I've got 'em all on to-night!" she announced. Then, as the maid
disappeared, she sat down, crossed her knees, and took out a cigarette.
"A cigarette makes me talk," she added. "This is a Doucet frock, Nancy,
what do you think of it? My maid says the body has no back!"

"Nor much front either," said Nancy, as she inspected her friend;
"indeed I call it an _a_ffront," and she laughed.

"How dare you?"

"Oh, I'm so thin, it's all right! Now on you,--it might be----" and she
hesitated.

"Impossible!" declared Nancy.

"Dear, beautiful young creature, what a lovely neck! However, I
didn't dress an hour earlier, and rush over here, to discuss necks,
and bodies; I've come to break it to you gently, that I'm thinking of
settling down at last."

"You mean getting married?"

"Yes. Giving up little suppers in Soho, racing, and gambling,--and
turning over a new leaf."

"And who is to be the happiest of men?"

"I should think you might easily guess."

"Not so easily,--you have such crowds of men friends. Is it Colonel
Deloraine?"

"Is it my grandfather!" she scoffed. "No! a thousand times no! Well,
I won't keep you on tenterhooks,--it's Derek Mayne! You know him." A
slight pause, and a quick glance. "I say! Nancy, why do you look so
funny, and surprised?--I'm not poaching on _your_ preserves, I know!"

"I'm not looking funny or surprised," she managed to protest, and Josie
was too much wrapped up in her subject, too anxious to talk, to notice
that she was more or less confused.

"He is such a dear fellow, straight as a die! one of the living best;
not very emotional, you know,--keeps his feelings to himself, hates
spooning, and all that sort of thing! Remember long ago, when I kissed
him under the mistletoe,--he didn't like it a little bit!"

"Did he not?" said Nancy, who was carefully collecting hairpins. "I'm
rather surprised at that."

"I'm dining and doing a theatre with him to-night.--I expect he has
got another man and girl,--he is so frightfully proper. Well, my dear,
the whole thing will suit me down to the ground; I shall love to go
to India, just to see the Land of Regrets, and later on, we'll settle
ourselves comfortably in our own county."

"Yes, er ... er ... will you?"

"Why of course,--at Maynesfort--our ancestral home. What fun I shall
have turning out the garrets! I believe they are full of lovely old
things, hustled away by the late Mrs. Mayne, who was a Victorian lady,
and loved crewel-work antimacassars, chromo-lithographs; bead mats, and
wax flowers!"

"Is anything settled?" inquired Nancy, with her eyes fixed upon her
hairpins.

"Not yet, the fact is there is a little bit of a hitch,--and I believe
you are just the one person who can help me,--and that's why I'm here!
Oh yes, my dear, although you look so calmly indifferent, and can only
throw me a casual yes or no; you knew Derek in India! Tell me honestly,
Nancy,--did you ever hear a story about him and a _girl_? No, don't
get so red, I'm not going to tell you one of _mine_, I want to know
one of _his_! The uncle seems to have an idea, that Derek got himself
into a mess--a nasty scrape--with some woman in India,--black, for
choice,--but I'm sure that wouldn't be Derek's form. The old man is
anxious; he has talked to me,--I may tell you that he adores me, for
I amuse him and flirt with him.--Derek was out there for four years,
and I need not assure you, one can manage to get through a good deal of
mischief, in _that_ time.--I've done my level best to pump Derek, but
it was no go; I had better luck with one of his pals, Major Sanders,
who is in the same regiment.--I screwed it out of _him_, that he
believes there _is_ something,--although he cannot name the lady. For
the last couple of years, Derek has been short of money; he doesn't
join in things as he used to do, and he sold two ripping polo ponies.
Major Sanders thinks there may be some horrible creature, who claws
half his income, as blackmail!"

Nancy, who had been brushing her hair, now swept a quantity over her
face, which was burning. _She_ was the horrible creature who twice a
year, received, but rejected, the half of Captain Mayne's income.

"Tell me, Nance, did _you_ ever hear anything?--what was he like, in
those days?"

"Much the same as now," she murmured, through her veil of shining locks.

"More cheery and go-ahead?"

"Oh yes,--I think perhaps he was."

"I feel I knew Derek, and I'm certain, there's something on his
mind,--some _secret_; but whatever it is, cart-horses would not drag
it from him! He knows Aunt Julia, of course. If only she were at home,
she would throw a search-light on the mystery. I never met such a woman
for getting to the bottom of a business; but she won't be back till
September! Tell me, Nancy, did Derek Mayne know any girls, when you met
him?"

"Oh yes; he knew three or four planters' daughters."

"Did he flirt with them?"

"No, never, that I saw: he only cared for sport, and tennis."

"Well, I have reason to know that Derek likes _me_; we've been pals
since we were children, and if only this little mystery was cleared up,
I'd be perfectly happy! After all, there may be nothing in it,--what do
you say?"

Nancy threw back her flowing hair, and looked up at Josie, who had
risen, and was standing beside her,--one hand on her slim hip--the
other fingering a cigarette. "I say ..." she paused ... and then,
taking her courage in both hands, "I say, that from what I know of
Captain Mayne,--I don't think he will ever marry!"

"What preposterous nonsense!" exclaimed her visitor. "I know it's
not envy on your part, my child, for you don't like one another,--as
anyone can see with half an eye. He will marry: in fact he must
marry, and soon. His uncle is getting rampageous, and declares, that
if Derek hangs back,--he will take a wife himself. Derek and I, will
get on splendidly together," announced Josie, now walking about the
room, "he is so steady, and I'm just exactly the opposite!--I won't
be sorry to have a home of my own,--for I'm dead tired of my present
existence; a sort of life, the American summed up as, 'One damned thing
after another!'--Ah, here comes your maid with your frock; oh, my
dear, what a dream!--so I'll clear out and leave you, to put on your
rouge.--Joking apart, darling, you do look white; you've not been up to
the mark just lately, I expect you want a tonic."

"Oh no," said Nancy, rising. "Of course going about from morning till
night, and dancing from night till morning, _is_ rather fagging, but
I'm all right."

"Well, my sweet lamb, all _I_ can say is, that you _look_ all wrong;
however, I suppose you know best. Mind you keep my little secret."

She halted on her way to the door, and looked back with eyes of
expressive significance, then, satisfied with a nod, she swept out.




                             CHAPTER XXXI

                            NEWENHAM COURT


Newenham was a real eighteenth-century village, chiefly composed of
red brick flat-faced houses,--some shyly withdrawn from the road,
behind prim little gardens, others standing boldly upon the street.
There was a dumpy, contented-looking old church, an ivy-clad parsonage,
and an ancient inn, formerly a noted posting-house; now resuscitated,
after nearly a century of neglect, as a halting-place and garage. The
Court was situated in a land of heavy trees, green slopes and great
peace; its back entrance opened directly into the village, but from an
opposite direction a long and imposing avenue, with gates guarded by a
pair of fierce stone wolves, wound up to the hall door.

The Court was a mixture of the Georgian and Victorian period, without
any claim to architectural beauty; but it had the dignity of mellow
age, and solid prosperity. The entrance faced north, and looked upon
wide grass slopes, crowned by heavy plantations. In the interior was a
vast hall, popular as a lounge and general sitting-room. Here people
sat, read, had tea, played Bridge and had liberty to smoke. A spacious
drawing-room, library, dining and billiard-rooms opened to right and
left.

Almost every window in the Court commanded a view, and most of the
sitting-rooms had French windows opening to the ground. Upstairs
the passages were narrow, and rambling, with very low ceilings, and
unexpected steps,--but the adjoining bedrooms dwelt long in the
affectionate memory of many guests. These were furnished to suit
the period, with large four-posters, and small looking-glasses, but
were supplied with modern mattresses, comfortable armchairs, and
the latest thing in Jacobean chintz! Here were writing-tables, well
supplied,--including stamps,--fresh flowers, the newest books, and in
season, the most cheerful fires.

Mrs. De Wolfe escorted her young friend all over the premises; she
saw not only the kitchen, the still-room, the Justice's room, but the
two apartments once occupied by the old lady's sons,--and now closed.
Their mother displayed their books, and toys, of childhood,--as well
as the trophies, and treasures of later years. The south side of the
Court, overlooked a well-timbered park, and winding river; immediately
in front, lay smooth green lawns, bounded right and left, by long
herbaceous borders, and rose-covered pergolas. Somehow this unusual
display gave the impression that an army corps of flowers, had escaped
from the grim walled garden,--which lay half concealed beyond the
shrubberies--and encamped in the grounds; immediately below the lawns
were tennis courts; these were pointed out to Nancy by her hostess, as
one of the chief features of the place.

"It is not for its gardens,--which as you see, are quite
unique,--having boldly come out of bounds, and run into the park,--nor
yet, for some very remarkable old furniture, nor even for its good
dinners, that the Court is celebrated," said its mistress. "It is
famed, for having the best tennis courts on this side of the county!
My two boys were wonderful players,--Hughie was a champion, and in
their day, the great tennis week took place _here_. There was always
an immense gathering, we provided lunch and refreshments in big
tents,--and the house was packed to the garret! When I am at home, I
still endeavour to keep up Newenham Tennis week. I needn't tell you,
that I never played tennis myself,--_my_ game was croquet, in the good
old days when croquet hoops were a generous size; but I still like to
keep the tennis going,--indeed I don't suppose my neighbours would
allow me to drop it; they consider it hard case, that it is not an
annual fixture; but when I _am_ here, I do my best to hold the meeting
in all its glory. It is true, that, as it has been hinted to me, 'I now
do very little for the county in the way of entertaining,' so I feel
bound to put my best foot forward, once in a way. I fill the house with
tennis-playing neighbours, I invite the residents for miles, I engage a
band that I board in the village,--two extra cooks, tents, waiters, and
supply all the delicacies of the season, and I offer, last not least,
prizes that are worth while. There is tennis, more or less all day, the
young people dance in the racquet court at night, others play Bridge,
or billiards; oh, what a week it is! You will see, that I shall not
be at home, more than a few days,--before letters come pouring in, to
inquire the date of the Newenham Tennis Tournament?"

"It must be an immense undertaking for you," said Nancy, "but
personally I think it will be great fun! I will help you, write out the
invitations, and do the flowers, and any odd jobs you can find for me."

"Thank you, my dear, I'm sure you will be useful, but I generally get a
man, to arrange dates, events, handicaps and so on, and more or less to
run the show. I give him _carte blanche_; you shall be deputy hostess,
and I will sit in my arm-chair,--and take all the credit! Four years
ago, Derek Mayne was my helper,--I don't know who I shall have this
time; perhaps Dudley Villars? he is not much of a tennis player, nor
what I call practical, but he knows how to lay out money, and to make
things go smoothly."

"And when do you think, you will have this tournament?"

"In about a fortnight,--or three weeks. First of all, I must go round,
and look up my friends; and as soon as I have put the house in order,
and reported myself to my people in the village, and had the Rectory
people up to dinner, you and I will sally forth, and pay a round of
calls."

Nancy had been given a delightful bedroom; it faced due south, her
windows commanded the park, the shining river, a far-away distant
blur of hills, immediately below lay the velvet lawns, and wide
grassy walks, under rose-shaded pergolas. The whole place, seemed to
be enveloped in an atmosphere of peace and good-will. "Only for one
thing," she said to herself, "how very _very_ happy I should be here!"

The afternoon when Nancy and her friend set forth in a new motor to pay
a round of visits, the old lady said, "My first, must be to Richard
Mayne; my old friend met with an accident a couple of months ago,
and has been laid up ever since. I believe he is a shocking patient,
impossible to keep indoors."

As they sped noiselessly along, she continued to talk about him. "He
has been a widower for fifteen years,--his wife was always a delicate
creature. She had a good deal of money,--which as they have no family,
goes back to her relations. The Maynes,--the real name was Delamaine,
but a Puritan ancestor chopped it up--the Maynes, have always been
spendthrifts, and compelled to marry money! The property, has dwindled
down to about a thousand acres, thanks to Mayne's ancestors' rage for
gambling. It is said, that when they could find no other method, they
used to race _worms_ upon a deal table! The table is still exhibited at
Maynesfort, and I have an idea, that the old gentleman is quite proud
of it. If it were my property,--it would have been burnt long ago."

Maynesfort was ten miles from Newenham,--a distance soon covered by
Mrs. De Wolfe's new "Rolls-Royce." As they turned into the gates, she
said to Nancy, "You see it is a fine old place, and well kept up. It's
a sort of estate, which having a great deal of wood, and vast gardens,
and no fat farms, more or less eats its head off! Derek Mayne is bound
to marry money, and I must say this,--that whoever he does marry, will
be a lucky girl!"

Old Mr. Mayne, supported by a nurse, received the two ladies in the
library: he was able to rise and hobble towards them, leaning upon a
stick,--and offered his friend a most affectionate welcome.

"Well Elizabeth!" he said, "I'm delighted to see you, it's a good sight
for old eyes," shaking her by the hand. "This time, I hope, you have
come home to stay."

"Oh, I make no rash promises," she answered with a laugh. "Now,
Richard, please sit down--and don't do company manners for us. This is
my young friend, Miss Travers," she added, presenting Nancy.

"Oh yes, Miss Travers,--I have heard of you before. Was it not to you,
that my old friend Fletcher left his property?"

"Yes," she answered, "a most unexpected legacy."

"Your father was his manager, I understand?"

"He was, but Fairplains originally belonged to him."

"Oh!" exclaimed the old gentleman with a look of blank surprise.

"And I'm afraid, he lost it through _me_."

"My dear young lady, surely you are not serious!"

"Yes, as I was delicate, I had to be sent to England, when I was a
small child, and he was constantly coming over to see me, leaving a
manager to look after the estate, the manager robbed him, and ran away
with the money, leaving no end of debts, and difficulties for father."

"Well, I am glad it has gone back to _you_," said Mr. Mayne politely.
"By the way, you knew my nephew Derek, I believe he stayed at
Fairplains?"

"Yes,--for a short time."

"A nice fellow, isn't he, and a capital _shot_?"

Nancy hesitated for a moment, and then replied: "I--suppose he is."

"Ah! I see he is not your sort.--He never was much of a ladies' man,
was he?" looking over at Mrs. De Wolfe, who had been conferring with
the old gentleman's nurse. "I expect, we shall have him down in a week
or two for the cricket and tennis."

Old Mr. Mayne then proceeded to talk about himself,--he gave full
particulars of his accident, how the horse, had slipped up and rolled
upon him, and then galloped home: the terrible consternation there had
been when Rufus had appeared in the stable yard--without his master;
next he discussed his doctor, the London specialist, and finally
dropped into the local gossip.

During the latter part of this séance, Nancy had been sent out in
charge of the nurse, to see the picture gallery and the gardens, and
she received an impression of age, refinement, and large outlay.
Certainly Maynesfort was a beautiful old place, and she did not wonder
that its present owner was so pathetically anxious, that it should
remain in the family,--and never endure the degradation of being let!

This visit to old Mr. Mayne proved to be the first of a long series.
The Hillsides were at home, also the Millers, in fact most of Mrs.
De Wolfe's friends, had shifted their quarters from London or Cowes,
into the nice cool green country. No, not cool, for the weather in
August proved to be unusually warm, the grass was burnt to a yellow
brown; Mrs. De Wolfe's gardeners were kept incessantly occupied with
hose, and water can: at times, there was scarcely a breath of air, and
the great trees stood solid in the heat haze. After sundown, Nancy
would run out to the garden, and gather fruit for dessert--apricots in
mellow perfection, off the hot brick wall; she would also go round, and
inspect the village cattle trough, and see that their own dogs, had
water in their bowls, and cheer up Bob, a gasping brown spaniel.

In a month's time, she had contrived to make herself thoroughly at
home amid her new surroundings, had been presented to the village, and
parsonage, and made friends with most of the old women, and children in
Newenham, also with the village dogs,--and indeed the post-office dog,
a mongrel, like Togo, exhibited an ardent desire to attach himself to
the "new young lady," as she was generally called. As August advanced,
Mr. Mayne, attended by nurse, and valet, was convalescing at the
seaside, his nephew was shooting in Scotland, but the remainder of the
neighbours were at home, making the most of the very shining hours, at
picnics, cricket matches, and little impromptu dances. The Hillsides
were particularly gay, and entertained a large house party.

Although a certain amount of state was maintained, such as big stepping
horses, and powdered men-servants, the _ménage_ at the castle, was
never taken very seriously; her ladyship was frequently in trouble with
servants; household matters rarely ran smoothly, meals were unpunctual
and indifferent,--it was a young people's house; and the friends of
Josie and Tony, as long as they could have freedom, and dancing, and
smoking and jokes, were not super-critical.

It was whispered that Lady Hillside was so intensely engrossed in works
of philanthropy, that she sometimes forgot she had invited guests, and
when they were ushered in by a bewildered butler, she would blandly
inquire "where they were staying?" or she would order a dinner for
twenty-four, and find that she had a party of eight, and when the party
were seated, what frightful gaps at the table!

What was even more serious, she would invite two dozen of her confiding
neighbours, and order the cook-housekeeper to provide for six. Then
what awful waits ensued, whilst the distracted staff in the kitchen,
scrambled together an impromptu meal, and the men-servants elongated
the dinner table. Such an erratic mistress, drove her retinue almost
crazy. Good and efficient servants took their departure, with the
result, that elderly guests who visited the castle,--rarely repeated
the experiment.

The last week of August, was fixed upon for the tennis tournament, and
for a long time previously, Mrs. De Wolfe and Nancy had been engaged in
making preparations. There would be a number of guests staying in the
house. Talking over the list, Mrs. De Wolfe announced:

"I shall get Dudley to do master of the ceremonies, and ask Roger De
Wolfe,--he is my heir, such a dear good stupid fellow,--to help to
manage the scoring, handicapping, and judging.

"There will be Tony and Josie, two Miller girls, Major Horne and his
mother, young Wynne of the Blues, Cobden Gray, our great tennis player,
Miss Strong the lady champion, old Sir Hubert Hamilton, to sit about
and walk with _me_, and of course Derek Mayne,--he must be back from
Scotland by this time."

"But why do you ask him to stay in the house?" inquired Nancy.

"Because it will save his going backwards and forwards to Maynesfort
twice a day. The old man is very stingy of petrol; everyone has
their pet economy: his is petrol,--and mine is string. I'm fond of
Derek,--though he has given me the cold shoulder,--still I intend to
have him here. Of course, I know _you_ do not like him, but as a Roland
for my Oliver, I shall invite one of your friends,--what do you say to
Mrs. Hicks?"

"Mrs. Hicks?"

"Yes! why not? I fancy she is at a loose end just now. She told me she
had never stayed much in the country,--at least it will be a novelty."

"And so will _she_! It is very good of you to think of her, and I'm
sure she would love to come; the neighbours may think her a bit odd,
and loud,--and I shall take it upon myself to tone down some of her
costumes; but she has the best heart in the world: I shall never forget
her kindness to me,--when my father was dying; and in one way, she will
find herself in her element here, she is a wonderfully strong tennis
player."

"You don't mean to tell me, that she _plays_?"

"I should rather think she did!--and I venture to say, will carry off
one of your beautiful and valuable trophies. Where shall we put her?"

"In the blue bedroom next to you, so that you can talk old times to
your hearts' content. Shall I write, or will you?"

"Oh, I think the invitation should go from the lady of the house."

"Very well, my dear, I will ask her to come a couple of days before the
crowd, and I'll send off a note by this very post."

       *       *       *       *       *

A letter from Mrs. Hicks, Newenham Court, Moonshire, to B. Hicks, Esq.,
M.D., Panora, near Khotagheri, Nilgiris, India:

    MY DEAR HUBBY,

    Won't you open your eyes to see where _I_ am? I arrived a week ago,
    to stay with Nancy's friend, Mrs. De Wolfe, and am now living among
    the very highest company, and on the fat of the land! This is a
    lovely old place, something like what you read of in novels--with a
    great park, and lots of stiff-looking servants, and palms in the
    sitting rooms, and wonderful table silver. Here up in my room,
    every time I come into it, I find a fresh can of hot water standing
    in the basin--but I believe there are six housemaids--and such
    scented soap, and bath salts, and a big four-post bed, as soft as
    whipped cream. A great tennis tournament is being held all this
    week; so far I have done pretty well, in the 'ladies' doubles,' and
    this house is as full as if it were a fashionable hotel. Most of
    the people are strangers to me, except as tennis and Bridge
    partners, Finchie's niece and nephew are here, the Hon. Mrs.
    Speyde,--a black-eyed, flighty-looking widow,--and the Honourable
    Tony Lamerton, her brother: not a bad sort, and a good tennis
    player, but with a laugh to split your head! There is Major Horne,
    I came home with him on board ship last time but one,--terribly
    sea-sick he was too! and of all people in the world, who do you
    think, but _Captain Mayne_! His uncle lives in these parts.

    Isn't it strange that he and Nancy should be staying in the same
    house, and talking politely to one another, as if they were bare
    acquaintances that had only lately met, for the first time? I
    suppose they have to pretend, as they are keeping their past very
    _dark_; and I believe they are both as obstinate as a pair of
    commissariat mules. I noticed that he sat next her at dinner last
    night, and they scarcely spoke, and they have played in the same
    sets at tennis. I also notice that he plays as a 'bachelor' against
    the married men. All the time, I'm the only one here, or in
    England, who happens to know, that he and Nancy are married; and
    when he addresses her as 'Miss Travers,' it's all I can do to hold
    my tongue. At tennis, I think they sometimes forget their feud, for
    I have heard him shout, 'Yours, Nancy,' and I have seen the two of
    them laughing together,--but elsewhere, as far as their manners to
    one another are concerned, they might have come out of a
    refrigerator!

    I must say, it's an awful pity that such a handsome young couple
    cannot make it up. I think Nancy should come forward,--being the
    one in the wrong. She is a real darling, and such a beauty that
    you'd never know her, and so nice and affectionate to a dowdy old
    girl like _me_. I wish she and Mayne would make it up. I'd try my
    hand, only you say I always make a botch of such affairs, blurt
    out secrets, and give the show away. Well, well! perhaps something
    may happen to put things right.

    Old Mrs. De Wolfe is wrapped up in Nancy, she might be her own
    granddaughter; the girl goes about the place, as if she had lived
    here for years; she is well liked too,--indeed _too_ much liked by
    some! There's a dark foreign fellow, who is always trying to be her
    shadow, and who dances with her of an evening, but as far as I can
    see, I don't think Mayne minds--he has his own fish to fry!

    By the time this is in your hands, Jess and Teddy will have arrived,
    and given you my news, and your new socks, and jerseys. I'm sending
    you some postcards of this place; but they give a very poor idea of
    its style. Many a time, I shall dream of it, I know, when I am back
    with you in old Panora. You and I fancy our roses; well, you should
    see those _here_; the Pergolas just smothered in them, and the
    rosery a sight for angels; as for the apricots on the south wall,
    my mouth waters, when I think of them!

    Mrs. De Wolfe herself, in spite of all her engagements, has been
    mighty kind and friendly to me, and made me feel quite at _home_.
    When you look at the postcard of this place, and think of me, you
    will laugh at the idea. I play Bridge with her; my word! she is
    first class. Sees mistakes--but never scolds--not like _you_! Once
    she took me round the big garden all by myself. At the time, I felt
    it a tremendous honour, but on second thoughts, I believe she
    wanted to get something out of me about Nancy. She did her big best
    to pump me about Mayne,--and the reason of their coolness, but for
    once I was on my guard, and left her just as wise as ever! I'm
    afraid I told one or two small lies, but that under the
    circumstances, couldn't be helped. I'd give fifty rupees, cash down,
    to see her face, when she hears the _truth_. I'll write from London
    by next mail.

                                                Your affectionate wife,
                                                           SUSAN HICKS.




                             CHAPTER XXXII

                      MRS. HICKS IMPARTS A SECRET


The letter from Mrs. Hicks to her "hubby" gave a fairly good sketch of
events at the Court. There had been tennis, boating, Bridge, dancing, a
certain amount of strolling about the lawns and turf walks, and sitting
in rustic arbours, with congenial companions. Mrs. Hicks had played
well, and vigorously in the married ladies against single, and it
seemed to Mayne like good old days, when she served her cleverly placed
balls, and shouted her triumphs.

On her arrival at the Court, Nancy, her neighbour, had taken her
under her wing, inspected her wardrobe, subdued its too vivid colours
with lace and chiffon, altered the style of her friend's hats with
her own clever fingers, and made useful suggestions with regard to
coiffure. Also, she gave her the names and characteristics of expected
guests, and did her utmost to make her comfortable, and put her at
her ease,--and Mrs. Hicks was not ungrateful. As she stood patiently,
whilst the girl pinned and arranged a fichu upon her portly form, she
said, "I declare to you, Nancy, you've done more to fix me up, and show
me the ropes in two days, than my own girls in two years. Of course
they are busy with their love affairs,--and you have none,--and it's
your own fault. There isn't a young man I know, that can hold a candle
to Mayne, as to looks and manners. He took the shine out of them all,
at Jessie's wedding. _Why_ can't you make it up?"

"It takes two to do that," said Nancy, as she took a pin out of her
mouth.

"Ah, I suppose the letter you sent him choked him off? It's funny you
and he being in the same set, and him coming to stay in this very
house."

"Yes: too funny to be pleasant."

"Lots of girls like him; I saw that at Jessie's wedding, and when I
was down at Burlingham,--and there's one lady, unless I am greatly
mistaken, likes him uncommon,--that Mrs. Speyde, a niece of Finchie's.
She is always running after him, I am told. Maybe they'll run away
together, some day! Why, Nancy child, I declare you look quite vexed!
You're not jealous, are you?"

"Of course not,"--now giving the fichu a twitch,--"what a ridiculous
idea."

"Well, if he would only throw a book at you, before a witness,--and
then run away with someone, it would make matters so nice and simple."

"Simple, yes, but not exactly nice."--After a moment's hesitation, and
a fresh pin, "I always thought you liked him, Mrs. Hicks."

"So I do, but it's you, I'm _really_ fond of; it's for _your_ good I'm
thinking. Don't I remember you a little darling in your nurse's arms?
as for him, I only knew him for a matter of a few weeks. If you would
put your pride in your pocket, all might yet be well: that is to say,
_if_ you liked him. Do you Nancy? Come now, own up?"

Nancy made no reply for some moments; at last she said, "I like him
better than I did; there, now your fichu is all right, and looks very
nice; you must wear it this evening,--but mind you don't put it on
wrong side out! Now I must run and dress," and imprinting a kiss on
Mrs. Hicks' hard and healthy cheek, she hurried out of the room.

A few days later, Nancy had reason to repeat Mrs. Hicks' question,
was she jealous? Strange to say, the idea did not now appear to be
so supremely ridiculous. Within the last week, she'd been a little
startled at the discovery of emotions, the existence of which took her
by surprise! She found, that it gave her a painful sensation to see
Josie and Captain Mayne, on such excellent and intimate terms. They
sat and talked, motored, and danced together--almost as if they were
an engaged couple. She endeavoured to console herself with the fact,
that it was Josie who was playing the part of enchantress: she had a
wonderful power of appropriating the interest of a man.

It was a by no means unusual sight, to behold the fascinating Mrs.
Speyde, encompassed by a little crowd of admirers;--whilst other and
far prettier women were overlooked, and neglected. Of late she had an
instinct that relations between herself and Josie were changed; and
that Josie no longer liked her. More than once, she had caught her
black eyes fixed upon her with a steady and vindictive glare; in her
remarks there was a belittling and malicious note--and she had felt
herself laughed at, and so to speak "baited," for the entertainment
of the company,--yes, no later than that very day at breakfast! Josie
was a splendid mimic, and if her manner was rather boisterous, no one
could tell a story with more vivacity and point. Her usual plan was
to relate the joint adventure of herself, and victim,--describing it
with grotesque exaggeration, and gesture, and making her unfortunate
butt, look contemptibly foolish, and ridiculous. Expostulation was
useless,--after all, the story was _not_ told behind the subject's
back, but boldly face to face, with audacious effrontery, and Nancy's
feeble explanations, were drowned in shouts of laughter. The merest
incident was sufficient excuse, on which to hang a tale, and Josie's
victims never had the wit or spirits, to carry the war into the enemy's
quarter,--and the tyrant scored.

Although Captain Mayne and Nancy saw but little of one another indoors,
they had been drawn to play together in the "Ladies' and gentlemen's
doubles." This had excited the jealousy of Mrs. Speyde, and although
she intrigued and manœuvred, nothing she did or said, could alter the
detestable fact. Nancy knew by instinct, that her late friend hated to
see her and Captain Mayne together,--even if it were only for a few
minutes; when they barely exchanged a word!

The weather was perfect, though still rather warm; and the scene in
the grounds and around the tennis courts, had been described in the
local paper, as "brilliant." No such successful tournament had taken
place for years; the sun had shone, and the world and his wife had
flocked to Newenham from far and near, and there been entertained, with
first-class tennis, excellent refreshments, and any amount of grapeseed!

It had been a particularly strenuous day for Nancy, who had not only
played in two hard fought competitions, but in acting deputy hostess,
among the very mixed multitude in the tents; seeing that ices and
cup were unfailing, and in distributing little civilities among the
crowd,--with Sir Dudley as her attendant. When the last game had been
contested, and the last straggling group had dispersed, she strolled
towards the river, accompanied by Mrs. Hicks, who pounced upon her
bodily, and said, "Come you here, you little Nancy girl! I never get
a word with you these times," taking her arm, and with a significant
glance at Sir Dudley, she added, "turn about is fair play; he has had
more than his share," she continued, as he moved off.

"My goodness! how the time flies, I've been here five days, and they
have gone like greased lightning. Let us go and sit on the bench by the
boat-house, and see if there is a bit of air from the river!"

"You played in your very best form to-day," said Nancy. "Your service
was splendid; I felt immensely proud of you."

"Thank you, my dear, the same to you!" she rejoined, seating herself
with a sigh of satisfaction. "Who's them two over in the boat? I'm
getting a bit short-sighted?"

"Mrs. Speyde, and Captain Mayne."

"They don't seem to be rowing?"

"No, just drifting,--and talking."

"Drifting! so they are,--well! well! well! Look here, Nancy girl, I've
got something to say to you. There's no one in the boat-house, is
there?" peering round.

"No one,--and is it really such a secret?" and she laughed.

"You shall judge for yourself! The last three days I have kept my eyes
open."

"Are they _ever_ shut?"

"Now don't interrupt me, with your stupid jokes," protested her
companion, with a touch of impatience. "I've seen, that you and him,
for all your stand-off airs,--like one another right well."

"What makes you think so?"

"The use of my senses. I've noticed you smiling and jabbering together
just like old times,--although you were only talking tennis; and I
believe you're a bit jealous,--always a _very_ healthy sign. Now, my
dear child, take an old friend's advice, and don't make _the_ mistake
of your life! Good fortune, and a providential chance, have brought you
and Mayne here together. Are you going to let him drift away?"

"But why do you talk as if _I_ were the one to act and come forward?"

"Because you are! Now listen to me," seizing her hand in a firm grip,
"it is for you to make the advance; you gave him the go-by; it was
certainly an amazing act for a girl of your age. Now I think you have
come to your senses; but he is frightened of your money. Yes!" she
continued with emphasis, "he as good as told Teddy, and I dug it out of
_him_,--that had you not been an _heiress_, he would have been willing
to make it up!"

"He said that,--did he?" said Nancy with a quick catch in her breath.

"So Teddy informed me, and I have always found him to speak the
truth. He told me, as a dead, dead, secret,--and mind you let it go
no further, for if Teddy knew, he'd _eat_ me,--although I _am_ his
mother-in-law! Seeing how things are, and being really fond of you,
Nancy, I thought I'd not allow love to pass out of your life, without
doing my best to interfere, and stop it."

Nancy's colour was high, her heart beat unusually fast; here, indeed,
was a wonderful piece of information. So it was not altogether her
unpardonable flight,--but the money, that stood between them. She sat
for a long time in dead silence, with her eyes fixed upon the river. At
last she murmured, "I don't see how I could possibly do it."

"You'll find it easy enough, once you and he are face to face; you
will never have a chance _here_; never a moment together, unless when
playing tennis: that gay lady in the boat, now lighting her cigarette
on his, takes right good care of that!"

"But I thought you were so near-sighted?" said Nancy, with a faint
smile.

"Only when it's convenient: and I thought perhaps you might not notice
the pair. Well, here is that long-legged young Tony and Miss Miller,
coming to fetch you," said Mrs. Hicks, rising as she spoke. "Think over
what I have told you, my dear child, and don't let matters slide! I'll
just go in, and get a bit of a rest before dinner,--my poor old joints,
ay, but they do ache!"




                            CHAPTER XXXIII

                       AN INTERRUPTED INTERVIEW


The last set had been played, tennis prizes been distributed amid much
clapping and applause, performers and spectators had dispersed, the
great tennis week was over!

Nancy, who felt mentally and bodily fatigued, contrived to escape
from her friends, to enjoy a short rest, and breathing time, before
the evening gaieties set in; and by devious and cunning short cuts,
made her way to a favourite seat, at the end of the least frequented
Pergola. Here for once, she found herself out of the public eye,--the
only eyes that rested upon her, were those of her companion, Bob, the
brown spaniel,--nephew to the dogs at Maynesfort. Bob detested tennis,
and had followed his mistress under the fond delusion that she was
about to take him for a nice run by the river; alas! no, she threw
herself down on a hard rustic bench, and heaved a long sigh. Poor
disappointed Bob was in complete sympathy with this frame of mind, and
inclined to sigh too.

All day long, Nancy had borne the fierce light, that beats on a pretty
popular girl,--the most prominent figure in a society gathering;
as deputy hostess, tennis competitor, adviser, referee, arbitress
in little half-playful disputes, with an eye to the guests in the
refreshment tents, and in perpetual demand, here, there, and everywhere.

Mrs. De Wolfe had abdicated and taken her ease, and an attitude of
serene detachment, seated among her contemporaries, and intimates;
all little anxieties and worries, were handed over to her vice-reine,
and although she had the gift of social grace, youth, and energy,
Nancy found the sceptre as heavy as lead! Here was Mrs. Harper looking
alarmingly red and explosive, because no one had escorted her to tea,
and there was Lizzie Stevens on the verge of tears, because the umpire
had given her two faults; Mrs. Fitzhammond had lost a dear old silver
brooch, she had had since she was a school-girl, and was unpleasantly
querulous, injured, and fussy; whilst Sutton the butler had informed
poor Nancy in a hollow whisper, that "the ice was running out!"

Well, it was all over at last! and had been a surprising success;
but the deputy hostess felt completely exhausted, as she took off
her hat, and closed her eyes. The previous night, she had lain awake
for many hours, meditating on Mrs. Hicks' unexpected revelation. It
seemed to her, that she was approaching a crisis in her life: looking
into her own heart, she saw Derek Mayne; yes, Derek, and no one else.
Far removed from the tragedy of former associations, in another
hemisphere, and among other surroundings, she realized his personal
attraction, his upright character, unfailing good humour,--and for a
man,--surprising unselfishness!

She had noticed his thoughtful attention to his uncle; his pleasant
ways to children, and to nobodies,--it was he, who had relieved her of
Mrs. Harper, and carried off that swelling matron, to enjoy ices, and
conversation (whilst Dudley Villars lay prone on the grass, at the feet
of the county's duchess, entertaining her with scraps of highly-spiced
scandal!). She recalled to mind, what a favourite he had been with her
father; how he had given her to him when on his deathbed; later how
fiercely she had thrust him aside, and fled. Yes! there was no doubt,
that _she_ was the offender; and it was for her, to venture the first
advance--an advance bristling with difficulties and dangers. If she
made an overture and was repulsed--how--how, could she ever hold up her
head again? on the other hand, if she made no sign, and he went away,
it would be something whispered,--for--_ever_.

During the last few days she and Derek had been on easier terms;
naturally the tournament had thrown them together; more than once, he
had addressed her as "Nancy," and more than once, she had surprised
him surveying her with an expression of keen attention, and something
else--"What?" What it was she could not analyse; interest, yes, perhaps
interest; at any rate, the glance was neither cynical nor scornful!
Possibly it might mean, that he wished to speak to her, that--oh no,
never by word or look, had he intimated that he looked for any change
in their relations; if she was to say, or do anything that would count;
if she was to venture to break the ice, and her heart quailed at the
mere idea of such an undertaking,--it must be _soon_. On Saturday,
he was leaving the Court, and from what she could gather, shortly
returning to India; so it was a case of now, or never! How could she
begin?--she had not the gracious art of approaching the unapproachable.
As she sat meditating, and by no means fancy free, the thumping of
Bob's tail announced his welcome to someone; and opening her eyes, she
beheld the subject of her thoughts, rapidly approaching along the turf
walk. Was she asleep? or was his appearance the result of some strange
telepathy?

How good-looking he was! a lover to gladden the eyes of any girl. His
flannels set off an admirable well-knit figure--the touch of scarlet in
his blazer, was eminently becoming to his dark hair and eyes; in one
hand he swung a bat, and was apparently pressed for time.

"Well, what is it?" he inquired, as he came within earshot.

"I'm sure I don't know!" she answered, now sitting erect.

"But Mrs. Hicks told me to hurry here at once--she said you wished to
speak to me."

"She must have been dreaming!"

"On the contrary, she looked particularly wide awake, and would take no
refusal,--we are just getting up a match." Nevertheless, he lingered.

"I should have thought you'd had enough of tennis for to-day," remarked
Nancy.

"Yes, I daresay. You are in great form, you and I, are the proud
winners of the ladies' and gentlemen's doubles. I say----" he paused
abruptly.

"What do you say?" she asked.

"Well,--it's about that fellow Villars;--you will remember, I begged
you to drop him; and I find him here installed as Tame cat: in fact a
sort of Puss in Boots,--running the whole show!"

"That's true," admitted Nancy, "but Sir Dudley was _l'ami de la maison_
long before Mrs. De Wolfe knew me,--and surely you can scarcely expect
her to turn out her old friends on _my_ account,--besides, he is her
godson."

"So you think that sanctifies him?" shifting his bat under his arm.

"No, certainly not; but I do honestly believe, you are prejudiced and
that Sir Dudley is not any worse than his neighbours; he is religious
in his way too, always down to family prayers,--of course, attendance
is optional,--whilst _you_ appear with the hot dishes! He reads the
Scriptures beautifully,--I've never heard the twelfth chapter of
Ecclesiastes read with such expression."

"If you would only take my word for it, the Song of Solomon is a
thousand times more in his line--all about my beloved, and roses, and
lilies."

"Do you know, that he has a _wife_?" said Nancy expressively.

"No, has he? Unhappy woman! but I _do_ happen to know, that he has run
away with another man's wife! Certainly, it was years ago,--if he made
any scandal with mine"--he paused and looked full into her eyes, "by
Jove I would kill him,--and I should _like_ to kill him!"

Nancy burst into a peal of laughter. "How melodramatic you are! and how
you do abhor him!"

"May I ask, if he is aware, that you have a husband?" Although his
manner chaffed her--his voice had a ring of earnestness.

"What an absurd question; of course not! There isn't a soul in this
country, who's in the secret--except Mrs. Hicks."

"I say," he exclaimed, "we are a fine couple of impostors! You may be
amused to hear, that my uncle has taken an immense fancy to you."

"How nice of him."

"And between ourselves, he thinks you would be an ideal niece-in-law.
The Maynes are poor, the place swallows up money, and the reigning
proprietor is obliged to get hold of a consort with coin."

A thought instantly darted into Nancy's mind; here was her opportunity!
and as if in obedience to some irresistible force, she rose, with a
hammering heart,--looking, did she but know it, enchantingly pretty.--A
little pale perhaps, but stirred by some inward emotion, her lovely
face was unusually expressive. One or two rose leaves had fallen on her
uncovered hair, and the light between the branches overhead, sent the
shadows of leaves, to dance gaily upon her white skirt.

"A wife with coin," repeated Nancy, speaking with a desperate effort,
and fixing her eyes upon the ground, "well! you did that yourself."

"Quite unintentionally, I assure you," was the emphatic reply; "the
girl I married, was as poor as a church mouse! Nothing would tempt _me_
to marry for money."

"I suppose," began Nancy--and she hesitated.

"You suppose what?" he asked sharply.

"That if ... if ..." she stammered--for the tone of his voice had been
discouraging, and made her, if possible--more nervous. "If you could
forgive me,--do you think.... Oh, how _can_ I put it?..." and her voice
shook, "that _I_ could tempt you? Oh no, I don't mean _that_,--only I
don't want all that money; no one knows better than you do, that I
never was accustomed to riches, and--and I should be only too thankful,
to give it to you."

Mayne stared at her amazed! She was no longer pale.

"Nancy!" he exclaimed, "I remember how in old days you talked the
wildest nonsense, I don't suppose for a moment, that you know or mean,
one single word of what you are saying."

"Yes, I do," she rejoined tremulously, "but I can promise you
this,"--her lips quivered--and she added with difficulty, "I will never
say it again," she paused, struggling between pride, and emotion.

"Oh, my dear Nancy, if I could only believe you--don't you know----"

"So here you are, Derek!" exclaimed a high, authoritative treble,
and through a breach in the Pergola, Mrs. Speyde appeared, waving an
imperative tennis bat. "Have you forgotten, that we are _all_ waiting
to make up a match?" She glanced sharply from him to Nancy. His face
wore a strained expression, as for the girl, she was the colour of a
crimson rambler!

"Ah," with a little malicious laugh, "I see you have been talking
_secrets_. Yes, Miss Nancy, I always suspected that you knew a good
deal more about this gentleman than you pretended. Well, for the
present, you must leave the cat _in_ the bag. Derek," laying an
arresting hand on his arm, "you've _got_ to come!"

Mayne drew back, but before anything further happened, Nancy had picked
up her hat, and vanished through an opening that led into the old
walled garden.

That same evening, Nancy selected her most becoming frock, and took
particular pains with her hair--for she entertained high hopes, that
Mayne would seek her out, and endeavour to resume the conversation so
cruelly interrupted by Josie Speyde. At dinner, she saw nothing of
him,--as he happened to be on the same side of the table; later, as he
held the door for the ladies to pass forth, it seemed to her, that he
gave her a glance of particular significance; but strange to say, he
did not come into the drawing-room with the other men.

About an hour later, when she was singing a duet with Sir Dudley, she
noticed him standing near the door. It struck her, that he looked pale
and rather stern,--as if he had been annoyed, or disappointed; he made
no effort whatever to speak to her for the remainder of the evening;
and she retired for the night, with an acute sense of hopelessness, and
depression.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV

                               STRANDED!


The following morning the guests who still remained at the Court, made
up a party to attend a race meeting at Knapshot. Knapshot was thirty
miles away, and could be reached by rail,--as the Court was but a short
distance from a mean, and undeserving little station. However, most of
the party decided to go by motor; Mrs. De Wolfe, Mrs. Horne, Sir Dudley
and Nancy in the comfortable roomy Daimler, with Roger De Wolfe sitting
by the chauffeur, Major Horne, Billy Miller, Josie and Captain Mayne,
followed in the new Rolls-Royce. Several preferred to travel by rail,
and Mrs. Hicks remained at home, to rest her weary bones, and repose
upon her well-earned laurels.

The races, though not particularly notable, offered good sport; the
lunch was excellent, the ladies had their fortunes told, and did a
little betting. Mrs. De Wolfe and Mrs. Horne elected to return by train
early in the afternoon, as there was a dinner-party at the Court that
night--the last function of the week, moreover, the old ladies found
motoring rather hot, and dusty; and escorted by Roger, left the rest of
the party to follow, enjoining on all, that on no account were they to
be late.

"We will go back just as we came!" said Josie, "we played games all the
way, and don't want to break up our happy little set!"

This arrangement left Sir Dudley and Nancy to share the Daimler
_tête-à-tête_, and she offered a seat to Billy, who, however
(naturally), preferred to travel in company with Major Horne!

"We will take different roads," declared Josie, who seemed to have
assumed command of the whole party, "and race, and see which car gets
home first? The Charlton road is the shortest: but it's out of repair,
the other by Langford is a couple of miles longer--but good going all
the way. Shall we toss, Dudley?--come, be sporting, and have something
on!"

They tossed accordingly, Mrs. Speyde won the long route--and booked a
bet of five pounds.

With a good deal of laughing, and joking, the competitors started
together, but within a quarter of a mile, the cars had separated, the
Rolls-Royce to take a high road, more or less bordering the railway,
the Daimler to plunge into what seemed to be the very heart and soul of
the country. It was a light and lovely September evening, and they sped
along with noiseless ease,--considering the ruts.

"This is a ripping good car!" remarked Sir Dudley, "and Josie's five
pounds is already in my pocket,--I suppose your chauffeur knows the
way?"

"Oh yes," replied Nancy, "Saxton belongs to this part of the country,
he has been with Mrs. De Wolfe for years."

The couple discussed the races, the fortune-teller, and other matters,
but neither appeared to be in a talkative mood. It was delightful
flying along these quiet, grass-bordered roads, and lanes, breathing
the soft delicious air, watching the homing birds, and the solemn rise
of a splendid harvest moon. Suddenly Sir Dudley said:

"I thought Mayne's leave was up, and that he was sick of this country,
but I heard him tell a fellow at the races, that he was going to apply
for an extension."

"Is he?" murmured Nancy, and a bright colour invaded her face. "Was
this the outcome of their interrupted interview?"

"Yes, and the sooner he goes the better! Josie Speyde is carrying on
one of her most outrageous flirtations. Lord! what a number of them
I've seen! If I didn't know her so well, I would swear that this time,
she was in earnest. There was Chapman, Fotheringay, Montague----"

"Oh! Sir Dudley, it really isn't fair, to tell tales of your own
cousin."

"Josie wouldn't mind, on the contrary, she's proud of her scalps. She's
a queer woman, in her way--a freak! Here we are, on a by-road I see.
I suppose it's all right?" then as the car slowed down, and drew up
beside a picturesque old cottage, he added, "but what is he stopping
for?"

"I expect to get water for the car," replied Nancy. "What a dear
place"--looking in through the open door--"there's such a darling oak
chest in the passage!"

"Yes, I know your craze,--and I think I see some china on a dresser
further on! Do you wish to go in?"

"Only just for a second,--it looks the sort of cottage where one
can pick up the most priceless treasures!" Before she finished the
sentence, Nancy was already in the passage. A stout, grey-haired woman
with a bulky figure and a pleasant face, appeared, wiping her hands.

"I wanted to look at your beautiful old chest," explained the visitor.
"I caught sight of it through the open door."

"You are very welcome, miss," she answered, "and there's a still
better one in the kitchen--if you care to see that? We have a good
few old things--that came down from Bode's grandmother--Bode was my
husband--he's dead, poor man--this ten year."

Nancy followed the woman down a long flagged passage, and found herself
in a heavily-beamed, low room,--with a vast fireplace. Here she
discovered a fine oak settle, a dresser and a chest,--with the date,
sixteen hundred and seventy. Nancy was in raptures, and fell in love
with an old blue bowl, that she saw on the dresser. She admired it with
such heartfelt enthusiasm, that the woman,--honestly displaying various
cracks,--declared that "it had been her grandfather's, but now leaked.
If the young lady fancied it--she could have it for a shilling."

But Nancy protested, and said, "I wouldn't dream of imposing on your
generosity"--she did not like to use the word "ignorance," and added,
"I will gladly give you a sovereign for it"--and produced her purse.
The bargain being concluded to their mutual satisfaction, and Sir
Dudley having approved of the family chest, and bench, they took leave
of the hostess, and returned to the entrance, but here, to their utter
and speechless amazement, there was no motor to be seen!

"Where is he?" cried Nancy, looking up and down the road. "Has he taken
the car into the yard?"

No, neither car, nor chauffeur were about the premises--they had
mysteriously disappeared,--as if dissolved into thin air. Whilst Nancy
and her companion stood bewildered, and exclaiming, a youth on a shaggy
colt trotted up.

"Dan, did you see a motor?" demanded his mother.

"I did, it passed me just now--going at a great rate."

"What is to be done?" said Nancy, turning to Sir Dudley in despair.

"I understand what's happened; the fellow didn't notice us getting
out, he was round in the yard at the time, and, thinking we were still
in the car, he has driven off, and left us! Is there any station near
this?" turning to the woman.

"Yes, about two miles off, but there's few trains. This is a terrible
awkward place to get away from--being a bit out of the way."

"I suppose you have a post-office within reach?" inquired Nancy.

"Yes, in Lofty village,--a mile off."

"Then let us send a wire for the car to return; Auntie Wolfe will be
most awfully fussed, if we are not back in time for dinner."

"You can take a telegram, my lad?" said Villars, appealing to the young
man.

"Oh yes, sir, for sure," he answered eagerly.

"Then I've got a pencil, and," to Mrs. Bode, "if you'll let me have a
bit of paper, I'll just go inside and write it." He retired indoors,
and Nancy talked to the colt and Dan, and after a few minutes, Dudley
reappeared, and handed a message to the youth, along with a half-crown.

"I'll give you something for yourself, when you come back; be as quick
as ever you can. It's half-past seven now," he added, looking at his
watch, and then glancing at Nancy, he nodded his head, and said, "There
will be no dinner party for you, and me."

"Oh, if they deliver the message at the Court at once, say in half an
hour, the car should be here by nine. We will dash home, and appear in
time for dessert."

"'I doubt it, said the carpenter, and shed a bitter tear,'" quoted
Villars. "Perhaps Mrs. Bode can find us something to eat?" he added.

"I am sorry I haven't got no butcher's meat in the house, sir, but
there's fresh eggs, and cold bacon,--and good home-made bread."

"There are worse things!" said Villars, "but I'm not hungry, I was
thinking of the young lady."

"A cup of tea, and a slice of home-made bread, is what I should like,
if Mrs. Bode will be so kind,--and I shall make the most of my time, in
poking about among her nice old things, and there is my nice blue bowl,
which I intend to carry home, as a souvenir of this funny adventure.
Will you come and help me to ransack the cottage?" said Nancy. "I know
you have a _flair_ for old oak, and pewter too."

"No," replied Villars, "I'll let you have it all your own way for once;
and leave you to gather up the spoil. I'll just stroll down the road
for half an hour,--and smoke a cigarette."




                             CHAPTER XXXV

                               "EMPTY!"


Meanwhile the merry quartette in the Rolls-Royce had reached their
destination rather late, but before she rushed off to dress, Mrs.
Speyde eagerly inquired if Miss Travers, and Sir Dudley had arrived?

"No, ma'am, not yet," replied Sutton, the butler.

"Hooray!" she cried, turning to Mayne, "I win five pounds, and I'll
gamble it away to-night, on weak, no trumpers."

There happened to be a considerable gathering at the Court that
evening. Besides the guests in the house, not a few neighbours were
present; and the beautiful old mahogany table loaded with fine silver,
and softly shaded candelabra, surrounded by smart and well-favoured
young people, looked very gay indeed. The racing party, who had
scrambled into their clothes, gradually dropped in between soup, and
the second entrée, and heartlessly announced that "the others had
evidently lost their way!" It certainly looked like it, for as time
advanced, no one appeared to fill the two vacant places;--and vacant
places, make a gap, and spoil the symmetry of a dinner table, much as a
missing front tooth, mars a pretty face!

"They certainly ought to be here by _this_ time," remarked Mrs. De
Wolfe, consulting her wristlet watch, "it's just half-past nine."

"Perhaps the car has broken down?" suggested Major Horne, "and they are
walking home!"

"A fairly long walk," said Billy Miller, "and a hatefully lonely road."

"Oh! Dudley won't mind _that_," said Josie, in an intimate aside.

It had been a lively and festive meal, the guests were all in high good
humour. Dessert had been disposed of, and the ladies were awaiting
Mrs. De Wolfe's "eye," when Sutton, the butler, entered with unusual
solemnity, and bending his head, made some grave announcement in the
immediate vicinity of her left ear.

"Nonsense!" she exclaimed in a startled tone, "nonsense!"

"What is it?" demanded Mayne, and his voice sounded masterful, and
imperious.

"Sutton tells me, that the car has come back, and that it is
_empty_!"--Meanwhile Sutton stood by, with a face as expressionless as
a dinner plate!

"Empty!" echoed Mrs. Horne; "what does he mean?--where are Nancy, and
Sir Dudley?"

Sutton cleared his voice twice, and with an overwhelming importance
suitable to the occasion, said: "When the footman ran down to open the
door just now, there was no one inside the car--nothing but the dust
knee cover, and Miss Travers' feather boa."

After a deadly silence, Mrs. De Wolfe pulled herself together, rose and
said, as she looked round, "Of course we shall find some ridiculous
explanation; meanwhile, let us adjourn,--I will interview Saxton
myself."

Whilst the ladies in the drawing-room were whispering, and wondering,
and the men in the dining-room were "lighting up" and passing round the
port, Mrs. De Wolfe entered the library, there to await her chauffeur.
She was accompanied by Roger, and was not a little astonished, when
Captain Mayne joined them. He made no excuse whatever, and looked
serious, and unlike his usual cheery self. After a short delay, Saxton
was ushered in,--a middle-aged, clean-shaven man,--of few words.

"Pray explain, Saxton, where you left Miss Travers, and Sir Dudley?"
said his mistress.

"That's more than I can say, ma'am," and there was a moment's silence.

"Well, say _something_!" urged Mayne impatiently (thrusting a spoon
into what was not his porridge).

"All I can say, is, that I never laid an eye on either, from the time
we left the race stand--till now."

"Where did you stop?" asked Mayne; promptly forestalling Mrs. De
Wolfe's anxious questions.

"At a little old farm by the road, to get water for the engine. I ran
round to the pump and wasn't away two minutes--later on we had a fairly
long wait, maybe a quarter of an hour, at Harraby railway crossing."

"And you never happened to look back into the car?" suggested Roger De
Wolfe.

"No, I never does,--I want all my eyes the other way."

"Very true, all right, go on."

"Well I was just staggered, when Fox opened the door of the car, and
turned to me, and said, 'Why didn't you go round to the garage? there's
no one inside'--and that's all _I_ know!"

"Very well, Saxton, that will do," said his mistress, "go now and get
your supper," and with a military salute, Saxton departed.

"It is the strangest, most extraordinary affair," declared Mrs. De
Wolfe. "I expect Nancy has done something wild, and giddy, and we shall
have her arriving to-night, in the musty old station fly, full of her
adventure, and apologies. I'm not really alarmed,--only puzzled. Well!"
rising as she spoke, "I must return to the ladies; you two, have not
had your smoke. Don't forget that we are playing Bridge,--and want to
make up four tables."

Bridge proved to be unusually engrossing, and it was only when the
players happened to be Dummy, that their thoughts wandered to the
missing couple. Mayne was not among the card party, he seemed restless,
and unsettled, and wandered into the big hall, where he concealed
himself in one of the largest arm chairs, behind a newspaper. By twelve
o'clock, the last lady guests had retired,--early hours were the rule
at the Court.

And just about this time, a sinister whisper began to creep up from
the lower regions; it reached Mrs. De Wolfe, as she was taking off
her pearls. In spite of her attitude, the old lady was painfully
anxious. "Thank God," she said to herself, "there was no fear of an
accident,--the car and Saxton had come home intact; but where were
Nancy and Dudley? Surely they must know the misery their absence was
causing."

Turning to Haynes, her confidential treasure, she said, "Is it not
extraordinary about Miss Travers? Although I have said nothing
downstairs, I am very uneasy, and half inclined to telephone to the
police station. I don't think there's much use in my going to bed, for
I shall certainly not sleep. Why, Haynes, what's the matter, your face
is all blotches,--you've been crying! Don't be foolish, don't you
know, that half the troubles in the world, are those that have never
happened."

"But this _has_ happened, ma'am," rejoined the maid with a sniff.
"Martin tells me, that Antonio got a wire from his master about eight
o'clock telling him where to bring his own car; and to pack his
clothes, and get Miss Travers' warm coat, and a few things in a suit
case. He said they were going off to Paris together."

The old lady gave a sharp exclamation, then suddenly sat down. "You
must be out of your mind!" she cried.

"Martin wouldn't give him a stitch," continued Haynes triumphantly,
"not as much as a pocket-handkerchief; she said she didn't believe a
word he said--and I know myself, that I've caught him out in awful
lies! However, he went and helped himself to a coat out of the
hall--one of _yours_, I think--took most of Sir Dudley's luggage,
and went off with the car about ten o'clock: all the men saw him--!
Here, wait a second, and I'll get a drop of brandy; keep up, my dear
lady, and don't faint if you can help it, and Mrs. De Wolfe did keep
up,--although she looked like death.

"I'm too old for these shocks, Haynes," she muttered, after a long
silence, "I thought I was hardened! I suppose so far, this story is
only known downstairs."

"That's all, ma'am; and I needn't tell you, that not one of the
servants would breathe it."

The tale was nevertheless stealing through the house. Mrs. Speyde heard
it from her maid; and was at first rudely incredulous. After taking two
or three turns up and down the room, she said, "Wait a moment, I'll not
undress yet--I've forgotten something downstairs."

"Can't I fetch it, ma'am?"

"No!" waving her back, "I know where it is myself!"

She went softly out along the corridor, and stood looking over the
balustrade into the great lounge. Mayne was the only individual
below--the other men were assembled in the smoking-room--suddenly he
glanced up, and beheld Josie in her flame-coloured garment, drifting
down the stairs. She paused half-way, and beckoned to him.

"Derek, I've something to tell you," she whispered, as she halted
on the lowest step. Glancing round, she leant forward, and said:
"Something _dreadful_ has happened!--_Dudley and Nancy have run away to
Paris!_"

Mayne stood very still--he might have been a stone.

"His own car, and chauffeur have gone to meet them with their
luggage--what a terrible blow for the old lady!"

What a terrible blow for Mayne! This was the second time that Nancy
had, so to speak, made him to pass through fire. How false, how
treacherous, was that young, and innocent face!

As Mayne remained speechless, Josie continued: "So still waters run
deep--not that Nancy was ever very _still_. Although he is my own
cousin, I always knew, that Dudley was a bad lot; a regular rotter! but
as for the girl, I must confess I'm surprised.--Aren't you?"

"I am," he assented, in a strange dry voice, "surprised in one way, but
not in another. It's not the _first_ time, that Miss Travers has run
away."

Josie opened her great black eyes, to their widest extent.

"And _you_ knew all about it--so that is the secret between you!" but
Mayne made no reply, and to her great astonishment, walked across the
hall, snatched his cap from a peg, opened the great door, and went out.

At this moment, the sound of loud and jovial voices approaching,
warned her, that the smoking-room party were about to disperse, so she
turned about, ran lightly up the stairs, and disappeared into her own
apartment. As for Mayne, he went round into the stable-yard, where men
were still hanging about: one of the neighbours had not yet taken his
departure; he noticed a group of two or three grooms, and a couple of
white-capped women in close conference,--they looked like a gang of
conspirators. The doors of the great garage had not been closed, and as
the moon made everything as bright as day, he saw, that Sir Dudley's
big Mercédès had vanished!

As she had prognosticated, Mrs. De Wolfe never slept that night. She
looked a wrinkled old wreck, when Haynes brought her her early tea;
nevertheless this Spartan matron, insisted upon getting up and having
herself dressed as usual. In spite of Haynes' expostulations, she
declared, "I'll go down to breakfast, if it costs me my life! The
people upstairs know nothing: so far no one knows the truth, except
the servants, and I feel sure that they will keep this terrible matter
to themselves. All my guests will have departed by twelve o'clock, and
then I shall take to my bed. You may call it a chill, or whatever you
like, but I depend upon you, to allow _no one_ to come near me."

The old lady's voice was unusually weak: her hands, as she put on her
rings, trembled alarmingly. At last she was ready, and just as she
was about to leave her room, a familiar figure came flying along the
passage, with outstretched hands.

"Nancy!"

"Here I am at last!" she gasped out, "and so dreadfully, dreadfully,
sorry, to have tortured you--darling Auntie," embracing her as she
spoke.

"Where have you been?" said the trembling old lady, endeavouring to
thrust her away.

"Let me come into your room, and tell you all about it." Taking her
forcibly by the arm, she added, "Do sit down,--you are shaking all
over!"

Mrs. De Wolfe made no reply, but signalled for her to speak.

"I spent last night in a cottage near Lofty.--You've heard about the
car having left us behind. This morning, I got up at four o'clock, and
walked over the wet fields, to a little station, and caught a milk
train; I gave the guard five shillings,--and he dropped me at Haygate.
Then I got the old fly,--and here I am!"

"And Dudley,--what has become of Dudley?"

"Haynes," said Nancy, suddenly turning towards her, "would you mind
asking Martin to get my bath ready,--I do feel such a grub!"

Yes, for the first time in her life, Nancy appeared positively
draggled: her hat was battered, her muslin race-gown torn and soiled,
her smart shoes were covered with mud,--whilst her face looked worn,
and almost haggard.

As soon as Haynes had departed, she sat down on the sofa by Mrs.
De Wolfe, and taking her hand, she said, "Auntie, Sir Dudley has
shown himself in his true colours, at last. He is a horrible,
false, evil-minded wretch--yes, he _is_," then very rapidly she
told how she could not resist the temptation to inspect the old
chest, of the departure of the motor, and the wire dispatched to
recall Saxton--sometimes speaking breathlessly, sometimes speaking
deliberately, always with a great agitation, Nancy related the story
of her experience in Mrs. Bode's front parlour;--to all of which her
companion listened with an expression of incredulous horror.

When at last Nancy ceased to speak, she said: "Oh, to think of Dudley:
Dudley, whom I've almost thought of as a son,--_what_ a traitor! If
anyone but you, had told me this--I would not have believed it. I must
confess, this adventure of yours, has been a terrible revelation,
another illusion destroyed. I have lost a life-long belief. Well, what
you and I, have now to do, is to conceal this escapade. I shall go
down, and announce your return. What cock and a bull story am I to tell
them, Nancy?"

She rose as she spoke, and confronted her young friend,--looking
terribly old, and shaken.

"Tell them?" repeated Nancy, "let me think! Tell them, that Sir Dudley
and I were left behind,--thanks to Saxton's mistake, and that I was
obliged to remain at the cottage for the night; but that Sir Dudley
made his way to the nearest station, and went up to London. Do you
think that will do?"

"It may pass! but what about his sending for his own car?"

"I don't suppose that will come out till later."

"No! Of course the servants will talk,--but their masters and
mistresses who are leaving me to-day are bound to believe _my_ version
of the adventure,--the least they can do after a week's hospitality!"

"Then I shall hurry off and have my bath, and dress," said Nancy, "and
come down as soon as possible, and show myself. It will be rather a
strain, all things considered, for just at present, I should like to go
away, and have a really good comfortable cry."




                             CHAPTER XXXVI

                        "TO HIM WHO WAITS----"


Mrs. Bode's motley collection of good old "bits" of glass and china,
odds and ends of quaint rubbish--samplers, beads, monster shells,
mouldy books of great age, and Mrs. Bode's funny talk, had kept
Nancy well amused, and occupied for nearly an hour, and then her
hostess insisted on providing a meal, tea, home-made bread, fresh
butter, russet apples, and cold bacon. With considerable pomp this
simple repast, borne on a huge black tray,--was carried to the
front sitting-room, or parlour, and there laid out upon a fine gate
table,--flanked by cottage Chippendale chairs. From the deep narrow
window, overlooking the road, Nancy leant out, and beckoned gaily to
Sir Dudley,--who all this time had been pacing to and fro, smoking
endless cigarettes.

As Nancy poured out tea, and he took a place opposite, she wondered if
by any chance, Mrs. Bode would take them for husband and wife? Mrs.
Bode, having as she considered, "done her manners," and pressed jam,
bacon, and apples, in turn upon Sir Dudley, with an excuse about a sick
calf, left them to their own devices. Sir Dudley appeared unusually
silent and restless, he refused tea, but munched an apple, and then got
up and began to pace about the long low room. His manner was that of a
man, whose nerves were on edge.

"I can't think what is keeping the car," remarked Nancy, for the third
time; "surely that boy took the wire," and she, too, rose, and returned
to her post in the narrow deep-set window, through which the moonlight
streamed into the room, making everything as clear as day.

"It is five minutes past ten by my watch."

"I expect your watch is fast," said Sir Dudley, as he joined her.

"Did you ever behold a more glorious night? _Dio mio!_ What a night for
lovers!" he murmured, as he confronted her in the narrow space.

Nancy felt a little uncomfortable; a vague sensation of apprehension
came to her. "I think--I hear the car now," she announced, but her
voice had an uncertain sound.

"It's just like old times, to have you all to _myself_--even for an
hour or two," continued her companion--ignoring her remark--"I'm in no
hurry."

"But _I_ am," she declared with a nervous laugh.

"Everything comes to him who waits! I have waited nearly a year: and
now, Nancy darling--" here Sir Dudley suddenly put his arm round her
waist, "I've got you at _last_!"

For a moment she was too paralysed to move; then as she felt his grip
tightening, with a tremendous effort, she wrenched herself away, and
backed against the shutter, breathless, and gasping.

"What do you mean?" she stammered. "How dare you?"

"A man dares anything, when he loves a woman--as for what I _mean_,
I'll soon explain,--it's all I ask," he answered in a husky voice, now
seizing both her wrists in a vice-like grip, and devouring her with
his burning eyes. "Nancy, my love, I've adored you, from the moment
we first met; but Auntie Wolfe's presence, and your own strange cold
temperament,--held me in a state of frozen bondage. At first, I swear
to you, I strove hard to strangle, and hide my feelings,--because
Auntie Wolfe, my mother's friend, _believes_ in me; but it was useless.
After all, _why_ should I struggle against my good angel? and you are
cold and undemonstrative, as an angel should be--nevertheless, you _do_
care for me."

"No, no, no," protested Nancy breathlessly.--"Never--never--in the way
you mean--I think you must be mad! Let go my hands."

"But yes, yes, yes," he reiterated. "To what other fellow, have you
ever shown such preference? With me, you are always ready to sing,
or dance, or sketch, or walk. I have watched like a lynx,--for I am
as jealous as the devil,--and you have favoured _none_! As for Tony
Hillside and Lord Lanark, bah!! You and I have tastes in common, we
shall spend our lives together; we will go to Greece, to the Far East,
to Japan,--and I will be your humble, and devoted slave."

"_Will_ you release my hands?" she demanded furiously.

"Presently, darling,--when I have said my say! Listen. Auntie Wolfe
will forgive me in time; my wife will divorce me,--it will be merely a
question of money."

Nancy endeavoured to interrupt, but it was useless; she was overpowered
by a fiery torrent of words, and an emotion, ten times stronger than
her own.

"Sometimes you drove me mad," he went on, "I felt inclined to kill you,
and myself,--now fate has helped me!"

"I thought you were an honourable man," she broke in, "so this delay
about the car deserting us, was all planned."

"No! I swear to you--I'll take my oath it was not," relinquishing her
hands at last; "for once, good fortune has befriended me, and thrown
me a priceless chance. I should like to pension that silly ass of a
chauffeur; for thanks to _him_, you are irretrievably compromised!
Yes!" in reply to Nancy's gesture of recoil, "all the world will know,
that you and I, have spent the night here together. As Miss Travers,
you can never show your face in society; but later, as Lady Villars,
you will be welcomed with open arms. The wire I sent, was to my man
Antonio, telling him to bring my car and luggage here; I expect him
about eleven, possibly earlier; as soon as he arrives, we will start
for Folkestone, catch the early boat, and be in Paris in four hours!"

"Surely you do not suppose, that I will go with you," demanded Nancy
fiercely.

"I do not suppose you have any alternative!" he answered impressively.
"Of course I know, that I have startled you, by this unexpected _coup_,
but before long, believe me, Nancy, you will look upon this evening,
as the beginning of a new, and splendid life! _You_ were not borne to
waste your best days with an old woman,--who, much as I love her, saps
one's vitality! You cannot deny that I am handsome, well born, wealthy,
and adore you,--and if your cold little heart cares for anyone,--it
cares for _me_. We were born to be happy together."

"What crazy talk!" cried Nancy, and she made an effort to pass him.

"No! no! my own darling; you shall stay here, and listen to me. Such
love as mine, will kindle yours; it will,--it _must_!"

Nancy's lips trembled--but she made no reply; she glanced at him, then
round the room, with the eyes of a trapped animal; suddenly she made
a dart, and placed the table between them. Oh! if she could but reach
the door; but with folded arms, Sir Dudley stood between her, and that
means of escape,--eyeing her strangely. At last, she said, in a low
faint voice: "You spoke just now, about your wife?"

He nodded. "Yes! a she-devil; she's had serious money losses lately,
and I shall have no difficulty in bringing her to terms; my _wife_ will
be all right!"

"And what of my--_husband_?"

Villars broke into a loud derisive laugh, and said: "My own most
exquisite Nancy, why invent a fairy tale? You and I, will live, a fairy
tale."

"It is no fairy tale," she answered, "I was married in India before I
came home."

"Pardon me,--but I do not believe it."

"I cannot help that,--but it is true! Mrs. Ffinch knows, so does Mrs.
Hicks; she saw me married; it was all legal: my father wished it to
take place,--as he was dying."

"And who are you?--who is your husband?"

"Captain Mayne."

"_Mayne!_ why the joke gets better and better! you don't even speak;
could you not think of someone more probable? What a preposterous
make-up."

"It's no make-up, on my honour."

"Does Mrs. De Wolfe know?" he demanded sharply.

"No!"

"Nothing will ever make me believe your foolish story; if it were the
truth, _why_ conceal it?"

"Because"--choking as she spoke--"immediately after the ceremony my
father died; I was crazy with grief, I _hated_ the sight of Captain
Mayne, I wrote, and told him this,--and then I ran away."

"Ah! so you _can_ run away! Do you hate Captain Mayne now?"

"No, and if he would ask me, I would go back to him to-morrow."

Villars became suddenly livid--after a second's pause, a great
perpendicular vein showed itself suddenly in his forehead.

"You would, would you? Well, from what I've seen of Mayne, he's the
last sort of fellow to give you another chance; and anyhow this
little episode with _me_, will, if you _are_ his wife, choke him off
altogether! Listen to me, Nancy, I implore you; why waste your lovely
youth? Why not come with me: live while you live, and see the far away
beautiful world? And you _shall_ come with me," he concluded doggedly.

"I'd infinitely rather die!" she answered with decision.

"Oh, Nancy, when you speak, and look like that,--you break my heart;
for months you have been my hope, and star,--my one thought,--my only
object in life. Surely you _guessed_?"

"Never! or do you suppose, I should have been so friendly, and sisterly
and trustful? Mrs. De Wolfe said your emotional speeches, and impulsive
acts, were merely your Italian way,--and meant nothing,--she was
mistaken, I see!"

"She was," now approaching, his eyes flaming in a white face.

At this moment, the door opened, and Mrs. Bode appeared in a bedgown
and slippers. "There's ten o'clock gone, sir, and I'm thinking,
that you and your lady, will have to stop here to-night. I can make
up a room: it's not very grand, but,----" further information was
interrupted,--by Nancy, who, thrusting the astonished matron violently
aside, dashed out of the door, and ran down the long passage into the
kitchen. The sound of Nancy's high-heeled shoes racing along the flags,
brought Villars to his senses; he had a marvellous power of recovery
and self-control; he had realized from the first, when Nancy recoiled
from him against the shutter, that the game was lost! nevertheless,
some infernal, perverse, impulse, urged him to persist! He might yet
gain her by threats, and alarms--such cases had been known!

What devil had entered into him, and forced him to snatch his
opportunity; had whispered into his ear,--as he wrote that telegram in
this accursed room? The insanity of half an hour, had cost him the loss
of Nancy, and his old godmother. Naturally the Court would be closed to
him for the rest of his life. Yes! he had pretty well cooked himself.
Well! he must make the most of a bad job!

Meanwhile, Mrs. Bode was staring at him, with her hands on her hips and
her mouth half open. At last he turned round, and said: "The young lady
and I have had a falling out."

"Looks a bit like it, sir! and I declare, here's the car come back
for you at last!" for just at this moment, Antonio glided up to the
entrance. Strange to say, neither the man nor motor were the same--this
vehicle was a big grey open car, and there was luggage, and a lady's
fur-lined coat, which the chauffeur brought in, and handed to Mrs. Bode
with a ceremonious bow.

"Will you ask the lady to speak to me?" said Villars, as he pressed a
sovereign into Mrs. Bode's horny palm.

"Thank you, sir; it's entirely too much,--entirely too much! I'll go
and fetch the young lady," and Mrs. Bode padded off in her roomy felt
slippers. She found Nancy, in the kitchen,--looking strangely white,
and shaken.

"The car has come, miss," she announced cheerfully, "and here's your
fur coat. The gentleman will be thankful, if he might speak to you?"

"No, Mrs. Bode, I will never speak to that gentleman again! If he
follows me here I shall run away into the fields, or," looking round,
"anywhere!"

"Then you ain't going with him in that lovely car, miss?"

"No, I'm going to stay here to-night, Mrs. Bode; if you can give me a
bed or even a chair, and to-morrow morning _very_ early, I'll get Dan
to show me the way to the station."

"Oh, all right, miss, I'll give you a bed, and be pleased. At first, I
thought you were man and wife,--specially as he walked about outside,
and left you here by your lone,--but I see you've no ring."

"The gentleman is nothing to me,--nothing, _worse_ than nothing," cried
Nancy passionately, "we happen to be staying in the same house, that
was all; and the car left us here by mistake."

Sounds of a brisk booted foot, coming down the long passage; Nancy
looked at Mrs. Bode, who hastily opened a door, and thrust her through.
She found herself at the foot of some queer old stairs, that twisted
round a huge beam or post, and led up to a low loft-like bedroom,
with two windows, flush with the floor. Here was a tester bed,
painted washstand, and a beautiful chest of drawers, and here Nancy,
exhausted, and trembling, sat upon a low straw chair, her eyes riveted
on the grey motor car, immediately beneath them. It seemed to be
several hours,--but was really twenty minutes, before the car, and its
occupants, moved slowly out of sight.

After a brief interview with her hostess,--who had appeared with a pair
of clean sheets,--Nancy lay down on the tester bed, and in spite of a
lumpy mattress, and an overpowering smell of old feathers, slept, until
a shrill young cock, announced the breaking of another day.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII

                         NANCY CARRIES IT OFF!


There was no trace of tears on Nancy's smiling face, when three
quarters of an hour later, she appeared among the company, looking
particularly fresh, and self-possessed. In answer to eager queries,
she gave a vivid description of the lure of the oak chest, her rustic
hostess, her unique sleeping chamber, and early morning excursion
across meadows steeped in dew.

"And what about Sir Dudley all this time?" inquired Mrs. Speyde, "you
haven't _murdered_ him by any chance, have you?"

The reply to this question, came in Mrs. De Wolfe's very deepest voice,
"Dudley Villars made himself scarce, of course; he is a man of the
world and able to cope with awkward incidents. He was leaving to-day
under any circumstances,--and has already sent for his car."

By degrees the subject subsided, and lapsed; the guests were more or
less engaged in preparations for their departure, there was not much
time, for sustained discussion, and as far as Nancy was concerned, an
exhausting ordeal, was satisfactorily closed.

Before her numerous friends motored away to the station, or to their
several homes in the neighbourhood, Nancy held a short parley with two.
Firstly, with Mrs. Hicks, who pounced upon her in the hall, and drawing
her into one of the embrasures, said: "My dear child, I've scarcely had
a word with you these two days; and I've just been longing and _aching_
to hear what you and Mayne said to one another on Thursday evening? I
suppose you know that _I_ sent him!"

"I suppose I do," rejoined Nancy bluntly.

"Has anything been settled?"

"No, not exactly; I believe he went away early this morning."

"He did," assented Mrs. Hicks, "but he is within reach, and you can
easily put your hand upon him. Always remember, my dear child, that
whenever I can do anything for you, or him, I will. I've had a most
gorgeous time! everyone has been so jolly and friendly, it's almost as
if I was back in India, and I'll never forget this tennis week as long
as ever I live. Now I must go and get my things together, as I see my
train is 12.5, so ta, ta, for the present," and she moved off.

The broad back of Mrs. Hicks was scarcely out of sight, before she was
superseded by Billy Miller, who was evidently charged with an important
subject.

"Our car has not arrived yet, Nancy," she began, and taking her arm
she added, "I want you to come out on the lawn with me,--for I've got
something to tell you," and Nancy assenting, the two girls passed
through the wide french window, and strolled down towards the tennis
courts.

"I should like you to be one of the first to know, that I am engaged
to Major Horne," announced Miss Miller. "We settled it last evening,
out here in the moonlight."

"Oh, Billy, I'm delighted!" said Nancy. "I always thought it was going
to come off. I think he is charming, and you will have a delightful
mother-in-law,--but what will become of your family?"

"They will have to look after themselves," was the heartless rejoinder.
"I have given them a splendid start; you see Minna is married, Brenda
is engaged, there is only Baby left,--and she is the flower of the
flock; then you know some of us will always be coming backwards and
forwards. The Pater has taken a house in town,--which will be a sort
of family hotel. Of course, Nancy, I expect you to be one of my
bridesmaids. By the way, my dear, you nearly gave us fits last evening."

"I'm afraid I did, and I cannot say that _I_ was very happy myself."

"No; I could see that Mrs. De Wolfe was on tenterhooks, although she
did her best, to pretend that your staying out all night, was a mere
everyday affair! Next to her, amazing to relate, the one who took your
absence most sorely to heart, was a mere acquaintance,--Captain Mayne!
He seemed uncommonly abstracted, and silent, and that was not all,--I
wish it had been; his room happened to be over mine, and I could hear
him walking about the whole night! I would go to sleep and wake up,
and there he was, still doing sentry go! At one time I had an idea
of getting out of bed, and knocking on the ceiling with an umbrella:
perhaps he had toothache?"

"Perhaps he had," assented Nancy, but in her heart she knew, that it
was not toothache, but dreadful misgivings with regard to herself, that
had made him pace his room! He had warned her more than once against
Sir Dudley; and his suspicions, and dislike, had proved to be only too
well founded.

       *       *       *       *       *

When all the guests had departed, a Sunday calm descended on the Court.
Mrs. Horne and Roger De Wolfe, still remained; the former as a support
and confidante and comfort to her old friend, fatigued by her recent
activities, and greatly shaken by Nancy's adventure,--required someone
of her own age, into whose ear she could pour her troubles.

The two old ladies wandered about the green lawns, or sat in the shade
together, enjoying what is known, as a "good talk." The chief subject
of Mrs. De Wolfe's discourse, was Dudley Villars; that catastrophe
had dislocated years of happy friendship. "I had hereto always quoted
him, believed in him, and look at what he has done!" Mrs. Horne,
an unusually noble-minded woman, never attempted to recall their
interview, and her warning at Cadenabbia--merely contenting herself
with saying, "I never liked Sir Dudley, or trusted him, my dear; but I
thought that perhaps, as you were so fond of him, there must be good in
him, which _I_ could not discover."

Whilst these two friends enjoyed one another's society, Roger De Wolfe
went round the farms, and coverts, with bailiff and keepers, more as
agent, for his cousin, than with the eye of a man inspecting his future
possessions! He was, as Mrs. De Wolfe had said, a good, single-minded,
stupid fellow,--forty years of age, and still unmarried. Even his
best friends were bound to admit that Roger was a bore;--a silent
bore,--which is one of the most trying description. The type that sits,
and sticks, scarcely speaking,--obviously waiting to be entertained;
absorbing ideas, like a great sponge.

Nancy liked Roger; at least he was restful; and when his two chief
topics were exhausted,--prize retrievers, and carpentering--she
suffered him to, so to speak, "stew in his own juice." They played
croquet, and the girls from the Rectory came up and made a set at
tennis; but as a rule Nancy spent a good deal of time with herself;
lounging in a hammock, dipping into a novel, or sitting on the rustic
seat, at the end of the long turf walk. The two old ladies went
motoring of an afternoon, and Mrs. De Wolfe expressed her intention of
calling on Mrs. Bode and thanking her in person.

"I daresay you will like to come too, Nancy," she said.

"On the contrary, I don't think I could endure to see that house again;
no I really couldn't face it! I have already written to Mrs. Bode and
sent her a present, and if she offers you a blue bowl, please say that
I have changed my mind,--but you need not add, that I do not wish for
anything to remind me of her abode."

The day following her visit to Mrs. Bode, Mrs. De Wolfe declared, that
she must go and look up Richard Mayne. "I fancy he is feeling rather
lonely, now that his nephew has departed, and I'll ask him over on
a little visit. I must confess, I was greatly affronted with Derek:
rushing out of the house before breakfast,--just as if it had been an
hotel; it would have served him right, if I had sent a stiff bill after
him! However, I had a nice note from him,--a note of apology, telling
me, that he had been unable to wait to see me that morning, as urgent
business summoned him to London, and he hoped that I would forgive
him? I expect he will be down again, before long, for the partridge
shooting, and then I shall give him a piece of my mind, for although I
like the boy, I don't hold with these casual manners."

Nancy did not accompany the two ladies, she preferred to take the dogs
out, and as she was crossing the hall, Sutton approached her with a
solemn face, bearing a note on the salver, and said, "I am very sorry,
Miss Travers, but this note was given to me for you just a week ago.
It happened at an awkward time, before dinner, the night of that
big party. I put it inside the wine book, in my pantry, and forgot
all about it until now; such an oversight has never happened to me
before; but I hope you will excuse me, miss, knowing what a lot I had
on my mind, and so many things to see to. I trust the note is of no
consequence,--I see it was written in the house."

Yes--there on the flap of the envelope was "Newenham Court."

"Thank you, Sutton," said Nancy, "I expect it is all right," then
turning over the note, she was startled to find that it was addressed
to her in Mayne's handwriting. She tore it open, and read:

                                                      Thursday evening.

    MY DEAR NANCY,

    It was very unfortunate, that our conversation this afternoon was
    interrupted, I should much like to have a _talk_. May I find you
    in the little book room immediately after dinner? I shall be there
    anyhow, about nine o'clock.

                                                          Yours always,
                                                              D. MAYNE.

This was dreadful; not only had she failed to keep the rendezvous,
but she had been absent the whole of the following night; and had not
arrived home, until after his departure. Naturally, to him, the whole
affair must present the blackest aspect. What would she do? what
could she do? She felt almost distraught, as she wandered out into the
garden, and walked up and down the long turf track, in much the same
frame of mind, as that, which had kept Mayne afoot for a whole night.

She remembered the evening of the tournament--how he had never come
near her, but, how she had caught his eyes watching her gravely, as
she and Sir Dudley sang duets. She would write to him immediately,
and give him a full account of her hateful adventure in Mrs. Bode's
cottage, and she would ask him to arrange for them to have an immediate
meeting. Her present position, was insupportable, the secret altogether
too heavy a burden. She was not playing the game, in keeping such a
page of her past from Mrs. De Wolfe, nor was it honourable to pass
herself off, as a spinster, among the young men of her acquaintance.
If Mayne had not returned home,--and at least if they had not come
across one another,--matters might have remained in abeyance for years;
but now that she knew him, and time had softened a far away tragedy,
she realized that she loved him; yes, to herself, there was no use in
thrusting away, or trying to evade the truth.

The question was, did he love her? Perhaps! probably! Yes, a girl has
an intuition in these things; of course there was the money; that was
still a rock of offence; but many men had married women with fortunes,
and the marriages had not been unhappy!--Quite the contrary, by all
accounts; and she could point out to him, that when they were married,
_he_ had been the rich partner, and she as poor as a church mouse.
Partridge shooting would begin shortly, she would probably see him
in a few days--meanwhile she would _write_. She sat for a long time
mentally composing her letter. At last, she heard the motor return, and
presently she rose to meet the two old ladies, who were coming towards
her across the lawn.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "how did you find Mr. Mayne?"

"Oh, my dear," replied Mrs. De Wolfe, throwing up her hands, "I never
saw him in such low spirits,--we really couldn't help feeling very
sorry for him,--what _do_ you think? Derek Mayne has gone back to
India,--he left for Marseilles yesterday morning."

"Gone back to India," repeated Nancy, "but why? I heard he had got an
extension of leave."

"Yes, but there is some trouble on the frontier, they say, and Derek
is high up among the captains of his regiment, and I have always heard
a very keen soldier; Mrs. Horne and I have put our heads together, and
come to the conclusion that there's something more in his departure,
than meets the eye.--Perhaps we shall all know some day? Well, anyway,
Nancy, the news does not affect _you_, for somehow, you and Derek were
never particularly friendly."

To this, Nancy made no answer, and if her old friend had not been
engaged in returning the caresses of three dogs, she might have noticed
that her young friend looked strangely pale.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII

                            THE INDIAN MAIL


When Nancy found herself in her own room, she locked the door, and
sat down to face this unexpected situation,--this new trouble. She
was well aware of the reason of Derek's abrupt departure, but surely
it was impossible for him to believe that she had run away with Sir
Dudley? he must have heard from his uncle, that she was still at the
Court. However, it was evident, that he had received a bad impression
of her character, and would have nothing further to say to her! She
immediately determined to write to him, and found wonderful comfort in
the conviction, that she could clear herself by pen and paper,--but
unfortunately the letter would have to wait for days before it could
be dispatched. This important epistle she wrote, re-wrote, corrected,
and copied, over and over again. Sometimes she found that it said too
much, sometimes too little; sometimes it was too bold, sometimes too
formal,--and always too _long_. After many hours of meditation, and
changing her mind, and destroying much note-paper, she completed in
two sheets, an explanation, which she believed would do,--and leave no
disagreeable _arrière pensée_ upon her conscience.

With considerable diplomacy she obtained the correct address from
Mr. Mayne, motored over to Maynesfort alone, took tea with the old
gentleman, entertained him with lively talk, made a casual inquiry, and
accomplished her errand! On mail day, the momentous dispatch was duly
posted by her own hand.

The next event in Nancy's existence, was the death of Mrs. Jenkins. A
sudden seizure of apoplexy carried her off in a few hours; her will
proved to be a surprising document, and a bitter disappointment to Mrs.
Taylor. To her dear friend Henrietta Taylor, she only left one hundred
pounds, to Miss Dolling, fifty pounds,--for the purchase of a mourning
ring,--the Pom and a substantial sum were bequeathed to the butler;
three hundred a year and her wardrobe, to Baker, her faithful maid;
her pearls and her portrait to her dear niece, Nancy Travers, as well
as the Travers silver and books; all the remainder--including lease of
house and investments--were to his great surprise bequeathed to the
nephew of her late husband, Samuel Jenkins.

After all, it was but just and fair, that the Jenkins money, should
return to the Jenkins purse? But why should poor Mrs. Taylor be cut
off with a hundred pounds?--alas! the sad truth must be disclosed.
Although Mrs. Taylor enjoyed prolonged midnight conferences, it was
Baker, the maid, who had the very _last_ word, when putting her lady to
bed. Baker cordially hated Mrs. Taylor,--naturally it was painful for
her to witness the valuable presents, and beautiful dresses, that the
weak-minded old lady bestowed upon her toady.--By gradual degrees, the
crafty woman dropped some poisonous truths into her mistress's ear; she
even inferred, that Mrs. Taylor was a double-faced friend; who said one
thing to her lady's face, and another behind her back!

"I know for a fact, that she told Mrs. Seymour as how your memory was
going," boldly announced Baker,--with her mistress's little rat tail of
back hair, tightly clenched in her hand, "and that you really wanted
someone like herself, to look after you, and your affairs."

Although Mrs. Jenkins had angrily repudiated this information, and
commanded the maid to hold her tongue, nevertheless the dart rankled,
and went far to counteract Mrs. Taylor's honeyed speeches, and
audacious flatteries. To these, Mrs. Jenkins listened greedily,--but
she was a sly old thing, and took notes. One or two of her visitors,
had ventured hints respecting Mrs. Taylor and her pretensions,--for her
arrogance had become insupportable. It had been whispered, that she had
already decided what she intended to do with the house in Queen's Gate,
when it was her property; and had more than once rashly intimated,
that her dear friend Mrs. Jenkins was "breaking up!"

Nancy, who was much surprised at the news of her legacy, stored the
picture, sent the pearls to her bank, and went into slight mourning.
In these days, she felt nearly as dull and silent as Roger De
Wolfe,--although she made a valiant effort to appear otherwise: she
was counting the very hours, until she could receive an answer to her
letter,--but perhaps Derek would not reply?

Her hopes went up and down, like a see-saw--at one moment she was
sanguine--the next visited by despair. Undoubtedly it was an agreeable
distraction to Nancy, and a pleasure to her other friends, when Mrs.
Ffinch appeared upon the scene. She looked thin, and weather-beaten,
but as active, and energetic as ever. At first she came down to stay
with the Hillsides,--and later to the Court,--a much more comfortable
abode. She had frequently visited there as a girl, and now made herself
thoroughly at home. Naturally she saw a great change in her protégée;
here was another Nancy from the flapper of Fairplains,--and the two,
had long and intimate talks: having many topics, and one secret in
common.

"And so you had Mayne at home," said Finchie.

With this abrupt remark, she had opened their first _tête-à-tête_.
"Yes. By accident you fell not 'among thieves,' but, among his friends!
That marriage was a terrible disaster. If I had not happened to be
away,--it would never have taken place. Just see, what a fix you
are in; a girl of your appearance and position, could marry almost
anybody,--including my poor Tony. Dear me, Nancy, how much I should
like you for a niece! Perhaps it could come off after all; for I
suppose you are aware, that Captain Mayne could get rid of you if he
liked.--Desertion! but what an _esclandre_! You would have to go back
to Fairplains, and bury yourself temporarily among the coffee bushes!
You and he have met I know,--and met often, I believe he was actually
staying here!"

Nancy nodded.

"And there it ended for the present? I understand he has returned to
India. I do not know what he and Josie have been up to,--at least I can
guess what _she_ has been doing,--flirting for all she is worth,--but
she has her knife into Derek Mayne up to the hilt; and for what
reason?--the rest is silence! Ah! here is the postman coming up the
back avenue, let us go down and waylay him, for this is Indian Mail
day, and I am expecting the usual screed from my old man."

As the ladies waited whilst the postman sorted out "the Court letters,"
Nancy's heart almost stood still; would there be one for her, or not?
There _was_! She turned her back upon her two companions, and opened it
with trembling fingers.

                                                           Hawari Camp,
                                                         Darwaza Hills,
                                                        N. W. Frontier.

    MY DEAR NANCY,

    I was _very_ glad to receive your letter, which makes everything
    clear. Fate was dead against that interview, perhaps I may get
    home when this bit of a scrap is over; we are expecting to have a
    brush with the tribes at once. If I do manage leave, I shall return
    immediately, and hope our meeting may come off,--the third time is
    the charm. I write in desperate haste to catch the Dâk just going
    down, as I want you to have this answer without delay. My hands
    are so frozen, I can scarcely hold my pen; will write again next
    week.

                                                          Yours always,
                                                                  D. M.

This letter filled Nancy with a glow of happiness and a sense of joy
and relief, such as she had not known for many a long day. She hurried
up the avenue clutching her treasure, half afraid that Finchie would
overtake and cross-examine her, but looking back she noticed, that
Finchie, with a large bundle of correspondence in her hand, was still
gossiping with the postman.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX

                              THE AVOWAL


It was mid October and the woods round Newenham were not now dressed
in green, but clothed in various shades of brown, dark red, and deep
orange; in the grounds, one no longer heard the continual rattle of
the mowing machine; the gardeners were busy with barrows and brooms,
sweeping up, and removing, the endless showers of withered leaves.
Within, the atmosphere was gay and sunny, here were various congenial
guests: Roger De Wolfe and Major Horne had come for the pheasant
shooting. Mrs. Horne, Billy and Baby Miller were of the party, and Mrs.
Hicks who had rushed down on a flying visit, before she sailed for
India, also Mrs. Ffinch, and Mr. Mayne.

The solitary old gentleman, had seemed so dull and depressed, that Mrs.
De Wolfe insisted that he should join her circle--even for a few days.
To Nancy she said, "I've no doubt that the gossips will think that
we are going to be married at _last_; they settled a match years and
years ago, and how my boys used to laugh and chaff me! You will look
after him, Nancy, the old man is devoted to you, and you are devoted
to him, and I must confess, I admire the courage with which you take
him on at Bridge; a most hopeless and expensive partner, who doubles
and re-doubles, even if he holds a Yarborough; the old gambling spirit
re-appearing in a milder form!"

It was five o'clock in the afternoon, the party were collected round
the tea table in the hall,--a table laden with rare old silver, a fine
Crown Derby tea-service, hot scones--savoury sandwiches and cakes too
numerous to mention--and Mrs. Ffinch,--who never lost sight of an
opportunity,--had cleverly manœuvred dull Roger De Wolfe into a seat
next to lively Baby Miller. In the opinion of this astute matron,
it was full time that Roger was married; he was forty, his hair was
thinning on the top, his figure was thickening; in short, she was
resolved upon this match. Glancing over the girls in the neighbourhood,
she found none so suitable to be the future mistress of the Court, as
pretty, red-haired "Baby."

She could see that Roger was already dazzled and fascinated, and it
would be a most desirable alliance. Roger was plain, silent, and
worthy; Baby was a charming chatterbox, and a nice, good, clever girl;
some day, she would and should be the châtelaine of this dear old
house, and take charge of the precious family treasures, when their
present owner had passed away. There was a loud hum of talking, and
laughing, Major Horne and Roger De Wolfe were discussing their day's
sport, Mr. Mayne and Mrs. De Wolfe were still wrangling about their
last rubber, when Sutton entered, salver in hand.

"Your letters have just come, sir," he said, approaching Mr. Mayne.
"Are there any orders for Graham?"

The old gentleman took up his letters, glanced at them indifferently,
and answered, "No, not to-day," turning to Mrs. De Wolfe he added:

"Only a bill from my saddler, and a letter from Julia Torquilstone.
I wonder what the deuce _she_ is writing about?" he added
peevishly--"sure to _want_ something," and he laid it unopened by his
plate. "I was hoping to hear from my boy. I know the mail came in two
days ago."

Nancy too had hoped for a letter; but her hopes had been doomed to
disappointment.

As soon as Mr. Mayne had disposed of Mrs. De Wolfe's argument,
and a second cup of tea, he opened the neglected epistle from his
sister-in-law,--and read it with a frowning face.

"Here's bad news!" he exclaimed, in a tone which silenced every other
voice. "Julia has had a line from the War Office, to say that Derek has
been dangerously wounded in some action with the hill tribes. Oh, these
little wars, and what they cost us!"

"Are there any particulars?" inquired Mrs. De Wolfe.

"There you are!" handing her an official telegram. "I suppose," and his
voice was husky, "he will leave his bones out there, like his father."

When Mrs. De Wolfe had glanced over the slip of paper, she was not a
little surprised, to see Nancy rise from her place, and stretch out a
trembling hand.

"May I see it too?" she asked. The question was so clear and so
unexpected, that every eye was riveted on the pale girl, whose gaze
was bent on the telegram,--that is to say every eye, save those of Mr.
Mayne, who was apparently engulfed in his own trouble.

"I suppose he will die out there alone!" he groaned. "Of course Julia
won't stir, I'm too old,--and there's nobody else to go."

"_I_ will go," announced Nancy, steadying herself by a tall Charles the
First chair, and looking round the assembled company, with a white and
rigid face. "I must tell you all at last, and _now_,--that--that--" and
her voice sank till it became a whisper--but an audible whisper, "I am
his _wife_!"

"Nancy!" ejaculated Mrs. De Wolfe, in a key of contrasting depth.

"It's true," she continued with livid lips, "we were married by
my father's deathbed, two and a half years ago, and----" here she
completely broke down.

"Nancy, child, don't, _I'll_ tell it," volunteered Mrs. Ffinch,
stretching out her arm. "No, she is not raving, as you might naturally
suppose," she added, glancing at her companions. "I know all about
it,--and Mrs. Hicks was present,--she saw them married!"

"Yes," corroborated Mrs. Hicks, "I did, and it's about the only secret
I've ever been able to keep!"

"But why a secret?" demanded Mrs. De Wolfe, who had recovered her
composure.

"We were married to relieve my father's mind," replied Nancy, who had
also reclaimed her self-possession. "I was alone in the world, and very
poor, and he was dreadfully unhappy about me; Captain Mayne and I did
not care for one another--in those days! Please!" looking round the
circle--"_do_ forgive me for deceiving you,--but we agreed to keep the
marriage secret, and to be strangers always, and I must confess, that
_I_ behaved very badly. I was distracted, and I ran away; but I was so
young, and so heart-broken! It is different now; I shall leave with
Mrs. Hicks on Friday, and pray that I may be in time.--I am going to
send off a cable," and looking like the wraith of Nancy Travers, she
left them.

The old mahogany door closed upon a long expressive silence, presently
to be broken by Mrs. Ffinch, who gladly took up her parable. Here was
_her_ hour! what an opening for her natural eloquence, and love of
dominating a situation! As she unravelled Nancy's past, she had the
supreme happiness of knowing, that her listeners actually hung upon
her words,--especially old Mr. Mayne, with his head advanced, and hand
behind his left and best, ear!

In a few short and telling sentences, she described Nancy's adoration
of her father, their ideally happy life,--the terrible scene with the
panther, Mayne's bad shot, his rescue by Travers, and how when Travers
was dying, Mayne had come forward, and undertaken the charge of Nancy.
How immediately after the funeral Nancy, in a condition of frenzied
grief, had written a letter of farewell and repudiation to Mayne,--and
taken refuge with her old nurse at Coimbatore.

"Aye, it really was a terrible letter," chimed in Mrs. Hicks, "I was
there, when he read it, and he looked knocked all of a 'eap.--First he
showed it to Teddy Dawson, and then to me. She said as how she blamed
him, and how she hated him,--and so he let her go,--what else could he
do?"--throwing herself back in her chair, and folding her arms with an
air of finality--then added as an afterthought, "but he made her a
good allowance!"

"Which she never touched," supplemented Mrs. Ffinch, "the money has
lain all this time in Grindlay's Bank; they held no communication
with one another, each went their own way: he as a bachelor, she, as
an unmarried girl, until they came to London,--where Fate threw them
together, in spite of themselves."

"So all the time, there _was_ a girl in the background!--a girl to
whom he sent money," said Mrs. Horne,--who had a wonderful faculty for
remembering--but not disseminating--scraps of gossip. "There's never
smoke without a fire, and to think, that all the time it should be
_Nancy_."

"It was a case of a foolish, hasty, wedding," declared Mrs. Ffinch
judicially; "had I been at home, I would never have allowed it to take
place. Unfortunately I happened to be absent for a few days, and in
those few days, occurred Nancy's marriage, and her father's death. I
think that Derek Mayne,--though he meant well,--behaved like a lunatic!"

"No," corrected his uncle, thumping on the table, "he behaved like a
man of honour! I was always fond of Derek, and now I'm _proud_ of him!
I'll just go and see what that girl is doing?" and taking his stick, he
hobbled out of the room.

When Nancy found Mrs. De Wolfe alone, she said, "Hundreds of times
I've wanted to speak, and to tell you,--but I dared not; for I felt,
that if I opened my lips, the secret would spread; if I told one, I
might tell another; and when I saw Derek, I realized that we were to be
strangers,--in fact he said so in the plainest terms. There was nothing
for it but silence,--at first."

"And now?" inquired her friend, with grave significance.

"Now,--only for my money,--I believe he would have made it up! Money,
or no money, I'm going out on Friday; I have already secured my
berth, by telephone,--but oh, dear, dear Auntie, supposing I am _too
late_!"--and as she sank on her knees and buried her face on the old
lady's lap,--her sobs were heartbreaking.

"Don't meet trouble half way, my child," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "though
crying will relieve your poor heart. It is only the _young_, the lucky
young, who can weep. Remember that the Maynes are as tough as leather;
why, look at that old man downstairs; four months ago, a horse
rolled upon him, and broke his leg, and three ribs; to-day, he was
out shooting pheasants! Oh, Nancy my dear, how often I've wished that
you, and Derek would take to one another,--and only to think, that you
were married all the time! Well, in my long, and not uneventful life,
you have given me the most stunning surprise, I have ever experienced!
_Now_ I can understand why Derek never came to the house, and went out
of his way to avoid me."

"Everything is my fault. Auntie Wolfe," sobbed Nancy, "I'm afraid you
will never care for me any more, nor trust me: everyone will think me
so secretive, and deceitful,--and so I _was_!"

"It will be all right, my dear, if only Derek recovers, and you make
him happy,--as I believe you can. By and by you will both come home,
and settle among us,--and your strange story will be forgotten."

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as Captain Mayne was convalescent, he and his wife travelled
down to Fairplains, where they were the guests of Mr. and Mrs. Dawson;
and in that familiar and unchanged verandah, he once more occupied
his favourite shabby chair, and surveyed from his place, the dim blue
plains. All the neighbours and employees flocked to the bungalow,
to hail and welcome Nancy. Francis received his "Little Missy" with
rapturous joy, and a few trickling tears.--As for Togo, that faithful
heart was always hers.

When Miss Travers, at a few hours' notice, had hurried out to India, to
marry, and nurse, Captain Mayne; it was generally believed that this
was but the romantic sequel, to a long and mysterious engagement.

Not more than two or three hundred people are in possession of the
truth!


                                THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

                          By the same Author

                            _Each in Cloth_

                           A RASH EXPERIMENT

                          WHAT SHE OVERHEARD

                             IN OLD MADRAS

                          THE SERPENT'S TOOTH

       *       *       *       *       *


    _Printed in Great Britain by Ebenezer Baylis & Son, Worcester._

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