CHAPTER XI

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 Hicks had withdrawn—she was an early to bed lady—Mayne wandered about alone in the bright moonlight, thinking sorrowfully of the dead man.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

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

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

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."

"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."

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

"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.

"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:

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

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"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."

"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?"

"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?"

"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!"

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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.

"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 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.