Front matter (continued 3)

"You know, I shall do nothing of the sort," he rejoined angrily. "Do you think I am mad, too? Listen to me, Miss Sim: how much will it cost you to take you home?"

"Oh, ever so much; even a second-class, would be thirty pounds."

"Well now, look here, I can let you have a hundred. Honestly, I'm pretty well off, and you can pay me back any time—say in twenty years. How will that be?"

Miss Sim's lips were trembling, her eyes never left his face, as he was speaking. At last, she said:

"Oh, Captain Mallender,—how could I accept it?"

"At once, since you ask me, and the sooner you make a start the better. Let me see; the mail comes in on Tuesday—you can pretend your people have written, and asked you to return 'Ek Dum,' as they say out here."

"Well, at any rate I have not much to pack," she exclaimed hysterically, "and thirty pounds will be ample—why, it is the price of my life!"

"Don't talk melodramatic rot!" he rejoined impatiently. "You want a pull up, and I'm here, to lend a hand. You must have a hundred; you say you owe money, your passage will be at least fifty, you will require warm clothes, and cash in hand. You cannot manage on less."

"Once I am in England, I can earn my living; I am a qualified teacher. I will pay you back some day, Captain Mallender—as sure as I stand here," she faltered tremulously.

"Please don't let that worry you. I'll draw out the money, take your ticket, and bring you the balance, shall we say here? the day after to-morrow—early, or late?"

"I cannot come here early, the servants and syces are always about, but I could meet you after dinner,—before they begin bridge."

"All right then—Thursday—no, by Jove! I'm dining out. Shall we fix Friday, on this spot at half-past nine, sharp?"

Miss Sim was about to reply, when a man came suddenly round a turn of the walk, and stood momentarily transfixed. It was Captain Wylie—one of the dwellers in tents.

"Hullo, Mallender!" he began awkwardly, "they are looking for you indoors. Byng wants you. Well, Miss Sim, and so you did not go to the Croquet Tournament after all? How was that? Preferred the garden, eh?"

"Yes," she answered brusquely, and turning her back on him, instantly disappeared among the shrubs. Mallender however stood his ground, and said: "Oh, Byng, yes! By Jove, I forgot him! it's about the polo of course. I'll go in now——" and he walked away whistling "The Jewel of Asia," and thus the interloper was left in sole possession of the field. For some time, he stood with a half smile on his keen clean-shaven face, then he gave a loud harsh laugh, and strolled away.

Naturally the Friday rendezvous fell through. Mallender the conspirator was obliged to take bolder, and more open measures; he sent Miss Sim a note by Anthony, contrived to sit next to her at dinner, and discussed her arrangements; subsequently in the drawing-room he brought her a little packet, which he handed over stealthily—saying as he did so:

"This belongs to you."

The packet contained money, and a first-class ticket to London.

"I hope you will find it all right," he added, with significance.

"Of course I can never thank you," she murmured in a broken voice, "I believe this generous action will bring you good luck. I shall write to you through the Bank, and though we are not likely to meet again—I will never, never, forget you."

The news of Miss Sim's impending departure caused considerable surprise; no one more surprised than Captain Mallender!

"What a liar and hypocrite I am," he said to himself, as he discussed the news with Nancy Brander, whose joy and amazement both were heartfelt, and sincere. Now, that Miss Sim appeared to have friends, Mrs. Villars and Mrs. Wylie vouchsafed an exaggerated display of interest in her proceedings, and overwhelmed her with messages and parcels to take to London; whilst Mrs. Tallboys busied herself in making arrangements for the girl's comfort, and in buying clothes, rugs, and woollies, for the voyage.

Nancy Brander received the return of her loan with undisguised astonishment,—and immediately invested half of it, in a substantial gift. These two kind women accompanied the poor waif and stray to the ship, with many instructions saw her comfortably settled, and left her in charge of the Captain.

No sooner was Miss Sim well away at sea, than a little cloud of scandal arose. Immediately after her departure, Captain Wylie had informed his wife of his awkward adventure in the shrubbery.

"Strolling about there, I came bang upon Mallender, and the Sim girl, in floods of tears; they were fixing up another meeting for Friday night! Don't say a word to anyone; Mallender carried it off wonderfully; not the least disconcerted—evidently an old hand at the game, and as cool as a cucumber!"

"I am astonished," she exclaimed, "I never thought he was that sort. What a young hypocrite, and Mrs. T. thinks him a saint! Fancy having an affair with an ugly abject creature like a third housemaid! I always supposed, he was gone on our lovely widow."

"Well, you see you were wrong! It's a case of still waters—I thought you'd be amused. Mind you keep what I've told you to yourself."

But to Mrs. Wylie this was impossible. She was choking to gossip, and though she did not reveal a name, she informed Mrs. Villars, and Mrs. Fiske, that the Sim girl had a secret, and desperate love affair, and was accustomed to meet her lover of an evening, when all the house-party were playing bridge,—from which they would remember, she had always excused herself. To this, was added yet another piece of news. It transpired, in answer to unkind enquiries, that Miss Sim had not received any letters by the English mail, and therefore the story of the money from home was simply an audacious invention.

CHAPTER XII

The hot weather had arrived, the punctual brain-fever bird made his unwelcome appearance, and a much-diminished company prepared to leave Hooper's Gardens, for the Blue Mountains. Colonel Tallboys, who had obtained sixty days' leave (with power to add to their number), his wife, her niece, and child, Mrs. Villars, her maid, and Geoffrey Mallender. Urgent private business connected with cotton, had summoned unwilling Sir William to Bombay, and the Wylies were reluctantly compelled to bring their long "week-end" to a close.

"Hooper's Hotel" was a hostelry entirely after their own hearts; a gracious easy hostess, an admirably run establishment, capital ponies to ride, gay entertainments, and lots of bridge. They were unaffectedly sorry to part with "the management," and Mrs. Wylie threw out many hints, as to how much she longed to visit the celebrated Neilgherries, and talked wistfully of "the chance of a lifetime!" But for once, Fanny Tallboys did not "rise." Then her guest—a woman of invincible nerve, and resolution—came to her sitting-room one morning, and said, with her most persuasive smile:

"Dearest and kindest of friends! I have a great, great, an enormous favour to ask. Alas! our plans for Ceylon have fallen through. We were going to Newara Eliya to the Gordon Walkers, but I heard to-day, that she is ill, and too indisposed to receive us. So will you, like the angel you are, have us for a little, little, tiny visit in Ooty? Darling Cecil wants a change from this steaming, relaxing place—I've been quite anxious about him the last week, and you know our abhorrence of hotels, with their filthy rooms, and disgusting food."

Poor Mrs. Tallboys, feeling exceedingly guilty and uncomfortable, was obliged to tell the piteous pleading lady, that she was really too sorry, but that every corner in "Woodford" had its allotted tenant.

"Tents?" suggested the petitioner, with ruthless pertinacity. "I should simply adore a tent!"

Unfortunately tents were out of the question at that season in the Hills, and so this pair of clever "sponges" and adventurers were compelled to seek for other quarters, and took their departure, with perfunctory thanks, and an air of unpardonable injury; and it is a regrettable fact, that they subsequently spoke of their hosts of "Hooper's Gardens," with patronage and derision, as "those absurd people, the Tallboys, and their dreadful menagerie!"

The weather had suddenly become several degrees warmer, and the party travelled by night, arriving in the early morning at Mettapollium, not far from the foot of the towering ghâts; here after chotah-hazri they entered the mountain railway, that climbed, and wound, and climbed again, till it dragged itself up to Coonoor—which seemed to be awaiting it, as it lay hanging over the edge of the great plateau—unquestionably one of the most wooded, beflowered, and picturesque, Hill stations in Hindustan, and the home of not a few retired Anglo-Indians. Here, the Tallboys decided to halt for a day or two, whilst "Woodford" was prepared for their reception.

Instead of taking the mountain railway, Mrs. Brander had elected to ride up the old ghât, on her big black waler, Bonny; and Mallender promptly volunteered to be her escort. He liked Nancy, she was the best of company, always so cheerful, good-natured, and ready to enjoy everything that came in her way; one of those rare people, who go through life with a happy and contented heart.

The heat, in the narrow gorge at the foot of the mountains, was stifling; the very bananas and bamboos looked wilted, and faint. As the pair rode between dense masses of acacia, babul trees, Palmyra palms, and thickets of heavy jungle, their horses were bathed in sweat, there seemed scarcely a breath of air; but by gradual degrees, as they mounted the rocky old road with its endless twists, and sudden steep ascents, the dank hot-house atmosphere fell away, and mile by mile they ascended into another, and cooler, climate. The narrow bridle-path lay through a primeval forest, carpeted in places with moss and maiden-hair; here and there, the tree-trunks were hidden by gigantic ferns, the sound of running water was never absent, crystal clear streams splashed and tumbled and made tinkling music in the dim light, as they hurried down the hill-side, through a tangle of rock, twisted roots, and creepers. Meanwhile the riders breasted a precipitous road, that carried them from the tropics to an English summer; heavily laden coolies, donkeys carrying wood, and now and then a portly native on a pony, were all they encountered as they proceeded, and fitfully discussed the recent season, and its most interesting, or remarkable events.

"Talking of events," said Mrs. Brander, "last evening, I saw Barbie Miller driving with Colonel Harris in his Stanhope phaeton; he looked as pleased as Punch, and she, as if she were on her way to execution; I fancy that match is settled, and for once, Aunt Fanny had no finger in the pie!"

"No, of course not," assented Mallender, but he said no more.—There ensued a pause, lit by the memory of a girl, leaning against a tree with a drawn, white face and dazed blue eyes, saying, "Oh, you don't know—you cannot understand!"

"You liked her, didn't you?" questioned his twenty-first cousin.

"Yes,—but I am sorry to say, Miss Miller does not like me. She has wonderful pluck in the saddle, it's a pity she can't show some of it in her own family."

"Ah, it is so easy for us to talk! You little know Mrs. Miller; a woman as hard as the nether mill-stone, as pitiless as Fate, and she has a strong backer in Mrs. Fiske. Poor Barbie has no chance against two such allies."

"I don't see where Mrs. Fiske comes in?" argued Mallender.

"As adviser. Mrs. Miller was once upon a time her bridesmaid, and although she publishes a striking and historical record of her character, declares that her bridesmaid was a bully from her youth, never would allow anyone near her to be happy, and adds, many later, and more lurid particulars, yet they are close friends!"

"I can't stand Mrs. Fiske, and she always smiles—if you can call it a smile! at me, and looks as if she knew a lot, and we had some guilty secret between us!"

"I understand, and sympathise with your feelings respecting Mrs. Fiske—I am with you there! She says such spiteful things to my face, that they leave me beyond the power of a coherent retort. But why do you say that Barbie dislikes you?"

"Because lately, she won't speak to me."

"Imagination! She has been flung so violently at men's heads, that naturally she avoids them, for which, I confess I do not blame her;—among women, she is different."

"And once upon a time she was different with me!—we were quite chummy out hunting, or paper-chasing—she's a nailing good rider,—one day, she got a nasty toss, and I took her home,—Lord, what a place!"

"I can imagine it."

"I doubt it! We found lots to say to one another, as we toiled along to Vepery, afterwards too—at chota-hazri's, at the gardens; then all of a sudden, the young lady dropped me like the traditional hot potato!"

Mrs. Brander burst into a ringing laugh, and again repeated, "Imagination!"

"No," he replied with some heat. "The last couple of weeks, Miss Miller avoided me on purpose,—you remember the finish at the paper-chase at the Mount, and breakfast at the Artillery Mess, under the banyan tree? When I spoke to her there, she just looked me straight between the eyes, and administered the dead cut."

"I must say you amaze me! I can only suppose, that Mrs. Fiske has given you a bad character."

"She knows nothing about me!"

"I would not be so sure. She knows all about me! my age, fortune, where Tom proposed, how much I pay my dhobi, and which of my teeth are stopped."

After a silence, during which they threaded their way among a horde of heavily-laden pack ponies, charcoal burners, and coolies—almost bent double under incredible loads of baggage—Mrs. Brander resumed:

"I'm so sorry for Barbie, her little white desperate face comes before me, if only I could have done something to snatch her from Colonel Harris, but Tom says, I'm always too ready to rush in, where angels, etc., etc. Aunt Fan is an angel,—but even she is afraid of those two women, that like the giants in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' bar the road to Barbie's liberty. Uncle Fred is fond of Barbie, she is his favourite girl in all Madras, but he dare not interfere in other people's family concerns. He, however, goes about, telling everyone that he and James Harris are the same age!"

"Much good that will do Miss Miller!" scoffed her companion.

"Well, we are getting off our old bachelors. I suppose the next wedding will be Sir William's—he is older than Uncle Fred."

"What Sir William?—Sir William Bream?"

"Yes, our very own Sir William, with his extraordinary and imposing power of saying things, with nothing to say. Why do you look so surprised?" and her gaze rested upon him with impressive steadiness.

"You don't mean that Mrs. Villars would marry him!"

"I refuse to commit myself, I don't mean to say anything, except that Mrs. Villars will make a sensation in our Blue Mountains, and have a good time. Who is so absolutely free, and independent, as a beautiful rich young widow? at least, I hope she is rich——"

"Why do you hope that?"

But Nancy Brander touched her horse, and cantered on; she was not disposed to tell tales, or to reply.

"Merely because she showed me a bill from a Paris house, for nine hundred pounds, and assured me, that she had no more idea than my Mab, how it was going to be paid! or where the money was to come from!"

By eleven o'clock the equestrians had arrived at Under Cliff Hotel, Coonoor, and there found the remainder of the party, all comfortably installed, sitting in the verandah, imbibing draughts of deliciously cool air, and looking forward to a late, and solid, breakfast. The early afternoon was abandoned to resting, unpacking, and novel-reading, but about four o'clock the Tallboys and their guests reassembled for tea.

Not a few acquaintances were "up," and passing through,—these included Colonel Molyneux and Forbes, the great shikari. Mrs. Villars, who had changed her travelling dress for a becoming toilet, was talking to them, when Mallender joined her. She gave him a radiant smile—her smile conveyed to many, the secret, that "you, and you only, are my friend"; undoubtedly she had a wonderful charm—which is another name for power—and in her delicate hand, it frequently proved an irresistible weapon. At the moment, she was carrying on a bantering conversation with the mighty hunter.

"You know perfectly well, that you hate all this," she said, indicating the smart gay groups, who were scattered along the verandah, drinking tea. "You prefer black coffee, and leathery chuppatties in the jungle, you know you do!"

"Yes, I must confess that I enjoy the jungle," admitted Mr. Forbes, who found it not unpleasant to be chaffed, and singled out, by this beautiful creature in white serge, with the eyes of a fawn, and the sun throwing glints on her wealth of red-brown hair. "But then, I'm a semi-savage—and an old bachelor," he added boastfully.

"Worse—a woman-hater!"

"No, no, Mrs. Villars, but I admit that I would as soon look at a fine pair of horns, as at a fine pair of eyes," and his glance was almost a challenge!

"Really?" with a gay incredulous laugh. "What an odd taste! The only horn that appeals to me, is a coach horn. Are you making any stay?"

"No, a couple of days, and then I'm off to the Anna-Mullays after a bison. When I was at home, I got a letter from an old pal of mine, a Kurumba shikari, and he told me of a remarkable, in fact, matchless head."

"Still on the animal's shoulders?" she enquired airily.

"I hope so, I've come straight out to pot him."

"Rather a long aim!"

"Oh, I think nothing of that. I've gone to Arabia for lions, to Java for a particular deer. My collection of heads is my hobby."

"One would think you were a Dyak!"

"You need not reproach me, dear madam. What are my heads, to your scalps?"

"I declare you are becoming quite agreeable and complimentary! but no doubt you are in great spirits at the prospect of leaving us. You know, you are longing for the solitude of the deep, hot, smelly jungle; once there, we cease to exist."

"I won't agree with that; but the jungle has its allurements, too." Then suddenly turning to Mallender. "Think of the cool early mornings, when the birds begin to stir, and the bamboos to whisper; oh, you society fellows miss a lot! You never see the dense, virgin forests, peopled with half-tame animals, and impassable, except by game tracks." He paused, and looked steadily before him, as if his eyes beheld some rapturous vision.

Mrs. Villars now rose, carefully brushed the crumbs from her gown, and said, in her soft drawling voice:

"There is quite a nice little jungle near this; I explored it this morning. There are paths, and flowers—possibly, a stray animal or two. I mean the garden. Come with me, Captain Mallender, and perhaps I will whisper to you like the bamboos. At any rate, I can introduce you to lovely views, a fountain, and a summer-house!"

Mallender promptly accepted the invitation, and as he descended the steps, in the lady's wake, the old shikari looked after them, and muttered half aloud, "Got him!"

CHAPTER XIII

As Mrs. Villars gracefully proceeded along a path, not wide enough for two abreast, and offered her companion a full view of a perfectly-fitting back, and coils of lustrous hair—she had several new ideas simmering in her head. She liked the handsome boy, now treading in her footsteps, and had flirted and amused herself with him, as was her custom; also, because Fanny had given her a somewhat shame-faced hint to keep Geoffrey fast, and urge him to accompany his friends to the Hills, adding mysteriously, that there was an important reason for detaining him. When she had asked for further particulars, Fanny replied:

"It is a family matter. Much depends on tying the young man to my, or rather to your apron strings."

"And so I am to play the syren?"

"Yes, my dear, a nice, amiable, harmless syren," and to this she had agreeably consented.

But now, as the lady preceded her slave, stepping delicately over the ground, in her high-heeled grey suede shoes, she asked herself, why she should not play the syren in real earnest?

Relieved from Sir William's formidable presence, and the questioning glances of his torpid, but suspicious eyes, she felt once more young, and free! Of course, there was Sir William's great fortune figuratively at her feet, but its master was old, unattractive, and irritable; when they were man and wife, and he had paid her debts, possibly he might not be so devoted or so docile.

As for Geoffrey Mallender, dear, simple boy! he was the soul of chivalry, generosity, and good-humour. He had a fine old place, and seven or eight thousand a year. Why should she not have, so to speak, "a new deal," be serious, encourage his timid homage, and marry him? It was true, that she was fourteen years his senior, but who would suspect it? Like her family, she had been endowed with the priceless gift of perennial youth. Fanny, her old school-fellow, who knew her age to a day, would possibly disapprove, and make difficulties. After all, why should she consider Fanny Tallboys? Naturally her first object was her own interest.

"Do let us sit down here," she said, turning about at last, "and look at this glorious blue view! Blue mountains, blue valleys, and blue sky, all in different shades,—and sniff the scent of roses, and heliotrope, and now, my dear boy, I am going to have a nice little talk with you."

"That's right, what is it about?"

"I want you to tell me, why there is such a silent but strenuous effort to keep you from leaving the Tallboys?"

Mallender looked at her smiling eyes, broke off a twig of lemon verbena, but made no reply.

"Fanny has some particular reason for not allowing you to run away."

"Has she?" he answered with a bantering air.

"Don't evade my questions, there's a dear, but tell me the truth? I am so safe. Are you about to ruin your life by a foolish marriage?"

His reply was a boyish and spontaneous laugh; then seeing her face of grave reproach, he added:

"I don't want to go away, you may be sure,—but I may have to leave—as a duty. I'd tell you all about it, like a shot, but it would not interest you, you'd only chaff me."

"Chaff you!" she repeated indignantly. "Do you imagine you are talking to Nancy Brander? anything that concerns you, will interest me. Won't you tell me?" Suddenly her voice sank to a low enticing whisper. Behold Mrs. Villars in her most dangerous character.

"Yes, I will another time," he glanced about. They were not alone in this exquisite spot. Various other couples were roaming in the lovely garden.

"But, Geoffrey, you will never have a better opportunity!" she urged. "Give me your confidence, and perhaps, if you are very, very good, I will tell you something, that I know will please you!" and she smiled at him, with half-closed eyes.

"All right," he agreed, "confidence for confidence—exchange is no robbery, my business is about——"

At this critical moment, when Mrs. Villars was leaning forward with parted lips, a white figure came prancing towards them! It was Chinna-Sawmy, holding aloft a telegram between his two thumbs. Here, indeed, was a most perverse little incident!

The baffled lady drew back murmuring, "What a bore! well, another time then," and rose slowly to her feet. "I think I must run in now, and see what Kemp is doing, and dress for dinner. I believe it is at the ghastly hour of half-past seven. We will meet in the verandah later—and continue our little talk!"

"Yes, all right," then he tore open the envelope, unfolded the slip of paper, and read:

"He is found, return to-night. Shumilal."

For a moment, Mallender felt stunned, and stared stupidly at the telegram. Then by degrees he collected his wits and turning to Chinna-Sawmy, said:

"Run and find out when the next train leaves." To Anthony who had followed the wire, "I am going back at once. Put my kit together again, and send it to the station."

"Train leaves in one half-hour," was Anthony's prompt reply. "I knowing the place well,—master will have to be quick."

Colonel Tallboys shaved twice a day, and was carefully operating with a new safety razor, when he heard a hurried thump on the door of his dressing-room, and Geoffrey entered, with a coat on his arm, and a cap in his hand.

"I say," he began abruptly, "I've just got a wire, my marching orders,—and I'm off at last!"

Colonel Tallboys stood transfixed, razor in hand; one half his face white, the other pink. If the matter had not been so desperately serious, Geoffrey would have laughed at the spectacle.

"Don't be vexed," he urged anxiously, "don't take it so hardly. I expect I'll get through in a week or two and——"

His cousin at last found breath and voice.

"I take it hardly—damned hardly," he burst out in a high shaky key. "It means your ruin! thanks to your infernal pig-headed obstinacy. Of course if you are mad, you are your own master—I can't stop you. Here," stirred by a sudden access of fury, he rushed to the door, and wrenched it open, "Go—go! I never want to see you, or hear of you, again!"

Completely taken aback, Geoffrey stared incredulously at his furious relative, then walked blindly out of the room, and sought his cousin Fanny.

"I'm going," he said, "the telegram is urgent, and I'm just off, I'll write, of course. Wish me luck, and God bless you, Fan."

For a moment Mrs. Tallboys surveyed him with amazement. Then she put her hand on his shoulder, and tears stood in her eyes.

"So the sword has fallen at last! Oh, Geoffrey, do be careful,—do be prudent. You have told Fred. I heard his voice just now—I'm afraid he is vexed."

"More than vexed, he washes his hands of me!"

"Oh, that's only his way, when he is angry. He will get over it all right. Meanwhile, we are always your friends, bear this in mind, and, Geoffrey," smiling through her tears, "though I hate and fear the thought of your going, and would do all in my power to hold you back, yet I don't blame you, and whatever happens, you return to us," and she kissed him with warm affection.

After these farewell visits, the parting guest hurried away to the office, in order to settle his bill—only a half day,—and as he was gathering up change, a light hand was laid on his arm, and looking round, he beheld Mrs. Villars, who for some reason appeared to be strangely unlike herself; she seemed excited, flurried,—and if he dared to use the word, dishevelled!

"I must speak to you," she began breathlessly. "Come into the sitting-room for a moment," and as they entered, she turned round abruptly, and faced him. "Oh, Geoffrey, what is this I hear? Is it true, that you are leaving us?" she asked, with tragedy in her voice.

"Yes, I'm bound to go," he answered decisively.

"Don't, don't!" she pleaded, "Geoffrey, I implore you to think twice, before hurling yourself to ruin. Your cousin has told me, he is simply frantic."

"But I'm ruined already, if it comes to that, as far as money is concerned, and I intend to see this thing through."

"It means beggary, and madness—it does, it does," she reiterated, with passion. "I ask you, I beg of you, I beseech of you, to stay—stay for my sake," and she flung her arms round his neck, and gazed into his face, with two lovely, liquid, irresistible eyes.

Lena Villars was on her mettle, she was using the most effective and deadly weapon in her armoury. Should she suffer this young man to escape, to go headlong his own way, her prestige in her inner consciousness would be for ever dimmed!

Such eyes as hers, were powerful persuaders. Mallender was young, with hot blood racing through his veins; he caught his breath sharply, and was about to yield. The perfume of the syren's hair, her close and delicious proximity, intoxicated his senses. At this critical instant, he beheld a face, and two hands numbering twelve fingers pressed against the window, making urgent signs. With a firm but gentle movement he put the sorceress quietly aside, caught up his cap, and ran out of the hotel.

As the fugitive hurried to the station, he was aware of fleet footsteps pattering behind him! he turned to find not Lena, but Nancy Brander, breathless, bareheaded, and wrapped in a long cloak.

"I was dressing," she panted, "don't look at me! but I could not let you go, without a word. Here, I know the way, this is the ticket place, you will write, won't you?" she continued in gasps, "and be sure, and let me know what happens!"

"Yes, of course I'll write, without fail."

"Tom comes up next week, and if Uncle Fred is still furious, remember that we will shelter you. Ah, you are just off—good-bye—and the best of luck!"

The last friendly face that Mallender beheld was the plain visage of Nancy, battling between smiles and tears, as she waved him a vigorous adieu.

CHAPTER XIV

In a totally different spirit to that in which he had quitted them, Mallender descended to the plains; as in the silvery moonlight, he caught occasional glimpses of the old road, by which he and Nancy had ridden up that very morning, his heart felt sick. He was turning his back on all his friends; on Lena, on a perfect climate, and retracing his steps to sweltering heat, and an unknown fate. Nevertheless he assured himself that if in one sense he was going the wrong way, he was actually on the right road at last!

Once more in Madras, Mallender, accompanied by his two retainers, put up at Spencer's Hotel, and as soon as he had rested, and recovered from the long double journey, set out for 805 Pophams Broadway; here he sent in his card, and asked to see the principal.

After some delay, he was ushered upstairs into a large dingy office; its shelves were packed with immense ledgers, and tin boxes; heaps of dusty receipts were filed, and stacked on the top of clumsy presses, the whole place reeked of an odour peculiar to Southern India—a combination of betel nut, cocoanut oil, aniseed, with a dash of ground coffee. The visitor was received by an elderly native, with dignified manners, who wore an enormous white turban of the very finest muslin, and was seated at a roll-top desk. In the background, were clerks in velvet skull caps, each and all exhibiting an appearance of extraordinary industry.

"Ah, Captain Mallender," said the principal, rising as he closed a huge account book. "The client of our honoured friends—Jaffer and Co."

"Yes, I got your wire soon after I arrived at Coonoor,—and returned by the next train."

"I'm afraid your friends must have been disappointed," observed Shumilal, and in his studiously bland voice there lurked the quality of unction.

"They were, but my business comes first, and they know that. And so you have news at last—you have found him?"

"We must still continue to go very slowly, and wait."

"You may!" cried Mallender, suddenly losing his temper between heat, mosquitoes, want of sleep, and annoyance, "but I refuse to do so; I must go ahead, and set the pace. I've been out here more than three months, I've paid you a hundred and fifty pounds down——" a clerk at a distant table raised his head, "I return in answer to an urgent summons and at great inconvenience, in hopes of immediate success; and you say I must wait. By Jove, I tell you, that I won't wait!" and a light shone in his dark eyes.

"But, my dear sir, we are doing our best," protested the other soothingly, "you know, it is a strange, and intricate business," he held out a pair of delicate and appealing hands.

"Yes, so you always say," continued the young man angrily. "I hope for your own sakes, that you have not made a fool of me?"

"Come, come, come, young gentleman, this is not good talk."

"No, and I won't give you good talk! I'm not out here in this country, and this furnace of a place, for humbug, and waiting, and 'good talk.' I'm here for action, for real serious business. I don't care how hard it is, so that I succeed in the end. If you have—fooled me I'll make it pretty hot for you, and so I tell you."

Shumilal drummed for an absent moment on the desk, then answered, with a coal of fire!

"Well, Captain Mallender, if you were not so impatient, I was going to give you first-class news, and inform you, that you are very near success."

"Oh! But why not say so before, instead of keeping me on the string?"

"Yes; and we believe, that he you seek, is close to you, at an old place twenty miles out; once a depôt for military—but now abandoned. In one of the bungalows there lives the gentleman you want; he is over fifty years of age. He shuns all society, he hides some weighty secret, he has been in India for many years; and if you are patient and cautious, you are bound to catch him. You will have to go out there, and put up at the Dâk Bungalow. Better take food, and servants, and provisions."

"All right!" said Mallender curtly, "but you haven't told me the fellow's name?"

"Smith, Major Smith; his cheques and bills are made out to John Smith."

"Very well, I shall start this evening. What do you call the place?"

"Panjeverram; and now that we are talking secretly, tell me, Captain Mallender, do you expect to find your Uncle?"

"No, but I hope to secure his murderer; he has had a tremendous start, and a long respite, but please God, I'll lay my hands on him within a week."

"But if this man is not your object—I believe he is—but, we are all liable to mistakes, what then?"

"Then, I shall still go on searching for the fellow I want, but your description seems to promise success."

"That is true. We will send you by hand to your hotel, a formal letter as a reference, and guide, and," rising, in order to close the interview, "we shall hear from you no doubt shortly."

"Yes, without fail," said Mallender, with emphasis. "Don't think me rude, but I hope I shall have no occasion to call again, and now I will wish you good day."

Mallender's next visit was to the bank; here he asked for a statement of his account, and to know the amount of his balance. After a considerable delay, a pale, smart-looking young man, came forward, and said:

"Your balance in hand, Captain Mallender, is exactly Seventy-two Pounds, Eighteen Shillings, and Nine-pence."

These tidings so startled the enquirer, that for a moment he stood speechless. Of course, on second thoughts there was some monstrous mistake; he must have at least five or six hundred to his credit. But no, the practical, clear-headed clerk, produced the big book, and went steadily through the items. To each of these Mallender assented with a sinking heart.

"You see," said the accountant, "nothing has come in since the first of January,—and you have made some large payments."

This was the truth. How the money had melted! He glanced over the column of figures. One hundred and fifty to Shumilal and Co., one hundred for Miss Sim, fifty lent to Wylie, fifty for a gold bag, one hundred for outlay of sorts; subscriptions, wages, hire of motor, presents, tips, one hundred ditto, ditto. Yes, the account was all right, or rather—all wrong.

A letter handed to him did not serve to raise his spirits. It came from his solicitors at home, and in neat type-writing, imparted this information:

"The firm of contractors who are now repairing Mallender, require a final advance, otherwise the work cannot be continued. Times are bad in the building trade."

When the advance was paid, his available funds were at an end; he would have nothing coming in, for another twelve months! This was indeed heavy news; how was seventy pounds to last a man for a whole year? He might borrow, the old family lawyer might lend him a few hundreds, or he could raise a mortgage on Mallender; but was Mallender his to mortgage? was not the property strictly entailed?

Mallender's brain,—according to his own account,—worked slowly, and with difficulty, and he sat for some time, with these questions buzzing in his aching and bewildered head, then he rose, and with an abstracted salute departed from the bank, a grave and anxious wanderer.

CHAPTER XV

Accompanied by Anthony and Chinna-Sawmy, his luggage and many bundles, Mallender left Madras by rail at five o'clock. The carriages were crammed in the usual fashion; natives of India have an insatiable passion for travel, and are absolutely regardless of heat, packed compartments, and semi-suffocation. The train dawdled through the suburbs, then away across hot dry plains, by palms, villages and temples, till at length it crawled into Panjeverram. Panjeverram, although but twenty miles from the City was a silent, forlorn, and forsaken, old place; there was no sign of life or bustle at its modest humble station,—not even a gharry in waiting. The luggage and bundles were therefore placed on a tailer (or hand-cart) and trundled off to the Dâk Bungalow, through a great avenue of banyan trees,—so closely meeting overhead, that they constituted a long black tunnel; only a faint light here and there like fire-flies in a forest broke its cimmerian gloom. The little party did not encounter a soul, before they turned over a brick culvert, and found themselves in front of the rest-house. This was old, and out of repair; its atmosphere, even that hot March night, felt damp; and the air was heavily impregnated by an odour of mildew, mushrooms, and bats.

A visitor was evidently a precious rarity, and the venerable Dâk Matey was full of rapture, and eager and voluble apologies. He shouted orders to some unseen subordinate in the back verandah, and proceeded to light lamps and bustle about. He laid a newspaper as table-cloth, placed on it two candles in black bottles, and between these, a bunch of zinnias in a mustard tin; a knife and fork and tumbler, produced from Mallender's tiffin basket, gave a business-like air to these preparations; a pat of white butter, and a small bazaar loaf, were added by Anthony, who casually remarked that "he had just done kill one big snake, in Master's bathroom!"

"Very bad that snake, but only coming after water," he explained, as he moved about unpacking, giving directions in Tamil to the hoary Matey, and goading him to frenzied exertions. Then turning to Mallender, with an air of authority, he said:

"Master better wash, and I bring soup."

The bedroom proved to be nearly as bare as the immortal cupboard of Mother Hubbard, and merely contained a charpoy, a chair, a battered punkah, and cobwebs,—thick as ropes! The dinner also proved a disappointment; soup of Worcester sauce and hot water, goat chops, the inevitable anchovy toast, and a small bottle of beer.

Mallender realised that he must adjust himself to the position, and get used to this sort of thing! He had fallen into fastidious ways, and been spoiled, and pampered, by the luxuries of Hooper's Gardens.

When the meal was over, and the newspaper had been ceremoniously removed, he drew a candle towards him and proceeded to re-read the letter of instructions, which had been duly delivered at the Madras hotel:

"Dear Sir,

"We have now the pleasure to forward by hand the information as required. Your gentleman, Major Smith, lives at Panjeverram where he owns a large bungalow, called the Nabob's House, and lives in great secrecy. The place is surrounded by high walls, and entered by a heavy wooden gate. Major Smith's affairs are managed by old servants, who cannot be bribed; he is rarely seen, sometimes not for years, but he is in Panjeverram now. He receives no visitors or letters, no more than if he was defunct. We believe that he is your man, and hope we are correct. We should add, that you will find it prudent to be on the spot, and that to gain admittance will be difficult; it may take weeks, or even months."

Mallender's heart sank. Months!—in this squalid bungalow, the resort of toddy cats, bats, and snakes.

"Perseverance must be rewarded," the letter continued. "If your servants can make friends with Major Smith's servants, it will be the thin edge of the wedge, but you must push, push, push."

Having folded up this epistle, Mallender lit a cigar, and went out to pace the verandah, forgetful and regardless of reptiles, till he trod upon the dead snake, and uttering a word which begins and ends with "D," he kicked the limp body into the bushes, whereupon Anthony, who had been summoned, and stood at the doorway at attention, was moved to say:

"Master taking care, and never walking out of light. Other snake always coming, to look for lover!"

"Hang the snakes' lovers!" cried his master impatiently. "I called you to say, that I am likely to be here for some time, and you must send a coolie to Madras early to-morrow, to fetch stores, and other things from Oakes and Spencer's."

"Chinna-Sawmy can go," replied Smiler with an air of superb importance. "I can spare him, plenty things wanted. To-day all hurry and hurly-burly, no time to arrange. Nothing here, no filter, no charcoal, no matches, no cocoanut oil, no—" spreading out his hands, "anything—but one old fool man."

"There is a bazaar, I presume?"

"Yes, but for native peoples only and half-castes, who live in the old bungalows—and never paying no rent. No one ever coming, but sometimes to see big big temple, and house opposite," pointing dramatically into the thick darkness, "where one English lady was murdered. Master, chase with knife, and cut throat!"

"There is one English gentleman here," said Mallender, "Major Smith. I want you to make acquaintance with his servants, I wish to meet him myself."

"Oh, yes, sir, I understand," replied Anthony, with a whole volume of significance in his voice. "That I can do! I shall get introduced—then I will introduce Master."

"I see you know what I mean,—and now you can go."

Thus dismissed, Anthony took his noiseless departure, and presently made one of the corpse-like figures, swathed in white, that were stretched on the ground—successfully wooing sleep, between the servants' quarters, and the cook's house.

Mallender remained alone, pacing to and fro, whilst the candles within burnt low, a distant pi dog howled, and bats made muffled noises, as they fluttered in and out of the verandah.

Early the next morning, after a truly miserable night,—thanks to heat, mosquitoes and the skirmishing of toddy cats in the ceiling-cloth, the adventurer went forth to reconnoitre, and make observations. He discovered an immensely wide road, with stretches of grass at either side, lined with magnificent banyans. Here and there a bungalow arrested the eye; some were large and stately, some were insignificant; some were thatched, some tiled, many—among a wild tangle of fruit trees, and long-neglected bushes of oleander, and jasmin—were falling into ruin; one and all the miserable reminders of the opulence, and glories of the past. In India the elements assist old Father Time with amazing zeal and success. The blasting hot winds, the blistering sun, torrents of tropical downpour and the perpetual ravages of legions of white ants, soon occasion surprising changes in an uninhabited dwelling. At a little distance to the left, the explorer noticed a straggling bazaar; still continuing the main road, he came to a house standing apart, and surrounded by a high and dignified wall,—such as might enclose an important monastic institution. The entrance was by a heavy iron-studded wooden gate, with a small postern.

Mallender walked slowly past, then turned, and retraced his steps, and finally halted before the gate. Within, was the man he sought! How soon would he see him face to face? How soon might he summon the law to his assistance? Undoubtedly the criminal had found an admirable hiding-place; here he lay, so to speak, entrenched, far from the madding crowd. Probably these solid walls had once encompassed the home and harem of some wealthy "Free" Madras merchant, in the good old times when Panjeverram was a fashionable resort, and the pagoda tree was laden with golden fruit.

For several days nothing happened, save that each morning the heat steadily increased, and like some bodily force descended upon the hard, cracked soil, and consumed all moisture. The only breath of air came from the flat plains behind the station, where spasmodic puffs of a scorching sirocco, suggested the gasps of some dying monster. Mallender, a prey to monotony and prickly heat, sat in a stuffy little darkened room, under a listless old punkah, clad in pyjamas, smoking, and meditating; listening to the roar of the hot wind, the thin rustle of whirling dead leaves, and realising that he was in for a long siege!

But such was his character, the more difficulties that confronted him, the more his courage and determination hardened. Each evening, he strolled past the Nabob's House like a policeman on duty, but the big gate was always shut fast, and the premises were silent as a cemetery. Meanwhile Anthony was craftily undermining the position, and making insidious advances to the native household; in short, he exhibited cunning, which almost rose to the dignity of a talent!

"I have spoken to Francis the butler," he announced, mysteriously. "He is a big big man, with red turban and gold watch. He is Roman Catholic, and knows my father! He say to me, 'Why your Master coming here?' and he look awfully cross. I say, 'Panjeverram too much interesting to gentleman, who make photographs to get money.' 'But he has two servants,' he say, 'and brings Europe stores, and books, from Madras.—Truly not poor man!'"

"That must have stumped you, Smiler?"

"'No, no,' I say, awfullee quick, 'Stores and books he never pay for. Them a present from one charitable lady gone to the Hills, Mrs. Tallboys, and as for wages, I telling, Sawmy come as my friend only; and I only taking eight rupees.'"

"Why, you sinner, I pay you thirty!" exclaimed his master, aghast at this string of ready lies. "Anyway, he did not believe you, I'll swear."

"Suppose, he say I no tell truth, but what can do?" raising his shoulders to his ears. "If Master will show work, I carry camera, and we pass bungalow five, six times, a day; then there will be talk, and Francis, butler, will think, 'That Anthony, good Christian boy; he never telling lies,' and will believe me!"

"All right, Smiler, your character shall be cleared. We will start out this afternoon, and I'll photograph the old temple, and lots of other objects, and make a reputation in the bazaar."

According to this arrangement, the big butler had now many opportunities of beholding the diligent gentleman with his camera and attendant passing continually to and fro; or taking snapshots of the most remarkable local objects. The fame of the photographer spread; Anthony exhibited attractive specimens among his acquaintances, and the train was fired! Mallender became known as "the picture-catching master," and not merely "the stranger, who had a chokra with four thumbs."

"Excuse me, saar," pleaded the counsellor, "but to-day, I think of plenty good business. Suppose we go, I and you, and knock loudly on big gate of Nabob's House, two hours after the midday rice—when all people have eaten well, and are full and contented; we will ask humble permission to take photographs. There are young folks within. I gave the portrait you took of me to their ayah; she liking, very, awfullee much,—and has doubtless shown to family."

Mallender thought the programme excellent, and proceeded to act upon it, that same afternoon. After long and loud hammering on the wooden postern, it was at last opened by a peon, and a glimpse of the interior premises was disclosed.

At the farthest end, stood an imposing red-tiled bungalow; between this and the gate was a garden, a well, and a tennis-court—where two boys were playing. Mallender saw no more, as the postern was suddenly darkened by a large turbaned figure. This presumably was Francis, looking alarmingly fierce, and majestic, who stepping into the road, closed the postern behind him with stern significance.

"Photographs—no," waving a beringed hand; "we do not want them, this private house only—please not to trouble, and to go away."

The fiat seemed irrevocable, and Geoffrey's hopes sank to zero, when as Francis reopened the door a child's golden head was thrust out, and she called in a shrill voice:

"Francis, why you make all this bobbery? We are going to be done and I say so!"

"You go back, missy," he answered angrily. "Naughty girl,—you go back."

"Yes, we must, we must!" she screamed. The petition was supported by shouts, and a far-away female voice was heard in shrill expostulation. Then the door was violently slammed, and the scene in every sense closed.

As the defeated schemers were moving slowly homeward, a servant came panting behind them.

"You are to come," he called out, breathlessly. "The Miss has given permission."

When the impostor and his satellite crossed the vast enclosure, he noticed fine horses picketed in the open stables, Nellore cows, and a motor; also flocks of pigeons, a luxuriant well-watered garden, with patches of luscious green lucerne, and trees of guava, pomegranate, and bananas.

In the verandah were two lads, nearly as dark as Chinna-Sawmy, with sleek black hair, and beaming eager faces. There was also a little girl with clouds of golden locks, and singularly arresting beauty, a prim elderly European woman with a long upper lip, and a flat figure encased in a stiff print gown, and Black Francis—a mute, hostile, presence. Besides this group on the verandah, there was also a large collection of retainers, who were apparently not entitled to a footing in the house.

"They tell me ye take photographs?" interrogated "the Miss" in a high lachrymose Cork accent.

"Yes, all sorts. I came out here to do the temples, but I'm glad of any job," replied Mallender, now lying with the fluency of Anthony himself.

"Well, these children have been bothering the life out of me, so I suppose I bid to let you take them," and she glanced at Francis, who represented as he stood a living thundercloud.

This permission was received with rapture by the young people; the boys made diabolical grimaces at each other, and the little girl flung her arms round the neck of "the Miss" and nearly strangled her with a hug.

"Oh, well, ye can do a group," she gasped, "and if it comes out all right, we may have the bungalow."

"Yes, and the horses and dogs, and the new motor, and the monkey!" supplemented the child, as she clapped her hands, and skipped about.

"Now, Mota, you be quiet," commanded "the Miss"; then turning to Mallender, and pointing to his portfolio in Anthony's hands, "I'd like to have a look at your things, young man."

"Certainly," answered the photographer, "with pleasure."

"Ye talk like a gentleman, so ye do," she remarked, as she considered Mallender with a pair of sharp grey eyes.

"I—I," taken a little aback,—"have been fairly well educated."

"'Tis more than I have myself," she declared, "but edication on some, does be like diamond buckles on a pair of brogues; I misdoubt," glancing at his shabby kharki suit, "that ye have been a nice play boy!" and with this remark she sat down, and holding the portfolio in her lap went carefully through its contents, whilst Mota rested her chin on her shoulder, and the two boys leant over Mota. Fortunately for the adventurer, they were all three loud and unanimous in their admiration.

"Look at the big temple and the one-eyed beggar!" cried Mota, "and see Soomia with his buffaloes, and the old Dâk Bungalow Matey. Oh, let us be done at once!"

"I can take a group now," said Mallender, briskly.

"Shall I change, Dixie?" enquired the child, "my new lace frock?"

"No, no, ye will do finely as ye are, get your hair brushed, and you boys, Paul and Pedro, go and put on your jackets."

As Mallender adjusted the camera, he made a careful mental photograph of the situation. At the side of the bungalow, he noticed another entrance,—doubtless opening on the plains at the rear. The verandah walls were covered with horns and heads, chiefly of black buck and sambur; comfortable chairs and tables, laden with books and papers, gave a homely touch to the scene, and gasping near the water filter, lay an elderly, well-bred, fox-terrier.

In the presence of a large and attentive crowd, the operator arranged his group, placing "the Miss" in the centre. As he allowed her to choose her own pose, she sat bolt upright, her chin elevated, and a large hand spread like a star-fish, on either knee. "The Miss" was supported by a boy on each side, whilst Mota reclined at her feet. As Mallender scrutinised the party, from under his black velvet cloth, he realised that the little girl was unquestionably of good birth,—judging by her delicate features, and well-bred air; the boys seemed sharp and intelligent, and closely resembled one another, indeed now that he looked at them again, of course they were twins!

After a long pause, many injunctions to be "steady" and an authoritative "hush" from Anthony, his master uttered the word "Now," and the cap was off.

Another snapshot followed, and then the operator carried away the plates into a specially darkened bathroom, accompanied by the truculent and suspicious Francis. As the groups were a success, and their price was moderate, "the Miss" suggested a view of the bungalow. This was followed by a full-sized reproduction of the monkey—a deplorable failure—and the old fox-terrier, who well-marked, and short of leg, had undoubtedly at some period of his career abandoned the shores of England.

With such a collection of plates, Mallender was well content; he particularly wished to return again, and yet again, until he encountered and confronted the mysterious master of the Nabob's House.

It took some time to develop and print the plates, as they were sent to Madras, and three days had elapsed before the photographer once more presented himself at the wooden postern.

Meanwhile he heard from Anthony, that the sahib was at home; for Chinna-Sawmy had obtained a footing in the go-downs, thanks to thumb tricks, and his repertoire of new, and improper, Tamil songs! The photographs were approved, with acclamation, and their bearer received a boisterous welcome from the boys and Mota, who amazing to relate, was their own sister! They all became demonstratively friendly, not to say familiar, and asked Mallender where he came from? how much he earned? and, last but by no means least, his name? which he informed them was "Geoffrey."

"Geoffrey," repeated "the Miss"; "I knew a fellow of that name wance in the Roifles—his father had a baker's shop in Cork; bedad, he was a nice bhoy! breaking out of barracks, making away with his kit, fighting, and playing the fool."

Her reminiscences were disturbed by the young people, who swarmed about the camera, begging leave to take snapshots of one another, or to pull off the cap, and to this the photographer graciously consented,—anything to linger, and to gain time.

"Photography is pure foolery," declared "the Miss," "and I would say against it, only it makes a diversion for them, poor children, and days do hang terribly heavy in the holidays and the hot weather: the boys goes to Doveton College, in Madras. Ye might do a single one of Miss Mota here just as a surprise for her Dada."

To this suggestion Mallender willingly assented. The ready and delighted Mota was posed, told to hold up her chin, try and think of something very nice, and make a good picture!

As the photographer's head was buried under the black cloth, taking a final look at his pretty little sitter, he heard the sound of a ringing, spurred, footfall on the verandah, a loud exclamation from the child, and a gruff voice, asking:

"What's all this?"

Mallender hastily divested himself of his head covering, and for once in his life was struck absolutely dumb. The man in riding-kit, and sun topee, who was staring at him, might be Major Smith, in Panjeverram,—but in England, he was a certain Major Rochfort, with whom the photographer was well acquainted! A good-looking, popular, middle-aged individual,—married to a great heiress. When Mallender was quartered in York, he had often met him in the hunting field, had dined at his house, and shot his covers.

Major Rochfort, for his part, stood transfixed, glaring at the intruder, as if he could not credit the evidence of his senses!

CHAPTER XVI

Major Rochfort's eyes blazed, his good-looking countenance had become dark, and congested; at last he found speech, and in a voice choking with ferocity demanded:

"What are you doing here, sir? Detective business, eh? You shall explain this, Mallender," suddenly seizing him by the arm, "come inside!" As he spoke, he kicked a glass door open with such force, that one of the panes was loosened, and fell on the flags with a tinkling crash.

When the master of the house had carried off the unlucky photographer, as it were a prey—his children and retainers stood staring at one another in a dumb amazement—in which curiosity had no small share.

Leaving his victim to follow, Major Rochfort stalked through a gloomy central room—studded with old-fashioned black furniture, and carpeted with a hideous native drugget—into a cheerful airy den, containing a big writing-table, several luxurious chairs, and many trophies of the chase.

"Now," he said, turning savagely on Mallender. "'Pon my soul, I've a good mind to shoot you! What the devil are you after? What do you mean, you prying young skunk, by putting your fingers into my private affairs, eh?" His face was livid, and streaming with heat, he was almost incoherent from passion.

"I know nothing—and want to know nothing—of your private affairs," replied the amateur artist who was white, but perfectly collected. "I came out here to look after my own business, and by rotten bad luck I seem to have tumbled into yours!" Then realising that it was desirable to make a clean breast, he sat down in the nearest arm-chair, and with the velvet cloth still in his hands, in a few short sentences, and a slow controlled voice, related the reasons for his trip to India, to Panjeverram,—and finally to the bungalow itself.

As he listened, his companion rapidly cooled. He mopped his face energetically, and exclaimed:

"I see—I see—a regular mare's nest! Well, your secret will be safe here, this," with an embarrassed grin, "is the house of secrets; but yours, is a crazy notion, yes, crazy, and will land you in lots of awkward situations, as bad or worse, than this."

"Yet the agent was so absolutely confident, and I have waited three solid months for information."

"Well, your agent made a pretty rotten cast! Your Uncle would be at least ten years my senior—I'm forty-five next June. But natives are no judge of age, you are either young or old, there is no medium; it's like the country itself, which has only night, and day—no dusk. But why go to a native firm at all?"

"Because I'm told, they always have one ear in the bazaar, where everything is known; and Europeans are so cut and dried, so unimaginative, and maddeningly slow."

After a short silence, Major Rochfort got up, and standing squarely before his companion, said:

"Look here, Mallender, I'm most awfully sorry I went for you like that just now; but naturally, when I came across you incognito and being extremely anxious to conceal this little—er—establishment, I thought that by some incredible means Sophy had put you on! Lately, she has been asking questions, and making me devilish nervous. I began to think of anonymous letters, or that in some subtle and unexpected form she smelt a rat!"

Mallender's thoughts flew to the plain middle-aged lady, with a tribe of pet dogs, known to the world as Mrs. Rochfort.

"I can't imagine why you should suspect me," he answered stiffly.

"My dear fellow, when a man's in a deadly funk, he suspects everyone. You will forgive me, won't you, and dine with me to-night, and we'll have a good old jaw?"

At this moment the door opened, and a golden head was thrust in.

"Go away, Mota, run away," said her father, "I am busy now. You'll come, won't you?" to Mallender, "to show there is no ill-feeling, and eat my salt,—as you have done at home?"

"All right, I'll come at eight, I suppose?" said Mallender rising; then he went out to join Anthony in the verandah, and the pair departed together, followed by the eyes of the entire household,—including dog and monkey.

Mallender was in low spirits, he felt keenly disappointed, crestfallen, and dispirited. He had abandoned his best friends, spent a fortnight in squalid misery, dragged out the secret of another man, and all for nothing! He began to fear, that he had engaged in a struggle beyond his powers,—nevertheless he meant to hold on!

Later, he got into a white evening suit, and preceded by Chinna-Sawmy with a lantern, once more presented himself at the big bungalow. He now found it illuminated by many lamps, and was formally received in the gloomy drawing-room by Rochfort, his children and "the Miss,"—wearing a gay spotted muslin, and an obtrusive gold watch, and chain.

Dinner was plain, but excellent; mulligatawny, pomphret, gram-fed mutton, cheese soufflé and fruit. The talk was loud, general, and unembarrassed. The boys were evidently devoted to their parent, and completely free from shyness. Possibly the young lady was a little spoiled; with crimped hair, and dressed in an elaborate white frock, she occupied the place of hostess, and flatly and insistently contradicted her father on more than one occasion. She however was a lovely child, and looked thoroughbred to the tips of her somewhat sticky fingers.

Mallender as he glanced about him, mentally contrasted the present, with the last occasion on which he had been the guest of his host. Then, he had sat at a table loaded with wonderful old silver and hot-house flowers, and was waited on by powdered footmen, in the company of Rochfort's prim English wife, and her titled county neighbours. Now, he was eating curried vegetables, under a slowly moving punkah, attended by black servants, and surrounded by a Madras family—which included a golden-haired imperious hostess, aged nine years.

As she passed her father's chair, dessert being over, Mota said, "You'll come soon, Daddy?" and she bestowed a patronising pat and kiss on the top of his somewhat thin hair. "We want to play spoof, so don't sit talking, talking, smoking, smoking!" and with this command, she vanished.

When the servants had also disappeared, Rochfort said:

"Draw nearer, try that Pondicherry claret, it's very sound, and light up. I want to talk to you, Mallender."

"All right," he replied, helping himself to wine, "go ahead."

"No doubt you are flabbergasted at my double life!—not a Sunday-school example for a young fellow, eh? At home, I'm Major Rochfort, a magistrate, married, no family; a busy man on committees, active in country matters, a preserver of foxes, a chairman at political meetings, a steward at races and balls, and a model husband," he paused, deliberately helped himself to another glass of claret, and then went on:

"Here in a God-forsaken old Indian backwater, I am Major Smith, an idle slacker, and a model father. Now you shall hear the whole explanation."

Mallender threw himself back in his chair, crossed his knees, and prepared to listen.

"Twenty years ago, I was a subaltern quartered in Madras, a gay young bachelor ready for any mortal thing, and at a Sergeants' Ball I made the acquaintance of Maddalena de Rosa. She was a Eurasian about sixteen, and quite distractingly pretty. I was not a bad-looking chap myself,"—he was good-looking still—"and we fell in love on the spot! I shall never forget Maddie that night, with her pink dress, her little string of mock pearls, and her wonderful eyes! We talked,—though she was not much of a talker—her eyes did the business—and we danced together most of the evening. We met again, of course. I used to go to Vepery Church on Sundays, and tell the other fellows I was out duck-shooting. Well, in the long run, her grandmother settled it! There was no question of marriage,—but it was a real case of love. I took two months' leave, we went to the Hills, and were as happy as mortals could be. Later on, I hired a little bungalow, not far from the Fort. For some time, we had no family, then came twin boys, both unexpectedly dark, and I must confess, I was a good deal startled. Soon after this, the regiment was ordered home, and poor Maddie nearly broke her heart. To tell the truth, I felt pretty bad too! but I sold my rifles and ponies fairly well, and I had come in for a bit of a legacy, so I settled some money on Maddie, and an old native relative—a soucar chap,—bought this house for her, for a song! Her people came from hereabouts, and her grandmother agreed to live with her."

Major Rochfort paused, and poured himself out yet another glass of claret, then looked across at Mallender and said:

"I hope I'm not boring you, am I?"

"On the contrary, I am much interested. What happened next?"

"I went home with the regiment, married Sophy Cosby, and left the service; five years later, I returned to shoot in Travancore, and an irresistible temptation drove me to look up Maddie. I found she had remained faithful to her first love, and never married; she was now twenty-four, and handsomer than ever. Well, on one excuse or other, I stayed month after month, writing home lies, going for short shooting trips, but always returning to Maddie. I was awfully fond of her; somehow she and the boys made me a home,—and I was extraordinarily happy. She was so simple and gentle, and refined; I'll swear Maddie had good blood, English or native, in her veins. At last, I was compelled to leave her, and three months after I got home, I had a letter to say a girl was born, and that Maddie was dead. The news came as a terrible shock, but I pulled myself together, indented the coffee estate, and I came straight back, to fix up things. By great luck, I heard of Mrs. Dixon, a sergeant's widow, who was respectable and trustworthy, but stranded, and I engaged her as nurse and housekeeper, and though she has not much education, she has done me rattling well."

"Yes, I should say so," agreed Mallender, "and of course you are seldom at Panjeverram?"

"No—worse luck! Every two or three years I come out to see my coffee, that's what I call it. I may tell you, that I don't own a bush! but I have a planter friend, and confidant, one Hector Fraser. I write from his estate, but I come here, and live with the children, I get capital snipe and teal shooting in the paddy fields and tanks hereabouts, and now and then, I go off, and do a week in the jungle—but, my heart is with my little family."

"Yes, naturally."

"Of late, I've had an awful idea, that Sophy has her suspicions; she cross-questions me so closely about my coffee and crops. I made a bargain with her, after Maddie's death, that every three years, I was free to spend six months on the estate—the—er—the master's eye, you know! Recently it has seemed to me that my wife has been looking at me curiously; of course this may only be my own guilty conscience! And she told me, before we parted, that this is the last time I am coming out here—alone. She wishes to visit the estate, and thinks it must be so interesting. I'm half afraid she will keep her word, and when she sees the coffee,—there will be the devil to pay! I dare say she'll divorce me."

"Can she? I don't know much about such matters, but I'd say not."

"Well, she can stop supplies, and make things deuced unpleasant, and that's not the worst."

"No? I should have said it was."

"There's Mota, my little darling girl—she is a beauty, eh?"

"She is, indeed," agreed Mallender. "No two opinions there!"

"And looks quite Europe; not like the poor boys. They are bright young fellows, the image of my father: what would he have thought of his two copies in black? He was a terribly straight-laced man, long family prayers, no theatre, no wine—he would not even allow mustard on the table, because it was a stimulant! I was kept so cruelly tight, that I broke out, of course. The boys go to Doveton College, and this is their holidays. They are clever little chaps; I get capital reports of them both, ultimately they will find good billets, and be all right. It's little Mota I'm thinking of. She learns next to nothing beyond reading and writing, and the love of her own way; not a bit like her mother there—takes after mine. The child ought to go to England, and the boys too. She'd be accepted; but how could I account for them? I've saved a little, and made my will, but if anything happened to me, what would become of the children?"

Rochfort's voice trembled, his eyes were misty. It was difficult to realise, that here was the identical Rochfort, known at home for his sunny humour, and natural geniality; or that the cheery smart man of the world, was the same as this stricken parent, with the anxious face, and voice shaken with emotion.

"By Jove, Mallender, it's true, what the Bible says, 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge'! Many a night I lie awake puzzling my head about these kids. You are a sensible chap,—bar one subject,—and can see into a question better than I, who am always looking at it; what do you advise?"

"I advise you to tell your wife!" was Mallender's prompt reply.

"Just the last thing I'll ever do!" and he banged the table with his fist, and made the glasses dance.

"But why not? she is lonely, she has no near relations, heaps of time on her hands, and seems fond of young people."

"She would not be fond of Pedro and Paul, she'd lock them up for fear they should be seen,—or send them to the Zoo!"

"Well, just think it over! it's what I'd do, if I were in your shoes. You need not let anyone else into the secret; say they were children of an old friend—who—er—had married unfortunately. You might even make her a Begum!"

"No thank you, my boy, your measures are too drastic. To-morrow you leave the Dâk Bungalow, and come and stop with me, seeing that you have drawn this cover blank. Anyway, stay and shoot a week or two; I may be able to give you a leg up, my butler Francis knows the Presidency to the bone."

"You are very kind, Rochfort,—but I ought to be moving on."

"Yes, you ought," he assented, rising as he spoke, "come along into the verandah, the children are waiting for us to play games."

CHAPTER XVII

Major Rochfort had not much difficulty in persuading his friend to abandon the Dâk Bungalow, and take up his quarters with him; and Geoffrey parted without regret from the mildewed, rat-hunted chamber, and toothless old matey—whose dishes were invariably seasoned with a "dirty cloth" taste! As he beheld his belongings installed in a large comfortably furnished room, containing a cot draped with snowy mosquito curtains, a writing-table, and an almirah, he asked himself the question, "Am I too becoming a sponge?"

The guest was made warmly welcome by "the Miss," or Mrs. Dixon, who assured him, that "all her born days she loved the Army!"

"Sure, an' wasn't I reared in the service, and married into the Roifles," she announced in a high querulous key, "and it does me heart good, to be in the same house with two fine soldiers, like the Major, and yourself."

As for the Smiths, all three had fastened their affections upon "Jeffie" as they called him; he played tennis with the boys, and taught them to box, and suffered Mota to take photographs, and learn to print them. Extravagant was her pride when she produced a picture of her father, with white eyes, and a perfectly black face!

Mallender had written to Fanny, and to Mrs. Villars, but so far had received no reply. And with grief it must be confessed, that for the first time in their married life, Fred and Fanny had had "a few words," and these "words" were on the subject of Geoffrey. In answer to his wife's tearful pleadings, Colonel Tallboys, bubbling over with wrath replied:

"Fanny, I forbid you to correspond with that fellow, or to receive his letters; the pinch of indifference, and some real hardship, will soon bring the young idiot to his senses! I won't have him pitied, and coddled. Now, Fan, you need not argue. I won't listen to excuses. After all, he is my relation—not yours. When did I ever try to come between you, and the Bonds?"

This argument was unanswerable, and Fan, who knew that her husband could be very firm, and "bossy" on occasions, said no more.

As for Lena Villars, she had done with the young man; his unceremonious escape, without even a parting word, had wounded her vanity too deeply. She, who had hitherto believed that no man (and she chose) could resist her! Added to this, was the wild tale she had heard from Colonel Tallboys. The lady listened to his grievance with rapt and touching attention. So this rash obstinate boy was practically penniless, and had flung himself into a pursuit, that could only overtake derision, and ruin. He was a charming fellow, when he was sane, and danced like an angel, but she had no wish to set eyes on him again,—nor would she ever forget him.

Mrs. Tallboys dutifully bowed to her lord's commands, and wrote no letter, but she sent Geoffrey a little registered parcel, containing her treasured talisman—a curious old Greek coin with a hole in it. When Mallender unpacked the gift, he said to himself with a broad smile:

"Surely, between Sawmy's thumbs, and this talisman, I am bound to succeed!"

He had interviewed Shumilal, and overwhelmed him with reproaches,—these ran as lightly off the Agent, as if he were the proverbial duck!—and for his part, he silenced his client with clamorous condolences, sympathy, excuses, and dazzling promises of eventual triumph.

"We are hard at work on another line," he announced, "and for failure, no charge is made. We will communicate most important news, at a very early date."

"I don't believe in your Jaffer and Co." said Major Rochfort as he and his guest paced the garden together one moonlight evening, when the young people had retired. "I'd be a better help myself—on the principle of set a thief to catch a thief. I am up to lots of dodges, I understand how to cover my tracks, or to bolt for my hole, like a rabbit."

"Yes, I suppose you must be pretty smart," assumed Mallender.

"I am," he rejoined emphatically. "When Sophy is bound for Egypt—she generally winters there—I drop her at Port Said and come on to the estate, put in a couple of days with Fraser, and then double down to the kids."

"How often have you been out?"

"This is my fourth trip, since Mota was born. You see, I hate to miss the hunting. This year, I'm out a bit late—but I don't want the Smiths to forget their old Daddy."

"No, but when they grow up, how will it be?"

"Ah, that's the rub, when they grow up?—especially when Mota grows up. My wife is as prim and as starched as they make 'em; she looks like an old maid; but she loves children, and since she has none, she adopts dogs. You know the little brown Pom, she calls it her child, and her baby boy—it's pitiful!"

"Perhaps she would take to your children?" suggested Mallender.

"Never! For one thing, she's as jealous as the devil. If I speak to a good-looking woman more than once, she's down on me like bricks. When some confounded gossip told her that I was always riding with that pretty Mrs. Chester—you remember her—by Jove, she took to coming out herself! The ruling passion, stronger than the fear of death. Sophy can't ride for nuts, but she's plucky as the deuce. On the other hand, anything in the shape of a scandal, floors her; she knows nothing of life, nor of men's lives; poor dear, good woman, she thinks we are saints. I'm fond of her,—though it was a mariage de convenance, and she has been awfully generous to me; paid my debts, and gives me a free hand. If the secret of the coffee estate came to her ears, she'd get a separation like a shot, and I'd be fired out of the country!"

"So far she has no suspicions?" enquired Mallender.

"I'm not sure. I hope not. I write regularly from the Renapilly estate, a fellow there, that I can trust, posts my letters every mail."

"Do you know, I now remember, when I spent a couple of nights at your place, Mrs. Rochfort asked me a lot of questions about India, and especially about Madras; I could not tell her much, nor anything of coffee estates, or if they were almost inaccessible. She enquired the easiest way of reaching those in the Hills. I said I supposed on horseback, or in a chair, carried by coolies."

"Then, my dear fellow, let me tell you, that unintentionally you did me a very bad turn," said Rochfort, as he carefully cut the end of a cigar—"what else?"

"She asked me the length of the voyage, and for details respecting insects and snakes."

"Oh, she knows all about snakes, and scorpions! I rubbed them in extra well. No, I don't really believe that Sophy will ever get further east than Egypt—she funks the Red Sea, and cobras. I say! I suppose you know the Smiths have taken to you uncommonly; it's good for the boys to meet another Englishman, and I see you've knocked some sound ideas into their heads. As for Mota, you'll be interested to hear, that she has decided to marry you!"

"Well, perhaps I may wait for her! By the way, they are waiting for us to play badminton in the big room. Shall we adjourn?"

The weather was warming up, tanks were nearly dry, the grass withered, and the ground hard as a brick,—consequently there was no shooting.

Now and then of a late afternoon Major Rochfort motored his friend into Madras. He had purchased the motor out of some race winnings, chiefly for the use of the boys going to and fro to college. As most of the community were in the Hills, or had gone home, or to Australia, no one recognised Mallender. He and his host went down to the Marina to catch a breath of the sea breeze, or to the band at the Luz, or to look on at tennis in the grounds behind the Chepauk Palace. Occasionally they took a turn in the shops. In one, Mallender was not a little startled to recognise, ticketed "a bargain," the very gold bag he had presented to Mrs. Villars. Could there be a mistake? Had it been stolen? he asked permission to examine it. Yes, it was the same, there were her initials faintly scratched by his own penknife.

"How did you come by this?" he enquired of the shop assistant, and the shop assistant on his dignity, loftily replied:

"By purchasing it,—we don't receive stolen goods."

"Of course, I know that. The reason I ask is, that I gave it to a lady, and I'm sure it's the same."

"No doubt, and the lady sold it. If you wish, I can give you her name. She was staying at Hooper's Gardens; she said she did not care about the pattern, and accepted two hundred and fifty rupees."

Geoffrey bowed, and walked out of the shop, feeling surprisingly crestfallen; and all the way back to Panjeverram, he proved a silent companion. Somehow or other, after this discovery, the magic of Lena Villars lost its hold upon his memory.

He had now been a fortnight at the big bungalow, and was enrolled as one of the household, joined in all their games and interests con amore, and was even accepted by the fox-terrier, and Francis—who had ceased to regard him with an air of scornful disparagement.

It was much too hot for any exertion in the daytime, the heat was fierce, all nature seemed somnolent; even the sparrows were in retirement, and ugly flying foxes, hung torpid, and motionless in their hundreds, from the banyan trees. Of an evening, the Smith family revived. There were cards, puzzle games, and music on the gramophone; and Mrs. Dixon occasionally obliged with an Irish song; she had still a sweet haunting voice, and accompanied herself vigorously on the concertina. Subsequently there was family service,—an institution unfamiliar to Mallender. Major Rochfort read a chapter and some prayers to his household, which included Francis, Anthony and several Catholic servants,—and then the day for the young people was closed.

Although Mallender was adopted as one of the family, consulted about domestic affairs, domestic animals, and education, he did not intend to remain a fixture at the Nabob's House. On the contrary, he was in a condition of acute unrest; not only was he hoping for tidings from Jaffer and Co., but was pinning a certain amount of faith on Francis,—who according to his employer, had friends and relatives in all parts of the Presidency, and the details of every well-known, or even merely guessed at, scandal, or disappearance, at his finger-ends. It was a fact, that Francis and Anthony were laying their heads together, and elaborating a wonderful itinerary for Anthony's master.

One sweltering day just after tiffin, Mota brought in the dâk. She gave several letters to her father, and the Madras Mail to Geoffrey. After picking out the most interesting items of news, his eye fell casually on "Arrivals at Spencer's Hotel. Mrs. Rochfort and maid."

Could it be Rochfort's wife? He was about to draw attention to this announcement, when a glance at his friend restrained him. He was reading a letter; his colour had turned a greyish white, and great beads of perspiration rolled down his face.

"Good Lord, Mallender, she has come out! and I'm done!" he exclaimed hoarsely. "This letter, forwarded from the estate, is four days old. Sophy has been four days at Spencer's Hotel. Here—read it," and as he offered the letter, the paper rattled in his hand.

"Spencer's Hotel, Madras.

"Dearest Robert," it began,

"Won't this be a nice surprise for you? I am actually in Madras; do come and fetch me as soon as you receive this, for I'm nearly grilled alive, and poor Parsons is in a state of collapse. We only arrived to-day, via Colombo and Tuticorin,—such a scorching land journey! My old friends the Herrapaths who are going round the world, persuaded me to accompany them from Port Said, so instead of returning home, I faced the other way. Was I not courageous? I made up my mind instantly, and just came off—I thought it such a splendid chance, to visit your wonderful coffee estate. Longing to see you.

"Your loving Sophy."

"She will have to know, now," remarked Mallender, as he returned the epistle. "No question of that."

"Certainly not," rejoined Rochfort, who had partly recovered from the first shock, "I shall face it out! Take her up to Ooty, tell her there is small-pox on the estate, and hustle her off home. You don't agree, I see."

"No, since you ask me, I don't."

"After all, it wouldn't work. No, on second thoughts, the Ooty club is full of planters, and they would give me away, as a rank impostor. Fraser, my friend, is in Australia; this is not the busy season. I see no escape," and he turned on his companion the eyes of a desperate man. "By God, I've a mind to put an end to myself!"

"What good would that do? you have to think of the Smiths. I see nothing for it, but to make a clean breast of it," answered Mallender firmly.

"Ah, it's easy to talk! I never could face her. I'm awfully sensitive, I—I—I've no moral courage," and he completely broke down, and presented a particularly distressing example of sheer cowardice!

His companion gazed at him in astonishment; Rochfort the smart, authoritative, society man, a popular fellow, a leader in his own part of the world; here, on the other side of the globe, faced with a serious crisis, was weaker than many a woman, and sobbing like a child!

"Look here, Rochfort," he said at last. "Pull yourself together, write a letter, and I'll take it to her, this afternoon."

"Mallender," raising his head, "you are a friend! I warned you, that you little knew what you were letting yourself in for, when you started this crazy chase of yours,—here is an instance, you see! I'll get a stiff peg, and write, if I can, but I'm so confoundedly shaky, I don't know if I'll be able to form a word, no, 'pon my soul I'm no use at a crisis like this! an awful thing, that bowls you clean out. Here I stand between two fires, 'the kids and Sophy,' God knows I love them both,—but I'm bound to lose one, or the other. If I stick to the kids, Sophy will get a separation,—or what will come to the same thing; and if I go home with her, I'll never see the others again. So there it is! I'm in the devil of a mess," and once more, his voice broke.

"Write your letter, and confess yourself like a man," urged Geoffrey, "the longer you leave it, the worse it will be. I'm going out to order the car."

"Stop here, my old head on young shoulders! you stay and help me write it. What can I say? How in God's name am I to begin—I'll never do it."

"You must," rejoined Mallender, "and it's a job you'll have to take on alone. I'll give you fifteen minutes, while I have a tub, and change; don't let it be long; hold nothing back, and whatever you do, make it plain."

CHAPTER XVIII

In Madras City it is generally admitted, that between three and four o'clock, is the hottest time of day; the sun seems to redouble and enforce his power, before he sinks beyond the palm trees and banyans in the west. At this hour, along an arid road, in the scorching malignity of a hot wind, Mallender sped on his dangerous mission: so flaming was the air, that even an acclimatised driver felt withered, and blistered by its blasts!

Arriving at Spencer's Hotel, more dead than alive, the pallid emissary enquired for Mrs. Rochfort.

"Yes, saar, she is in," replied the smart Goanese attendant, "but who shall I say, saar?"

"A gentleman to see her—no, I have no card."

Nevertheless the visitor was ceremoniously ushered into a lift, and swiftly whirled to the first floor.

After what seemed a long interval of waiting in an empty sitting-room, Mrs. Rochfort appeared. The lady had evidently dressed in haste; her hair was damp,—as if recently dipped in water,—and she was violently struggling with a blouse button as she entered. The pitiless heat had undoubtedly tried her more than her visitor; Sophie Rochfort looked plainer than ever; so old, sallow, and fagged, as she stood for a moment uncertain,—then held out her hand.

"Oh, Captain Mallender, of all people!" she exclaimed, "fancy you and I meeting in India! how did you know I was here? I am expecting Robbie every instant, do sit down," pointing to a chair.

"Yes, I heard you had arrived," he began evasively, looking into his helmet, and wondering what the dickens he should say next?

"Wasn't I energetic!" she continued volubly, "coming out as a surprise,—and so late in the season. You see, I was at Port Said, nearly half-way, and I took it into my head to visit this wonderful coffee estate. Robbie has always been so keen on it, and so full of it, now I shall be able to talk of it too, and to share his interest!"

"Um—yes—of course," murmured her visitor; but his tone was faint and dubious.

"Do excuse my toilet!" she chattered on, "I really was not prepared for this furnace, and until I landed here, I'd no idea of the miseries of prickly heat!"

"I know, it's a bad time," agreed her visitor; "mostly everyone is in the Hills now."

"The Hills! I'm simply dying for the cool mountain air! if Robbie does not come soon, I intend to start for his estate this evening, or very early to-morrow. I have found out the trains, and transport, and am all packed. I'm afraid my letters have missed him—such a funny casual post! By the way, I know you have left the service, how do you happen to be in Madras? Where are you staying?"

"Now for it!" thought Geoffrey, bracing himself. "I'm staying with Rochfort just at present—in fact—he sent me to see you."

"Then," rising hastily, "he is ill! Oh, why did you not say so before? I know you mean kindly, trying to break it to me, but take me to him at once! Is it serious—is it—cholera?"

"No, Rochfort is all right, I assure you," said Mallender, also rising; "you have no cause for any anxiety on that score,—but—I am the bearer of a letter," slowly producing it as he spoke, "that I am afraid will rather upset you, and, er—convey something of a shock——"

"A letter!" she interrupted, "let me have it?" and she almost snatched it from his hand, "I know, it's about money—Rob had some mysterious investments we,—we, are ruined!"

"Whether your husband is ruined, or not, lies entirely with you, Mrs. Rochfort."

"With me? Impossible! Of course my settlement——" then she tore the envelope open, and began to read. As she read, she became pale, then ghastly; at last she gave a long wailing cry, like some wounded animal, and sat down.

"Here, let me get you something," said Mallender eagerly; "shall I call your maid?"

"No, no," in a strangled voice, "bring me a glass of iced water, and call no one."

When he returned with the water, and Mrs. Rochfort had taken a few sips, she looked up at him and said:

"Of course you know what he has written?"

Mallender nodded. He felt as if he had suddenly become old, and responsible.

"About the Eurasian woman, and the children, and his—double life. Is it true?"

In spite of his own absolutely clear conscience, the young man coloured, and looked guiltily shame-faced as he answered:

"I believe it is, I came into his house by accident, and discovered his secret. He asked me to stay on for a time, and I've been with him a week or two. He only got your letter a couple of hours ago."

"Well," setting down the tumbler with a gesture of decision, "there is only one thing for me to do."

"To forgive him?" was the bold suggestion.

"Captain Mallender, for what do you take me?" she demanded with curt scorn.

"For a good, kind woman."

"A good—idiot!" she retorted fiercely.

"Listen to me, Mrs. Rochfort, for one moment, though I'm a stupid sort of chap, and no flier at talking. You know very well, that yours is the stronger character. Rochfort has lots of good points, but he is weak, and easily influenced. He is devoted to you—that I honestly believe,—and he is devoted to those kids. He shrinks from an awful scandal at home, and losing his friends, and position—er—and you."

"Oh—me!" she exclaimed with an outburst of bitterness.

"And," continued the pleader steadily, "his heart goes to those motherless children—you know, that she is dead. He cannot abandon them, and they adore him."

"I must say, he has an eloquent advocate!" she gulped.

"I'm afraid I'm a duffer and not much good; he wants one badly. He is too broken to speak for himself."

"Rob—with a family—out here all these years!—and no coffee estate," she repeated helplessly, "now I can understand why the plantation was such an absolutely impossible journey for me! And I thought I had Rob's whole confidence, he consulted me about everything. He used to talk to me, by the hour, about bad crops, and troublesome coolies, and blight, and bone manure! Oh, why could he not tell me the truth?"

"Because he funked it," said Mallender simply.

"Yes, he always shirks disagreeables, and facing a situation, or having to say no. He gets out of things, or won't think of them. It is I, who have to speak or write; it was I, who had to give employés notice, dismiss a head keeper, and interview our nearest neighbour about a right of way."

She sat for a long time looking straight before her, and occasionally wiping away the perspiration that trickled down her wan face. Suddenly she asked:

"What are they like?"

"You mean the children. Wonderful, considering; well-brought-up, nice, straight, manly boys, that Rochfort says, take after his father—but very dark."

"Ah—like their mother!" and there was a faint note of satisfaction in the tone.

"No, I believe she was fair; but of course there is native blood, no denying it; the little girl has golden hair, and is lovely."