Front matter (continued 4)

Mrs. Rochfort rose, and began to pace the room. Within the last ten minutes, her mind, her whole mental outlook, had been completely changed: amazement, incredulity, outraged confidence, and wounded affection, were each striving to make themselves heard. She felt as if her world had suddenly crumbled beneath her feet! That Robbie was a flirt, was always admitted, he was handsome and gay; he liked women, they liked him. His foolish little flirtations had undoubtedly vexed her but they meant nothing.—She knew in her heart, that Rob was fond of her, that she came first in his life—and now this thunderbolt had struck her! Robbie had deserted and deceived her; in the first years of their married life, he had abandoned her for an old love—a half-caste woman! The horror, the strangeness of the idea, made her giddy to contemplate.

He was no longer her Robbie; it was little short of a loss by death—in future, they must be strangers. In future, she would go through life alone, and what would people say? For instance, her prim, old-maidish cousins, who made nasty speeches, about "fortune hunters" and had been so openly envious of her handsome husband. As the poor distracted woman endeavoured to clear her mind, she walked to and fro, unconscious of the young man who stood by the window, following her movements, with anxious interest.

"What am I to do?" she moaned. "Oh, what am I to do?" and she wrung her hands.

"After all, Mrs. Rochfort, she is dead," urged Mallender; "it's not as if she were at Panjeverram; those children have been motherless for nine years. It would be different if he deceived you, and came out to see her—now would it not?"

Mrs. Rochfort vouchsafed no notice of this appeal, but ceased to pace the room, and murmured as if to herself, "What am I to do?"

"Give me a line to take back," suggested the delegate, "and put some sort of an end to Rochfort's misery. I have a car here, short measures are the most merciful."

"Is he really so miserable?" she asked, and she gazed at Mallender with piteous eyes.

"You should see him!" he answered forcibly, "I swear you'd hardly know him; since he got your letter, he looks like an old man!"

"You say you have a car here?"

"Yes—I'll get back in something over an hour; the man is on the rack—and the sooner I am off the better."

As Mrs. Rochfort stood and surveyed her visitor, her face assumed a strained, and irresolute expression, after a very long silence—she drew her hand across her wet forehead, and in a voice strangely thin and high said:

"If you will wait five minutes,—I will go with you!"

CHAPTER XIX

It was bright moonlight—an orange hot-weather moon—as Mrs. Rochfort and her escort, leaving behind them the sound of trams, tom-toms, and fire-works, sped smoothly out of Madras, and away into the sleepy country. Naturally everything she beheld was new to the lady, yet in one sense she saw nothing but her miserable, weak husband, and his family of half-caste children. What could she say or do? how deal with the situation? It was true, as this young fellow had declared, that hers was the stronger character, and before pronouncing judgment she resolved to see and hear the culprit.

Mallender for his part instinctively realised the many vital questions that were being debated in the mind of his rigidly motionless companion, and maintained a prudent silence.

At last, the car stopped at the great wooden gate, and before this could be unfastened, the postern opened quickly, and Mota flew out—a pretty vision, in her white lace frock, and streaming hair.

"Oh, Geff, Daddy——" then she paused, as her eyes met Mrs. Rochfort's basilisk gaze.

"Run in, Mota, run in, go to Mrs. Dixon. This lady has come from England, to see your father."

Almost before Mallender completed the sentence, the child had darted back to the house, and rushed into her father's den, gasping out:

"Oh, Dad, Dad, only think! a lady has come from England to see you!"

Major Rochfort with a violent gesture motioned the messenger to leave him. He looked so alarmingly unlike himself, so frowning, and forbidding, that for the first time in her life Mota felt a little cowed, and ran to her brothers for explanation, and consolation.

Sophy was bringing the sentence herself—so be it! The culprit rose unsteadily, as Mallender ushered in his wife—a figure of frozen dignity—closed the door, and subsequently fought off, and held at bay, the united curiosity of the family, and Mrs. Dixon.

For nearly an hour Mallender paced the moonlit compound, conferring with his thoughts. He seemed to be always entangled in other people's affairs, and yet never got to grips with his own. First, there was stranded Miss Sim; now, the unmasked Rochfort. Well, at any rate as far as lay in his power, he had played the game, and done his best for them both. He felt a little bitter on the subject of his Cousin Fred, who had taken no notice of his letters—although Fan had declared that his hot temper soon subsided. He had now been five long weeks at Panjeverram, surely this was ample time for the cooling of Freddy's wrath! Yes, but how could he know, that the embers of his cousin's anger were stoked and kept aflame by the beautiful Lena.

For a woman of a cold lymphatic temperament, she had been unusually roused—and what an escape was hers! Imagine marrying a boy fourteen years her junior, who was a pauper! In all his complaints, and grievances, she warmly sympathised with Colonel Fred; to her, he confided his disappointment, and eagerly accepted her flattering sympathy—for the topic of Geoffrey was one he never ventured to discuss with Fan or Nancy. Also, he was secretly vexed, that the boy having thrown off his leading-strings, had suffered no appropriate punishment!

A friend lately "up" from Madras, had remarked:

"By the way, I saw that young fellow, your cousin, one evening on the Marina in a fine new motor."

"Alone?" enquired his kinsman suspiciously.

"He had a man with him," rejoined the other with a laugh, "a good-looking chap. I don't seem to be able to place him. As for ladies, make your mind easy,—it's too hot below, for any of our fair angels."

Meanwhile a certain lady—no fair angel this—was making it uncommonly hot for Mallender's host. Ultimately, however, his abject misery, humility, and penitence, disarmed her! Hers was the tender, protecting, mother nature! and after all, what was Robert but a big, foolish, rather stupid boy! It was impossible to withstand his misery; to witness this, hurt her too acutely. Rob must be consoled,—and forgiven.

At the end of an hour's confession and conference, Major and Mrs. Rochfort reappeared,—both somewhat shattered by the recent interview. She however soon rallied, and as usual took the initiative.

Addressing the petrified Mrs. Dixon in a cool practical tone, she said:

"Mrs. Dixon, I think I had better tell you at once, that I am your master's wife."

Mrs. Dixon shrank back against the wall, and ejaculated:

"God bless me! an' didn't I think he was a widower!"

"No, and I must also explain, that he is Major Rochfort. I am Mrs. Rochfort. He took the name of Smith, out here—for—for—for family reasons——" and she swallowed some impediment in her throat.

"Now did he?" ejaculated Mrs. Dixon with open-mouthed surprise.

"Yes," replied the lady with a look of fierce decision—"He has been telling me, how invaluable you are; so upright, sensible, and trustworthy, and that you have been a mother to his motherless children."

Mrs. Dixon answered not a word, she was endeavouring to grasp several new ideas, and felt completely bewildered, and bouleversée.

"I want you to tell the children, that I am their step-mother from England, and that I should like to see them."

The two youths, with neatly brushed hair, were presently introduced—both a little shy; it was the first time they had ever seen a lady in their own house. She was old, and not pretty, but had a pale, kind, face. Then Mota appeared, in her best evening frock, offering a beautiful contrasting picture to her dusky, but clever-looking brothers. At this enchanting vision, Mrs. Rochfort completely lost her head, and held out a pair of trembling hands; and the child, in answer to an irresistible summons in the lady's eager face, climbed into her lap, and kissed her. Thus, all these somewhat unexpected introductions were harmoniously accomplished.

Meanwhile Major Rochfort had drawn his guest aside, and said:

"She is a saint, Mallender, and you were right. Oh, why did I not speak ages ago! It would have saved me years of worry, misery, and anxiety; but I was a coward; I can face a stiff country, but an awkward situation. No! Sophy has forgiven me, I start to-day with a clean slate, and she is going to take the children."

"I say! that's splendid! She is a brick!"

"I think what melted Sophy, was a glimpse of Mota at the gate, but I may be wrong—and it was just her own goodness. We have talked it all out! The boys stay here with Dixon, and continue their education, for the present. Later, they will be well launched. We intend to take Mota home, first going to the Hills. Sophy finds this heat killing, and wants to get off at once. I expect it will be a terrible rush. She's explained about the different names—that's a bit awkward of course,—but Dixon is a good unsuspicious soul, and will make no trouble."

"Daddy, supper is ready," a clear young voice called out, and Mota entered hand in hand with Mrs. Rochfort. "Is the new lady to stay?—may she?"

Rochfort glanced at his wife, and she promptly answered:

"Yes—I should like to, Rob, but Mota must take me to wash my hands, and make myself tidy." Exit Mota, with an air of importance, solemnly leading the new lady to her own apartment, the nursery.

The supper was cold, and excellent; if "the new lady" ate little, she absorbed a good deal. The homely comfort, the good plain food (and Robert always so difficult to please, and so fastidious at home!), the bright young people, with their complete absence of self-consciousness. They carried on most of the conversation, chiefly about tennis, photographs, and the demise of the dhoby's cow. Mota offered the guest a mango, not merely off her own tree, but her own plate! Pedro gave her a vivid description of the latest college cricket match, where he had made four runs! Mallender gravely considered the little party, and the chief guest. The children were doing their utmost to entertain Daddy's friend from England—the plain middle-aged childless woman, who discoursed with painful effort, on prickly heat, punkahs, and the miseries of a journey by rail, with the thermometer at 99.

The Major was evidently upset, his nerves were on wires; he sipped an iced peg, and talked spasmodically, but was as a rule silent, and unquestionably ill at ease. Mrs. Dixon found herself still bewildered. She was not accustomed to sit at the same table with soft-voiced, distinguished ladies, who wore diamond rings, and pearls the size of peas; moreover she felt instinctively, that this unexpected visitor was the forerunner of a break-up!

Mallender had been a guest at many suppers; suppers gay, and suppers grave, but never at one that for electrical atmosphere, awkwardness, or dramatic possibilities, approached the present meal!

He observed the long stealthy glances, cast by Mrs. Rochfort, at a large coloured photograph which hung exactly opposite to her seat; the portrait of a lovely young woman, dressed in the fashion of ten years previously—the face was so vivid, and so radiantly happy, that it seemed impossible to think of the original, as lying under a flat gravestone, in Panjeverram cemetery. It was a picture of Maddalena de Rosa, the mother of the three lively children who sat at table with Sophy Rochfort and her faithless husband.

Mota—who for her age, was preternaturally sharp—had intercepted the new lady's furtive glances, and exclaimed:

"Oh—I see you are looking at the picture; it is our pretty mother; she is dead this long, long, time, before I was born"—the Major shifted uneasily in his chair, and was about to interpose, but the child chattered on in her shrill piping treble, "An old woman comes here sometimes. The ayah knows her, she is her friend, and she gives ayah money, she says, she is our great-grandmother, and brings flowers, and lays them before the picture, and cries and moans, and cracks her fingers over my head; she is very black—and——"

At this moment, Mallender with a jerk of his elbow, knocked over his tumbler and wine-glasses; the subsequent commotion, and his voluble apologies, changed the topic—and possibly saved his host from an apoplectic seizure! Immediately after this exploit, the gallant guest (determined to give no further opening for Mota's disclosures) embarked on a series of animated questions, respecting Mrs. Rochfort's celebrated "Poms"; their prizes, weight, age, and the various shows at which they had been triumphantly exhibited; his assumed enthusiasm and Mrs. Rochfort's explanations, carried them on safely, till the end of the meal.

Immediately after supper, the master of the household motored his wife back to the Madras hotel, and when he returned in the middle of the night, he found his guest still awaiting him.

"Well—it's all settled!" he began at once, "and I've to thank you. If I'd followed my own instinct, I believe I'd have thrown up the sponge and cut and run, to Australia. We propose to stay in the Hills till September, and then go home. Sophy is crazy about Mota, and intends to pass her off as the orphan of a very dear friend, no one would ever suspect the child of anything but pure English blood."

That was true, thought Mallender, but her children?—what of them? They might resemble her brothers, or her grandmother! However, naturally he made no remark. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.

"And what about you?" resumed Rochfort. "I must settle about you."

"Oh, I'll be all right, don't bother about me! I'll go into Madras, and wait upon events."

"Not you, in this sweltering heat! it's bad enough here, but the walls are thick, and the old house is cool. You make this your home, as long as ever you like; stay with Dixon and the boys, and use the car, and horses. Do you realise all you have accomplished for Sophy, and me?"

"Oh, no—that was her doing!"

"But she says not; says you influenced her! and I believe Sophy; Mallender, you have been a trump! What's the good of your mock modesty and playing the ostrich——? Well, I understand that Francis is full of grand schemes he and your fellow have hatched out between them, and I expect they will put you on to something, before long."

"All right, I'll remain here for a little, as my head-quarters, if I may, but you must let me pay my bazaar, and consider myself a P.G."

"Do you want to insult me?" cried Rochfort angrily.

"Nonsense, you know I don't, but——"

"Then say no more about it—that's my last word!"

To this injunction Mallender tamely agreed; but he secretly resolved, after his host had departed, to come to a financial understanding with "the Miss."

CHAPTER XX

Mrs. Rochfort, a clever and practical woman, promptly took matters into her own hands; sent Parsons home—lest peradventure she might learn too much—and then, with her husband and adopted daughter, started for Ootacamund. Within a short time, Mallender also departed on an active, "personally conducted" search. He was anxious to make up for four weeks', nay four months' idleness; instigated by information from Francis, he put his shoulder stoutly to the wheel, and set out for Vellore, where he believed he had a clue, and pursued and ran to earth an elderly man, who proved to be merely a bankrupt horse-dealer. From Vellore, it was but a short journey to Bangalore, from Bangalore, he followed various wills-o'-the-wisp, to Mysore, Mercara, and Trichinopoly.

Delicacy forbids one to linger on the intrusions into family affairs effected by Mallender; the skeletons he dragged from their cupboards, the black sheep he disturbed; the fugitives hiding from their creditors, "or their wives." Over these unpleasant successes, it is permitted to draw a veil. Failure merely roused him to still more active exertions; week after week passed and still Mallender prosecuted the quest, with unabated zeal; by rail or tonga, bullock-cart, or on horseback, accompanied by the camera, and Anthony—his ever sympathetic adviser, adjutant, and confidant—he travelled wide and far.

September found him once more in Panjeverram, foiled, but still hopeful. The wayfarer's face was haggard, and weather-beaten, he had experienced several "go's" of fever, his clothes were considerably the worse for wear, his smart appearance had become eclipsed by sun, dust, privation, and anxiety. After a couple of days' rest at Panjeverram, he presented himself at Shumilal's office, and was received by the principal with upraised hands, and greeted as a long-lost friend!

"The very young gentleman we wanted, where have you been?" enquired Shumilal, eyeing him critically, and noting his altered looks.

"Only doing a little on my own, up in Mysore, and Coorg."

"No results?"

"None so far,—but I've discovered a lot of things, that might be useful to other people."

"Ah, no doubt," agreed Shumilal with a look of grim amusement. Then leaning forward confidentially, "I think we have got him—at last!"

"Um, yes—I'll believe it, when I see him."

"You shall see him this time, I guarantee," declared the other with dignified confidence. "I will send your plan of action to Panjeverram, where you are staying at present."

"But why not give it to me now?"

"Oh, there are wheels within wheels," replied the other nodding his head, and looking wise, and inscrutable.

"Precious slow ones!" exclaimed the visitor. "Well, mind I shall expect to hear from you, in not later than a week!"

"I promise for a fortnight, on my honour," said Shumilal; he rose as he spoke, and bowed his client out of the room, and down the stairs. Apparently his time was invaluable. Was his honour of the same quality?

Although to Mallender, Madras had once seemed to be the city of friends, he now felt lonely, and depressed, as he walked slowly along Pophams Broadway. The regiment he had known had been moved up country, and replaced by another from Singapore. He avoided the Club, and the polo ground—in a month the Hill people would descend in force. Somehow he experienced an instinctive reluctance in presenting himself in a circle, where once he had been welcomed with open arms, as a relative of the Tallboys—since the Tallboys had now cast him off! Fortunately he had no idea of, or any means of hearing, the whispers respecting him that Mrs. Fiske poured into the ears of her confidantes. To these, her information would be imparted after this fashion:

"I always thought there was something fishy about young Mallender; his sudden arrival was rather queer to start with, and I know for a fact, he had an intrigue with that wretched Ada Sim, and paid to get her out of the country! I heard this from Mrs. Wylie, whose husband was Mallender's confidant; and then he got into another mysterious scrape, which must have been pretty bad, as the Tallboys turned him out of their hotel the very day they arrived in Coonoor. A friend of mine met him flying for the train with all his baggage, and his two servants, and Nancy Brander chasing him like a mad woman! I'm told he has been seen knocking about Madras, looking dreadfully seedy and shabby—serves him right. I took his measure. I knew he was an upstart, and impostor, sponging on the Tallboys!"

Luckily Mallender did not hear this version of his character; but he had an intuition that there was something hostile in the social air, and held himself in solitude, and retirement.

The rainy season still continued, though the violence of the monsoon had abated; everything in the shape of vegetation was now so refreshed and resuscitated, that one might almost imagine they could see the plants sprouting, hear the sap running, and the leaves unfolding in the tropical surroundings of Panjeverram. The great banyans had renewed their youth; ferns, arums, bamboos, plantains, glistened and dripped and grew; the sun-baked yellow plains were now a vivid green, dotted with lean appreciative herds, yet the actual atmosphere of the place was steamy, and enervating. Flying ants, snakes, and other crawling objects, were all, in their several ways, obtrusively active,—and the land brought forth frogs!

As the two Smith boys were at college, and only came home for week-ends, Mallender, and Mrs. Dixon, had the house more or less to themselves. In the mornings, he exercised the horses, or waded after teal and snipe in the marshy land that lay within a couple of miles to the west; after dinner, he and Mrs. Dixon foregathered in the den; she sewed and mended, whilst he smoked, or read. Occasionally he read aloud interesting local events, or what his companion specially enjoyed—accidents and tragedies. She was a fluent talker, and thus this couple so curiously thrown together, wiled away the moist sultry evenings.

Mallender rather enjoyed listening to Mrs. Dixon's long-drawn tales; they diverted a somewhat embittered mind from its own affairs. He learnt, that she had married at sixteen a sergeant in her father's regiment, "the Roifles," and gone home with him to the depôt then. There he had ill-treated her, led her a miserable life, and ultimately drank himself to death. Subsequently—and as is so usual in similar cases—she had again become the wife of a sergeant, and once more a sergeant in "the Roifles," a good man, who had made her very happy; but they had buried all their children; one in Bellary and three in Kamptee. Then her husband fell ill, and was sent to Madras Hospital, to be under special doctors,—and there he died, leaving her all his savings. Soon after she became a widow, every single penny was lost in the failure of a House or Bank, and she was almost destitute; the regiment was good to her, but of course she had to turn to and work, so she put a humble-like advertisement in the paper, and Major Smith engaged her at once; it was a few weeks after Mrs. Smith died, and Mota was an infant.

"Oh, and hadn't I work to rear her!" she exclaimed, "among these divils of milkmen—such milk for a baby, just blue with water. I had the cow milked afore me, so there could be no deceit, and still and all, her milk was like skim; one day I came round the corner unexpected, and there was the chap, after me seeing him milk, and him going to the butler with the can—hadn't he the great turban off his head—yards of it—soaking and heavy with water, and wasn't he squeezing it into the milk for the dear life? See now, ye never could be up to them blacks! After that, we had our fine Nellore cow, and I milked her with my own two hands, till the child had cut her teeth."

"I believe you have been here nearly nine years," said Mallender.

"I have so, and it's me own fault, that I'm not married out of it. Some of the fellows suspicion I have big savings—but I'll not stir a toe out of the house till I'm no longer wanted, and at fifty-five year of age, if I were to marry again, I'd be a nice old fool! Anyway, my savings is for the boys."

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Dixon."

"Ye see, I'm fond of them, especially Pedro; there's a real gentleman for ye, and so loving; if you was to put your eyes on sticks, that fellow could not tell a lie! I'm wishful, I had some eddication for the children's sakes; I can talk Tamil and Telagu, but I only went to the regimental school, and was never to say smart. Sewing and housekeeping, and keeping order and decency, is just all I'm good for."

"I think it's pretty well," observed her companion.

"I taught Mota her reading, writing and sewing, but latterly we had a young woman from Madras three days a week, with a high character as governess; she was just a streel of a young thing, and found the child mighty wild, and could make no hand of her, unless I sat with them at the lessons. Mota is terribly imparious for a little girl of nine, and that has never seen no company. Now and then, we do go in to Madras for shopping, and to the band, and every couple of Sundays, we make out church at Monaghary, but the Major he won't have no visitors whatever; not even children, much less the parson. Faix, it's a queer sort of life, is not it?" and she looked across at her companion for confirmation; but he suffered the pause to lapse without comment. "Well," she added—drawing a long sigh, "every cripple has his own way of walking!—and it's not for the likes of me, to interfere."

Mallender nodded, then he said: "Of course not—it's a—personal affair."

"'Tis so," she agreed, "and the Major made a bargain wid me the day I engaged, and a bargain is a bargain! and so though it goes to me heart, I keep a shut door, and a closed mouth. Anyhow Society don't trouble Panjeverram; it's the leavings of everywhere; just an overgrown, forgotten old place, and cram full of snakes, and ghosts."

"Ghosts! Surely you don't believe in that sort of rot, Mrs. Dixon?"

"Do you, sir?"

"Certainly not, though they say I have a ghost of my own at home."

"Then Captain Mallender, dear, if it's the last word I'll spake—I've seen one!"

"You don't mean that," and he laughed incredulously, "let me hear all about it!"

"Well now, I declare, it's the pure truth I'm going to tell ye," said Mrs. Dixon laying down her work, "when I was a girlie of about fifteen, the Roifles was lying in Madras Fort, and my father was a Quarter-master-Sergeant. Our quarters were fine and big, and near the North Gate; somehow or other, I never felt very easy in our living room; for people—that is the blacks—give out it was haunted by a woman who had hanged herself from the punkah, years and years before."

"Did she? What a foolish thing to do."

"That's as it may be, we don't know the ins and outs! Well, one morning very early, I got up for a drink of water, and as I went past the room, by the verandah, it had a strange sort of appearance, and as far as I could make out, in the dim light,—there was someone in it. And by me faith there was! I thought my heart would lepp out of me mouth, when I saw a woman hanging from the punkah, which was moving slowly backwards and forwards, and backwards and forwards. Her head was all to one side, lying on her shoulder, her arms hung down stiff like, and her dress was going with a sort of 'swish, swish,' that would make your skin creep. For a while, I stood there just paralysed, and then I screeched to me father and mother; and bedad, and I'll tell ye no lie, they saw her too. With the first squint of dawn she faded away, and there was nothing whatever there, but the barrack furniture, and the great heavy old punkah! I tell ye we moved off pretty smartly, though they were fine airy rooms, and I'll lay me life she is hanging there in Sergeants' Quarters A Block to this day."

"No, no, Mrs. Dixon," said her companion, "that would be hard lines on the poor creature! It was just a joke, that someone played on you."

"Is it a joke?" she repeated shrilly. "Didn't I see her face, and by my faith, I'll never forget it.—I see you don't believe; there does be people that cannot see shapes, and lucky for them! There is something here too," she added triumphantly.

"What, in this house?" said Mallender, sitting erect.

"So the servants say. I've not come across it, but there does be strange stories about bad folk, that lived in the bungalow long long ago. Whatever it is, it's in your room."

"Oh, I don't mind, as long as it's not a cobra. I'd like to meet a ghost, and question it!"

"Now, Captain Mallender dear, don't talk that way," she urged, once more laying down her work, and surveying him gravely—"it brings ill luck; ill luck, and no mistake."

"Can't bring me much more than I've had!" he answered bitterly.

"Oh, hould yer tongue for goodness' sake!" she protested with a scared expression; then after a short silence, added:

"I heard from the Major to-day, they will soon be moving. He says Mota is looking splendid, and making a terrible stir at children's parties, and Mrs. Rochfort wrapped up in her, as if she was a thousand times her own. I can't rightly get my tongue round Rochfort, him living here so long as Major Smith—it's a bit confusing, but I expect he was ashamed of his first marriage, and kep' it a secret." She looked interrogatively at Mallender, who merely nodded his head; he was not going to let Rochfort down.

"He says, he is writing to you to-morrow, and so is Mota, and now Captain," rising and folding up her mending, "there is ten o'clock striking, and I'll wish you good luck and a good night," and she went away.

But Mallender did not move for another hour, he was reading Orme's "History of India," and deeply interested. The night was warm and muggy after rain; the moon shone fitfully above the black banyan trees, as he lay with his door to the verandah wide open, listening to the night's mysterious sounds; the uncertain dripping from the mango trees, the chaunting of frogs, and the far, far-away cry of a jackal. For a long time he remained awake, worried by his own conflicting thoughts. Finally he decided, that if his next venture failed, he must abandon his search,—driven to the extremity by a process of exhaustion. He would wait till after Christmas, in order to put in a full twelve months, and then go home,—defeated. He had his house to see to, a home, which for all he knew to the contrary, he held on sufferance. He must find some employment, that would bring him in two or three hundred a year. Oh, if he was only still in the service!—yes, but how to live on his pay? and the problematical rent of Mallender!

At last sleep claimed him. He seemed to have slept for a long time, but it was really not more than a couple of hours, when he suddenly awoke with the conviction that there was someone creeping stealthily about the room. His heart gave a violent lurch—was this the ghost, come to answer his challenge?

Whatever it was, it was disagreeably near, for he could distinctly hear its hurried breathing.

"Who's there?—what do you want?" he demanded in a sharp "on parade" tone of voice. No answer, so he hastily put out his hand to reach the matches, overset a small lamp, and was immediately rewarded by an atrocious odour of kerosene oil. Helpless, he stared steadily into the gloom; the moon had sunk, and the room was dark as pitch. Gradually by degrees, he discerned, that the outline of the door, was a shade lighter, and it seemed to him, as he gazed, that a shadow flitted through and melted away into the surrounding gloom. He had no light, and no slippers—otherwise, he would have risked the fatal chance of a cobra under foot, and pursued the intruder.

As he sat erect, staring hard, a faint glimmer of dawn became apparent; and at this moment, a cock crew!—evidently a young and inexperienced bird, whose note was weak and discordant.

"So it was the ghost!" muttered Mallender. "He might have given me a tip," and he threw himself back on the pillows, and was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER XXI

Within a fortnight, the promised information arrived by special coolie. On this occasion, Mallender's destination was one hundred and fifty miles from Madras, and described as Wellunga, an old cantonment, twice decimated by cholera, and long abandoned. "Here," announced the letter, "you will meet your Uncle, who now goes by the name of Beamish, and is a benevolent gentleman, of wealth and caprice."

Two days later, found the adventurer and his suite once more en route. The first eighty miles of the journey were accomplished by rail, the latter part by dâk, in a tonga behind lean and ill-tempered ponies, who were changed amid sensational scenes every ten miles. This was by no means a comfortable expedition, but Mallender's resources were nearly exhausted, and he was obliged to study economy. Researches in Mysore, Coorg, and Travancore,—though planned with the most rigid prudence,—had proved unexpectedly expensive. Fascinated by the allurement of pursuit, Mallender had parted with his guns, and watch, and thanks to Anthony's exertions, obtained a fair price. This transaction had brought home to Anthony the painful fact that his master was short of money; and he was now keener than ever in quest of his fortunes. Mallender had applied to his family lawyers in London questioning the stoppage of his income; but their answer had not been satisfactory; in formal terms, they reminded him that his father had agreed to certain stipulations, and by these he was bound to abide; unless he preferred to embark on a costly law-suit, and compel his Uncle to come forward, and establish his identity.

"We believe that he is alive," added the firm, "and if you continue to press, and harass him, he may possibly close on the park and house,—which are legally his property. The outlay on repairs, which is to be met by your mother's fortune, is, as we advised at the time, a serious and costly mistake. The alterations proceed very slowly, and it will be six months before the workmen are out.

"We remain, dear Sir, Yours faithfully, Scriven, Swan and Co."

This letter was in his pocket, its contents in his head, as Mallender in a crazy old tonga was being jolted over a country, hopelessly empty, monotonous and level. Late in the afternoon as he approached Wellunga, gradually there came into view the gaunt outline of ruined barracks and bungalows, thrown into sharp relief by a splendid sunset. The general effect was such a flaming blaze of red and gold, that it looked as if molten fire were endeavouring to burn up the river, and a great straggling bazaar, which lay between the cantonment and the water—probably the cause of the cholera, which had twice emptied the station.

The whole place was set in sterile surroundings of brick-coloured soil, rocks, and scrubby jungle, presenting a depressing appearance of forlornness and solitude.

Approaching their journey's end, the wayfarers were rattled past the remains of a once imposing, but now roofless mess-house; the bare rafters of its verandahs stuck out on all sides like rows of grinning teeth. Near by, stood at intervals, various dilapidated dwellings surrounded by jungle, from which emerged here and there, a sturdy mango, a pomegranate tree, or even a half-strangled acacia,—the hardy survivors of a garden. One of these old bungalows, rescued from the hand of Time, proved to be the official Rest House, here the tonga and its smoking ponies came to a halt, and the stranger was welcomed by a cheery old man, wearing a clean white turban and a faded red tunic,—once the property of some regimental officer.

His reception was so effusive, that it was evident guests were an agreeable novelty. The venerable butler bustled about, and presently the new arrival was experiencing the benefits of a hot bath, and an appetising meal.

Subsequently, when he strolled into the little verandah to smoke, he found that the moon had risen, and by its cold white light he surveyed Wellunga; noticed the solid masonry of the dead cantonment, its air of utter isolation and desolation, made still more evident by the pitiless full-faced moon. The young man was impressed by the remarkable coincidence that once more his search had brought him amidst ruins, and solitude; but naturally people who abandon the world, take refuge in the waste places of the earth.

"No one living here?" he enquired, addressing the hovering attendant,—who had been a sepoy of the 15th Madras Native Infantry, and was inclined to be communicative.

"No, saar, only some half-castes, and road officials. Once long ago, this plenty big place, many soldiers in barrack, then cholera coming, and all the houses empty, and tumble-down. One officer only here still."

"Who is he?"

"General Beamish, saar, very old, living in General's quarters."

"Been here long?"

"Twenty-four years, never going away, never seeing friends, twice every day, drive same road, same time."

Mallender's heart sank. If Rochfort was too young, here was possibly the other extreme! but remembering Rochfort's opinion, he clung to hope. A native's idea of age was so vague; he would wait, and judge for himself.

The next morning, as he sat at chotah-hazri, attended by the assiduous butler, he questioned him further.

"This bungalow of yours is newly whitewashed and well kept, you have spoons, and good crockery. How is this—when I see that the last entry in your book of guests was five years ago?"

"It is the General's orders," was the prompt reply. "He likes any gentlemans stopping here, to be all right; therefore I getting spoons and sheets from his house, and sending over for your honour's dinner. Behold, he passes now!"

A large landau drawn by a pair of fine walers, came slowly into view; it was driven by a magnificent coachman, and preceded by running syces, waving silver-mounted yâk tails, or chowries. Propped high in the carriage, sat an aged bent man, with a long white beard. Beside him, was a stout elderly woman, her round, good-natured face half hidden by a hideous mushroom topee.

"It is his Honour the General, and Mrs. General Beamish," explained the butler. The announcement was the knell of Mallender's hopes. That venerable and decrepit figure was at least eighty years of age. Here was another failure! He had no luck, of what use to go on? He felt hopeless and despondent; in spite of all his effort and outlay, it seemed as if some tremendous, but fantastic force, was striving against him; luring him to out-of-the-way places, there to abandon him in perplexity and disappointment; and for the first time since he had begun his search, he was pricked by a suspicion of being purposely led astray! But before taking steps for immediate departure, he decided to have a look round the strangest environment in which he had yet found himself, and seizing his topee and stick,—in case of snakes,—he set out to explore.

As he gazed about dispiritedly, he distinguished the parade ground, the old horse lines, and a vast walled enclosure, which proved to be the cemetery. Is anything in the world more forsaken and forgotten, than an up-country burial-place in India, where rest unremembered and unknown, the unconscious builders of Empire? Here, the explorer aimlessly wandered, among flat gravestones, huge tombs of various forms, and sizes, pyramidal, bomb-shaped, or square, all of either stucco or red sandstone, and all gradually crumbling in the fierce tropical sun. Mallender was impressed by two facts; the dimensions of this well-peopled enclosure, in comparison to the size of the cantonment, and the perfect order in which it was maintained. The walks were weedless, the inscriptions legible and undefaced. Who, in this dead station, undertook "Le culte des morts?"

Another remarkable fact was the youth of the departed! Scarcely one of these had seen thirty years. Many headstones bore no names; but a gigantic red tomb, recorded the intelligence that seventy-eight of the men, and non-commissioned officers of the Green Dragon Regiment, who died of cholera, were there interred.

The stranger paused, arrested by his own name, and read on a slab:

"Sacred to the memory of Geoffrey Hailes, of the 30th Regt. M.N.S. wantonly shot by a Sepoy of his company on the 5th Dec. 1831 aged twenty-seven years."

Near by lay "the mortal remains of Alidora Pegler, who died August the 9th 1785, aged twenty-one years." Underneath was this quaint information, "She was a young woman of most engaging manners."

Not far from Alidora, was the grave of "Dorothea Sumers, a dutiful daughter, a loving wife, and a happy mother, but departed this life, one day after the birth of her son, May 22nd 1796, aged nineteen years." The poor girl had not been granted much time to realise the happiness of motherhood.

From this grave, Mallender passed to that of "Richard Horsley of the Honourable Company's Service, cut off on the night of June 4th 1772, by the hand of an unknown assassin, aged twenty-three years."

Next, was a tall stone erected to the memory of six young officers "who were suddenly swept into eternity, by the plague of cholera."

An imposing obelisk, which towered over all the tombs, bore the name of:

"Mrs. Charlotte Travers, whose soul, perfect in all earthly ordained virtue, departed at the call of its guardian Author, for its next assigned function in the Eternal Kingdom."

Not far from this paragon, was a modest slab recording the fact, that "the officer who lay beneath it, was killed most suddenly in a duel on Christmas day 1802."

The spirit of the environment had taken hold of Mallender, and the oppressive silence, save for the twittering of a sparrow, the rustle of a lizard, weighed heavily upon his consciousness. Year after year a pitiless Eastern sun beat down on this forlorn enclosure, and it seemed to Mallender as if these dead folk,—his countrymen and women,—appealed to him from their graves, to at least read their names, and the manner of their deaths. With a mind attuned to this melancholy inspection, he was turning the corner of a colossal tomb, when he all but collided with a girl carrying a large wreath! At a glance, he noticed that she was young and slim. He also received an impression that she was handsome.

"I—I beg your pardon," he stammered in his bewilderment.

She stared blankly at him for a moment, and then exclaimed, "Oh, oh—it's all right," and stepping back, motioned him to proceed. From a little distance, a male voice bellowed:

"Come on, come on, Tara—what the dickens is keeping you?" and he presently heard the swish of skirts, and light footsteps running away.

Now that "Tara" had departed, Mallender retraced his way, consumed with curiosity to know, where she had deposited the wreath? He discovered it on a flat stone, which bore the name,

"Robert Gordon, Surgeon. He was good to all. He died of Cholera July 1st 1839."

Over seventy years had elapsed, and this man was still remembered! Wellunga was undoubtedly an outlandish, other world place!

As Mallender left the cemetery, he noticed the girl, and a square-shouldered young man, walking rapidly away in the direction of the native town.

Returning to the Dâk Bungalow, the guest found a good solid breakfast awaiting him: Dâl curry, eggs, home-made bread, fresh butter, coffee, and fruit. So in spite of himself, he still sponged!

"I suppose all this comes from the big house?" he enquired addressing the butler,—a despotic old person, who for some unexplained reason, would not suffer Anthony to wait, and had set Chinna-Sawmy to wash the kitchen dish-cloths!

"Yes, saar, that is the order—everything in Wellunga is as the General commands; this bungalow is kept ready and in good repair; the old places of course are ruins—but no one may touch one bit of wood, or one brick—though many wanting them for house, and cattle sheds; and plenty good dhoby stones, and curry stones, in cemetery—but once he goes—all goes!"

"Including yourself?"

"Yes, your honour, I also depart to my own country—Quilon."

"I saw a young lady to-day, and a young man, who are they?"

"Miss Tara and Mr. Tom, the General's son and daughter."

Mallender put down his fork, and stared at the speaker in genuine surprise.

"Oh, yes. Miss Jessie, she is older; the General married two times, first family all gone Europe—he never going, too much liking this country, his people calling him always—all no use. His wife die, then he marry one English woman, not proper family; but taking great care of old man. He still getting big pension," he added with a significance that was entirely wasted on his listener. "The General, has all he wants; now he sits hours in big verandah looking at India, and always thinking, thinking, then he go for drive, then put to bed, same like child. He has his senses, he can walk, and see, only too old, and a little deaf."

"Why does he live at Wellunga?"

"That I cannot surely tell; but when young officer he was here with regiment. I have seen him get out of carriage at Mess House, and go in, and sit there, long, long, time. When he come out, he look shaking and plenty sorry, because all, all gone, everyone—and he only is left."

"And do his family remain always, in this dead place?"

"Oh, no, Master Tom has fine big coffee estate on Hills, and the Missies go there, when here it is too hot. The General is very rich, he shut eyes to Europe family—only liking Indian family."

"Perhaps he has forgotten the others?" suggested Mallender.

"Oh, no, memory good, not to-day, but for long ago; nothing he do not know, nothing he cannot tell, he got plenty medals and plenty fighting. The old gentleman keeps fine horses, and many syces and peons, same like as if real General, and station full; but inside bungalow, is as the Missus pleases, and no show, no spending. Counting eggs, and gram, and charcoal, same like sergeant's wife!"

"Well, I believe I shall be leaving you to-morrow," said the visitor. "I suppose I can get hold of some sort of tonga in the bazaar. Tell my boy to bring my writing things."

When Anthony had placed these on the table, he coughed significantly, and said:

"This place no use for master, and master soon, soon going,—but first must see the General. He is old, and knows much."

"Yes, but the General does not receive visitors," objected his employer, "and I cannot thrust myself upon him."

"That I will arrange," replied Anthony with colossal assurance, then before Mallender could fitly reply, and rebuke, he had turned on his bare brown heel, and effected a swift departure.

CHAPTER XXII

Although Mallender sat with his writing case open before him, his eyes wandered over the wide prospect commanded by the bungalow. What a picture of tragic solitude! In the foreground a mass of overgrown ruins, beyond these, the sun-baked plain, with its harsh orange soil, and far-away range of dim blue hills,—the whole a scene of ardent melancholy. His thoughts now turned to his own affairs, and his reflections were gloomy; he realised that his impulsive desire for results, had driven him to waste time and energies in hopeless directions,—of which the present situation was a specimen! Why, why, had fate singled him out for this adventure? He was not one inch "forrader" than months ago when full of high hopes he had embarked in Tilbury Docks. Well, he must pull himself together, decide upon a plan of action, and get out of this God-forsaken place as soon as possible: drawing the paper towards him, he began to write. Just at this moment, a visitor appeared between the stone piers of entrance to the little compound; a sturdy broad-shouldered man of thirty, dressed in kharki. He had a pleasant clean-shaven face, a square chin, and resolute jaw; as he took off his topee, he displayed a crop of thick brown hair, cut "en brosse."

"I say," he began rather awkwardly, "you'll excuse me I hope, but my father, General Beamish, heard of your arrival—of course everything is known in this place," and he grinned, "and that you were a British officer; so he sent me over to ask if you would be so good as to call and see him?"

"I shall be delighted," declared Mallender, in his clear, high-bred voice, "but I must not go under false pretences, I'm no longer in the service."

"That does not matter a button—you've been in it, and the old man craves for a talk with one of his own profession. Although he is ninety-five, he is still drawing the pension of a Major-General. I expect the authorities are pretty sick! Eh?"

"Won't you sit down?" said Mallender, bringing forward a chair. "No doubt your father has seen a lot of service?"

"Oh, yes, volunteered for every campaign or scrap, that was going in his day. He is feeble on his pins, and a bit deaf, but his mind is as clear as ever. He likes to talk of old times, when he is in the humour, and he loves anything to do with soldiers. He doesn't come across many soldier-men here, as you may suppose, and he is mad keen on seeing you."

"All right—when shall I go over?"

"About six, when he is rested after his drive, and my mother says, will you stay to supper?"

"Thank you, I shall be delighted."

"You'll find Wellunga a mighty weird sort of billet," resumed the visitor, "not much of a field for your camera. Your rum little chokra told me you were a photographer."

"Yes, and he is my understudy, and very smart. How do you put in time here?"

"I don't put in much, I'm a planter—I've an estate up in Mysore, and manage another; but I run down to see the family, and this is the slack season for coffee. My sisters come up for the hot weather, but the old folks never stir, a couple of salamanders!"

"If it's not an impertinent question, what induced your father to settle here?"

"Oh, lots of things; sentiment for one, and to get out of the reach of his Europe relations, for another. You see he was married before, and my half-brothers and sisters tormented him to go back to England. He loves India, it's in his very bones, and this was the first place he came to, after he landed in the country."

"It must be pretty deadly for your sisters."

"They don't mind. Jessie is mad about poultry and tennis, and Tara—she is much younger than we are—has her books, and her horse, and is the sort of girl that's happy anywhere. Well, I notice you are writing for the dâk, it goes out at twelve, so I'll take myself off. See you this evening?" and Tom Beamish rose, jammed his pith "mushroom" on his head, and lumbered forth.

Some time after the carriage had returned, Mallender went over to the General's quarters; a fine stone-built two-storeyed abode, and well-preserved specimen of its time. It stood in a spacious compound with two gateless entrances, which met in a sweep under a high-tiled porch; many comfortable-looking buff fowls were pecking and promenading round the premises,—which wore an air of solid ease and leisure. Two gorgeous peons with scarlet belts, brass badges and enormous turbans, were in waiting and salaamed profoundly. Having shouted the usual summons "Boy!" a brisk servant appeared, salaamed, and said, "Please to come this way," and led the visitor across a centre room into a wide verandah, commanding an extensive view of river, bazaar, and distant plain and hills. Here in a high-backed chair sat or hybernated, the venerable survivor of other days; a still fine-looking old man with the remnants of a magnificent physique; his noble head was now somewhat sunken on his shoulders; attached to his white drill coat, he wore the tarnished badge of his rank, and on his breast a row of war medals. General Richard Beamish did not look his age, not by ten years—his skin was wonderfully smooth, his blue eyes keen and bright; his limbs, however, were shrunken, and his bony hands displayed the dark knotted veins of age.

"I'm glad to see ye," he called out in a shaky and excited voice, a voice unexpectedly strong, "a stranger is a great event here—what's your name, young sir?"

"Geoffrey Mallender."

"God bless me! I knew a Geoffrey Mallender thirty years ago, he was drowned—or something—there was a sort of mystery."

"He was my Uncle," announced the stranger, whose hopes were once more kindled.

"Mallender, this is my wife, Sally," he called to someone who had entered, "here is Captain Mallender; I knew his Uncle long ago."

The visitor turned and bowed, but Mrs. Beamish put out a large useful-looking hand, and gave him a motherly smile. "Motherly" was the adjective that best expressed Sally Beamish! a woman of over fifty, with a pulpy corsetless figure, a kind sensible face, a little short nose, a pair of sympathetic eyes, a drab complexion. Her abundant brown hair was combed over her ears and gathered into a tight knot, she wore a stuff skirt, a loose white jacket fastened by a magnificent diamond brooch, and berlin wool slippers.

"You will take your supper with us," she said; her accent was common, but her face radiated benevolence. "It is the Beauforts' evening, but that's no matter: and you must come over to us whenever you find it dull. It is dull alone. Now I am going to leave you, to have a chat with the General." Then suddenly dropping her voice, "He was just crazy to see you,—let the old man talk, it's so good for him, and mind, he don't like to be interrupted."

"What's she saying? What's she saying?" demanded her husband, suspiciously. His eyes had been watching her moving lips.

"That she is leaving me to have a good old talk with you, sir," explained Mallender, as the purdah swung behind a solid form.

"A good woman, a good woman! My third wife, country born, country bred, no country blood—just an apothecary's daughter, and a trained nurse; but I did not marry her for that. No, no. Come now, young fellow, draw your chair nearer, for I want to question you about England, and the Army, and many other things."

"All right, sir, but I left the Army this time last year."

"And you could desert the colours, you a fine, strong young man?" and he considered his visitor with reproachful blue eyes.

"I had no choice, sir," replied Mallender. "I was terribly sorry to go. I hate being out of the Service."

"Aye, my lad, and when I hung up my sword after nearly fifty years, it broke my heart. I am very old, look at me. I'm ninety-five! I was born in the year of our Lord 1818, when people talked of Waterloo, and Bony was on St. Helena! When I first arrived, a 'Griffin' as they called us then, I met an officer who had known Clive—think of it! He told me, he seemed silent and morose, it was his last spell out here, and he was full of trouble and disappointment—the man who won India!"

"He put an end to himself, did he not?"

"Yes, in his house in Berkeley Square, with a penknife. I've seen great things in my day, but if I related them, people would say I was in my dotage, and I have no witnesses now to bear me out; I just sit here and look out over the plains that never change, and think of all the fine comrades I had, and their lives and deaths, and wonder if we will ever fall in together again? Well, I'll know before long—I may get the route any day! I'm just waiting for death."

Mallender hastened to turn the old man's mind to a more cheerful subject, and said:

"You must have seen a lot of service, sir?"

"Yes," and he touched his medals. "I put these on to do you honour. I only wear 'em Sundays, and Mrs. Beamish she got out her fine brooch. Here, you see, Moodkee—Aliwal—Rangoon—Pegu—and the Mutiny medals, I was all through that," he paused, and looked fixedly before him.

"Yes, I marched up to Delhi, with the first Madras Regiment, and I was in the first Brigade, under McNeil. McNeil was a hard man; hard on himself, as well as others; the forced marches were terrible; and in those days we wore shakos—no pith helmets then! At most of our halts, we had a firing-party, and left a couple or more graves. I served at the Siege of Delhi—I saw Cawnpore, when one hundred and sixty-five women and children were in the well. I—Well, young man, for all our sakes, native and British, those times are best forgotten. Afterwards, I served in Afghanistan, and was recommended for the Cross, but the Brigadier knew I was hard up, and I took a sum of money, and sold my glory, to pay bazaar bills."

"But surely, sir, you have had good appointments?"

"Oh, yes, after a time I had fine billets; but I was always up to my neck in debt, and half my pay went to the soucars. I was like a man in a quicksand, the more I struggled, the deeper I went. Well, now I want to hear from one who has been on the spot, what is going on at head-quarters at home? Tell me about the Army—begad, it's only a handful,—this brand-new Army of the day. I read, and I'm read to, but I want to hear by word of mouth."

The old officer then proceeded to put his companion—who patiently submitted—to a severe, not to say drastic, examination on the subject of the new guns, new regulations, and drill; the uniform, soldiers' kit, the benefit, or otherwise, of Royal Commissions; particulars of the new signalling, and airships. He listened as to a fairy-tale, when Mallender described a field instrument that can tap, or interrupt a telegraph message—as well as telephone!

"Oh, if we'd had that in my time, we'd have done real wonders, miracles—sir, miracles!"

"Yes, and you had not a rifle warranted to kill at two miles, had you?" said Mallender.

"No, only good old brown Bess. And those motors and aeroplanes that I shall never see—no more than if I had lived in the Middle Ages!"

"You could easily see a motor, sir," replied his visitor, "but I'm not so sure of an aeroplane," and as he had made an ascent, he proceeded to relate his experience. To this, the old man listened with hands on knees, parted lips, and an air of almost passionate attention.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, as he leant back with a sigh of satisfaction, "at last I seem to understand the hang of the thing; you have put it before me, and I can almost imagine, that I'm sitting on a nasty cramped seat, rising steadily into the air, while all the world is falling away below me. Here is Mrs. Beamish coming to tell us that supper is waiting, and I've been keeping you. We are punctual folk—military time, sir! Come to-morrow, come to tiffin. Sally, my dear, this young fellow has done me no end of good; my mind is chock full of brand-new ideas." Then rising with tremulous difficulty, assisted by his wife, and a servant, the old veteran nodded his head, and tottered out of the verandah.

When Mallender was ushered into the dining-room, he was rather surprised to find the table almost surrounded, and supper already well started. Tom, who was apparently master of the ceremonies, jumped up and said, "Hello—here you are at last! the governor froze on to you. Captain Mallender, this is Tara, my youngest sister,"—the girl he had encountered in the cemetery—"and this is Jessie," indicating a thin plain young woman, with high cheek bones, and a bright pink blouse, actively engaged in carving a piece of cold beef. Jessie nodded, and beamed—she had her mother's smile. "Let me introduce Captain Beaufort," continued Tom waving his hand towards an enormously stout, bullet-headed man, with a massive red face, and heavy grey moustache. Captain Beaufort gave the visitor a martial look—rose, as it were at attention, shuffled his feet, and muttered a greeting.

"Miss Blanche and Miss Lily Beaufort," resumed Tom, glancing at two pretty tittering girls, with dusky complexions, elaborate white blouses, and coral necklaces and earrings.

"Now we are all acquainted, what will you have?" enquired Jessie. "Cold hump, curried fowl, or stuffed tomatoes?"

"Try the cold hump, Captain," urged Beaufort,—Beaufort was thoroughly, and aggressively, at home—"and this mango chutney is not to be sneezed at, I can tell you! and the beer is A1."

The board was spread with an ample repast, and decorated with vases of zinnias and marigolds. Miss Tara was officiating with an old French coffee-pot of the time of Louis XV., that would have brought tears of envy to the eyes of Fanny Tallboys. In fact, the appointments and surroundings were a curious and remarkable mixture; here, were rat-tailed spoons, Charles the First sugar bowls, superb candelabra, holding cheap candles (twelve to the pound), a coarse mission table-cloth, and bazaar crockery. The aristocratic side-board, and a book-case, were undoubtedly of the days of Count Lally, and seemed to shrivel up, and hold themselves aloof from the coarse "maistrey" furniture, and jail carpets,—their associates.

The company was also strangely assorted. The two Beaufort girls with the black tresses, and lovely liquid eyes, had unquestionably "four annas in the rupee." Their parent was a rough-hewn ranker. Mrs. Beamish, Jessie and Tom were a kindly commonplace trio, of the lower middle class, and Tara, who did not bear even the faintest resemblance to her relations, was of a totally different type and race, evidently a "throw back" to some of the General's ancestors. She carried her slight figure with grace, her small stag-like head was set on a long neck, her little proud face was illuminated by a pair of dark granite-grey eyes; she had beautiful taper hands,—whilst those of Jessie looked as if her fingers had been cut off at the second joint.

"I think we met this morning," said the guest, addressing her, as she paused from her labours.

"Oh, yes, in the cemetery. I go there every other day to put flowers on the graves of Daddy's friends. At first, I thought you were one of them—one of the young men who had come back to look for something."

"You startled me too, I must confess. I understood Wellunga was entirely deserted."

"Not at all, Captain, not at all!" broke in Beaufort, speaking with his mouth full. "We are quite a nice little family party here; besides the General,—who is our Commander-in-Chief, and his good lady, and belongings; there is myself, and my girls, and my subordinate Perez. Then we have a Police Officer, who comes and goes, a very smart good sort of fellow."

"Indeed," exclaimed Mallender, who was evidently expected to say something.

"Oh, yes, and a Chaplain two or three times in the cold weather; I read the Service on Sunday, since the General resigned, and an inspecting Engineer, my boss, not much of a chap, in my humble opinion; all for new jims and ways and worrying his subordinates."

"Have you no doctor?" enquired the new-comer.

"No, but a first-rate native apothecary and dresser,—Dorosawny is as clever as they make them!"

"My mother is the doctor," put in Tom. "She's first-class, had a training in hospital, got diplomas, and all that sort of thing."

"What do you think of the place?" softly enquired Blanche, whose brown velvet eyes had never been removed from the stranger.

"He has not seen it yet!" rejoined Mrs. Beamish, who had just bustled in, found a seat, and was being pressed to partake of her own good things by Captain Beaufort, "and I'm afraid there is very little to see."

"I hear you take photographs," said Tara. "I do wish, you would do my horse Rustum, he is such a beauty."

"The General got him down from Bombay," announced Captain Beaufort, "a Damascus Arab, out of Abdul Rayman's stables. They wanted him for racing, and so I need not tell you his price was pretty stiff!"

"Tara is crazy about him," supplemented her sister. "As for me, I do not ride."

"Only your hobby, buff cochins!" put in her brother.

"Now do be quiet, Tom; you are too silly!"

"The General has a stable full of splendid animals," continued Beaufort, who evidently desired to impress the visitor. "He was a fine rider once, so was I," and he gave a laugh that shook not only his whole frame—but also the table. "Who'd think it!"

"You come from Madras, I believe?" murmured Blanche; who was irresistibly fascinated by this stranger, who had dropped into their circle, as from the skies.

"Yes, I arrived yesterday evening."

"Everyone is still in the Hills," observed Tara. "I know Ooty well, I was at school there for seven years."

"Oo-ah, yes, and so accomplished," volunteered Blanche, with effusion. "Tara can do lovelee lace work, and play the piano, and sing—oh, soa beautifullee!"

"There, that will do, Blanche," interrupted Tara, impatiently. To Mallender, "I'm not really accomplished, not like the girls at home."

"At home!" echoed Blanche the irrepressible, "that, of course, is another thing, oh, my! how I do long to go home!"

"You'd hate it," declared the youngest Miss Beamish, with startling abruptness, and poor Blanche was once more chastened and crushed. Her father, who had finished an excellent and hearty meal, now broke in.

"You must see our great bazaar and native city, Captain, down by the river; if the cantonment is dead, the bazaar is alive and kicking, that I can tell you; it's chock full of money and rich natives. There is one chap called Rakar, who is rolling in rupees and gold mohurs. He has grand nautches—I've seen them," and he winked expressively, "the best girls from Travancore; and he keeps fighting cocks, and fighting partridges, and all sorts of horses. One of them is a holy terror; he got him from some big Rajah, a sort of processional brute, seventeen hands high, a splendid animal to look at, but a man eater, he has killed half a dozen—at least, so I'm told."

"The native city is tremendously old," broke in Tom, anxious to contribute information. "People give it fifteen hundred years, it's said to be full of loot. I've seen some wonderful coins and jewels myself. It was right in the middle of lots of fighting, and grew rich on plunder—of course no Europeans live there."

"I can't say I'm surprised at that," remarked Mallender, dryly.

"But there were plenty here once," said Jessie. "Two or three regiments; first there was a mutiny, then cholera, after that the county became settled, and all the soldiers went away."

"I like Wellunga," announced Tara; "I was born here; but I must admit that it is an outlandish place."

"We have queer stories about the big battles around," added her brother. "There was a heap of fighting all over this country, and the natives say, it is full of hidden treasure—guarded by devils."

"Yes," agreed Beaufort, "there is the grave of an English officer about twenty miles out, with the date 1809; I've seen it. He is worshipped as a demon, and natives bring him brandy and cheroots."

"That is true," corroborated Tara. "I sometimes ride that way, but I think they only offer arrack, and bazaar tobacco now."

"And I can tell you something," added Blanche, with wide-open eyes (Blanche who was extremely superstitious). "It is said, that in some directions, at sundown, or by moonlight, you can see great big camps, with men, and horses, and elephants, and standards, and hear shouts and bugles, and drums," and as she concluded, she gazed at Mallender, and shuddered affectedly.

"I've heard the drums!" was Tara's unexpected remark.

"Tara child, what nonsense you are telling," protested her mother, "you make me quite ashamed."

"No, no Mummy, no fear of that, you will never be ashamed of me," and she patted her arm affectionately. "Now shall we go into the next room and play bridge—we can have two tables to-night, no cut-throat!"

"Oh, all right, that will be so nice," agreed the Beaufort girls, in a breath, rising precipitately; but alas, their expectations were speedily extinguished.

"Let me see how we will play?" said Tara, looking about her. "Captain Mallender, Captain Beaufort, Jessie and I, and you two girls may have Tom and mother," and so it fell out! It was evident by many little signs and tokens, that the youngest Miss Beamish dominated the company, and was the lawgiver in her own household. They all seemed devoted to the girl, and so naïvely proud of her grace and beauty.

Two card tables were quickly arranged, and as they sat down and cut for partners, Tara announced:

"We play four annas a hundred, we used to play only for love—but love is so stupid!"

"Tar, I'm surprised at you! Is that your opinion?" shouted her brother, who had overheard this speech.

"Now, Tom," said she, blushing deeply, "do not mind us—please attend to your company, or—I will talk to you about Miss M."

This threat had the immediate effect of silencing Tom, who sat upon his hands,—a trick of his, and looked excessively sheepish and out of countenance.

Tara's command might well have been addressed to the Misses Beaufort, whose eyes were fixed on the young lady and her partner, with long looks of unrestrained interest, and low be it spoken—envy.

Bridge, at Wellunga, was played with impressive gravity, and not a little ignorance; here, there was no joking, no scolding, no glances of interrogative dismay. The only thing that upset the composure of the players was, when an enormous black, able-bodied insect, came booming in from outside, and endeavoured to dash itself against the candle shades.

"If my ayah were here," screamed Blanche, whose attention was almost entirely given to this quartette, "she would say that was the spirit of one who had lived in this bungalow long ago——"

"I'm glad to say your ayah is not here!" retorted Tara, turning her head, and speaking with indignation, "we don't entertain the sweeper caste!" and poor Blanche was once more temporarily quenched.

At the end of an hour, Tara and Geoffrey rose, the losers of one rupee. The beautiful and imperious Tara was distinctly ruffled; she liked and always expected to be victorious, and first.

"Here, Jessie," she said to her sister, with a lofty air, "I give you the price of two fine fowls. Well, you must make the most of your gambling time, for when you are married to Samuel, you won't even see a card!"

"Tara, you wild girl!" protested Jessie, now a brick-dust colour, "how can you say such foolish things? You know, I shall go my own way, as to games."

"But it's true; your only cards will be collecting cards—you will see."

Mrs. Beamish now interposed her pleasant personality, saying:

"Tara, what a tease you are!" Then to Mallender, "She was always so, since she was a baby. She gets all her fun out of other people. Remember we expect you over to-morrow—as early as ever you please."

The party was breaking up, the Misses Beaufort and Tom were laughing and scuffling about their wraps, and eventually Mallender and Tom escorted the ladies home. This attention appeared to be a fixed custom—as was also the bi-weekly supper and bridge.

Mallender and Captain Beaufort paired off together, despite the bold manœuvres of the Captain's daughters, and indeed it was outrageously selfish of him, to appropriate the company of the interesting new-comer! Between Papa and Tara, these unfortunate damsels had no opportunities of improving their acquaintance with the handsome stranger.

As the two men walked ahead, Beaufort said, in a bluff off-hand way:

"Of course, I'm not a 'pucka' Captain; they just give me the rank here. I was a military man—now I'm in civil employ. Since the old General has failed, I take things in hand a bit. What was your regiment?"

"The Warlock Hussars."

"Oh, indeed," slightly abashed. "I never came across them. Well, if you are making any stay, I hope I and my girls will see a lot of you. A new face up here does us all good."

When they had arrived at their domain, once the Chaplain's Quarters, the Misses Beaufort—their father making a spacious background—overwhelmed the recent arrival with a loud and simultaneous invitation "to tea, pot luck—or tennis, whatever he pleased," to which he returned a polite, but indefinite reply. Such was the clamour and urgency of talk, that it was some time before he and Tom were able to effect their departure, and as they turned towards the Dâk Bungalow, Tom said:

"Those two are a topping good sort, and stand any amount of chaff. The most kind-hearted girls in India; they can dance and play tennis, and make scrumptious native sweets and curries. Captain Beaufort has to do with the Roads, his wife is never on show, I fancy she is a bit too dark—these people get darker as they age. It's awfully rough on them, I must say!"

"Have your sisters no other companions?" enquired Mallender.

"Not in Wellunga, but lots in the Hills. I may as well tell you, they won't be here long. Jessie is engaged to a missionary in Tinnevelly, and Tara is going to marry a young planter—a friend of my own. As the baby of the family, she may strike a stranger as a little bit spoiled—but she's as good as gold, and as good as she looks."

"She is uncommonly handsome, if you do not mind my saying so."

"No, why shouldn't you? Sometimes she carries on like a great lady, and has uncommonly high notions, I can tell you! and where she gets them, beats me."

This remark brought them to the Dâk Bungalow, where a yawning Anthony awaited his master, and as his master took leave of Tom Beamish, he said:

"Can you help me to get a trap and ponies, that will take me back to the railway?"

"To be sure I can," he replied, "but not yet. You must stop with us for a little, and talk to the General; you brighten him up, and give him such pleasure,—and he has so little pleasure in life now, poor old boy. After a bit, I'll lay a dâk for you, and drive you the sixty miles myself—yes, and with the General's best horses. Come now, don't say no, see you to-morrow!" and before Mallender could argue or reply, he received a heavy thump on the back,—suggestive of ease and intimacy, and Tom Beamish was gone.

CHAPTER XXIII

The following morning, as soon as General Beamish had returned from his drive, he despatched a messenger to summon his new acquaintance; who on this occasion was received in the drawing-room—a curious apartment! The walls coloured a sickly pink, were decorated with horns and heads, fine damascened arms, various spotty sporting prints, and many faded photographs in shabby Oxford frames. After a little desultory talk, the venerable officer fixing his steely blue eyes on the visitor, said:

"Young man, you gave me a deal of information yesterday, but begad, you never told me what has brought you to Wellunga?"

"Oh, that is too long a story, sir, and would only bore you to death."

"Bore away, and fire away! I really want to hear it!"

Mallender, who was now disinclined to disclose his mission, began the recital with obvious reluctance, and made it as brief as possible, whilst the old man, with a hand to his ear, listened eagerly to the outline of his many failures; when he concluded, he said:

"I remember meeting your Uncle in the Ooty Club, and hearing him say how he hated India! I suppose it has stuck in my gizzard, because I felt vexed—you see I always loved the country, and I can sympathise with the old Mem Sahib, who hankered after 'the whiff of a huka, and the smell of a bazaar.' I took to the East from the moment I put a foot in it, and felt the sun on my back, and saw the palms, and the Arab horses—it was all Arabs in my time! It's funny, how clearly I recall things of fifty years ago, yet cannot for the life of me tell you what happened last week," he concluded, with a hopeless sigh.

"Then you remember my Uncle's disappearance?"

"Why, of course. I read all about it in the papers."

"Has it ever occurred to you that he might still be alive?"

"Well, no—but after all, why not? The fellow may have had his own reasons for hiding."

"What possible reason could he have? He had heaps of money, and as you say, detested India; why remain for thirty years hiding his identity in exile?"

"Oh, for that matter," rejoined the General, and he gave a little cackling laugh, "I'm in exile, I'm hiding too,—and I've managed pretty cleverly; I've another family in England. I'm hiding from them!"

Mallender murmured his assent.

"Yes, I suppose Tom has told you! Well, now you have no idea of your Uncle's reasons for concealing himself, and you shall hear mine, I'll tell you my history, for you have an honest, upright look," and he stared into the tanned, high-bred face of his visitor.

"There are the cheroots, help yourself, and listen to me."

As Mallender selected a Trichy, he said to himself:

"This old gentleman much prefers talking about his own past, to discussing my present. How is it that people are always telling me their affairs, and mine get no forrader?" and he resigned himself accordingly.

"I came out young," began the General, after clearing his throat. "I married young; my Colonel's daughter, a girl of eighteen, but within a year she died of cholera. It nearly broke my heart. Think of it! All I had, taken from me within twelve hours. As I had been out some time, I took furlough, and went home, feeling as if I could never hold up my head again; but kind friends roused me, and made much of me, and by degrees I went out among people. After a bit I came across a very pretty,—I may say, amazingly beautiful girl, full of animation and gaiety. Her liveliness appealed to me, and raised my spirits; she was of old family, but hadn't a penny of fortune. Well, sir, we married, and came out here. Living was half what it is now—or less; eighty seers of gram to the rupee—think of that! I had good pay, and we set up in style with a carriage and pair, and gave dinners. My first home was on a modest scale, but admirably managed; here, there was no management at all! only dirty, idle, thievish servants, and enormous bills. However, my wife was always the belle of the station, and in extraordinary request for balls, theatricals, and picnics. Then came the children—three of them, hard on one another's heels, and Julia decided to take them home. I was not sorry to be rid of her! Hoping to get a chance to economise, and save. Every month, I remitted money, but it was never enough; and my wife was so restless; if she was six months at home, she longed to come back to India, and if she came out—in six weeks' time she was dying for London! Sir," suddenly sitting erect, "her extravagance was incredible! I've known Julia to have three furnished houses on hand; if she tired of one, she took another; she had maids, and governesses, and a carriage; no doubt people supposed I was a very rich man, instead of a miserable poor devil, with little beside his pay. I tell you, my boy, I dreaded her letters and enclosures so much, that sometimes I've left them unopened for days—they took the heart out of me," and his old voice broke, and quavered.

"If this distresses you, sir, I beg you won't go on," urged his listener.

"No, no," he protested peevishly, "let me finish! Then came a grand smash, and Julia fled out here in order to escape her creditors. As I was responsible, I had to borrow, and raise money at a ruinous interest, and settle most of her debts—but I was in the money-lenders' clutches for life. She returned home, cleared—whilst I was bound hand and foot; you see, part of my pay was sequestrated, and I was chained to the country! And after twenty years in the East, without a break, I got out of English ways, and lost sight of my old friends."

"And what about your children, sir?"

"Oh, they were educated regardless of expense, and thanks to Julia's fine connections well started in the world; but I never saw them; no, not since they were with their ayah, and I put them aboard a mail steamer in Madras Roads, when the eldest was only four. Meanwhile, I was up to my neck in debt, and although commanding a regiment, worse off than a junior subaltern. I was positively ashamed of my uniform, my chargers, and my stinginess—but what could I do? Tell me that?"

"Er—well, nothing, I suppose," murmured the young man.

"No, I was too deep in the soucars' books, ever to get my head above water; socially I was dead, with a stone round my neck. Well, my boys got professions, the girl married well. Then my wife died; we had not met for years, but she wrote to me regularly every mail, and sent me newspapers.—I had thoughts of going home."

"And so you went at last?"

"No, though I had retired, and got my pension; an old comrade persuaded me to join him in the Hills, and something else held me back—it was India herself. Twice I took my passage, and twice I changed my mind—eventually I lived with my friend till he died. He left me all he had; plate, books, and a large fortune—the result of loot, and good investments—besides this, I have twelve hundred a year pension, and savings, and am at this moment a wealthy man. You'd never suspect it, would you?" and he waved his withered hand at the ugly pink walls, old black furniture, and threadbare Bangalore carpet.

"No, sir, I must say I would not."

"No, I'm like a native chap, who may live in a sort of open cupboard in the bazaar, and yet own lakhs of rupees. The tidings of my riches soon reached my family, and they bombarded me with letters and cables, and were desperately anxious to get the old man home! They were afraid he might fall under an undesirable influence, or do something foolish; but my pal forbid me ever to let them have a penny of his money; he used to say 'Your family only know you by your signature on a cheque, you've done your share, educated them, put them out in the world and they are strangers.'"

"And so you married again!"

"Yes, yes, yes," was the irritable response. "Don't you hurry me—don't you hurry me! I'm too old for that! I did the foolish thing my sons dreaded, and married a woman who had nursed my friend, Tom Maitland. After three or four years, the Hills became too smart and fashionable for a retired old Indian, who had married a nurse—my lady neighbours would not know Mrs. Beamish, and the young generation of soldiers had never heard of me. My family plagued me incessantly, and more than once hinted at the effects of a climate on my brain. After all, I was only seventy, and stout and hale, still well able for a day's shooting in the sholahs, or hunting on the downs; so I just disappeared down the Seegoor Ghat, taking all my goods and chattels, and leaving no address. You can cover up tracks when you like,—it is only a question of money."

"You mean bribes?"

"I mean just money. Your Uncle was rich, and thanks to that, he has hidden himself successfully."

"Then you really think he is hidden?" asked Mallender, eagerly.

"Not a doubt of it, and if you will take the advice of an old man, you will waste no more time on searching for a will-o'-the-wisp, but just go home quietly."

"Oh—do you advise that!"

"Yes; though I funked going home myself! but that was different, I had spent the best of my life out here, and the country would not release me. You may think me a queer sort of lunatic, but my case is not uncommon; quite a number of old retired officers, and officials, remain in India after their work is done; they are out of touch with England, and life is easier here. You find them in the Doon, and in parts of the Himalayas, in the Neilgherries, the Shevaroys, and not men alone,—but women too."

"Women?" repeated Mallender, and his tone was incredulous.

"Yes, forty years ago in Bangalore, there was an old lady, the widow of the Colonel of a Madras regiment. I remember her well; she accompanied the 86th M.N.I. in all their moves. She used to ride a venerable white charger, and wear a mushroom hat with rosettes over her ears, and come up on the maidan soon after sunrise, and before the crowd appeared. I've seen her of an evening, driving her little ponies shopping, or at the band,—when it was her band. She never mixed in Society, but went to church, and to field days when her regiment was out. She spent most of her pension on the lines, and the men adored her, and called her their mother; the regiment was her home. Her people, like mine, were scandalized; but, after all, why should not everyone lead the life they prefer—if they do no harm to their fellows? And now about this puzzle, your Uncle—a life here was obviously not one that he preferred, the country had no hold on him, no,—yet he is here. Brown and Co. are not a firm to make foolish mistakes. My advice to you is, to go home, where time, friends, and fortune are all before you."

"Not fortune," protested Geoffrey. "I forfeited that when I undertook this enterprise, but then I was sure that I was dealing with an impostor."

"And would not listen to Brown and Co.,—that, I may tell you, was foolish."

"No, neither to them, or anyone."

"Ah, but you will listen to your past experience, and to me," and the weary old figure leant abruptly forward in its chair.

"I can't bear to be beaten, sir, but what do you advise?"

"As I've said—arrange for your return. In the meantime, make your head-quarters here; there is a good horse for you, Tom and Tara will take you out, and show you the country, and of an evening come and sit and talk to me—give me a week or two—as a great favour to an old fellow, who has not spoken to another red coat for thirty years."

Mallender hesitated a moment, then he said, "You are very kind, sir."

"Not a bit of it—only kind to myself. There is a new brown, stud-bred, up from Ussour, that will carry you well. This is an historical part of the world, although it looks so tame now—the children know every inch of it for miles. Tell me, are you interested in Indian history?"

"I can't say I am, sir, I know very little about it. Clive—Plassy—Warren Hastings—that's all."

"I was the same myself, till I was tied here by the leg, and had to take to books. I've read a lot—especially of those dealing with this country—its history begins with the invasion of Alexander, nearly three hundred years before Christ, then came the Moghul Empire, and the Cholas, they all made their way into these parts."

"Not much sign of them now, is there?"

"No, and I dare say there won't be much sign of us after a couple of thousand years. We shall leave no great monuments, temples and fortresses, such as still recall ancient Hindustan."

And then, with surprising animation, he suddenly poured forth a brief description of campaigns, marches, victories, and defeats.

"Think," he cried, "of a desperate siege that lasted ten years—think of the loot and treasure. Why, when Bednur fell, they took twenty millions in gold—gold worth a thousand times more then than now, not to speak of jewels, elephants and slaves." Coming to later days, he spoke of "Haidir Ali," Lally, and Tippoo.

"Haidir was an adventurer—a nobody—but a brave man. His son Tippoo, was just a mad fanatic. For close on two hundred years battles and struggles have swept across these plains. Please God, we have seen the last of them! Well, well, well, I'm a doddering old fellow, and I'm boring you; but you must ride about the country, with Tara and Tom, and see it for yourself! Ah!" as his visitor stood up, "you are not off yet! Before you go, let me show you my Europe family—give me that sandal-wood box from the whatnot."

When this was placed in his hands, he opened it, and turned over its contents with tremulous deliberation.

"Here," exhibiting a stout elderly man in uniform, "is my son Arnold; he married money. This is my daughter Agatha, in court train. She is the Honble. Mrs. Dashell. This is my lawyer son, who threatens me with the Lunacy Commissioners," exhibiting a man with a clever hard face, and a sunken determined mouth. "All capital photos, you see, sent to tempt the old fellow home! If anything could tempt me, it would be this," and after a little fumbling, he placed a striking vignette of Mrs. Villars in the hand of his amazed companion. "Here is my grand-daughter, Lena."

"Mrs. Villars!—why, I know her!" exclaimed Mallender. "Is she your grand-daughter? She was staying in Madras, with my cousins the Tallboys."

"So she said; she writes distracted letters asking for money, they all ask for that; one to send a boy to Eton, another to settle a son on a ranche, a third to pay bills; but of the whole pack, Lena is the most hungry and shameless. You see, I get their letters forwarded through my agent. They amuse me,—and they tell on one another. Lena is a beauty. Eh?"

"Yes, and this does not flatter her in the least."

"Lena is like her grandmother, but handsomer, and has the same mad craze for spending. She married a man, a good fellow too, I was told, and ruined him with her extravagance. They say Lena is one of those who must have luxuries,—no matter who goes without; and four years ago, poor Villars put an end to himself, and his troubles, with an overdose of chloral. She writes to me now for a couple of thousand to pay some debts, as she is at her wits' end. Begad, I believe she really came out here to poke about and find me!" the idea tickled the old gentleman, and he gave a shrill cackling laugh, "and got as far as Madras, where she has spent the winter with an old school-fellow."

"Yes, with my cousin Fanny Tallboys, but surely they were not school-fellows—it is impossible, why, Fanny is forty-two!"

"Oh, Lena is getting on; Lena is no chicken!" declared her grandfather, "though I dare say she looks years younger than her age. She writes begging letters, and implores me to assist her, as she is likely to make a brilliant marriage. Heaven help the unfortunate beggar!—for a beggar he will be."

"She does not mention his name, I suppose?"

"No, but I presume he is rich; his money will run through her hands like water. Mrs. Beamish is dead set against my pretty grand-daughter—she cannot bear her, and wanted to burn the photograph. I believe she is afraid Lena may turn up here, and get round me. Ha! ha! ha! If Lena only knew what I do, about a certain treasure!"

"You mean a hidden one?"

"Yes, India is full of such hoards, especially before the days of banks. The inherited habit of accumulating and hiding gold and jewels, is in the blood. A native whose life I saved, a cultivator and poor, told me the secret of a great cache, he said he could not meddle with it himself—an old man with no sons, he would be robbed, and murdered. Buried within twenty miles of where you and I are sitting, is a mass of gold and jewels, silver horse trappings, and arms. Well! well! the world is rich enough. Money is the root of all evil!"

"But some of the world is poor enough—desperately poor," protested Mallender. "Think of what all this wealth, lying useless and unclaimed, would do."

"Some would do good; more would stick to greedy palms. I do give a help at home, and out here—dispensaries, and wells, and things. No, no, I'll not touch the great spoil, I've enough to leave my family in comfort. If Lena got her claws into this treasure, she'd squander even it, in ten years. I may tell you that this horde was hidden away in the troubled times of the eighteenth century. I suppose you know that Tippoo's pearls were never discovered?"

"No! Well, I wish I could find them!"

"Oh, you are no good at finding!" scoffed the old man. "You can't even find your own Uncle."

"Now, Richard, you have talked too much," interposed Mrs. Beamish, who had entered in her noiseless slippers. "Your voice is as weak as a thread, come away: Captain Mallender will give you a pull up—it's long past the time for your midday sleep, and you've never touched your bread and milk, you bad old man!"

CHAPTER XXIV

"Tom and I are going to take you round the place this afternoon," announced Tara. "We want to show you the old remains; afterwards we will go through the native city, and bazaar, and wind up with tennis. How will that be?"

"Quite a gay programme, I do declare!" replied Mallender.

"Yes, and to-morrow you shall see the country. Can you ride?"

"Rather!" was his prompt answer.

"Oh, I'm glad you say 'rather' in that tone,—for Sepoy, the new brown, is a hard puller."

"I prefer a hard puller. Gives you something to hold on to," rejoined the new-comer with a laugh.

As soon as the sun began to slant a little towards the west, Mallender set out on a tour of inspection, escorted by his two companions. First, they came to the officers' bungalows; of these, many of the roofs had fallen in, the gardens were a high jungle of tall grasses, custard apples, and guava trees; the only signs of a human abode were the tottering gate piers,—still sentries to a dead home—and the outline of a long-choked well. Before the most obliterated, Tom halted and said: