Front matter (continued 5)

"The Governor has often been to parties and tiffins here. He says the prettiest woman in the regiment lived in this bungalow, with the whole station at her feet."

Some of the quarters were still standing, in spite of great chasms in their tiled roofs. Into one of these, Tara led the way, explaining:

"We call this 'Lucia's Bungalow,' for here on this window-frame is carved—'Lucia' and a heart. See?"

Yes, there it was, still distinctly legible, inscribed by a firm male hand.

"Her grave is in the cemetery," added the girl. "She was only twenty, I put flowers on it every Sunday, and many on others too—but they seem all asking me to care for them—poor forgotten people!"

"Now let us go on to the barracks," urged Tom, the ever-restless, leading the way from Lucia's Bungalow. "The General joined the regiment there seventy-seven years ago. They say that Government was going to pull the place down, only it would cost too much money, and they have no use for the stone,—there being no railway."

"Can you believe that this was once full of soldiers?" enquired Tara, as they entered and gazed upon a vast open square. The building was more of a fortress than barracks, having been erected in the days when the country was overrun by Mysorians and Mahrattas. The outer walls were pierced for guns, the windows and verandahs faced inwards to the parade-ground—now overgrown with jungle, and coarse yellow grass, where grazed a couple of lethargic buffaloes. Part of the men's quarters were hopelessly dilapidated, but other portions still exhibited time-defying teak stairs, heavy teakwood doors, and solid chunam pillars.

"It's pretty safe, shall we go up?" suggested Tom, and he led the way along its echoing upper verandahs—from whence they peered into forlorn, bat-haunted barrack-rooms—still exhibiting the marks of where punkahs had once hung. Down below in the square, there was now no sound of voices, tramping feet, or bugle calls, nothing but a steady "crop, crop" of the buffaloes, and from the distant city the faint complacent throbbing of a tom-tom.

Tom and Tara were engaged in a prolonged altercation on the subject of "manners," the two were frequently at loggerheads,—though they never actually quarrelled—she accused him of rudely pushing up the stairs before her, whilst he apostrophised her as "a silly ass." Meanwhile, Mallender stood somewhat apart, gazing through a broken aperture, over the sun-steeped outlook, with its rose-tinted plains, and shadowy blue horizon. As he gazed, he began faintly to realise the fascination of this old mysterious land, with its subtle appeal, that baffles all attempts at description. His thoughts instinctively turned to the General's tales of camps, and combats, marches and victories; to "old-forgotten, far-off things, and battles long ago"; through the evening's golden haze his mind's eye seemed to behold the approach of an imposing train of war elephants, careering horsemen, streaming standards, and ponderous guns. The vision was abruptly dispelled by a vigorous thump on the back.

"I say! You seem to be moonstruck or something," exclaimed Tom. "If we are to play tennis, we must look sharp. It's past four o'clock, and the Beaufort girls will be coming to fetch us with ropes and lanterns."

"Oh, all right," agreed Mallender, "but, mind you, I'm an awful duffer at tennis," and he followed Tara and her brother down the steep resounding stairs.

Tennis was played on two large kunker courts, not far from Beaufort's quarters, and close by on an ancient bandstand were disposed chairs and a table, with tea, lemonade and pegs, presided over by the General's bearded butler. As anticipated, the explorers proved to be the last arrivals, and found awaiting them two anxious Miss Beauforts, racquets in hand; looking wonderfully sleek and smiling in spotless white frocks.

Captain Beaufort was arrayed in a gaudy flannel suit, and a sailor hat at least three sizes too small. Miss Lily presented with empressement a thin, dark youth wearing a red satin tie, and many gilt rings, as Alonzo Perez; also a bluff police officer, whose name Mallender did not catch, and as Miss Lily called him "Chorlie" every two minutes, he was compelled to do the same!

Tennis proved strenuous indeed. The new-comer was out of practice, and he and Tara were easily disposed of by Blanche and "Chorlie." Humble and defeated, Mallender withdrew to a seat on the bandstand, and proceeded to watch a hard-fought contest between Tom and Lily, Perez and Jessie. Jessie's service was as that of a strong and determined man—her volleys were deadly, her activity tireless—apparently she was made of wire and india-rubber,—a matchless lady champion!

Presently Blanche approached, then she sat down, sidled nearer to the onlooker, and began to question him, with her soft, see-saw voice, and liquid, enraptured eyes. Almost before he was aware, Mallender found himself promising to write in her album, to take her photograph, and give one of his own in exchange. Alas, poor Blanche! being dark herself, this reserved young man—who served so stupidly into the net—only admires blue eyes and fair hair, so your innocent coquetry is entirely wasted.

When the dusk fell with its Eastern suddenness, the party went off to play badminton by lamp-light in the old racket court, but Mallender, with the excuse that he had letters to write, returned to the Dâk Bungalow. Here he was received by the Maty with a soup-plate in his hand, on which lay two letters. One was in a strange handwriting, the other from Nancy Brander. He opened the latter first, and calling for a candle, sat down to read it.

"Dear Geoffrey," it began,

"I do wonder where you are, and what you are doing? The other day I met a Major and Mrs. Rochfort, and their lovely little girl; they are all three devoted to you, and told me that you had stayed with them recently,—of course in England. It seems rather late for them to bring a child out here, and—though it was not my business, with my usual audacity I offered Mrs. Rochfort my opinion gratis. Uncle and Aunt are going strong; she often talks of you, and asks me for your news. He never—this is so unlike the little man, who is not naturally dour, or unforgiving; but, my dear twenty-first cousin, I now understand that it is not so much 'the cutting of your own throat,' as he calls it, that he objects to,—he has a far more serious charge against you, which Fanny breathed to me only yesterday. Our kindly Mrs. Fiske has informed him, that the passage money for Ada Sim was paid by you, and as I write with one hand I cover my blushes with the other, since I must add, that Mrs. F. solemnly assured Uncle Fred, that you had your own very good reasons for getting Miss Sim out of the country! Mrs. Fiske, ever ready to impute base motives, had the story absolutely pat; she was told it by Mrs. Wylie, whose husband came upon you in the shrubbery. He said Miss Sim was crying like blazes, and had her arms wound about your neck! He also overheard you arrange for another merry meeting, and added, that he was in Cook's office when you paid for the lady's passage. That was like your generosity, and I believe in it, and nothing else,—neither does Fan, but Fred is peculiarly sensitive about a man's good name—especially when his name is Mallender—and he always thought you a sort of Galahad, and in fact most frightfully respectable. Now he has changed his mind. Hence his silence. This really is a hateful story, and the telling of it has afforded Mrs. Fiske some very delicious minutes. However, I had the satisfaction of assuring her, that bar the generosity to an unfortunate, homeless girl, the rest was lies,—and so she cuts me, and has returned me a whole sheaf of my own visiting-cards!

"Our latest fashionable intelligence is—let me prepare you for a shock—the engagement of Lena Villars to Sir Billy. He is the envy of all men in our upper world; she, of the women. He has given her such diamonds! I fancy, all the same, that the Sea Lion will keep the Syren in subjection, and chain her to a rock; at any rate, round dances and men's Christian names are now barred.

"No news of your Uncle, I presume? How I should like to put the thumb-screw on Brown and Brown! Is it not maddening to feel that they know! Tom sends his salaams. He believes your Uncle is 'purdah' somewhere, and asks me to tell you that he is looking forward to your paying us a long visit before you go home. You have only to send a wire, and your room will be ready. We go down the 15th, leaving Babs with Auntie,—for the present she will be her only girl! I hope she won't betroth her to some eligible little boy. By the way, I hear that you are bespoke by Mota Rochfort! Be sure and write to me soon, and tell me of all your adventures.

"Yours sincerely, "Nancy Brander."

Mallender turned over the letter, and looked at the date, it was a month old. He read it through once more, with compressed lips, a knitted brow, and somewhat embittered memories.

What a meddling fool he was! always doing the wrong thing. He had carried out his father's wishes, and come to most unholy grief. He had tried to help a wretched girl, and had the worst construction put upon his action.

And Fred believed these lies! As for that cad Wylie, he would like to wring his neck. After quite a long interval, he picked up and opened letter Number 2, which was written in a weak uncertain hand, and glanced at the signature, "Ever most gratefully yours, Ada Sim."

By Jove, here was a coincidence! What had she got to say for herself? A slip of paper fell out,—a cheque, a cheque for one hundred pounds, "payable to Captain Geoffrey Mallender"; a sum as unexpected as it was welcome. This would take him nicely down country, and pay his passage to England!

"Craig Birnie,

"Inverness-shire, N.B.

"Dear Captain Mallender,

"I have been very ill—or would have written to you long before. As it is, this is my first attempt at writing letters for two months. I have great pleasure in enclosing a cheque for £100, the money you so generously lent me.

"You may wonder how I came by it? I do think my ill-luck has turned at last. I travelled home with a man who knew my bachelor Uncle—Mr. Andrew Campbell—my mother's brother,—he and my father had a quarrel, and never forgave one another—he was very rich, father very poor and proud, and so it was never made up! My kind fellow-passenger put in a good word for me, with the result that I had an interview with Uncle Andrew in London, and after spending two days together, he offered to adopt me as his daughter, and give me a home. Immediately after this unexpected good fortune, and just as I had arrived here, I had typhoid fever badly, and have been at death's door, but am now out of danger, and sitting up.

"My Uncle asks me to send you his most heartfelt thanks, and to say that when next you cross the Border, he hopes to see you at Craig Birnie, and can promise you the best of shooting. As for me, I never can thank you. That afternoon, when you found me in the shrubbery, I had come to the end of everything. If you see Mrs. Tallboys, and Mrs. Brander, please give them my love. They shall hear from me shortly. I hope you will be able to read this pencil scrawl. It has taken me two days to write.

"Ever most gratefully yours, Ada Sim."

This letter, evidently written with effort, and by a feeble hand, was as balm to Mallender's wounded feelings. So there was some good in the world after all! Acting on the impulse of the moment, he enclosed the epistle in a sheet of paper marked "Private," thrust it into an envelope which he addressed to Mrs. Brander. At any rate, he would clear himself in her eyes—yes, and in Fanny's; and having handed his exculpation over to Anthony, and told him to post it without fail, he scribbled a note of apology to Mrs. Beamish, and dined at home, on curried vegetables, and the contents of his dâk.

CHAPTER XXV

A vast crowd, assembled about the south verandah, astonished Mallender, as he walked up to the General's quarters in order to fetch his horse. On approaching nearer, he discovered that this gathering was not, as he had feared, the scene of an accident, but a multitude of the blind, halt, and lame, all waiting to be treated by the kind hands of Mrs. Beamish. It proved to be an army composed of woeful cases; here a man with elephantiasis,—his leg the size and shape of a pillar; there a woman, with a child in her arms, a prey to ophthalmia, a sickening spectacle; people suffering from fever, and ague, and even leprosy, abounded.

Invested in a mushroom topee, and loose white jacket, seated behind a large table Mrs. Beamish reigned supreme; interviewing and prescribing for her patients—one by one; whilst two sharp-looking servants assisted her. Dozens and dozens of bottles of all sorts, and sizes, from a soda-water to a scent bottle, were being promptly filled, corked, and delivered.

"This is my dispensary morning," she called out to Mallender, over the heads of the crowd. "I have a certificate, and know something about the dispensing of drugs." She beckoned him to come up the steps. "Look at my clients—has any doctor in Harley Street such a practice?"

"No, I am sure he has not," replied the young man, as his glance swept over the crowd;—at the moment the eyes of all the patients were centred on himself.—"What misery!" he exclaimed, "isn't it too awful?"

"Misery? yes, and what patience! I do what I can, but it's not much," and she gazed at her surroundings with a wistful expression. "Well now, I cannot have you taking up my precious time, you do not need to consult me! The children, and the horses, are waiting for you by the back verandah, don't let them break any of your bones. My hands, as you see, are full, I do not want another job!"

"Let us first of all take a turn round the race-course," said Tara, as the trio pranced out of the compound—the lady riding a beautiful bay Arab, Tom a sturdy New Zealand cob, and the guest a fine stud-bred from Ossour.

"Race-course!" he echoed, "I did not think there was one nearer than Bangalore."

"But there is," replied the girl, "and what is more, I will race you from the stand to the red Sawmy stone; it is exactly one mile."

"All right," he agreed, "it's a match!"

"The General remembered the whereabouts," explained Tom, "and got the course a bit cleared for us to exercise on—but it's little better than the ordinary maidan, though it has no nullahs, and not many holes."

"Sounds like good going!" rejoined Mallender, with a laugh, "You'll let me know when we come to it, won't you?"

This information was necessary, as the course was but vaguely indicated by a few scattered white posts.

"Here we are," suddenly announced Tara, "that big mound you see over there, was once the grand stand—shall we make it the starting-post? Tom, you can start us!"

The trio trotted across the lumpy ground to the so-called "post," and after a short delay Tom gave a shrill whistle, and the match commenced. Sepoy, the stud-bred, was boisterously fresh; he bucked and did his best to get his head down, but it was no use—on this occasion he had a master on his back—and presently gave up the struggle, and settled into his stride. He was fast, the blood of Orme was in his veins, and he had the legs of the bounding bay Arab. As the riders galloped along, the cool morning wind blowing past their ears sang a gay duet with the thudding hoofs; and Mallender felt roused to real enjoyment. After all, his wanderings had now and then one bright moment,—a few gleams of compensation, such as this! Finally the brown won with ridiculous ease, passing the post ten lengths ahead of Rustum.

"Oh, dear, so you've beaten us!" and Rustum's rider, looking rather crestfallen, her linen habit spattered with foam, joined Mallender. "I have always beaten Tom!" she gasped out breathlessly.

"Yes," added Tom, storming up on the excited cob, "but I'm a couple of stone heavier than Mallender for one thing, and the brown plays cup and ball—and goes as he likes, with me!"

"Captain Mallender rides as well as Archie," admitted Tara, with a bright blush.

"Archie," echoed her brother, "is not in the same field—don't hit me, Tar! but," turning to Mallender, "I expect you have been used to horses all your life?"

"Yes; and I've hunted, and played a good deal of polo."

"And ridden races, I'll bet?"

"Only regimental," was the modest reply.

"Poor Tar, what a chance you had!" jeered her brother. "Now let us get away into the open country."

"Then you don't call this open?" questioned the stranger.

"Oh, no, wait till you see the real plains."

In a short time the trio were cantering over the coarse hard grass, through scrubby jungle, past great red boulders, across sandy river-beds, and dry water-courses, occasionally avoiding a yawning nullah, that looked as if it opened into the very bowels of the earth. Once, on a flat rock, they descried a large bright green snake coiled up asleep. Once, they skirted a shrine, where a worshipper had just sacrificed a kid to "Kali." Tara it was who led the way, skimming along, on her light-footed Arab, riding with a certain wild grace, but it was not the same horsewomanship as exhibited by Barbie Miller—that was a masterful, and finished performance!

Walking and talking, cantering and galloping, the little party covered about twelve miles, and then in the golden morning turned their faces homewards, Mallender carrying with him the impression of wide yellowish plains with purple shadows, scattered rocks and jungle, one or two deserted temples, and a melancholy sense of space and desolation.

"This is the wild side," explained Tara, "at the other, they grow crops; heaps of cotton, ragi, cholum and oil seed, and send it down country. This evening we will introduce you to the great bazaar, a native town—and you will see what rich neighbours we have."

The only bazaar that Mallender had yet explored, was the Gorah Bazaar, in Madras; this, at Wellunga, was entirely different. In the first place, although it was teeming with human life, there was not a single European to be seen, nor even a Eurasian,—all were natives of the country. Truly here was "India for the Indians!" The stalls displayed no Western requirements; but grain, condiments, strange sweets, coloured cottons, and muslins, piles of silk of local manufacture in vermilion, orange, indigo, pink and green; also turbans, and tinselled caps of all colours. Here, were working jewellers with their little braziers; huka makers, weavers of spells, and public letter writers. The long narrow streets reeked with the intangible but familiar bazaar odour (a mixture of oil, grain, aromatic spices, and raw cotton). Crowds were chaffing, gossiping, or strolling along. Here and there, a tall, bold-looking woman covered with jewellery, and painted with khol, passed with a defiant glare; gaily caparisoned horses with jewelled girths, and head-bands—their manes and tails dyed rose colour, were led snorting by, disturbing the little sacred bulls, who were poking wet black noses into the open gram baskets.

"Those are Raka's stud!" explained Tom, "he likes to show them off. They are bitted up, poor brutes, till their necks are nearly broken. No wonder they are vicious! I hear he is getting two motor-cars from Madras."

"In that case," declared Tara, "his rival will send for four. Rakar and he are outward friends, and deadly enemies; both are grain merchants, money-lenders, and enormously rich. Here is Rakar now!" as an obviously important individual appeared, riding a prancing horse—held with evident difficulty by two men,—a gigantic white Khatiawari, his mane and tail a glowing pink, a band of gold and stones flashed above his furious eyes; his nostrils were scarlet, figuratively they breathed fire and slaughter, and the great animal appeared ready to break loose, and rend the whole bazaar!

Rakar, a keen-looking man of forty, salaamed with both hands as he passed by on his demonstrative charger.

"In old days, he would have had to get off his horse, when he met us," said Tara, as she scanned him with haughty eyes.

"I think he feels safer where he is; the horse would probably eat him," rejoined Mallender. He was secretly uncomfortable, and anxious to get Miss Beamish out of this highly-spiced, staring crowd,—but he had no occasion for misgiving and uneasiness. The General and all his house were held in high favour, and respect, in the native city.

"I think it is time for me to pay my evening visit to your father," he remarked at last.

"So it is," agreed Tom, "I saw the parents drive home a good while ago; all right, let us get a move on." For this manœuvre, Tom was always prepared.

"So I hear you've done the bazaar," said the old man, to Mallender, as he entered. "What do you think of it?"

"Well, sir, it gives me an idea of what India is—without us. It might still be 1700, for all the signs of advancement—I saw people wearing horn spectacles, writing with wood, and buying spells! But I hear that Rakar, the rich merchant, is getting motors,—the roads are capital, I wonder you never thought of one, you can travel over a good bit of country, and without fatigue."

"I declare it's strange, that it never occurred to me! but begad, yes, I'll have one! it will be a change from our three miles out, three miles in. Why, man, I'll get down to Seringapatam, Mysore, Bangalore! How can I buy a car, a good one?"

"In Madras. If I go down, I can choose it for you."

"So you can, but you are not gone yet. Tell me your plans, my boy. Have you made them?—and how are you off for money?"

"All right, thank you."

"Now, that is nonsense," he answered, querulously. "I know your Uncle cut your income, and the house swallowed your capital. How will you live?—you must let the old man give you a hand."

"I'll let the place, and get some interest that way; the shooting is poor, but it's a fine old house and park, and might bring in a few hundreds a year, so I shan't starve, but I hate having nothing to do. I'll try and get into the Territorials, or some other billet."

"Yes, and then I suppose you'll marry! Well, take my advice, young man, benefit by my experience—and look well before you leap!"

The morning rides were sometimes postponed till afternoon,—especially now that there was a beautiful moon, and one day Tara said:

"This evening, you must come to the haunted battlefield, Captain Mallender,—then you will hear something that will surprise you."

"Oh, I often hear things that surprise me; no later than this morning at tennis, Miss Blanche told me, that she was in 'a state of nature!'"

"Poor girl! you must not laugh at her. They have had a scanty education, but are wonderfully adaptable and quick at picking up things. When—when," colouring faintly, "I live in the Hills, I shall ask them on a visit; even a little station will be gay to them."

"Lily will not leave home," declared Tom, "she could not tear herself away from Perez. That will be a match, you will see."

"Never mind Lily, but do look at the sunset," urged Tara; the little party had made their way westward, and were approaching the scene of more than one desperate struggle and conflict. As her companions raised their eyes, they found themselves contemplating a transcendent scene—extraordinary even in that land of sunsets: soft roseate clouds set jewel-wise in an ocean of dazzling gold.

A jealous full moon was stealthily creeping up, and an evening breeze that accompanied her gently swayed the long coarse grass and cotton plants. Presently and almost abruptly, the dying sun turned from a beauteous rose to a vivid and tragic red,—the shade of blood and death!—it filled the plains and pools of water with its sinister and terrible reflection, and the soft evening zephyr, struck suddenly chill.

"Here is the place, stand still, my steed!" quoted the girl. "I know it by the block, that looks like a pillar and is covered with figures. They say it's an 'Asoka' stone, and very old. It is just about here, on this sandy stretch, that you can hear them."

"Hear what? Scorpions or snakes?" asked Mallender in a chaffing way.

Tara ignored his question with an air of affronted dignity. Occasionally she could assume an amazingly proud, exclusive air,—and turning to her brother, said:

"Tom, if you will hold the horses, Captain Mallender can come with me. Please to follow," commanded the young lady, as soon as she had alighted. "You may hear nothing, as you are so unbelieving, but again, you may hear something that you will never forget."

After they had walked about a hundred yards, she turned abruptly to face her companion, and said:

"Now, you must take off your cap and kneel down here and listen." As she spoke, she sank bareheaded on the sand, and without a word, Mallender meekly followed her example.

What an extraordinary girl! Was she playing him a trick? Tara was given to mild practical jokes, but it was going rather too far; to bring him fifteen miles, and plant him on his knees in the middle of an empty plain. For some time there was no sound, beyond the impatient stamping of the horses and jingling of their bits, and at the end of ten minutes Mallender ventured a protest.

"I say, Miss Tara, is not this getting a bit monotonous? I expect they have another engagement."

"Hush! Hush!" she answered authoritatively. "Don't speak! Wait!—They—are coming."

Mallender was inclined to whistle, "The Campbells are coming," but was afraid of the young lady's displeasure. Her occasional air of aloofness and command impressed and surprised, though it entirely failed to crush him.

What an awful ass he must look! Why was not Tom roaring with laughter? As he bent his head nearer to the ground, a noxious carrion bird swept so obtrusively close to him that he started involuntarily, and was sensible of an extraordinary sensation of sickening repulsion. What was that? A bugle-call! Yes, he heard it distinctly; from the far distance came another, immediately followed by a brisk roll of drums, then drums and fifes—accompanied by the tramp and thunder of an approaching host. The ground seemed to tremble and vibrate under the tread of a large body of troops who were rapidly advancing,—and yet, amazing sensation, these troops were nowhere to be seen.

Mallender stared about in stupefied bewilderment; not a soldier was visible, merely the empty moon-flooded plains, that appeared to be suddenly bereft of all warmth and life—and although there was not a breath of wind, the long grass and cotton plants, were shivering.—Why? As gradually as they approached, so gradually did the sound of tramping feet become fainter, yet fainter, and finally died away; one far-distant bugle-call sounded a piercing, lingering, almost agonized challenge—then followed complete, absolute, and ghastly silence.

Geoffrey Mallender was sensible of being unaccountably chilled and overawed; he felt as if he had suddenly stirred the springs of some obscure dread—had been brought to the edge of another sphere! Possibly the experience would pass, would soon be explained, derided, and forgotten; but for a moment this glimpse of the unknown had made his heart beat unusually fast, and his dark hair to lie in damp rings upon his clammy forehead. As he rose hastily to his feet and looked at his companion, Tara's hands dropped from her face, her great grey eyes were fixed upon him with an expression of awe, as they confronted one another in the mystic brilliancy of moonlight. At last she said:

"Now you know what I mean by them."

"I do indeed," he replied with undeniable sincerity. "The most extraordinary experience; a British column on the march! Did you hear the drums and fifes?"

"Yes, of course, and always at the time you think the tune is familiar—and yet never, never,—try as you will, can you recall it."

"But what does it all mean?"

"Who knows? Some say, a body of troops passed here to their death, others, that that is folly, and the sounds have a natural explanation; something to do with the air and echoes and refraction. All I can tell you for certain is, that if you come here when the moon is at the third quarter, and only then, between sunset and eight o'clock, you can hear the troops go by. Tom has heard them, so have Mr. Strong and Perez, and I, and now you! Never Jessie, or the Beauforts, because they cannot ride at all—much less fifteen miles."

"And you think——?"

"That it is a part of Lord Cornwallis's old army, who were led into an ambush, and butchered; what do you say?"

"I will let Shakespeare answer, 'There are more things in earth and heaven, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.'"

"At any rate, you will allow that it is neither scorpions or snakes, but something uncanny."

"I allow that," said Mallender with emphasis. "I will even admit I felt thoroughly scared. That last bugle-call made me shake all over!"

"So you heard them?" enquired Tom, as they joined him.

"Yes, and it's the most weird hearing, bar none, I've ever experienced!"

"No doubt there are mysterious happenings in this blessed old country. Things no one can explain; black magic and spells, and devil worship. Well, while you two have been listening to the march of ghostly soldiers, I've had a high old time with these three brutes. Now we must be getting home. I'm starving, and we have a good fifteen miles between us and supper." As he concluded, Tom turned about, and put his cob into a sharp canter.

CHAPTER XXVI

The dâk had been duly laid with six good horses, and Mallender's departure definitely fixed for the morrow. To celebrate his last ride at Wellunga, the little party had ridden unusually far afield,—indeed so far that on a certain eminence Tara pointed out to him a faint grey line on the horizon which she believed to be Seringapatam! But the young lady was mistaken. Through the golden haze of distance, the eyes of her imagination had merely descried a city in the air! It was late as the riders approached Wellunga, the sun was hot, and the animals were pretty well done, when within a couple of hundred yards of the General's bungalow, they heard frenzied yells from the direction of the bazaar, and coming from the same quarter, beheld a rolling cloud of yellow dust. As the dust gradually dispersed, there emerged from its shelter no less a sight than the processional horse—and man eater! He was loose, and rapidly approaching with streaming pink mane and tail. At first, he seemed only affected by the delight and abandonment of utter freedom, as he galloped headlong, kicking, squealing, and uttering a shrill equine war cry! but soon he descried the three horses, and Rustum, being of high degree, flung back a defiant challenge. In a second, the Khatiawari was chasing him open-mouthed, and Tara, frantically lashing her Arab, turned to fly; but Rustum was tired, the pursuer fresh, and full of pride and gram. Screaming and open-mouthed, he drove his prey right on to the brink of a deep nullah. Here he intended to overtake and destroy him,—for the Khatiawari came of an old native stock, who were bred and trained to kill, in the hideous horse-fights, so popular with the Rajahs of a bygone time.

Mallender instantly grasped the situation! There was not half a second to be lost; he wheeled about, drove his spurs into the brown, and with the intention of "riding him off," dashed between the monster and his victim.

The great white charger came thundering on, like some overwhelming, relentless force, and flung himself furiously with all his weight upon the intervener; there was a second's scrambling and scuffling, a crash of loose stones, and the next moment, the man and two horses had vanished,—been swallowed up by the yawning chasm.

The shrieks of the brutes were weird and blood-curdling, a mixture of rage, hate and agony. Meanwhile a howling, excited mob had come swarming out of the native town, and gathered round the scene; but no one appeared to be capable of doing anything beyond shout. Tara had dismounted, so had Tom! His face pale as death—of a dull shining whiteness; he looked dazed, and miserably uncertain what to do. As for Mrs. Beamish, the mainspring of the household, she sat in the verandah, facing the scene, with her apron over her head, her fingers in her ears endeavouring to deaden those ghastly sounds from the nullah; and truly, these were enough to freeze the marrow of the bones.

At this moment, an unexpected figure in every sense rose to the occasion. The old General, who for a long time had been unable to move unassisted, suddenly walked out into the compound, waving a stick—his scarlet dressing-gown fluttering behind him. To the spectators, it was almost as if the dead had returned to life!—This aged tottering veteran had suddenly cast off the weight of years, and once more taken the field. The sight was as startling to the crowd as the recent, and still hideously audible, horror. A ghost among living men, Richard Beamish stood perfectly erect, his old eyes flamed, his old voice shouted orders, he was as one inspired with a great spirit,—surely a miracle was wrought before their eyes!

In obedience to his orders, a peon ran to Tom with a loaded revolver, a number of men fetched well-ropes, a doolie was sent for, the apothecary summoned; all was done promptly, and by word of command. Presently Tom was lowered by ropes into the nullah, where he shot the Khatiawari through the brain;—the brown stud-bred was dead already. Next came the delicate and difficult task of extricating Mallender, and bringing him to the surface. Once there, and now that the screaming horses were no more, Mrs. Beamish became her normal self; a firm, well-trained, certificated nurse, and a messenger on the fastest horse in Wellunga was despatched to summon a doctor from a station fifty miles away. When the doolie was carried into the bungalow, bearing a still breathing man, the guiding spirit vanished; it was as if a bright flame had burst out, shone for a short time, flickered down, and expired.

The General was assisted to his chair, and once more relapsed into a huddled heap, a feeble old creature, who looked as if his backbone was shrunken and withered, shaking all over, from the reaction of an almost super-natural exertion.

His eyes fell on Tara,—white, stricken, and trembling.

"The child, thank God, is spared," and he lifted up his bony hands, "but the young fellow who saved her?"

"He is not dead, Richard," said his wife. "I have good hopes, and a surgeon will be here to-morrow. You have done wonders, and exhausted yourself; you must let Jessie and the chokra put you to bed, and I will give you a sedative."

"Bed—bed!" he muttered peevishly. "Bed at ten o'clock! Well, begad, it's all I'm fit for now!"

Mrs. Beamish devoted the whole of her time and attention to the injured man, and summoned Tara to assist her with sponges and bandages; but when the girl saw the ghastly death-like face, and the stream of blood that pattered on to the matting, she fainted away, and the breathless "dresser," who had just appeared, succeeded to her post. In a miraculously short time the doctor arrived in a motor—the first that had ever penetrated into those parts—and after a careful examination of the patient, expressed his opinion that Mrs. Beamish and her assistant had done all that was immediately needful; the twisted ankle, the fractured arm, and the bites, might not have serious developments.

"The injury to the head is what I fear; it's in a dangerous place, and we may have inflammation, and suppuration," and he nodded gravely; "however, we will hope for the best. He looks a fine, healthy young fellow—all muscle. What's his name?"

"Mallender—Captain Mallender."

"What, the polo player?"

"I don't know; he rides splendidly, they say."

"He won't have a stick in his hand for many a day—if ever. I had better prepare you, and tell you that this crack in the back of his head may have an effect on the brain. He has had an uncommonly narrow squeak. Go on with the remedies, and I'll come again in two days." Then in another voice, he added, "I say, Mrs. Beamish, what a rum place you live in! My chauffeur had never heard of it, no more had I!"

"Yes, but it suits the old General—he prefers to be out of the world."

"Ah—'the world forgetting, by the world forgot!'"

"Oh, yes, we don't bother about society. Now, you must come and have some tiffin," added Mrs. Beamish hospitably. "It's all ready. I'm sorry you won't see my husband,—he is asleep."

"A great age, I understand."

"Yes, ninety-five next birthday."

"Well, ma'am, that speaks volumes for our much-abused Indian climate, doesn't it?"

"That is true, but then the General has a fine constitution, and a good conscience," declared his wife, with dignified complacency.

Thanks to the skilled nursing of Mrs. Beamish and Anthony's faithful attendance, Mallender, by slow degrees, crept back to this world—men in the prime and vigour of their youth do not die easily.—At first, his memory appeared to be a mere glimmering of things half seen, he took no interest in life, and was curiously lethargic.

When the doctor paid a final visit, he said to Mrs. Beamish:

"The young fellow is not fit to go to England; his head would never stand the journey. Try and rouse him, keep him interested and amused, then get him by easy stages to some place in the Hills. In a couple of months, he may be all right."

"We can move him up to my coffee estate," suggested Tom. "It's an easy road, and only a hundred miles from this; bearers and a doolie will do it in twenty-four hours."

"The very thing!" agreed the doctor, "but don't leave him alone; try and make him talk, talk to him,—and rouse him."

This was by no means a simple prescription! Nothing seemed to rouse the invalid; not dogs, or picture papers, or even the prolonged visits of the good-natured Beaufort girls, who deafened the sufferer with their chatter, and loaded him with flowers and sympathy; but one day, after Tara had quitted the room, he said suddenly:

"Why is she so unlike—the others?"

"Bless me! That's a funny question," exclaimed Mrs. Beamish, laying down her sewing and surveying him critically.

"No," raising himself on his elbow. "Quite—quite—quite—what's the word? She is different from—all of you—why?"

Mrs. Beamish reflected for a moment, as she carefully threaded her needle; her patient exhibited interest for the first time, should she tell him something that would possibly startle and stir his stagnant mind?—or not?

"Well, then you shall hear," she answered, after a long pause. "But it's a secret, and I know you can keep one."

He nodded indifferently, with closed eyes.

"Will you be surprised when I tell you that Tara is not our daughter?"

"No," slowly opening his eyes, "more surprised if she was!"

"She is no more related to us than you are, and that's the solemn truth!"

"But how—why? Where did she come from?"

Mrs. Beamish made a hasty sign with her hand.

"Now I'm going to tell you, what's only known to three people; if it came to Tara's ears she'd break her heart, she is so proud—so awfully proud. The Beamish's are a very good old family, and she sets great store by that."

"Go on, please," he urged with unexpected animation.

Mrs. Beamish rose and went over and carefully shut a lofty double door, then looked out into the verandah, finally sat down satisfied,—and began.

"It's over nineteen years and more, since the General being uncommonly hale and busy, I took a holiday to see my sister Susan, who was in bad health at Bangalore. Her husband was a missionary; they lived a bit out of the way, up towards the Arab lines, where rents were cheap. Well, I was nursing her through a bad go of fever, and one evening I heard a carriage rumble under the porch. I thought it might be someone for James; for he was a good kind man, and well known.—People often coming to him about charity, or to consult him when in trouble; so I thought nothing whatever of it, till I saw the ayah walking into the room with a very young baby in her arms! She was a queer flighty sort of creature, but honest and kind-hearted. She told me that a gharry with two horses had driven up, and the boy being busy in the cook-house she went out. There was only one person in the carriage, a stern-looking lady with diamonds in her ears, greyish hair, and proud eyes. She had an infant on her lap.

"'I want to leave this little baby with Mrs. Haines for a day or two,' she said, 'as we have sickness in the house,' and with that she handed out the child, and its bottle, and a parcel of clothes. As soon as the ayah had it in her arms, the lady called out to the 'garriwan,' who drove away at a terrible pace. The night was pitch dark, but the ayah thought that they went towards Trinity Road.

"Well, from that day to this, no one ever called for the baby. We did all we could to trace her belongings, but it was just as if the whole thing had been a dream. Susan, my sister, did not like to send the poor child down to the Home in Madras, she was so sweetly pretty, and evidently came of gentle folk; though her clothes were not very grand, a fine diamond ring was tied up among them, and three hundred rupees in notes."

Mrs. Beamish paused for a moment; she noticed that her companion's attention was captured at last.

"I wrote to the General, and asked him what I was to do? Susan's health was poor, and James Haines did not take to a young infant; I must confess she cried a lot, and he had terribly broken nights; so Richard said, 'Bring her along, and pass her off as ours. Up here, no one will know, and another in the family makes no difference.' She was christened Tara, after a girl in a book that the General thought a lot of. He was for calling her Dora, after his first wife, but when he came to look into it, he said his wife Dora might not like to have him thinking of another Dora, and the poor baby a nobody—but we look on her, and love her, as our own—indeed, if the old man has a favourite, it's Tar!"

"So Tom and Jessie are not in the secret?"

"No one is in it out here but the General and myself, for Susan and James are dead; but some day I must tell Archie Murray."

"I never heard of anything so strange! I wonder if her people will ever trace and claim her?"

"Not likely; but if they did, we would not give her up—unless she wished it. I believe Tara comes of high folk, however low their morals were," added Mrs. Beamish. "Just you look at her hand and foot, and the turn of her neck; and she has a sort of mocking imperious way at times, is a great stickler for manners, and always a wish to be first. The girl wants a strong hand, and Archie Murray has that. Tara has a warm loving heart, a great courage, and is extraordinarily generous. She'd give you her last morsel, but she expects a high place and a lot of ceremony."

"Well, now," folding up her work, "I've left you something new to think of, haven't I? and I must go and see if my old man has taken his soup."

Mrs. Beamish had indeed given her patient something to reflect on; and so the beautiful, imperious, indulged Tara was a nameless foundling; rescued and brought up by this good, charitable woman, as her very own!

When the invalid was sufficiently recovered to creep about with a stick, and his arm in a sling, he often sat in the west verandah beside the General, whose sunken wistful eyes untiringly surveyed his beloved India and who liked to have Mallender near him,—although they rarely spoke. One was living in the past, the other's mind,—still somewhat blurred,—was anxiously scanning the future. At last even Mrs. Beamish admitted that Mallender was strong enough to adventure a journey, and it had come as on a previous occasion, to his last day.

Sitting beside the old man, he was astonished to hear him ask Tom to take down his sword, and bring it to him;—it was of an obsolete pattern with a hacked and dented brass scabbard, and its former wearer gazed at it, with a face drawn with emotion, then he said:

"My father gave me this in the year of our Lord, Eighteen hundred and thirty-five. I was a lad then; it has seen its share of service, and never, I thank God, been disgraced. I value it, next to my family here, more than anything in the wide world." Reaching feebly forward, and laying it across the invalid's knees, he said, "See here, Mallender, I give it to you."

"To me, sir!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. "Oh, no—no. The sword must remain in the family as an heirloom, it should belong to Tom. You offer me a great honour, but——"

"But Tom is not a soldier," interrupted the General impatiently, "and he wishes it to go to you. Many and many a mile has that sword travelled, and clanked and jingled beside me," and the old man's head fell on his breast. "I'd like to know that at last, it will return to England,—and you will hang it up in your home, and now and then look at it, and think of the old, old soldier who wore it in India for fifty years." Suddenly his voice broke, and the hero of Lucknow, Aliwal, Gwalior and Jhansi, wept.

Even outlandish Wellunga boasted its own correspondent; a certain scribbling baboo, had a brother in the newspaper office of a little rag in Madras, and now and then at long intervals supplied him with a par. or two of fashionable intelligence.

About five weeks after Mallender had reached Tom Beamish's coffee estate, the following appeared in the said little rag.

"Fearful panic occurred here lately on the occasion of a most alarming affair. A terrible man-eating horse, value Rs. 2000, the property of our honourable Mr. Rakar, broke loose, and all was terror and screams; he chased the Arab ridden by our beautiful Miss Beamish, and would have torn them limb from limb, but a young mister rode between, and accepted the rage of the wild beast, who knocked him and horse into a pitch dark nullah, and there devoured them. The young man saved the lady's life, and was taken up dead,—but breathing. His name is G. Mallender, and it is said, that he comes from England."

CHAPTER XXVII

The Bonagherry estate, to which Mallender was transported, stood at the head of a slope, overlooking an open park-like distance; immediately round the long low house was a garden full of English flowers, roses, mignonette, violets,—subsequently extending into mere vegetables, such as lettuce, artichokes and tomatoes; further back, were the stables, drying grounds, coolie lines, and the premises were invested on all sides by coffee. It was October; a busy time for planters, and almost wherever the eye rested were dark brown coolies picking the crop. Mallender, luxuriously reclining in a long chair in the verandah, enjoyed the animated scene, and abandoned himself to his environment; a cool sea breeze coming over the Western Ghauts, the perfume of familiar flowers seemed to whisper of renewed vitality and the joy of living.

He had now been a week at Bonagherry, and felt better, and could creep up and down the verandah with the aid of a stick.

The injury to his head occasionally clouded his brain,—and at times he suffered agony; but things were coming back by degrees, and though his mind sometimes dwelt on home, and his prospective voyage, he seemed to have no bodily or mental energy. He was content to sit in the sun, imbibing thin, delicious air, waited on by his kind, sympathetic friends, Jessie and Tom, as well as the invaluable Anthony.

Tom was engaged all day, from the time the "ginty" or horn sounded to summon the coolies, till long after sundown, when he would come into the verandah, and cast his weary frame into a chair, and tell the invalid of his doings.

"It will be a good crop," he answered, in reply to Mallender's questions, "the picking goes well, but coffee isn't what it was—worth a hundred pounds a ton. Now we are lucky if we get fifty—Brazil is ruining us, and we have ninety miles' carting to do, before we get the rail. Of course I have the old man at my back, but I must say I like to make; and anyhow it's a free life."

"All work, and no play?" suggested his guest.

"No, not always; there's still some shooting, and lots of good fellows within a ride. We generally have tennis on Sunday."

"No parson?"

"Lord love you, no! Our little cemetery is not even consecrated; however, people don't die up here, the climate holds them. As soon as you are fit, I'll take you round the neighbours. My nearest is a woman."

"A woman! What's she doing on a coffee estate?"

"Running a big plantation for all it's worth,—and working like a Trojan. I'm her adviser. Her husband, Major Bourne, died four years ago, a good, unpractical, easy-going Army man, and left her with a heavily-mortgaged property, two boys, and not a penny."

"By Jove!"

"Well, she faced the situation, sold off her jewellery, piano, and ponies, and started to make the place pay. She bought cows, and supplies good butter, she set up a bakery, and makes bread and cakes; knits socks, and sells them, and has lots of custom. I never saw a more determined or hard-working creature. Now the boys are at school; some mortgages are paid off; she has engaged a lady-help, and is going ahead like steam. It was rather expected she'd marry again, but she's not that sort—her mind is dead set on Harvey and Jim."

A week later, on a Sunday afternoon, Tom drove his friend over to Kartairi to call on Mrs. Bourne, who being a popular and influential lady, received the whole countryside on that day. The verandah was crowded with visitors; nearly all planters, and nearly all talking shop or sport,—whilst the hostess dispensed tea, and her celebrated hot cakes. Most of the assembled company looked forward to "Mrs. B.'s Sundays." Here they met their fellows and had tennis; here they were sure of a warm welcome, of sympathy, or a little doctoring, or even a little advice, if required. To many an exile, Kartairi represented a sort of local home.

Mallender was duly presented to Mrs. Bourne; a lady of forty with a slim figure, a pair of very bright brown eyes, and a firm chin. She wore a well-fitting white lace blouse, a black skirt, and an air of inexhaustible energy and will power.

The hostess was inclined, as it is expressed, to "make a fuss," with the invalid; to get an arm-chair, and cushions, and place him near herself; but the guest declined her good offices rather brusquely, and backed away into the outer circle of the company,—where amid inquisitive glances he found a seat, and a retreat.

"Best leave him alone," growled Tom, "he is all abroad still, and hates talking," and with a regretful glance at the distant figure so conspicuously aloof, she nodded in assent.

Mallender's head ached with sharp stabbing pains, the recent jolting in the bamboo cart was no doubt the cause of this; he felt ill and slack, and all this coffee-planter talk bored him to death. As he sat morosely apart—thinking that it would be better he were dead than a helpless log, and a burden to himself and his friends, someone came through a door beside him, carrying two plates piled with cake; he looked up, and was surprised to recognise Barbie Miller! Such a smiling Barbie, with a brilliant complexion and happy eyes.

She passed on her errand, and presently in answer to a whisper from Mrs. Bourne, approached Mallender with a cup of tea. He was so shockingly altered, that she could hardly believe that this was the same gay and good-looking young officer whom she had known six months previously.

His head had been shaven, his face was drawn and colourless, his once merry eyes looked lustreless; they had a strained expression, and were sunken in deep hollows. As she put out her hand, he gazed at her listlessly.

"How do you do, Captain Mallender, I hope you remember me?"

"Er—yes—I think so," he answered uncertainly, "in—in Madras, was it? You rode the chestnut polo pony"; he made no attempt to take her hand, nevertheless she drew up a chair, and sat down beside him.

"Where is he?" he asked, after a silence, during which, as she surveyed him, the girl told herself that Death on the pale horse was swiftly approaching her companion! poor, poor fellow! and her eyes suddenly filled with unexpected tears.

"Where is he?" he persisted. "What have you done with him—the old buffer with the fat neck?"

"I don't know who you are talking about," she answered, softly. "If it is my father, he died—he——"

"No, no," he interrupted, peevishly, "I mean the other—the one you married?"

"But I'm not married," she answered, colouring.

"So I see you and Miss Miller are old friends," said Tom, now joining the little party, and drawing up a chair.

"Oh, I don't know about—friends," rejoined Mallender, with rude significance. "I say, old chap, can you get me out of this? I can't stand all this jabbering and jaw!" and totally ignoring the existence of Barbie, he rose unsteadily to his feet, and stumbled down the steps.

"Don't mind him, his head is all wrong still," whispered Tom, "come over as soon as you can, and help us to cheer him a bit. Jessie has been expecting you every day."

"Yes, I know, but it's been such a heavy week with the butter, sixty pounds," throwing out her pretty hands. "I'll come the first spare hour. Hurry, hurry—don't let him drive!" indicating Mallender, who was already in the tum-tum, and had taken up the reins; and Tom justly alarmed instantly dashed out of the verandah and scrambled headlong into the cart.

Three days later, Mrs. Bourne and her lady-help rode over to Bonagherry, and found Jessie and the invalid on the verandah. He looked better, and actually went down to assist the ladies from their ponies. Subsequently he made himself useful at the tea-table in handing cups and cakes. Apparently he had recovered his poise, and his manners!

After tea, Jessie took Mrs. Bourne away to consult with her about a sick calf, and Mallender and Barbie were left alone.

"I'm sure I owe you an apology, Miss Miller," he suddenly began. "I've a sort of blurred idea, that I was extraordinarily rude to you on Sunday. You see, I have had a knock on the head—like what you had the time the old Nizam came down with you, and at times I am a bit foggy."

"I quite understand. Don't think of it, please!"

"But I must. I've thought of it a good deal; on Sunday the drive upset my blessed head, and I hardly knew where I was, or what I was doing."

"Then is the pain so bad?"

"Awful, sometimes; but don't let on to the Beamishes."

"Why not? Oh, I believe I can guess. I've heard how you saved Tara from a terrible death."

"No, not death, you see I am still here,—and of course it had to be one of us. Tara is so young and pretty, and all her people so fond of her, and no one would miss me. She's engaged to be married too."

"I know, and as for Archie Murray, he can't speak of it without choking."

"The engagement?"

"How can you joke? You know perfectly well what I mean, he is longing to come over to thank you."

"Miss Miller, as you love me!—no—I—I—whatever you do, don't let him. I hate thanks, if he comes I'll have another relapse! He'd have done just the same, if he was in my place."

"Very well, then, I'll do my best to protect you from Archie Murray, but it won't be easy! Have you heard from the Tallboys lately?"

"No, not for ages. I'm sorry to say I'm in Fred's black books; and that reminds me to ask, what I had done to be posted in yours, during the latter end of my stay in Madras?"

He paused for a reply, but none came. Miss Miller had become brilliantly pink, and was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"Come now," he continued, "if I was rude to you the other day, I had some excuse,—but I shall be glad to hear what you have to say for cutting me dead, over and over again?"

"I—I don't know how I'm to tell you," she began, speaking very fast. "I believed I had a good reason, and—later, I found out, that I had been misinformed. I was very sorry, and ashamed—too; but you had left Madras, and so I could not apologise. May I apologise now?"

"If I had some idea of what you were apologising for."

"Oh, it was a wicked, unfounded, cruel scandal, and Ada has written to me, and told me all you did for her,—and that was your reward!"

"They say virtue is its own reward," he answered, with a smile. "I have been out of society, and heard no gossip, and I can't for the life of me see how there could be any scandal about Miss Sim and myself. Well, anyway, it's all right now, you and I have put matters straight between us. How do you come to be in these parts?"

"Father and mother went home last March, and—and——" suddenly her voice seemed to fail her.

"So you did not marry Colonel Harris?"

"No, I simply couldn't! I screwed up my courage, and told him so, one day when mother sent us to look at a bungalow. At first, he was incredulous, then shocked, finally—as I was determined, furious;—so was mother. Within an hour she packed up my clothes, and sent me off in a gharry to the chaplain's wife in the Fort, with a letter to ask her to get me into some charitable institution, as my parents disowned me. I believe there were other dreadful things in the letter. Father was kinder, he came to see me and say good-bye, and gave me a little money, and told me to write to him at home to care of Grindlay and Co.—and said, 'this is none of my doing, Barbie—but your mother is too strong for us!'"

"By Jove!" ejaculated Mallender; "strong is not the word——"

"Poor father, he died of heat apoplexy in the Red Sea. Of course, Mrs. Tallboys came to my rescue, and found me this happy home. I've not many friends out here, but those I have, are splendid!"

"I have not many either. Look here, Miss Miller, shall you and I be pals? What do you say?"

"Yes," she answered, simply. This poor haggard fellow would not long be in need of pals.

"Then give me your hand on that!" he said, eagerly.

She gave it, and he was still holding it with an emphatic and lingering clasp, as Mrs. Bourne and Jessie re-entered the verandah.

"Miss Miller and I have been squaring up old scores," announced Mallender, "signing a treaty of peace; for in Madras, we were dead cuts, and now we intend to be allies."

Later that same evening, when Tom and Jessie compared notes, they agreed, that the visit from Kartairi had wakened up Geoffrey in a surprising way, and done him a world of good!

CHAPTER XXVIII

A whole month had elapsed since his arrival at Bonagherry, and the invalid was now convalescent. He walked and rode about the estate with Tom, was unaffectedly interested in the crop, and its prospects, and wildly excited, when a panther took the "writer's" cow,—almost from under his roof! Vainly did he beg, pray, and argue for a stalk. This was inflexibly denied him, but he was permitted to visit, and mark, the well-known and respected "track" that like a glorified "cat's run" passed right through the estate.

The idler saw to the feeding and exercise of the pack of nondescript dogs,—such as are kept on most coffee plantations—generally the abandoned pets of people who have left the Hills and departed to England. Among this mixed multitude was a brown retriever, a respectable Aberdeen, a self-conscious pug, a Scotch deer-hound, a beagle, several terriers, and various hounds of low degree. The pug and the Aberdeen were adopted by Jessie, but the remainder of the pack were frequently summoned to hunt wild pig or sambur, in the thickest of adjacent sholahs.

Every Sunday the Bonagherry party went over to Kartairi, where Tom and Jessie were conspicuous and victorious at tennis, whilst Mallender sat and applauded, and talked to Mrs. Bourne, who was also a looker-on. He liked her; the popular enterprising widow, had a wonderful power of drawing out the best that was in a man, and offering her help and sympathy. She had learned from Tom, that his friend was returning to England as soon as he was fit; that he had come to India, on some sort of forlorn hope, and signally failed in finding what he sought; and thanks to his recklessness, had lost friends, health, and fortune.

To her guest Mrs. Bourne intimated that she was au courant with the outline of his little history, and was kind and comforting after her own elder-sister fashion.

"Yes, this time last year you would not have known me!" he said, "I was as strong as a horse, and fairly well off. Now, I am horribly poor and look like some sickly, broken-down loafer, and—it's more or less my own doing!"

"Nonsense," she answered, "your accident has made you take gloomy views of yourself; in another month you will be all right;—this air has worked wonders, and if you really are hard up, why not start coffee?"

"Yes, as a creeper?" and he laughed, "that's what you call a beginner, don't you? Well, I'll think of it, Mrs. Bourne. I must say, I like an open-air life, and Tom will shove me along. I might do worse."

To which she replied, "If you ask me, I don't think you can do better. Coffee has been my friend!"

About this time, Anthony came to his master with a grave, portentous air, and said:

"I beg your pardon, saar, that Chinna-Sawmy boy no use here, and doing no good."

"Oh, yes, he helps Miss Beamish, she likes him; he's a smart little chap. I like him too."

"Still better go," rejoined Anthony, unmoved.

"Why?"

"No luck bringing. Master never catching Uncle. Master near losing life. Master no money got."

"But that's not Sawmy's fault, poor beggar!"

"I beg your pardon, saar, better he go, nothing doing here, but feed chickens, make dog food, and such like fool work—Master poor man."

"Six rupees a month won't break me; but does Chinna-Sawmy wish to retire?"

"As Master pleases," then after a pause, "Yes, so I think—Sawmy has one uncle, who is maistrey on coffee estate; that man Mootosawmy plenty money got, and he calling for Chinna-Sawmy."

"Well, I shall soon be going to England, and if Sawmy thinks he can better himself, send him here."

Presently Chinna-Sawmy appeared, all glittering eyes and white teeth.

"So you wish to take leave, Sawmy?"

"No, saar, I spending every day, always with Master,—only that boy Anthony, he say 'Better go.'"

"Oh, he is your patron, I know. You've been a good little chap, and I want to give you a present."

Chinna-Sawmy's attitude stiffened.

"What would you like?"

A long and thoughtful pause ensued—during which Chinna-Sawmy twisted his toes, with incredible flexibility.

"May I tell the plain truth?" he asked at last.

"Of course, what else?"

"Then Master please, I taking camera!"

Here was a most unexpected request! Mallender had visions of making a donation of ten rupees, or an old, but useful silver watch. The camera, bought in extravagant days, had cost ten pounds. Well, after all, he would not want it again. No need to lug the thing to England. Chinna-Sawmy was an expert now (the extra thumbs were surprisingly useful) and could make his livelihood as a photographer. The camera would represent his fortune; and the boy had been wonderfully attentive in illness; lying outside his door ready for a call, day or night.

"All right, Chinna-Sawmy," he said, "it is yours."

Then Chinna-Sawmy straightway fell down upon his knees, and kissed his master's boots.

A week later, Mallender received the amazing intelligence from Anthony.

"That Chinna-Sawmy boy done get married! Plenty good business—camera catching wife!"

"Why, what nonsense!" protested his master with a laugh, "he is only a child! Has he been kidnapped?"

"He is sixteen, saar, very small size; the girl, she is four years old, Hindoo low caste. Chinna-Sawmy's rich uncle, he this marriage making, and plenty big feast, and fire-works giving."

Two days later, the bridegroom appeared, to make his obeisance and acknowledgments to his late employer, and the Beamish household. He looked (a surprising experience) almost shame-faced, as he rode up on a lean cow-hocked pony, with a profusion of yellow garlands round his neck, accompanied by a large cortège, and a band, so to speak, of tom-toms. After an interchange of compliments and good wishes, with gifts of fruit, cigarettes, and sweets, Chinna-Sawmy and suite were dismissed from the scene, in order to carouse, generally make merry, dance and gamble, in the servants' go-downs.

It has been mooted that Chinna-Sawmy has recently set up a little studio in Georgetown, Madras, under the name of "Charley Sammy, British Photographer from Oxford Street, London." May he prosper! Anthony, however, is sore displeased (and perhaps a little jealous), and quotes a native proverb, to the effect that "the higher the monkey climbs, the more he shows his tail!"

Early one delicious dewy morning, Mallender was awoke by noises, and an unusual bustle in the verandah; he hastily threw on some clothes, and looked out. There was Tom, reading a letter, and Jessie in her flannel dressing-gown, sitting on the steps, crying in short convulsive sobs, whilst a coolie stood stolidly aloof. He was a messenger sent on foot from Wellunga, to inform his children that the General was dead.

"Well," exclaimed Tom, "the old man is gone at last!—found in his chair, where he always liked to sit, facing west. They thought he was asleep, and did not disturb him."

"I am very sorry," said Mallender.

"We must leave at once, Jess and I. I'll have a lot to see to, my mother is broken up, and there's only Tara,—who is no good in a crisis."

"It will make a tremendous change at Wellunga?"

"Yes; everything will tumble to pieces now; and the people will have their will at last! My mother must come and live up here, and the old place will stand empty. I say, Jess," to his sister, "you must take a pull at yourself. Hurry up and have breakfast, and pack. If we start soon we get down to-night, coolies and ponies were ordered by the runner, and oh—about you, Mallender, you can't stop here alone!"

"Why not! Of course I can. I'm not a nervous young lady. I'll be your overseer, understudy, and general bottle-washer!"

"No, no, you'd never have the right food, or care. You must go over to Kartairi, and stay with Mrs. Bourne."

"Pretty cool cheek, she'd think it!"

"Not she—nothing she likes better, than nursing and mothering sick fellows. I'll send her a line by the garden coolie."

His guest immediately made a mental note to the effect that no messenger should go to Kartairi that day; fancy allowing himself to be foisted on two women!—and he craftily turned the conversation, by asking for employment, and instructions.

"I'm rather a duffer," he concluded, "but I can keep an eye on things, and overawe the slackers."

"Yes; there will be lots for you to do," answered Tom. "You have a good head for figures, and you can make up the writer's books, do the roll-call, ride over the estate, look stern and important, and give the maistrey reason to believe that you are up to every mortal dodge!"

"Which I'm not!" protested Mallender, "I hardly know chick coffee from the real article. However, I'll poke about, and look after the picking, and the pulping-house, and do my best and 'bluff' like auction bridge."

"Right you are! Mind that the children that do the ground picking get one pice a seer, and now I must go and put my traps together," concluded Tom, who seized this opportunity to scribble a chit to Mrs. Bourne, and expedited matters so successfully, that by eight o'clock, he and his sister were ready to start. They took leave of their guest in a duet of injunctions, with respect to his health. How he was not to ride too far, or expose himself to sun, or rain, and assuring him of their return within a week; then one in a chair, and the other on a pony, they took their way down the long winding ghât road, which led to the plains.

After breakfast Mallender, now "monarch of all he surveyed," visited the dogs, inspected the cattle, and held a solemn conference with the head maistrey. In the afternoon, he invested his head in a monstrous pith topee, and rode about the estate; it was four o'clock, when he returned to the bungalow for a tub and tea, but to his amazement, neither were forthcoming; he found instead, a little note from Mrs. Bourne, which said:

"Your luggage and servant are awaiting you at Kartairi. Tea is at 4.30. Yours sincerely, Emily Bourne."

"Well, if this does not take the entire biscuit! Of all the cool proceedings!" muttered Geoffrey, as he re-read the chit, and scratched his head.

"I suppose there's nothing else for it. The bedding is gone, I must stick to my sponge, and razors," and he followed them to Kartairi.

"I'm afraid, you think me a most arbitrary lady," said Mrs. Bourne, as she welcomed her guest, "but I was so afraid you'd make excuses, and entrench yourself alone at Bonagherry, that I sent over, and raided your room!"

"Awfully kind of you," he murmured.

"I daresay you are awfully vexed, but you really are not yet out of the wood. Barbie and I will look after you, and you will find we are not too bad to live with. Your bath is prepared, and tea will be ready in a quarter of an hour."

The Beamishes were absent not for one, but three weeks, and during the time, their late inmate found himself agreeably at home at Kartairi. The house was run on more English lines than Bonagherry. A certain amount of admirable cooking was accomplished at a little oil-stove in the back verandah, lights in bedrooms were not the old oil and wick in tumblers, but neat hand lamps. Those in the drawing-room wore pretty silk shades, and the effect was eminently restful. Here flowers abounded, there were luxurious, chintz-covered chairs, a piano, many sketches and photographs, and an ample supply of books and magazines.

As an officer's wife, Mrs. Bourne had visited various countries, and picked up a number of little portable treasures; she had taste too, and a marvellous knack of making any home comfortable, and refined. As the handsome, accomplished daughter of well-born people, it had been expected, that Emily La Haye (whose French ancestor had taken San Thomé) would contract a brilliant marriage; but to the disappointment of her parents, she "threw herself away" on a good-looking Captain in a line regiment,—an unpractical, extravagant, but popular fellow, who had no money sense whatever; and here she was left with two boys, and a pension of seventy pounds a year, struggling to make a living out of a coffee estate in Southern India.

Her connections figuratively lifted up their voices, and wept, when they talked of "Poor Emmie," and agreed, that she had made an awful mess of her life, and had become very proud, and independent. Nevertheless they posted her The Queen, and the Weekly Times with affectionate regularity, and welcomed her boys for their holidays.

Mrs. Bourne's tastes did not take the form of cake and butter-making,—nor even of knitting stockings, and superintending coffee picking. She was naturally artistic, and fond of music, and books, she even wrote a little—and occasionally a bright and amusing article signed by "Chick" appeared in the Indian journals; and now that Barbie Miller was her assistant, the busy lady enjoyed some leisure for her favourite pursuits. Barbie had no responsibilities connected with coffee, but undertook the housekeeping, butter, cakes, and poultry,—such an able energetic little creature, a delightful companion, with a sweet unselfish character, and a sunny face. Into this modest ménage a third had unexpectedly entered; to do him justice, Mallender gave no trouble; on the contrary, his servant Anthony was a valuable acquisition; a priceless treasure! He could make delicious coffee, carpenter, wait at table, paper a room, and sew!

Anthony's master spent most of the day over at Bonagherry, reappearing in time for tea, so that that crushing incubus, "an idle man in the house," was spared the two ladies. He assisted Mrs. Bourne too, undertook certain business interviews—in which a man was secretly respected, and a woman set at nought! He overlooked accounts,—for Emily Bourne like many artistic people, had no head for figures,—and set an excellent example of energy and early rising. Mallender enjoyed this life amazingly. Open-air employment, the consciousness of having put in a good day's work, and of being worth his salt, afforded him a certain amount of satisfaction, and self-approval.

In the evening, the busy workers were at liberty for rest and enjoyment. They sat together in the charming sitting-room, and occupied themselves with music, books, poker, patience, and mere conversation. Sometimes Mallender read aloud, whilst the ladies worked; and as he now and then stole a glance over his book at his companions,—both so daintily dressed, so busy, and so interested, and in the case of one, so young and lovely,—he assured himself, that for the first time for years and years, he felt absolutely happy, and at home!

But he was not by any means so happy, when the several admirers of Miss Miller presented themselves upon the scene; riding over on Sunday, or casually dropping in to tea. There were several prétendants—(poor Tom Beamish had been among the crowd, but had confided to his friend, that as he knew Miss Barbie would never look at him, though he had lots of money, and would worship her all his life; he gave up, and retired). The individual Mallender most disliked and feared, was a man of the name of MacKenzie, known as "Mack," who owned a fine and flourishing estate, had a worn, handsome face, and looked romantic! He was about thirty-five years of age, and a person of substance, and standing, among other planters. Anyone could see with half an eye, that Mack was head over ears in love with little Miss Miller. So alas! was Mallender—there was no mistake about the fact. He was aware that a new phase in his life had opened, and felt strangely stirred. Little fair-haired Barbie, had enthralled him; he had been her slave, ever since the day at Bonagherry, when she had given him her hand, and promise; and each hour, but served to rivet his chains. Chains he was compelled to hug in secret, he dared not declare himself; a fellow without a roof to offer, or a penny in his pocket—that is to say beyond his passage money to England. As soon as he had returned home, and looked into matters, and found out exactly where he stood, he would come straight out, and ask her to marry him.—Meanwhile, what of Mack?

Another obstacle, was his own invincible reluctance to move, although now strong and well, thanks to these Hills, and their clear vitalizing air; he could not bring himself to leave them—how tear himself away? Nevertheless go he must, and he assured himself, that he was in honour bound to depart, and make no sign.

And Barbie—did she guess? how could she? He laughed and chaffed with her, joined in duets, to Mrs. Bourne's accompaniment, rode, played tennis, and card games, just as if she was nothing at all to him—instead of being everything in the world. As for Barbie? The busy young lady, no longer under the blight of her mother's rule, found herself most unaccountably happy, and asked no more. Possibly the cause of her happiness, was not far to seek;—but she had no idea of making a search,—possibly she had a feeling, that if she looked too closely into her possession, the enchanting vision might fade and disappear, like some beautiful mirage of the desert.

As for Mrs. Bourne, she calmly and dispassionately surveyed the situation, with the eye of sympathy and experience. She had long guessed Mallender's secret,—naturally a simple affair to such a clever woman. She liked Geoffrey; in fact, liked him so much, that she hoped her own boys would be of the same stuff; thoughtful for others, modest, and manly, and he had such nice frank eyes! What a pity, this wild scheme had ruined him! She took upon herself to scold him roundly for his obstinacy, and optimism, and concluded an animated lecture by saying:

"After your interview with Brown and Co., you should have turned straight round, and taken the first steamer for England."

"Then I should never have come to Mysore and met you, Mrs. Bourne," he answered gaily. "However, better late than never; as soon as the Beamishes return, I'll hand over, and be off to see what I can scrape together! Precious little, I'm afraid; for I've sunk my own money in what is my Uncle's property; repairs to the house, and to some of the farms, have swallowed up almost all I possess. Well, whatever I can pick up, I'll bring back here, buy a little estate, and start as a planter."

"Will you—I wonder?" murmured Mrs. Bourne looking at him meditatively. To herself, she said, "If he returns, and finds Barbie married to Lewis MacKenzie, he won't remain twenty-four hours!"

CHAPTER XXIX

Two or three times a week, Mrs. Bourne and her young friends mounted their ponies, and went for extensive excursions in the neighbourhood. Mallender rode a stout brown cobby animal from Bonagherry, known as "The Duffer," the lady of Kartairi, a well-bred chestnut who had played polo, and Barbie, a wiry flea-bitten grey, whose propensity for thieving, and agility in climbing, had earned for her the name of "The Cat." Kartairi stood amid what might be termed a sea of coffee bushes, extending for many acres; at first, the little party were obliged to ride along the narrow coolie tracks in Indian file; they had also to pass through that deplorable spectacle, an abandoned estate. Here the land was overrun with a climbing prickly plant, the desolate bungalow was dismantled, and the pulping-house a ruin—all this, to the credit of the planter's deadly enemy the "Borer" Worm.

Emerging at last from among lucent green bushes, the riders came by degrees upon grassy uplands, and the great silent spaces, which are bounded by the Western Ghauts. Here were glades, downs, and clumps of trees recalling English parks; and in the cool clear air, the little party enjoyed many a delightful and invigorating gallop.

Once the riders made their way into another country, and a warm and steamy climate; descending by break-neck paths, and wet sedgy glades, dropping cautiously from terrace to terrace into the rich forest lands above Canara, and avoiding with care "the special reserve"—a peculiar feature of the West; sacred groves dedicated to the ancestral gods, into which the foot of shikari, woodman or herdsman may not penetrate. The ancestral gods are supposed to hunt in these regions, and woe betide the luckless mortal who encounters them! Owing to the rainfall, the extraordinarily luxuriant growth in this part of the world must be seen to be realised. Bamboos of enormous size, great teak trees, with their glossy leaves, gigantic plantains, sandal wood, and the sago palm, flourish here in wildest profusion. As for flowers, the riders found themselves in a fairy garden, amid a wealth of blooms and perfumes, undreamt of in colder climes; their ponies' hoofs ruthlessly trampled on lilies, begonias, orchids, and maiden hair, and pressing along the narrow game tracks, thrust themselves between masses of convolvuli, and sweet flowering shrubs. In the warm scented atmosphere the perfume of the "Niddo" was almost overpowering.

From several directions the most promising vistas were unapproachable, owing to the density of the thorny undergrowth, and tangled ropes of the flame-coloured "Elephant Creeper," that so to speak held the trees of the forest in a bondage of flowers.

"The old Portuguese were well acquainted with this part of the world," remarked Mrs. Bourne, as she halted to feast her eyes on a riot of contrasting colours.

"No wonder they called it 'The Gorgeous East.'"

"No wonder, indeed!" assented Mallender.

"This paradise, however, has its serpent," she continued. "I don't allude to the cobras among the bamboos, nor even the tiger, and leopards, that abound in the reserves,—but the terror of these forests, is—the leech!"

"I'd much sooner face thousands of leeches, than one leopard," declared Barbie.

"Yes, so would I; but you have no idea how those abominations can drain the lives of man and beast—there are half a dozen on The Cat's legs, at this moment!"

Mallender instantly sprang off, to the rescue of The Cat.

"The only method is this," said the provident matron, handing him as she spoke a little parcel of salt, "I always carry it, when I come down into these regions, and I never remain long. I only wish we could; for of an evening, the fire-flies are a wonder to behold, their illuminations, incredibly magnificent—but we must be going."

"I think, I'd trust the fire-flies to my imagination," said Barbie, "although this is the most marvellous, dreamland, sort of place I've ever seen!"

"Yes, a real tropical forest; and the vegetation is even more dense and splendid in the reserves."

"How I should like to have a day's shooting in one of them," said Geoffrey, "I daresay I'd get a brace of tiger, an elephant, and a bison."

"You'd also get into frightful trouble with the Government; even supposing the wild beasts let you off! The sacred groves are sacred!"

"It makes one think of the Old Testament," said Barbie, "of Baal, and sacrifices, groves, and high places."

"Yes, and they are held in the same superstitious veneration. A small portion of Lewis MacKenzie's estate encroaches on one of these holy places called 'Devera-Rudu,' and he has to pay a heavy indemnity. I believe there is no doubt, that not so very long ago these groves were the scenes of human sacrifices—even now, it is whispered that horrors take place in out-of-the-way holes and corners, under the cloak of fanaticism and secrecy."

"But what about the long arm of the law, and the police?" enquired Mallender.

"Oh, the police cannot have their eyes everywhere, certainly not in the depths of almost impenetrable forests. Some of these sacrifices are mistaken for murder, or even suicide; of course, I may be wrong, and these reserves, spotlessly innocent of anything worse than incantations, devil worship, and black magic."

"I see you have a pretty bad opinion of them!" rejoined Mallender, with a cheerful laugh.

"They look harmless enough, and what a glorious show of forest trees and jungle. I only wish I could get a 'permit' to shoot and I'd face anything, from wild dogs, to black magic!"

Occasionally the riding party was augmented by one or two neighbours, and tiffin or tea was despatched to some favourite rendezvous.

On a certain lovely afternoon, arrangements were made for a meeting at a celebrated spot, known as "The Window in the West," there to admire the prospect, subsequently enjoy a cold repast, and ride home by the light of a full moon. The Window of the West was sixteen miles from Kartairi, through oceans of luxuriant coffee, deep valleys, and dense sholahs, by narrow winding paths, ending in a long precipitous ascent—and then the view!

"It is well worth while," declared Mrs. Bourne, "though I must confess, I have only twice made this excursion; it's such an abominably bad road. When you reach a certain point, you arrive at an abrupt break in the mountains and look sheer down upon the plains, stretching away to the Indian Ocean. Coming out of a tangle of high rocks, ravines, and jungle, this view of the sea—is so sudden and unexpected, that for a moment it takes your breath away! You feel positively startled, and as if it was a sight you had never seen before. Humboldt, the traveller, who visited many lands, considered the prospect from MacCourty's Peak,—which is similar to our 'Window'—the finest in all the Universe, and I believe he is right."

"But what of the Himalayas?" questioned Mallender, "and the glories of the snows?"

"Oh, yes, I know; I've seen them from Darjeeling—the 'Roof of the World.' They are mighty, majestic, and overwhelming; but so aloof, and frozen, you cannot approach within forty miles of their footstool—they are almost as inaccessible as the stars! Here in Old Madras, in the midst of our soft blue mountains, you enter upon a land of sun and enchantment, you take your stand upon a carpet of flowers, and gaze across tropical forests, and rolling plains, to the far-away glittering sea! I remember the first time I looked out of the 'Window,'—I actually cried. Perhaps because the ocean lying within view, drew my thoughts towards home, and England—perhaps, because I seemed to catch a glimpse of Heaven!"

In a steep zig-zag path resembling a dried watercourse, Mrs. Bourne's pony cast a shoe. This was indeed a calamity, for Ibex had brittle hoofs, and had lost a fore shoe, such bad luck, and yet owing to this circumstance, the fate of Geoffrey and Barbie received a little push!

"It's a good two miles to the 'Window'—I dare not try it, unless I walk," said Mrs. Bourne, "the last bit is ghastly; so I'll just stop here, waylay the coolies, and make preparations for supper. I expect you will find Mr. Mack, and the Kennedys, and young Reekie, there before you. Of course, Barbie, you and Captain Mallender are to go on."

"What! and leave you here, all alone," objected Mallender, "certainly not."

"I'm not afraid; it's not the tiger season, and anyway, he'd take the pony first. Come, come, good people, don't waste time—the sun sets in half an hour."

"I intend to stay with you," said Barbie, "and we can take turns on The Cat, riding home."

"Be off at once, Barbie,", urged her friend authoritatively, "you had better ride up as far as possible, and Captain Mallender can leave The Duffer here, with the syce; if you go now, you will just be in time for the sunset,—and see it sinking into the sea."

So Barbie departed, escorted by Mallender. It proved a rugged climb, through slippery mossy rocks, tree roots, and shale. At last, quite suddenly, they arrived at a space, and stood as it were at the open casement of some high castle.

Barbie had dismounted from her pony, and the two remained momentarily transfixed, gazing on the evergreen forests which clothed the long roll downwards, to the undulating teeming plains; steeped in all the glamour of the tropics, a world of absolute peace and plenty lay at their feet. Beyond the plains, shimmering in the sunset, shone the sea: over all, there was a peculiar quality, which is best described as radiance, and the scene, the atmosphere, and spirit of the ocean, seemed somehow to grip one's heart.

Mallender continued to gaze for a long time in silence. It was the girl who spoke first.

"How wonderful! how exquisite! It's like the setting of a fairy-tale. It makes one feel——" she hesitated in search of an appropriate expression.

"And it makes one think," he supplemented.

"I believe I could guess your thoughts."

"Do, if you can," turning to her.

"As you looked at the sea, you felt a great, great, great longing to go home."

"I was watching that little black speck of a steamer, and I confess I'd like to go, for some reasons, in fact, I must go soon."

"Yes, and Mrs. Bourne has taken her passage for March, so as to be in time for the boys' Easter holidays."

"And you, Miss Miller?"

"Oh, as for me," striving to speak cheerfully, "I shall never see England again."

"But why not?"

"I have no home there; my mother has disowned me."

Mallender looked at Barbie the homeless; noticed her delicate profile, clear-cut against the sky, the sunlight catching the light in her loosened hair, the little sad, wistful mouth, the tears on her eyelashes; looked and cast all prudence figuratively out of the "Window," and to the four winds!

It was true that she had no home, nor had he. Well, all the same, he would ask her to share his life.

"Look here, Miss Miller—Barbie——" he began impulsively, "suppose you come home with me—or—or—if you will wait, I'll return, and make you a home out here."

"But I," growing very red, "don't understand."

"Of course, as usual, I'm a blundering ass, I am asking you to marry me."

Barbie was conscious of the quick throbbing of her heart, and a minute of silence stretched itself out into what seemed to Mallender an interminable period. At last she said:

"You are not in earnest?"

"I swear I am, and in deadly earnest. Barbie, my little Barbie, you don't know how I love you; or how desperately hard I have found it to hold my tongue. I thought I ought to wait, till I'd some sort of home to offer you; but whether it is seeing the sea again, or seeing your tears, or what—I've had to speak!"

Here the uninterested "Cat," anxiously desiring to graze, and bored by this talk, wrenched herself violently away.

"Of course," chucking the animal's head, "I'm not much of a chap. I've made an awful muddle of my affairs, and I'm hideously poor. Just now, I've no money."

"But I like you so much better without it," was Barbie's startling declaration.

"Oh, come, that's encouraging, but why?"

"When you were rich, you never took any notice of me,—till the day you picked me up on the maidan. You were always a sort of lofty glorified individual, who was a favourite at Government House, barred girls, and——"

"But, I say," he interrupted, "what a frightful accusation! I spotted you the very first night I dined at Fred's. You ask Nancy Brander; she told me you were engaged. That naturally put me off; and then afterwards, you know, you gave me the cold shoulder, didn't you?"

"Yes—I suppose I did," she admitted.

"And now," and he drew a long breath, "now I am asking you to give me yourself; it's a tall order, I know."

Barbie made no reply, but something more radiant than the afterglow flooded her soul, and filled her eyes with happy tears. From the first, she had felt irresistibly drawn to this young man, who stood before her bareheaded; and she asked no greater gift than that in him she might find a lover and a husband. Golden silence can be eloquent! Barbie's charming, expressive face spoke for her, and Mallender drew her unresisting towards him. Was anything in life comparable to the exquisite happiness of the moment, when her lips met his?

For an instant they stood hand in hand, and in expressive and rapturous silence. The whole thing was like a heavenly dream, from which however they were rudely aroused, by the sound of grumbling voices, scrambling feet, and scattering stones. In another moment Mr. MacKenzie and his young apprentice, Andrew Reekie (a merry-eyed Army failure, whose sunburnt face and violently red hair, had earned him the name of "the Blood Orange") were with them.

"So here you are!" gasped MacKenzie, as he took off his hat, and mopped his hot face, "by Jove, it's a stiff pull!—grand scene, though, grand!" as his eyes roved over the wonderful panorama, that fell from their feet; the teeming forests, the masses of palms, and thickets of bamboos. The sun was sinking into the west, and a rose and gold afterglow was reflected in the shining sea with indescribable effulgence.

"Yes," added MacKenzie when he had recovered his breath, "this view would take a good bit of beating. I wish the 'Window' was in Scotland, I'd run the show for tourists, and make a fortune! Hullo, where's Mallender gone to?"

"I think, to catch my pony, she has strayed away," said Barbie.

"Strayed away," repeated MacKenzie. "I'm afraid you were not looking after her, Miss Miller, too much taken up with the view, eh?"

"Yes, I confess I forgot all about her," was her truthful answer, "but The Cat is such a cunning creature; she knows how to take care of herself. Ah, I see she has been captured," as Mallender emerged, triumphantly leading an aggrieved animal, with her mouth full of succulent green food.

"Perhaps we had better be moving," suggested MacKenzie, "Mrs. Bourne gave us three-quarters of an hour to get here, and back to supper, and I think we shall just about do it! Of course, you won't ride down, Miss Miller; it's bad going, like broken stairs—Mallender can look after The Cat, and I'll take care of you."