Chapter III (2)

Julia and I halted afar off under a tree, preferring to wait for Abdul to chaperon us, ere we ran the gauntlet of the village streets. Time was getting on, the sun was setting; men were returning from the fields, driving bony bullocks before them; women were returning from the well, with water and the last bit of scandal; at last, to our great relief, we beheld Abdul approaching with the tonga, and our spirits rose, for we had begun to ask one another if we were to spend the night sitting on a stone under a tamarind tree without the village.

“No bullocks,” was Abdul’s explanation. The same tired pair had come on most reluctantly, and in this village of cats and cocks and hens it was the same story--“no bullocks.” Abdul brought us this heavy and unexpected intelligence after a long and animated interview with the head man of the place.

“What is to be done?” we demanded in a breath.

“Stop here all night; going on to-morrow.”

“Stop where?” we almost screamed.

“Over there,” rejoined Abdul, pointing to a grove of trees at some little distance. “There is a travellers’ bungalow; Chanda is twelve miles off.”

A travellers’ bungalow! Sure enough there was a building of some kind beyond the bamboos, and we lost no time in getting into the tonga and having ourselves driven in that direction. As we passed the village street, many came out and stared, and one old woman shook her hand in a warning manner, and called out something in a shrill cracked voice.

An avenue of feathery bamboos led to our destination, which proved to be the usual travellers’ rest-house, with white walls, red roof, and roomy verandah; but when we came closer, we discovered that the drive was as grass-grown as a field; jungle grew up to the back of the house, heavy wooden shutters closed all the windows, and the door was locked. There was a forlorn, desolate, dismal appearance about the place; it looked as if it had not been visited for years. In answer to our shouts and calls no one appeared; but, as we were fully resolved to spend the night there, we had the tonga unloaded and our effects placed in the verandah, the bullocks untackled and turned out among the long rank grass. At length an old man in dirty ragged clothes, and with a villainous expression of countenance, appeared from some back cook-house, and seemed anything but pleased to see us. When Abdul told him of our intention of occupying the house, he would not hear of it. “The bungalow was out of repair; it had not been opened for years; it was full of rats; it was unhealthy; plenty fever coming. We must go on to Chanda.”

Naturally we declined his hospitable suggestion. “Was he the khansamah--caretaker of the place?” we inquired imperiously.

“Yees,” he admitted with a grunt.

“Drawing government pay, and refusing to open a government travellers’ bungalow!” screamed Julia. “Let us have no more of this nonsense; open the house at once and get it ready for us, or I shall report you to the commissioner sahib.”

The khansamah gave her an evil look, said “Missus please,” shrugged his shoulders and hobbled away--as we hoped, to get the _key_; but after waiting ten minutes we sent Abdul to search for him, and found that he had departed--his lair was empty. There was nothing for it but to break the padlock on the door, which Abdul effected with a stone, and as soon as the door moved slowly back on its hinges Julia and I hurried in. What a dark, damp place! What a smell of earth, and what numbers of bats; they flew right in our faces as we stood in the doorway and tried to make out the interior. Abdul and the bullock-man quickly removed the shutters and let in the light, and then we beheld the usual dâk sitting-room--a table, chairs, and two charpoys (native beds), and an old pair of candlesticks; the table and chairs were covered with mould; cobwebs hung from the ceiling in dreadful festoons, and the walls were streaked with dreary green stains. I could not restrain an involuntary shudder as I looked about me rather blankly.

“I should think this _was_ an unhealthy place!” I remarked to Julia. “It looks feverish; and see--the jungle comes right up to the back verandah; fever plants, castor-oil plants, young bamboos, all growing up to the very walls.”

“It will do very well for to-night,” she returned. “Come out and walk down the road whilst Abdul and the bullock-man clean out the rooms and get dinner. Abdul is a wonderful man--and we won’t know the place in an hour’s time; it’s just the same as any other travellers’ bungalow, only it has been neglected for years. I shall certainly report that old wretch! The _idea_ of a dâk bungalow caretaker refusing admittance and running away with the key! What is the name of this place?” she asked, deliberately taking out her pocket-book; “did you hear?”

“Yes; I believe it is called Dakor.”

“Ah, well! I shall not forget to tell Frank about the way we were treated at Dakor bungalow.”

The red, red sun had set at last--gone down, as it were, abruptly behind the flat horizon; the air began to feel chilly, and the owl and the jackal were commencing to make themselves heard, so we sauntered back to the bungalow, and found it indeed transformed: swept and garnished, and clean. The table was neatly laid for dinner, and one of our own fine hurricane lamps blazed upon it; our beds had been made up with our rugs and blankets, one at either end of the room; hot water and towels were prepared in a bath-room, and we saw a roaring fire in the cook-house in the jungle. Dinner, consisting of a sudden-death fowl, curry, bread, and _pâté de foie gras_, was, to our unjaded palates, an excellent meal. Our spirits rose to normal, the result of food and light, and we declared to one another that this old bungalow was a capital find, and that it was really both comfortable and cheerful, despite a slight _arrière pensée_ of _earth_ in the atmosphere!

Before going to bed we explored the next room, a smaller one than that we occupied, and empty save for a rickety camp table, which held some dilapidated crockery and a press. Need you ask if we opened this press? The press smelt strongly of mushrooms, and contained a man’s topee, inch-deep with mould, a tiffin basket, and the bungalow visitors’ book. We carried this away with us to read at leisure, for the visitors’ book in dâk bungalows occasionally contains some rather amusing observations. There was nothing funny in _this_ musty old volume! Merely a statement of who came, and how long they stayed, and what they paid, with a few remarks, not by any means complimentary to the khansamah: “A dirty, lazy rascal,” said one; “A murderous-looking ruffian,” said another; “An insolent, drunken hound,” said a third--the last entry was dated seven years previously.

“Let us write our names,” said Julia, taking out her pencil; “‘Mrs. Goodchild and Mrs. Loyd, December 23rd. Bungalow deserted, and very dirty khansamah.’ What shall we say?” she asked, glancing at me interrogatively.

“Why, there he is!” I returned with a little jump; and there he was sure enough, gazing in through the window. It was the face of some malicious animal, more than the face of a man, that glowered out beneath his filthy red turban. His eyes glared and rolled as if they would leave their sockets; his teeth were fangs, like dogs’ teeth, and stood out almost perpendicularly from his hideous mouth. He surveyed us for a few seconds in savage silence, and then melted away into the surrounding darkness as suddenly as he appeared.

“He reminds me of the Cheshire cat in ‘Alice in Wonderland,’” said Julia with would-be facetiousness, but I noticed that she looked rather pale.

“Let us have the shutters up at once,” I replied, “and have them well barred and the doors bolted. That man looked as if he could cut our throats.”

In a very short time the house was made fast. Abdul and the bullock-man spread their mats in the front verandah, and Julia and I retired for the night. Before going to bed we had a controversy about the lamp. I wished to keep it burning all night (I am a coward at heart), but Julia would not hear of this--impossible for her to sleep with a light in the room--and in the end I was compelled to be content with a candle and matches on a chair beside me. I fell asleep very soon. I fancy I must have slept long and soundly, when I was awoke by a bright light shining in my eyes. So, after the ridiculous fuss she had made, Julia _had_ lit the candle after all! This was my first thought, but when I was fully awake I found I was mistaken, or dreaming. No, I was not dreaming, for I pinched my arm and rubbed my eyes. There was a man in the room, apparently another traveller, who appeared to be totally unaware of our vicinity, and to have made himself completely at home. A gun-case, a tiffin basket, a bundle of pillows and rugs--the usual Indian traveller’s belongings--lay carelessly scattered about on the chairs and the floor. I leant up on my elbow and gazed at the intruder in profound amazement. He did not notice me, no more than if I had no existence; true, my charpoy was in a corner of the room and rather in the shade, so was Julia’s. Julia was sound asleep and (low be it spoken) snoring. The stranger was writing a letter at the table facing me. Both candles were drawn up close to him, and threw a searching light upon his features. He was young and good-looking, but very, very pale; possibly he had just recovered from some long illness. I could not see his eyes, they were bent upon the paper before him; his hands, I noticed, were well shaped, white, and very thin. He wore a signet-ring on the third finger of the left hand, and was dressed with a care and finish not often met with in the jungle. He wore some kind of light Norfolk jacket and a blue bird’s-eye tie. In front of him stood an open despatch-box, very shabby and scratched, and I could see that the upper tray contained a stout roundabout bag, presumably full of rupees, a thick roll of notes, and a gold watch. When I had deliberately taken in every item, the unutterable calmness of this stranger, thus establishing himself in our room, came home to me most forcibly, and clearing my throat I coughed--a clear decided cough of expostulation, to draw his attention to the enormity of the situation. It had no effect--he must be stone-deaf! He went on writing as indefatigably as ever. What he was writing was evidently a pleasant theme, possibly a love-letter, for he smiled as he scribbled. All at once I observed that the door was ajar. Two faces were peering in--a strange servant in a yellow turban, with cruel, greedy eyes, and _the khansamah_! Their gaze was riveted on the open despatch-box, the money, the roll of notes, and the watch. Presently the traveller’s servant stole up behind his master noiselessly, and seemed to hold his breath; he drew a long knife from his sleeve. At this moment the stranger raised his eyes and looked at me. Oh, what a sad, strange look! a look of appeal. The next instant I saw the flash of the knife--it was buried in his back; he fell forward over his letter with a crash and a groan, and all was darkness. I tried to scream, but I could not. My tongue seemed paralyzed. I covered my head up in the clothes, and oh, how my heart beat! thump, thump, thump--surely _they_ must hear it, and discover me. Half suffocated, at length I ventured to peer out for a second. All was still, black darkness. There was nothing to be seen, but much to be heard--the dragging of a heavy body, a _dead_ body, across the room; then, after an appreciable pause, the sounds of digging outside the bungalow. Finally, the splashing of water--_some one washing the floor_. When I awoke the next morning, or came to myself--for I believe I had fainted--daylight was demanding admittance at every crevice in the shutters; night, its dark hours and its horrors, was past. The torture, the agony of fear, that had held me captive, had now released me, and, worn out, I fell fast asleep. It was actually nine o’clock when I opened my eyes. Julia was standing over me and shaking me vigorously, and saying, “Nellie, Nellie, wake; I’ve been up and out this two hours; I’ve seen the head man of the village.”

“Have you?” I assented sleepily.

“Yes, and he says there are no bullocks to be had until to-morrow; we must pass another night here.”

“Never!” I almost shrieked. “Never! Oh, Julia, I’ve had such a night. I’ve seen a murder!” And straightway I commenced, and told her of my awful experiences. “That khansamah murdered him. He is buried just outside the front step,” I concluded tearfully. “Sooner than stay here another night I’ll _walk_ to Chanda.”

“Ghosts! murders! walk to Chanda!” she echoed scornfully. “Why, you silly girl, did _I_ not sleep here in this very room, and sleep as sound as a top? It was all the _pâté de foie gras_. You _know_ it never agrees with you.”

“I know nothing about _pâté de foie gras_,” I answered angrily; “but I know what I saw. Sooner than sleep another night in this room I’d _die_. I might as well--for such another night would kill me!”

Bath, breakfast, and Julia brought me round to a certain extent. I thought better of tearing off to Chanda alone and on foot, especially as we heard (per coolie) that our respective husbands would be with us the next morning--Christmas Day. We spent the day cooking, exploring the country, and writing for the English mail. As night fell, I became more and more nervous, and less amenable to Julia and Julia’s jokes. I would sleep in the verandah; either there, or in the compound. In the bungalow again--_never_. An old witch of a native woman, who was helping Abdul to cook, agreed to place her mat in the same locality as my mattress, and Julia Goodchild valiantly occupied the big room within, alone. In the middle of the night I and my protector were awoke by the most piercing, frightful shrieks. We lit a candle and ran into the bungalow, and found Julia lying on the floor in a dead faint. She did not come round for more than an hour, and when she opened her eyes she gazed about her with a shudder and displayed symptoms of going off again, so I instantly hunted up our flask and administered some raw brandy, and presently she found her tongue and attacked the old native woman quite viciously.

“Tell the truth about this place!” she said fiercely. “What is it that is here, in this room?”

“Devils,” was the prompt and laconic reply.

“Nonsense! Murder has been done here; tell the truth.”

“How I knowing?” she whined. “I only poor native woman.”

“An English sahib was murdered here seven years ago; stabbed and dragged out, and buried under the steps.”

“Ah, bah! ah, bah! How I telling? this not my country,” she wailed most piteously.

“Tell all you know,” persisted Julia. “You _do_ know! My husband is coming to-day; he is a police officer. You had better tell _me_ than him.”

After much whimpering and hand-wringing, we extracted the following information in jerks and quavers:--

The bungalow had a bad name, no one ever entered it, and in spite of the wooden shutters there were _lights_ in the windows every night up to twelve o’clock. One day (so the villagers said), many years ago, a young sahib came to this bungalow and stayed three days. He was alone. He was in the Forest Department. The last evening he sent his horses and servants on to Chanda, and said he would follow in the morning after having some shooting, he and his “boy;” but though his people waited two weeks, he never appeared--was never seen again. The khansamah declared that he and his servant had left in the early morning, but no one met them. The khansamah became suddenly very rich; said he had found a treasure; also, he sold a fine gold watch in Jubbulpore, and took to drink. He had a bad name, and the bungalow had a bad name. No one would stay there more than one night, and no one had stayed there for many years till _we_ came. The khansamah lived in the cook-house; he was _always_ drunk. People said there were devils in the house, and no one would go near it after sundown. This was all she knew.

“Poor fellow, he was so good-looking!” sighed Julia when we were alone. “Poor fellow, and he was murdered and buried here!”

“So I told you,” I replied, “and you would not believe me, but insisted on staying to see for yourself.”

“I wish I had not--oh, I wish I had not! I shall never, never forget last night as long as I live.”

“That must have been _his_ topee and tiffin basket that we saw in the press,” I exclaimed. “As soon as your husband comes, we will tell him everything, and set him on the track of the murderers.”

Breakfast on Christmas morning was a very doleful meal; our nerves were completely shattered by our recent experiences, and we could only rouse ourselves up to offer a very melancholy sort of welcome to our two husbands, when they cantered briskly into the compound. In reply to their eager questions as to the cause of our lugubrious appearance, pale faces, and general air of mourning, we favoured them with a vivid description of our two nights in the bungalow. Of course, they were loudly, rudely incredulous, and, of course, _we_ were very angry; vainly we re-stated our case, and displayed the old topee and tiffin basket; they merely laughed still more heartily and talked of “nightmare,” and gave themselves such airs of offensive superiority, that Julia’s soul flew to arms.

“Look here,” she cried passionately, “_I_ laughed at Nellie as you laugh at _us_. We will go out of this compound, whilst you two dig, or get people to dig, below the front verandah and in front of the steps, and if you don’t find the skeleton of a murdered man, then you may laugh at us for ever.”

With Julia impulse meant action, and before I could say three words I was out of the compound, with my arm wedged under hers; we went and sat on a little stone bridge within a stone’s throw of the bungalow, glum and silent enough. What a Christmas Day! Half an hour’s delay was as much as Julia’s patience could brook. We then retraced our steps and discovered what seemed to be the whole village in the dâk bungalow compound. Frank came hurrying towards us, waving us frantically away. No need for questions; his face was enough. They had found it.

* * * * *

Frank Goodchild had known him--he was in his own department, a promising and most popular young fellow; his name was Gordon Forbes; he had been missed but never traced, and there was a report that he had been gored and killed in the jungle by a wild buffalo. In the same grave was found the battered despatch-box, by which the skeleton was identified. Mr. Goodchild and my husband re-interred the body under a tree, and read the Burial Service over it, Nellie and I and all the village patriarchs attending as mourners. The khansamah was eagerly searched for--alas! in vain. He disappeared from that part of the country, and was said to have been devoured by a tiger in the Jhanas jungles; but this is too good to be true. We left the hateful bungalow with all speed that same afternoon, and spent the remainder of the Christmas Day at Chanda; it was the least merry Christmas we ever remembered. The Goodchilds and ourselves have subscribed and placed a granite cross, with his name and the date of his death, over Gordon Forbes’s lonely grave, and the news of the discovery of the skeleton was duly forwarded to the proper authorities, and also to the unfortunate young man’s relations, and to these were sent the despatch-box, letters, and ring.

Mrs. Duff was full of curiosity concerning our trip. We informed her that we spent Christmas at Chanda, as we had originally intended, with our husbands, that they had provided an excellent dinner of black buck and jungle fowl, that the plum-pudding surpassed all expectations; but we never told her a word about our two nights’ halt at Dakor bungalow.

“_THE OTHER MISS BROWNE._”

“Here’s my hand.
And mine, with my heart in’t.”

_The Tempest._

Tom Galway (of the Princess’s Own Pea Green Pioneers) had evidently some weighty matter on his mind, as he lounged in a long chair in his verandah, nursing a veteran fox-terrier, and puffing furiously at a “Trichy” cheroot. Perhaps Tom was endeavouring to accustom himself to his new honours? His step was in that day’s _Gazette_, and for the last four hours he had been entitled to write “captain” at either end of his signature. He was a broad-shouldered, well set-up young man of eight-and-twenty, with sleepy-looking grey eyes, closely-cropped black hair, and a luxuriant moustache; his countenance was more remarkable for placid contentment than for brilliant intelligence. To tell the honest truth, Tom was not particularly sharp; he had only scraped through his examinations and mastered the drill-book by what he called “the skin of his teeth,” and with extraordinary (and to him) exhaustive mental exertions. His best friend never thought Tom Galway clever, but he was sporting, good-natured, and good-tempered. He never made a joke at any one’s expense--possibly because he could not--and he never said an ill word of mortal; he was slow, his thoughts moved languidly and took some time to grasp a subject; his blunders, literary and social, were the delight of the mess; but he was a reliable officer, a keen sportsman, and “Old Tom” was one of the most popular fellows in the “Princess’s Own Pioneers.” Tom was in the unfortunate condition common to a few other subalterns--Tom was impecunious; he did not gamble, bet, or drink; he kept no stud beyond a gaunt old caster, who enjoyed the appropriate name of “Barebones;” his clothes were latterly--tell it not in Gath--manufactured in his own verandah. Where the money went to was one of the desperate problems that frequently puzzled poor Tom; not that there was so _much_ to go--two hundred and fifty rupees a month. Innocent British reader, if you like to do a nice little mental sum, a rupee is one shilling and threepence. Alas! alas! for the good old days, when the beloved coin was worth two shillings; woe, woe to those who have to remit money home. Luckily, Tom Galway was spared _this_ harrowing experience. Of what was Tom thinking so earnestly? Of the burning currency question? Of his debts? Of his new responsibilities? Whatever his thoughts were, they suddenly culminated in action, for he cast away his cheroot, flung down the dog, went into the interior of his bungalow, dragged out a well-preserved leather writing-case and sat himself down before it. At this moment another young man, riding a lean chestnut pony, and dressed in cricket flannels and a gaudy striped coat, galloped up under the porch, as if he was being hotly pursued by a pack of wolves. Throwing the reins to a panting syce, he shouted--

“Hullo, Tom, so there you are! I’ve just come from the mess. I’ve told them to put the champagne in ice for to-night.”

“For what?” asked Tom, with a vacant look.

“Why, man alive, you’ve got to stand it! What are you mooning about? Did you not get your company to-day?”

“Oh! of course; of course, to be sure,” assented Tom, eagerly.

“What are you about; aren’t you coming down to rackets?”

“No; it’s mail day,” protested Tom rather sheepishly.

“Bosh! Why, you know you never write a letter, you old humbug.”

“Well, any way, I’m going to write one _now_, so clear.”

“To our mutual tailor? Give him my kind regards, and tell him that he will be paid in the coming by-and-by, and meanwhile to send you a couple of new suits.”

“I don’t owe him a penny,” said Tom, biting the end of his pen. “I’ve cleared _him_ off, thank goodness.”

“Wish I could say the same,” said his comrade, hitching himself up on the corner of the table. “Maybe you are thinking of _another_ kind of suit? I see my brilliant wit is thrown away on you! but you’ve heard of a law suit, eh, and of a love suit? He’s blushing, I declare--he can’t look me in the face. By Jove, he’s in love!”

“Look here, Jack,” said Tom, who certainly had become a shade redder, “can you stop your tomfoolery for once, and listen to me rationally for five minutes? I’m--ahem--I’m--thinking--of--getting married!”

At this announcement, Jack bounded off the table, rushed to the door, and placing both hands to his mouth, gave a wild view halloa that made the neighbouring compounds ring, and threw “Topper,” the terrier, into a paroxysm of excitement.

Having thus relieved his feelings, he turned quite gravely to his friend, drew up a chair, and leaning both elbows on the table, said--

“Tell us all about it, old chappie, but break it to me very gently, if it’s one of our Blazapore spins.”

“No, no; no fear--she is at home.”

“I suppose your new-made honours have put THIS into your head?” said Jack, surveying his chum with gaping half-contemptuous amazement.

“No--it has been in my head this long time; but, you see, I could not afford to marry.”

“Has _she_ no coin?”

“Not a penny.”

“Come! that’s bad--and mind you, a captain’s pay is not a mine of wealth.”

“She is not extravagant--neither am I--we shall do as well as our neighbours.”

“I hope so,” said the other, dubiously; “but who _is_ she?”

“First of all, promise that you won’t go tearing round the station telling every one.”

“Am I a cackling old woman!” demanded Jack, indignantly.

“Well, you remember when we were quartered at Baymouth--you recollect the two Miss Brownes?”

“Yes, to be sure I do--aunt and niece; aunt, rather ancient, voice like a peacock, smart frocks, pots of money; niece, pretty, and of course, penniless.”

“It’s the niece,” said Tom, almost in a whisper.

“So I should _hope_. I am glad to find that I have cultivated your taste to some purpose. I wish she had a few thousands and I would give you my consent, and maybe, a wedding present.”

“Your consent is not going to be asked for.”

“And how long has this been going on, you sly dog? Are you engaged to her?”

“No such luck. I could not well invite her to share a subaltern’s pay. She is not married yet, I know, and I’m going to write to her this mail, and ask her to be----”

“Mrs. Galway! Hooroo, hooray! And owner of Bungalow No. 25, two cane chairs, one camp table, one fox-terrier dog, aged, ditto bay horse, deaf and blind----”

“Shut up, will you, you young idiot?” said his friend, impatiently. “I know that her aunt leads her a devil of a life, and to come out to a home of her own would be a merciful release. You see she is companion, ladies’ maid, gooseberry, and scapegoat. Poor girl, she has had hard lines.”

“I remember Miss Browne, Senior--she was at every ball and tennis-party in the place,” observed Jack Murray, thoughtfully. “The niece was always kept well in the background. I was rather interested in the niece _myself_, but her aunt declared she hated society and had other engagements.”

“Her other engagements were sitting at home, darning stockings or crying her eyes out,” said Captain Galway. “Her aunt is a Tartar, if ever there was one. A soured, ill-natured, hypocritical old cat.”

“All the same she is a well-gilt old cat. Has heaps of coin. I wonder if she will give her niece a dowry?”

“If she gives her her passage money I shall be agreeably surprised,” was the prompt reply.

“Well, now, I suppose you want to write _the_ letter, and I won’t disturb you,” said Jack Murray, rising, “unless I can be of any assistance? Eh?”

“No, thank you”--very gruffly.

“Mind you say what you _mean_, and don’t make a mull of the whole concern. ’Pon my word, I think you had better let me draft you a copy.”

For an answer his comrade took up a volume of the Queen’s Regulations and shied it at Jack, who, ducking his head, just evaded the missile, and, with another ear-splitting screech, mounted his barrack tat, and gleefully decamped.

* * * * *

Jack was a merry subaltern, whose gaiety never knew a cloud, whose face was never overcast, and who found existence intensely amusing, thoroughly enjoyed life, and the pleasures, excitements, duties, and diversions that it brought him.

It was no easy matter to Tom Galway to indite any letter--much less a love-letter. (His departed friend could have knocked off a _billet-doux_ in less than five minutes.) How he bit the end of his pen, how he tore up sheet after sheet of the best crested regimental notepaper, how he wished he had taken Jack Murray’s offer, I will not linger to relate. In the end, he contrived to concoct and finish a missive, and was so completely exhausted and done up, that he was obliged to relieve his flagging faculties with a stiff whisky and soda.

“A letter like that takes it out of a fellow frightfully!” muttered Tom, mopping his forehead. “However, it’s done, and off my mind.”

He was a person of slow mental evolution; he had been deliberating over this step for months, and he had taken it at last. He dressed, carried the letter over to the mess, saw it placed in the post-bag and started on the first stage of its long journey. He stood and looked after the letter-corporal with an unusually solemn face. Would he recall the epistle if he could? No, no; ten thousand times, no. Nevertheless, between the important invitation just despatched and the responsibility of being actually captain of F company, our hero was considerably sobered, and that night at mess his silence and abstraction, despite several beakers of his own champagne, was the subject of unlimited remark and chaff. He did not fire up at the news of a polo scurry, nor join a tug-of-war with one of the punkah ropes, nor even jump at the proposal to put a buffalo calf into Major Pratt’s bed! [N.B.--Major Pratt was dining elsewhere. He was a little, lean, hungry-looking man, with a sharp nose and red moustache, adored by his regiment, and the idol of the fair sex--according to his own account. A less partial view was taken by the world, but is not that generally the case? Men who had a good opportunity of knowing the major, said that he was as deep as a draw-well; that he shirked his work; that he funked riding, and that he was a regular little screw! The fair sex said--but no matter! it is enough for me to chronicle that they did not accept him at his own valuation.]

Weeks rolled by, and then one happy, happy day the post-office peon, with his tri-coloured turban, brought Captain Galway a telegram, that had come all the way from England! It was brief, to the point, and most satisfactory, and said--

“Yes--letter follows.--L. Browne.”

Tom showed this precious document to Jack Murray with undisguised triumph, for Jack had been dubious of the answer, and when his chum had talked, in foolishly sanguine moments, of “doing up the garden” and “buying a piano, which was going a dead bargain,” Jack had thrown cold water on these designs, and said, “I would not be so dead sure, that she will come, my Thomas! It strikes me that you are counting your chickens before they are hatched.”

Tom never argued the point, but frequently refreshed his hopes by contemplating a certain photograph and a withered bunch of forget-me-nots, that lay hidden in the recesses of his battered old desk, and said to himself, “She will come right enough.”

Undeniably men are vain creatures.

After this auspicious telegram, Jack was silenced. His friend was magnanimous, and did not say, “I told you so,” but he laboured diligently in the garden, he bought the piano, he took his colonel’s wife into his confidence, and he talked so incessantly of “her”--of “Lily”--that Jack was seriously thinking of dissolving partnership and moving into another bungalow. Of course, when it was noised abroad that Tom Galway--Tom Galway! who did not know “God save the Queen” from the “Dead March” in _Saul_--had purchased a piano, and that the instrument was actually on view, in his barn-like abode, there was no need for Tom to make any further announcement to his brother officers or the station. It was plain that Tom was going to be married! Naturally he was the legitimate object of any amount of chaff, which chaff he bore with his usual phlegmatic good humour and a broad grin of ridiculous complacency.

He had now received two precious letters from Lily; she announced that she was making arrangements for coming out with some friends immediately, as it was a good opportunity that might not occur again. She had taken her passage in the P. and O. _Chusan_, and would be in Bombay early in November.

A portion of this was imparted to Jack, but bits were skipped here and there, in a highly suspicious manner.

“I suppose she says nothing of the _aunt_?” inquired Mr. Murray, sarcastically.

“Not a word. The letters are short”

“Short and _sweet_, eh? Well, the only drawback that _I_ see is old Miss Browne! She will be worse than a mother-in-law.”

“Not with the seas between us,” retorted Tom emphatically.

“She might come _out_,” suggested Jack. “By Jove! do you know that I used to think she was rather sweet on you _herself_, eh?”

“Bosh,” said Tom, reddening. The same idea had once occurred to his slower intelligence, only to be angrily repudiated. “She might be my mother, you young donkey.” All the same, he had vivid recollections of when he would fain have sauntered round the gardens with Lily--it was the aunt, who had held him in agreeable dalliance; it was _she_ who picked flowers and placed them in his button-hole with her own white fingers and a girlish simper; it was she who asked for his photograph, who kept him a prisoner in close _tête-à-tête_ at tennis-parties and dances, whilst his whole mind was on the rack to know what had become of Lily. At first he had thought Miss Browne a harmless, vain, loquacious old maid; but subsequently he overheard sharp, bitter speeches to her niece; he had seen Lily’s tears, her constant humiliations; had contrasted her dowdy old dresses with her aunt’s brilliant toilettes, and had come to the conclusion that Miss Browne was a selfish, scheming vixen, and that he could not endure the sight of her. As time went on, Bungalow 25 became quite transformed, thanks to Mrs. Cornwall, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, who gave not only sympathy and useful hints, but practical assistance: pretty furniture was picked up and covered with new cretonne, curtains were hung in doorways, new matting was laid down, pictures were disposed on the walls, a pony cart, side saddle, cook and ayah, were figuratively laid in. Miss Browne was to be received by Mrs. Cornwall, and married from her house; in the monotonous cantonment life at Blazapore, the arrival of Captain Galway’s pretty young bride was awaited with extraordinary interest.

* * * * *

Miss Browne, Senior (Christian name, Lavinia), had been a beauty in her day, and still possessed some remains of her former good looks; she was now upwards of forty, but, with a youthful figure, well-cut gowns, and smart little bonnets, might be taken for five-and-thirty--especially in a veil, or with her back to the light. Many people wondered that she was not married, and no one was more astonished at this omission than Miss Browne herself. Of course, she had refused scores of offers--fifty-nine altogether--and had had two heart-breaking disappointments. This she imparted to her friends, naturally in the strictest confidence. She also informed them that nothing would induce her to marry now; her affections were in the grave, and all she had to live for was her niece--a strange, eccentric, impassive girl, who detested society. Now, Miss Browne herself was ordered “cheerful surroundings” by her medical man, and to be a great deal in the open air, with lively, pleasant associates, and to take moderately active exercise; as, for instance, tennis-playing and dancing, and to indulge in change of scene, and the best and soundest Burgundy. She was rather partial to the military, and made no secret of her taste. Her solid-looking, comfortable detached house was always open to the officers (unmarried) of the garrison; not merely for miserable little afternoon teas, but good substantial luncheons and well-cooked dinners. At these Miss Browne presided in ravishing toilettes, and with the airs of a belle of twenty. She was generally supported by one or two mature matrons, but her niece was never present--to tell the honest truth, she was marshalling the dishes in the back hall, or occupied in the kitchen.

One autumn morning Miss Browne came down to breakfast, unlocked the post-bag, and took out the letters. She was not in a genial humour. It was a raw kind of day, and her dressmaker’s bill had been a disagreeable surprise. What was this thin epistle, an Indian letter?

“_Miss Browne, The Grove._”

Her face became rather red; then she tore it open, and after glancing at the signature, proceeded to devour it. It ran as follows:--

“DEAR MISS BROWNE,

“I wish I might put _my_ dear Miss Browne, but I hope the answer to
this letter will give me that delightful privilege” (Tom had thought
this a very neat and effective opening). “I have not seen you for
nearly two years, but I have heard of you through the Covingtons,
and that you are _still unmarried_. Absence has made the heart grow
fonder in my case. I trust it has been the same in yours--at least,
that you have not forgotten _me_, and those jolly days we spent
together the year before last. I have just got my company, and I
write the same day to ask you to be my wife. I can now offer you a
comfortable home, and I am sure you would like India. If you could
come out this cold weather, and marry me in Bombay, I should esteem
it an honour.”

This sentence seemed somewhat cold and commonplace to Tom, so he added--

“Darling Miss Browne, you knew that I adored you, but dared not speak
sooner; if you love me, come out as soon as ever you can, and make
Blazapore a paradise--For yours most faithfully,

“TOM GALWAY.

“P.S.--I have the forget-me-nots still.”

Miss Browne perused this effusion with a very high colour, and equally mingled portions of emotion, astonishment, and rapture! Now and then she paused to re-read a sentence, as if she could not believe her _eyes_. An offer of marriage! To go to India to be Mrs. Tom Galway! Her brain was in a whirl. What an unexpected summons! What would the Robinsons say, and the Fishers, and the Smiths? What bliss! what triumph! Visions of a superb trousseau, of India, elephants, palm trees, wedding-cake, and a sea voyage, all flashed through her mind. Suddenly she looked over at her pretty, pale niece, who was pouring out the coffee, and said rather sharply--

“Lily?”

“Yes, aunt?” lifting a pair of lovely brown eyes.

“You remember an officer who was here the summer before last; he was in the Pioneers, and paid me a great deal of attention--Tom Galway?”

Lily nodded; she had now become extremely red.

“I have just had a letter from him.”

“A letter!” she echoed in a faint voice.

“Yes--containing an offer of marriage.”

“For----” began the girl, and then she stopped.

“For _me_, of course,” said her aunt, suddenly standing up and dusting the crumbs off her apron. “Who else do you suppose?”

Poor Lily! the colour sank quickly from her cheeks, she was now as white as the table-cloth. Miserable girl! her little love idyl had been brief, uncertain, and uncomfortable--guiltily snatched moments of conversation--secret gifts of flowers--stealthy promises--incoherent farewells. She liked Tom Galway, good-looking, good-tempered, stupid Tom--her one hope had been that he would return and claim her when he got his company. He had not said so--in so many words--but somehow it was understood, and when they parted she had given him a little bunch of forget-me-nots, and he--he had kissed her hand! but then, of course, Tom was notoriously stupid. He had certainly paid court to her aunt; he had been obliged to walk and talk with her, to gain a footing in the Grove at _all_, and in this Tom displayed unusual craft. Now all the time he had been in earnest, as regarded Aunt Lavinia!--for she was rich and he was poor--and he had only been amusing himself with _her_. Oh, faithless--faithless--mercenary Tom!

“Well, have you _nothing_ to say?” demanded Miss Browne rather shrilly. “How different you are to other girls! Why don’t you come round and kiss me, and congratulate me, eh?”

Lily rose--certainly Lily was a stoic--and came and laid a marble cheek against her aunt’s highly artistic skin.

“I--I--I--hope you will be happy, Aunt Lavinia,” she faltered.

“I’m _sure_ I shall. Captain Galway is good-tempered, handsome, and passionately attached to me. You may make your mind quite easy about my future. Why do you look so white and odd? Is there one drawback? Come--speak out!”

“Don’t you--don’t you--think he is rather--rather----”

“What?” she snapped explosively.

“Rather--young?”

“Young! Why he is past thirty, nearly my own age.” (Oh, come! Miss Browne.) “Young! Rubbish. The Queen was older than Prince Albert. Well, I can’t stay here talking all day. I must send off a telegram. I must run across and tell the Smiths and Joneses, and call in at Miss Tuck’s about the trousseau. You might go round and look up that woman who comes out sewing by the day. By-the-by, what’s to be done with _you_? Tom never thought of that--foolish fellow! he is so taken up with _me_. I’ll send you to board in some respectable quiet family--or a finishing school--or somewhere.”

Then Miss Browne, Senior, set about her preparations with inconceivable promptitude, and despatched the telegram and letters which threw Tom Galway into such a transport of happiness.

The _Chusan_ arrived in Bombay two days before her time, and “Miss Browne” was among the passengers; her toilettes were Parisian, and her airs and assumption of youth were more ridiculous than ever. She displayed Tom’s photograph in dead secrecy to about fifteen different ladies, who marvelled at this handsome young man’s infatuation, and subsequently nodded, and giggled among themselves and said, “_Money_.”

The yearly inspection was in full swing at Blazapore, so Tom had not the smallest chance of getting leave to meet his _fiancée_ at Bombay. She was expected to arrive in three days’ time, and all preparations for her reception were nearly completed. Tom had had a long spell at musketry on the ranges, and was resting himself in his own verandah when Jack Murray arrived at a gallop.

“I say, Tom! Look alive!” he began breathlessly. “She’s come!”

“Who? Who has come?” said Tom, jumping to his feet.

“Why, she--Lily--Miss Browne. She drove up to the Cornwalls’ just now--a strange lady, pretty figure, thick white gauze veil. So hurry up! Hurry up!”

No need to repeat this injunction; Tom was already in his own apartment, tearing off his dusty uniform, and shouting to his chokra for his boots, his best suit, and a clean shirt. It was almost dusk when he arrived at his colonel’s bungalow and was met by Mrs. Cornwall in the verandah.

“She will be in the drawing-room directly,” she whispered mysteriously. “She has had a cup of tea, and is taking off her hat; the _Chusan_ came in before her time.”

“What do you think of her, Mrs. Cornwall?” asked Tom impulsively, colouring as he spoke. “Isn’t she the prettiest girl you ever saw?”

Mrs. Cornwall coughed nervously, and replied, “Never mind all that _now_. Go into the drawing-room. _I_ shall not intrude. Mind, you are to come to dinner.”

Tom passed onward without another word. The drawing-room was darkish, but he made out a slim white figure, that rose quickly at his entrance; ere he could distinguish more she was folded in his arms.

“Oh, Tom! dear Tom!” she exclaimed rapturously.

_What_ voice was this? He drew back instinctively, and met Miss Browne’s cold grey eyes smiling up into his face; he glanced sharply round the room and faltered out, “Where--where is she--where is Lily?”

“Why, dearest? What an _odd_ question! She is at home, of course, at Clifton.”

“Not--not--coming?” he stammered. As the awful situation assumed a mental shape his very blood seemed turned to ice.

“No--certainly not. We shall be _far_ happier by ourselves, dear, and you said nothing about her--never named her.”

“Never named her?” Was he going stark staring mad?

“By-and-by we will have her out, and get her married, if we can!” and she laughed as much as to say, “Easier said than done!”

It was dusk--the expression of amazement, horror, and dismay which passed over Tom’s features during this remarkable scene were completely lost on Miss Browne. Happy Miss Browne!

“Tom,” she said, “how odd you are! But you _were_ always rather silent and undemonstrative. Are you not glad to see me? Think of the thousands of miles _I_ have come to see _you_.” And as she spoke she laid her head confidingly against his shoulder.

“I--I--was out in the sun to-day, and my head feels queer,” he said, drawing back.

Poor Tom was going through the most awful moment of his life, and surely an unrivalled experience. But Tom was a gentleman, and could not bring himself to divulge the real truth.

“You must be tired,” he stammered with a desperate effort. “I’ll see you again, at dinner.” And without further remark he walked hastily out of the room.

“Hullo! What’s _this_?” inquired Jack Murray, as to his intense amazement he discovered his friend sitting in his bedroom, before his dressing-table. “Back already! Why are you not sunning yourself in the smiles of beauty?”

Then he caught a glimpse of his friend’s face. It was ghastly white. And, lo! on the table before him were arranged a revolver, and a case of razors!

“I’m taking my choice,” said Tom in a hoarse voice. “It must be one or the other.”

Jack Murray was justly alarmed at the expression of his eye, but did not lose his head for a second.

“What is it?” he asked coolly, reaching over and pocketing the razors. “The sun, acting on confirmed softening of the brain? or have you had a row _already_?”

“Row! Listen to me, Jack. I went over to see Lily, as I thought----”

“Yes, and as _I_ thought,” echoed Jack.

“Well, she was not there; but the aunt was. There’s been some infernal mistake, and _she_ has come out to marry me.”

When Jack Murray heard this appalling statement, he stared for a second, and then threw himself on his friend’s camp cot, and gave vent to a succession of yells of laughter.

“Yes,” said his comrade, very sternly, “play to you, and death to me.”

After another violent paroxysm, Jack sat up, dried his eyes on his coat-cuffs, and said quite seriously--

“You are in a tight place _this_ time, and no mistake. What on earth are you to do?”

“Shoot myself!” was the brief reply.

“Rubbish! Stop a moment, I have an idea!”

“What good is an _idea_?” said Tom, scornfully.

“Promise to place yourself in my hands, and I’ll guarantee to get you out of this business _alive_!”

“Nonsense! the woman is here; cake, trousseau, and all complete. Lily, of course, is done with me. When the story is known I shall be the laughing-stock of India. If I don’t marry her she will bring an action, as sure as fate. No, no. _My_ idea is, a touch of the sun. Grove, the doctor, is a good chap. He’ll say it was that. I’ve been on the ranges all day--a touch of the sun, and this,” taking up the revolver as he concluded.

“Put it down,” said his friend, angrily. “Listen to me. We must go over there to dinner, and to-morrow you shall go on the sick list, and stay there. All I want is _time_.”

Jack dared not leave his friend alone in his present condition (suicidal), and after a long and exciting altercation he prevailed on him to accompany him over to the colonel’s. Tom looked white, haggard, and miserable; anything but the impersonation of a happy lover. He sat beside his bride-elect, nobly representing “the death’s-head at the feast”--his bride, who was dressed in a marvellous French toilette of white brocade, whose ears, throat, and fingers glittered with diamonds, and who was in exuberant spirits. The company were greatly surprised at Tom Galway’s idea of “a pretty girl of nineteen,” but politely dissembled their amazement. Possibly Tom was more worldly wise than they had supposed. “The old girl”--such was their profane definition--had evidently lots of money; but Tom was a deadly failure as a lover; however, if Miss Browne was satisfied, there was no more to be said!

After dinner there was a little music. Tom sat beside his _fiancée_ on a conspicuous sofa, and looked as if he was awaiting execution, or was thinking of all his dead relations. Jack played the banjo, and sang, “Mary had a Little Lamb,” and various other silly songs, and presently the guests went away. Mrs. Cornwall thoughtfully manœuvred so as to leave the lovers to make their adieux alone. Unhappy Tom! He walked abruptly over to “the wrong Miss Browne,” held out a limp hand, and said good night, whereupon she rose, and looked as if she was going to fall on his neck, and he turned precipitately and fled.