A FRIEND IN NEED
Thanks to Mrs. Ffinch's promise and her prompt exertions, within a week's time Nancy found herself in the Madras roads, on board the P. & O. steamer Patna, bound for London. The Patna was a full boat, carrying a mixed multitude of cheerful passengers. Among these was Blanche Sandilands (née Meach), a remarkably pretty woman in exuberant spirits,—embarking on her first trip to England in the character of a rich, popular, much admired young matron. Her cabin was crammed with flowers and books, friends to bid her good-bye were assembled in flattering numbers, and among these, she anxiously looked about for her charge.
Yes, there was that invaluable Mrs. Ffinch,—and could it be Nancy Travers? Nancy, so altered as to be almost unrecognizable. The bright school-girl, she remembered, as just out from England, brimming over with happiness, and gaiety, was now a wan white creature in deep mourning, with sad abstracted eyes. Thank goodness, they were not sharing the same cabin, or she would certainly be flooded out with tears! What, she asked herself, could she do with her? Mrs. Sandilands had been looking forward to such a ripping time on the voyage: the Bruffs, and the Colvilles, Captain Yates and Mr. Orme, were on board, but there would not be much fun for her, if all day long she was tied to such a wet blanket as this poor child—who appeared to be actually stupefied with grief.
To her immense relief, the lively lady soon discovered that Nancy Travers would be no encumbrance. It was true that she sat beside her at meals (nobly representing the traditional death's head), but otherwise effaced herself, seeming to prefer solitude, and her own company, sitting aloof with a book, or disappearing for hours into her nook of a cabin in the stern.
Mrs. Sandilands lent her novels, offered her chocolates, and little toilet luxuries, kissed her perfunctorily night and morning, and left her to herself,—assuring her friends, that such was the truest kindness, and went her own light-hearted way to play deck games, and Bridge; or to embark on such amusing and harmless flirtations, as are expected of the prettiest woman on the ship.
At Colombo the passengers went bodily ashore, and enjoyed the few gay hours at the Galle Face Hotel, explored the bazaars, or darted off in rickshaws to inspect the Cinnamon gardens. With their return at dinner time, they brought a horde of new comers,—tourists, planters, and their belongings.
Among the crowd, one figure was conspicuously prominent, and proceeded at once to dominate the ship.
"Yet after all, what was Mrs. De Wolfe?" asked a girl plaintively, "but an ugly, rude, old woman?"
The lady appeared to know several of the passengers, and to be a sea friend of the captain's; for a special place had been reserved at his table, also she enjoyed a large double cabin, and was attended by a hard-featured, but dignified maid.
In appearance, Mrs. De Wolfe looked formidable enough! Tall and bony, with a long, wrinkled face, a commanding hooked nose (a family feature descending through generations), sharp black eyes, heavily marked brows, and a tightly closed mouth, which, when open, displayed two gleaming rows of expensively fitted teeth. Her hands exhibited knotted veins, and surprisingly large knuckles, but the lady's most distinctive endowment was a far-reaching, masculine voice. Her style of dress was tailor-made, and suitable, her only jewellery, a thin wedding ring.
What was her claim to the almost subservient homage which she received? She was suffered to break into the most interesting conversation; her remarks were listened to with profound respect, and she was waited on with slavish assiduity. Perhaps the answer was, that the old lady had influence, a strong personality, a sharp tongue, and great possessions. She was a masterful, independent individual, who did what she liked, went where she fancied, and said what she pleased! Nancy shrank from her instinctively, and when on deck, kept well out of her orbit, and beyond the range of those piercing eyes.
One evening, as she sat pretending to read, she was startled by a deep voice speaking over her shoulder. It said:
"What's the matter with you? Why don't you go and play about? You look like a sick chicken!"
As Nancy gazed straight up into the old wrinkled face, her lips twitched, but she made no reply. Mrs. De Wolfe, who evidently expected an answer, waited for a moment, still staring fixedly. It was something like the children's game of "Who will laugh first?" Then with an indignant "Humph!" she moved away.
The Patna, four days out from Colombo, had experienced fairly fine weather, and real tropical heat. Nancy slept in the top berth of her tiny cubby hole, with the port wide open, and was dreaming a delightful dream, when it suddenly turned to a sense of horrible reality and drowning. She was roused by a wandering green wave, which, having discovered an inviting porthole, flowed in torrents over her prostrate form, and completely swamped the cabin. As soon as she had recovered her breath, and the shock, she endeavoured to close the port. It proved much too stiff. Then she sprang down into the water on the floor, snatched at her dressing-gown, and opening the door, screamed for a steward. A man in the next cabin had evidently met with the same catastrophe, and was in a similar plight. He and Nancy faced one another in the passage, a dripping, shivering pair! Very soon a bedroom steward appeared on the scene, there was loud talking, splashing, mopping. In the midst of this, a door opened, and a gruff voice demanded:
"What's all this noise about?"
Then the face of Mrs. De Wolfe appeared. She wore a large lace-frilled nightcap, "and looked for all the world," as the young man subsequently described, "like the wolf in Red Riding Hood."
"There's been a sea into these two cabins, ma'am," explained the steward, "and this 'ere lady and gentleman has been washed out!"
The old woman now came forth, and surveyed them impartially; the smart clean-shaven man in pink pyjamas, and a blanket; the girl in a blue dressing-gown, with two long plaits of hair dripping down her back, and instantly recognized the "Ghost," Nancy's nickname on the boat.
"You come along in here," she commanded, stretching out her bony hand, and taking her by the wrist. "Steward, send my maid at once," and the cabin door closed on the pair—the wolf, and the lamb!
"You shall have dry things immediately," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "and Haynes shall make you up a bed on the sofa here."
"Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," chattered Nancy, whose teeth were like a pair of castanets.
"Take a towel and dry your hair, Haynes will be here in a moment."
Almost as her mistress spoke, Haynes made her appearance in a trim red flannel dressing-gown, and took the matter in hand with quiet promptitude. Nancy soon found herself invested in a beautiful silk and lace nightgown, which she regarded with unspeakable awe.
"It's quite all right, chicken," declared the old lady who had returned to her berth, "I wear plain upper garments, and keep the show for what I call my 'Undies.' It fits you to a T. Better sleep with the towel round your head. How on earth do you manage to hide all that hair!"
"Less talking!" growled a voice from the neighbouring cabin.
"Haynes, you'll bring two teas at half-past seven," continued Mrs. De Wolfe, totally unmoved by this command, "and now you may turn out the light, and go."
In the ensuing darkness, Nancy was able to reflect at leisure upon her novel position. She was actually sleeping in the cabin—and the nightgown—of the woman she most feared and avoided of all the passengers on board the Patna. Yet in spite of her overpowering personality, she had proved to be a good Samaritan, and not so alarming after all; consoled by this conviction, Nancy dozed off.
In the morning, Haynes—a celebrated Treasure—brought Nancy a cup of delicious "private" tea, and when she had drunk it, and thanked her hostess for a night's lodging, she slipped on her dressing-gown, and fled into her own quarters—once more habitable.
The little episode of the "wash-out" had no immediate results beyond the exhibition of two mattresses, and several blankets hung out to dry, and Nancy's acquaintance with Mrs. De Wolfe went no further. She shrank more and more into solitude and silence, and gave way to the gnawing misery and loneliness of her heart—plunged in the agony of a terrible loss, she was left to struggle in it quite alone.
One morning Mrs. De Wolfe encountered her face to face, at the top of the companion ladder, nodded brusquely, and stared. The girl's face subsequently haunted her. Oh, what a picture of real grief,—and nothing but grief! Impressed by this vision, she proceeded to make inquiries respecting the solitary young woman in mourning. Mrs. Sandilands (a notable chatterbox) volubly related the tale of tragedy, dwelt on Nancy's adoration for her father, their ideally happy life, his death,—and her altered fortune.
"Nancy has no one belonging to her, except a disagreeable aunt," she said, "a half-sister, who has been at daggers drawn with Mr. Travers for twenty years; however she has offered what she calls 'an asylum' to the girl, until she can find some job."
Mrs. De Wolfe nodded and grunted; she also marked, learned and inwardly digested this information.
A grand fancy ball was got up on board the Patna, in order to inaugurate her entrance into the Red Sea; the preparations, arrangements and expedients, afforded almost as much enjoyment as the dance itself. Such were its attractions, that Mrs. De Wolfe's special Bridge table was ruthlessly dissolved. One of the keenest players was appearing as Neptune, another as Mephistopheles, a stout, middle-aged lady as Ophelia. Mrs. De Wolfe made no change in her plain rich evening toilet—though more than one malicious tongue had suggested that "she might get herself up as the Witch of Endor."
Tired of looking on at the whirling crowd, she went on deck, and having descried a solitary figure leaning over the side, approached it stealthily and, so to speak, pounced!
"No, don't go away, little sick chick!" she said, laying her bony grasp on Nancy's arm. "Come over here, and talk to me," and Nancy was carried away a helpless prisoner, to where two deck-chairs happened to be placed close together. "You're not looking on?"
Nancy shook her head.
"No, I'm told you have had great trouble—and I'm very sorry for you."
"Thank you," said the girl stiffly.
"Come now, do you think it is right to give way to it like this? keeping apart from your fellow creatures, and fretting yourself to death?"
"I cannot help it."
"You could, if you tried."
"Oh, you don't know——" and Nancy caught her breath.
"Pardon me, I do know! Your chaperone told me all about it. I'm sure if your father could see you,—and we have no proof otherwise,—it would hurt him terribly to witness such hopeless, useless, misery."
"My father was the same himself," declared Nancy, "after my mother died, and I was sent to England."
"I know; your friend, Mrs. Sandilands, an exhaustive talker, assured me, he was so heart-broken, that he allowed his affairs to what is called 'go to the dogs.' Did he not regret that?"
"Yes, he did—but I have no affairs."
"You have your life to lead, my dear. Come, do not play the coward, but brace yourself for the race that is before you."
"Oh, I can't," she muttered; "if I could only die!"
"What nonsense," protested the old lady, "I've no patience with this silly sort of talk."
For a moment there was no answer, and the silence was filled with the blare of the band, and a rousing Two-step.
"Because perhaps you don't know what trouble is," murmured Nancy at last.
"Don't I? I am not disposed to talk of my private affairs with strangers—but for once, I will." A harsh tragedy looked out of her old eyes, as she added: "Listen. You possibly see me a gruff, selfish, overbearing old woman, with not a thought in the world beyond her dinner, and a rubber of Bridge. Nevertheless, I have indeed known anguish—the wounds throb still. My husband left me, when we were young and happy; my eldest boy was killed at Magersfontein, my youngest, died of typhoid in India,—all alone; and here am I, all alone,—with nothing awaiting me but the grave." She paused, for a moment. "Now you have, I trust, a long useful life, and many happy hours before you. Why, you cannot be more than eighteen."
"I was eighteen three months ago."
"And eighteen wishes to die! Mrs. Sandilands tells me you are going to live with an aunt in London. May I hear her name?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Jenkins. She has a house in Queen's Gate."
"Strange, I think I've heard of her. She is a widow like myself,—very comfortably off. Her chief interest in life, is her health, a malade imaginaire. Do you know anything of nursing?"
"Not much, I am afraid."
"Well, then, my dear, I am well experienced—and I am going to prescribe for you. You are to come along with me, and look on at the ball; and then we will go and have a bit of supper. Yes, I insist!" There was no gainsaying this old lady.
When Mrs. De Wolfe and her young friend parted that night in their mutual passage, she said:
"I intend to take you in hand, Miss Nancy Travers. I shall not allow you to sit idle in the market-place, eating your heart out. To-morrow I'll give you some knitting, and teach you to play Piquet and Patience. You can look upon me as your deputy chaperone."
As deputy chaperone, she took entire charge of Nancy—who felt powerless to resist—the girl interested her surprisingly. When she forgot herself, she could talk, she could sew, she could even smile! By the time the Patna was in the Canal, Nancy was better. The sea-air revived her; her new acquaintance acted as a tonic, kept her incessantly occupied, promenaded the deck with her, told her stories, gave her sound advice, and from being a mere crumpled heap of hopeless misery lifted her once more to a foothold in life.
It had been discovered that the "Ghost," as she was called, was an excellent pianist, and consequently much in request to accompany song or violin. This demand brought her into communication with other young people—which was good for Nancy.
Mrs. Sandilands was amazed at the acquaintance which had been struck up between two such incongruous characters as Mrs. De Wolfe, and the Travers girl. What had they in common? However it came about, the old woman had effected a wonderful change, and as it were restored the Ghost to life, and the material world. She now went to and fro and mixed with other people, and no longer spent hours shut up in her little cabin.
When the Patna was in the Channel, Mrs. De Wolfe said to her protégée:
"Do not forget to give me your address, my dear, and I will come and see you."
"That will be very kind."
"I stay in London occasionally, but my home is in the country,—also in the wide world—for I travel a great deal. Excuse my plain speaking, my dear, but have you no income at all? I understand that your father was a Travers of Lambourne, and I believe they went through every penny they possessed?"
"I have twenty pounds a year," replied Nancy, "and I have had a good education; but I'm afraid I look too young to be a governess. If the worst comes to the worst, I might go into a shop. I think I'd rather like that—millinery, or a ladies' outfitting—a sort of place where there are no men."
"Are you afraid of them?"
"Oh no," and she laughed.
"No love affairs yet, I should imagine," said Mrs. De Wolfe, with customary bluntness.
"No love affairs," repeated Nancy, but she coloured vividly.
"Ah! then there is someone?" remarked her astute questioner.
"Yes, there was someone; someone I don't like; but it had nothing to do with a love affair—and I pray that we may never meet again."
"I'm afraid that will be no use, my dear—we all meet the very people we don't want to see!"
"Well, I shall always want to see you!" said Nancy impulsively.
"I'm glad of that, my child, for the number of people who never wish to see me again, is fairly large. I hate cruelty, and snobbery; I speak out my mind rather freely, as I tramp through life. Well, my little chick, I've given you a lift on the road, haven't I?"
"You have indeed; I can't tell you all you have done for me, roused me from a stupor, that was creeping over me,—and helped me to make a fresh start. I can never thank you enough, never!"
"I don't want thanks. Give me deeds. You must write to me, Nancy. My bankers, Coutts, will always find me, and if I don't answer, never mind; I'm a shocking correspondent, my pen never saves my tongue. I'll come and see you when I pass through Town, and I hope I'll find you doing well. Be amenable to your father's sister: a rich, self-centred, elderly woman. Accept hard knocks—they will brace you—later on, you may find your life in pleasant places. I'd like to take you with me to Scotland, but I am under orders to visit old friends, who fix one's date of arrival, train, and room, with a firmness there is no withstanding, and I dare not be a deserter."
Nancy's were not the only thanks received by this social missionary. Pretty Mrs. Sandilands overwhelmed her with effusive gratitude, and flattering speeches.
"You took the girl off my hands, dear kindest lady, and have turned her into a new creature! I cannot imagine how you did it!"
"A little sympathy, and fellow-feeling, was all that was required."
Mrs. Sandilands coloured guiltily, and then replied:
"Nancy is like her father, you see—she takes everything so terribly, so foolishly, to heart."
"But what a good thing it is, that she happens to have a heart to take things to! Such folk are not common objects of the sea or shore in these days."
"Perhaps because people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves," retorted Mrs. Sandilands sharply. At this moment, her companion was summoned to receive a Marconigram, and she found herself unexpectedly abandoned with all the honours of the last word!
Later that same day, the Patna was berthed in the London Docks, and her horde of passengers scattered afar, every man and woman to their own; in most cases to forget within a few hours, those who had been their daily associates for the last four weeks.