"A MYSTERY ABOUT MAYNE——"
More than two years had elapsed since Derek Mayne left Fairplains. Almost immediately afterwards, his regiment had been removed from Cananore, to the distant cantonment of Bareilly,—a station which instead of lying on the damp seaboard of the Malabar Coast, was situated in the heart of a sugar cane district, with the white Himalayas glimmering on its horizon. Here, in hard work, and strenuous play, parades, manœuvres, inspections, cricket, polo, and fishing in the Sardar, time passed only too rapidly; thanks to new surroundings, new friends, and incessant occupation, the memory of Nancy became a little blurred.
Mayne recalled her existence, when he dispatched his half-yearly cheque to Teddy Dawson; for although his friend had assured him, that the money would lie untouched, nevertheless he persisted in lodging the amount at Grindlays. Teddy had volunteered the news, that Nancy was now living in London, with her father's sister; but of this information, Mayne vouchsafed no notice, and correspondence, save for the bi-annual cheque, had completely lapsed. The yearly sum of two hundred and fifty pounds,—which was half of his private income,—left Mayne somewhat pinched in his finances. To keep a couple of ponies, to go on fishing, and shooting trips, required a certain number of rupees; and occasionally Captain Mayne found considerable difficulty in making both ends meet! His brother officers wondered why the deuce Mayne was now so economical? and what he had done with his money?
An incredible story had leaked out through Mayne's Madras servant—who had accompanied him to the Hills; it whispered, that when there, he had got into some sort of entanglement with a girl! This tale was frankly discussed, and believed, in the Gorrah bazaar at Cananore, but had never risen in any substantial form to higher circles,—such as the club or mess; and yet all the time, though nothing was said, there was a vague uneasy feeling, that Mayne was keeping back some incident or experience, connected with his six week's leave on that coffee plantation. It was noticed, how, although he had apparently enjoyed extraordinarily good sport, he was strangely reserved with regard to his hill friends; rarely referred to his expedition, and sat dumb when other fellows less successful, loudly bragged of their "shikar."
Also it had been remarked, that when he returned from the Neilgherries, he had appeared to be extraordinarily depressed, and that Mayne always such a cheery fellow, with lots to say for himself, hadn't a word to throw to the traditional dog. Former enthusiastic letters received by his friends, describing his delightful quarters, his first-class sport, were subsequently discounted, by a mysterious, and significant silence. One surprising fact, had been much discussed; Mayne was just the ordinary young man, and not in the least eccentric, and yet when his trophies were unpacked, displayed and praised (two magnificent tiger and three panther skins, all in first-class condition), as the largest panther skin was unrolled, he seemed strangely put out, and gave a hasty order to his bearer. Later, but four skins were exhibited, and when the fifth was inquired for, the bearer promptly answered that "the Sahib had given orders, that it was to be taken away and burnt!"
In a small Mofussil station such as Cananore, topics of conversation are but scanty. There was a good deal of talk and conjecture, respecting this same panther. Why had Mayne ordered such a prize to be destroyed? Why could he not have given it to someone—if he had a particular down upon the animal?—the Colonel's wife would have been proud to accept its skin.
No satisfactory answer to this was obtained at the time, but later, it became known that Mayne's friend, the coffee planter, had died, as the result of an encounter with a panther; it was conceded that possibly that was the reason of Mayne's agitation, and the order for the destruction of an unusually fine trophy.
Skin or no skin, there was some mystery connected with Mayne's visit to the Neilgherries. Since then, he had been obviously short of money, and given to unwonted economy. He drank cheap claret, refused himself a new rifle, and another polo pony. A hard player like Mayne, found it difficult to manage with less than three. Whatever the trouble was, he did not avoid society; he was popular with women; his good looks and good manners, made him a general favourite. He went to dances and picnics, was conspicuous in gymkhanas, and every afternoon, when nothing was "on," he played rackets or tennis at the club. Once or twice, when a particularly active girl happened to be his tennis partner, he recalled Nancy,—not one of the lot could approach her as far as play was concerned. Who would have believed that her thin brown arm and wrist, was capable of such smashing strokes, and disastrous service?
Mayne had now been three years in India, and never exhibited any intention of taking leave home. Apparently he preferred an excursion into Thibet, or Cashmere. At the back of his mind, he had a conviction, that as long as he remained in the country, he was safe from any awkward developments that might result from the ceremony which had taken place in the drawing-room at Fairplains.
Yet at the same time, he had an impression that some day, like murder, it would all come out,—and there would be a holy row! Meantime he thrust the hateful prospect into the lumber room of his brain; the poignant memories of the last week of Travers' life had now become a little dim. Supposing he had held back, and not suffered himself to be moved by an exceptionally tragic situation: by Mrs. Hicks' observations, and carried away by an almost irresistible impulse? he could have guaranteed an acceptable income to Nancy, which would have left them both free!
Now, they were bound together by that deadly certificate in his despatch box, on which were inscribed the names of Eleanora Nancy Travers, spinster, and Derek Danvers Mayne, bachelor. Nothing but death could release them. Occasionally plunged in contemplation, he would let his mind work; endeavouring to trace some way out of this desperate situation. His thoughts would travel to and fro, as in a maze,—vainly seeking some safe, and honourable exit. Sometimes, during these moods of reflection, his companion for the moment, would wonder at Mayne's abstraction? Once or twice, he had been offered "a penny for his thoughts," but had invariably dismissed the offer with a laugh.
Finally summing up the affair, he assured himself that some day or other—perhaps in twenty years—the whole business must be disclosed. Supposing Nancy wanted to marry someone?—supposing he were to meet the girl, and fall in love with her? what a complication that would be! After all, the present was calm and peaceful, he could discern no clouds on the horizon, and soothed his uneasiness, with the well-worn sedative,—"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
Such were Mayne's sentiments, when he received a cable from home, informing him that his uncle had met with a serious accident, and begging him to return at once. As there could be but one answer to such an appeal, Mayne instead of taking his intended sixty days' shooting leave into Garwalb, immediately applied for three months to England—on "urgent private affairs."