EIGHTEEN ON TUESDAY
For two days after the loss of Sam, Nancy remained inconsolable; she could neither eat nor rest, her face looked small, her tragic eyes sunken and dim; also she wept for hours,—utterly indifferent to consolation, or chocolates. "The Corner" after the day's work, ascended to sympathize, Mrs. Ffinch descended with a similar kind intention, and expressed shocked concern; but her kissing, endearments, and honeyed words, were a waste of time and breath.
"I shall never get over it, Finchie, never!" moaned the girl, "and I won't rest till the panther has been killed, and skinned. Daddy has offered a reward of thirty rupees,—but so far it is no use."
"Take her out riding—make her go," commanded Mrs. Ffinch, "she can't sit here all day nursing her grief. Try what you can do, Captain Mayne, take her up to the Meaches, Nellie has returned home, and Major Meach always amuses Nancy."
"I don't think anything would amuse her now," he answered.
"Look at Togo," burst out Nancy, "he knows. All yesterday he lay with his face to the wall—here in the verandah—and he has not touched a morsel since it happened. Oh, my poor Sam!" The name was almost a cry.
"If you and Togo starve yourselves, my dear, what good will that do poor Sam?" inquired the practical visitor, "I'm sure he would not like you to die too. You really must cheer up, for your father's sake. I am awfully sorry myself; as the son of our dear old Dan, Sam was a sort of nephew. We will all give him a great funeral——"
She stopped abruptly as it flashed into her mind that there were no remains. Ultimately her powers of persuasion, proved effectual, and Nancy reluctantly agreed to give her pony some exercise, and not to indulge her emotions in such frantic ungovernable native fashion. Travers was as usual busy among his coolies, and Mayne and Nancy set off alone, and rode over to the Meaches, precisely as Mrs. Ffinch had ordained.
It was a cheerful breezy trip; sometimes the road lay in hollows, winding round a valley, and between blackberry bushes, wattles, ash trees, and wild roses, recalling an English lane; or again, over grassy uplands, with a delightful breeze, driving white clouds overhead.
By and by, Nancy recovered her self-control, and her tongue,—a member that was never long mislaid.
The Meach family lived eight miles from Fairplains, on a poor worn out, and out of the way estate; Major Meach, having spent all he possessed, invested his wife's little fortune in this, so to speak "refuge," and here she and her offspring slaved and struggled, in order to provide their old man of the sea, with everything he demanded in the way of attention, and comfort.
Part of the estate was let to a native, part was worked by Andy, whilst Mrs. Meach and her three pretty daughters kept cows and poultry, and sold eggs and butter among their neighbours. Blanche, the beauty,—thanks to Mrs. Ffinch,—was satisfactorily married; Tom, the youngest son, slaved in an office, and sent all he could spare to his harassed mother who struggled to keep house, and maintain a presentable family, on one hundred rupees a month.
The Misses Meach emerged into the verandah when they heard the glad sound of voices, accompanied by the clatter of hoofs, and Gladys and Nellie joyfully hailed Nancy, who instantly in a strangled voice, claimed their sympathy for her irreparable loss.
"The dear faithful fellow!—how dreadful!" said Nellie. "I remember one time, you went home by the old road, he missed you, and came back here, and lay all night by the chair you had been sitting on."
"Bah! what's a dog!" snarled Major Meach, a preposterously fat man, who now appeared, and with a curt salute to Mayne, sank with heavy violence into a creaking wicker chair. "Lots to be had! We can give you half a dozen—greedy, good-for-nothing brutes!"
Mrs. Meach, a worn, thin woman, with remarkably red hands, and a still pretty face, who had been ordering tea, now came forward to welcome her guests. Poor lady! her life had been, and was, a tragedy. Once a beauty, she was thought to have made a fine match when she married Captain Meach of the Light Lancers,—a man with a nice fortune. The nice fortune, he squandered on himself; and poor Amy Meach, after knocking about the world from garrison town to cantonment, saving, pinching, rearing a family, and keeping up appearances, was now the drudge, and servant, of her selfish and unwieldy tyrant.
Her hope, comfort, and joy, was in her children; possibly some day, she may be in a position to sit down and be served by other people, to read a novel, or even to take a morning in bed!
Everything at Panora seemed cheap and faded,—except the fat helpless old Major, and his three pretty girls. He insisted on keeping up "his position," as he called it; the shabby, timid-looking servants, wore in their turbans, the badge of a regiment that had been only too thankful to get rid of their master!
He, who was a notorious slacker, now posed as a former martinet, and present authority, and his faithful family believed in the fable. The truth was, that but for Mrs. Meach, who was popular, and for whom everyone was sorry, he would not have been "let down," so to speak, without a nasty jar.
The Tyrant liked to fasten on Mayne,—who occasionally escorted Nancy, when she came to see her friends,—and to question him sharply on Army matters, and utter high boastings of "my old regiment—Cavalry—I never could stand being a mud-crusher!" and as he knew that Mayne was an Infantry officer, this remark was, to say the least, tactless.
When they all sat at tea, he talked with his mouth full, helped himself to hot cakes—two at a time—bragged, snubbed his family, laid down the law, and made rude personal remarks. With regard to his daughter Nellie, he said:
"We sent Nellie down to try her luck in Bangalore; but there was no market, no buyers—and here she is, back on our hands like a bad penny."
Poor Nellie blushed till there were tears in her eyes.
"I'll give her to anyone with a pound of tea—ha! ha! ha!"
"If you were my father, and made such rude speeches," said Nancy fiercely, "I'd be very glad to give you away, with a whole plantation!"
"There you go, spitfire!" he exclaimed.—He rather liked Nancy, because she boldly opposed him.—"You've been spoiled, my good girl; if your father had given you some sound thrashings, you would not be so cocksey—and such a bad example to other young women."
"I think," said Mayne, rising, "it is time for us to make a start," and he eyed the old bully, with a menacing stare.
"Oh, ho!" and he chuckled. "Nancy is used to me—aren't you, red poll? You don't mind!"
"I'll overlook the outrage this time, but as an apology, I must have Gladys and Nellie to spend the day on Monday."
"Can't be done—no ponies!"
"Then I'll borrow the Clouds Rest car."
"Will you! You've cheek enough for anything! If you can get the car, you shall have the girls, and the Missus thrown in—there's an offer for you!"
Mayne, who felt a touch of sincere pity for poor Mrs. Meach and her browbeaten daughters, experienced a sense of profound relief when the farewells were over, and he and Nancy rode away.
"Look in again soon, young fellow!" shouted Major Meach. "Nancy, tell your father to send me up a bag of his number one coffee—it can come in the car."
"I don't know about that bag of coffee," said Mayne; "but old Meach won't see me again."
"Isn't he a horror?"
"I'm awfully sorry for his daughters; when he told the fair one to 'shut up,' I felt inclined to shy a plate at him!"
"And he is such an ungrateful old monster! Only for the way those girls work, and go without things, there would be no cigars, no Europe hams, tinned stores, or whisky and soda. He must have everything he wants, or he yells, and storms like a madman. I've told him one or two plain truths about his selfishness."
"Have you? I must say you are fairly plucky."
"Nicky Byng admires Nellie, but it's no good; all the same, if I do get the car, I'll let him know."
"Fancy trying your hand at match-making,—a child like you!" and Mayne turned in his saddle, and surveyed his companion, with a broad smile.
"Of course, I know it's no use. Finchie throws buckets of cold water on the affair; she hopes to marry Nellie off, the same as Blanche Sandilands. Blanche has a splendid car, lives in a big house on the Adyar, and entertains half Madras. All the same, I think Nellie likes Nicky."
"Then why mind Mrs. Ffinch, and her cold water?"
"We all mind her; she is so far-sighted, and clever—all but Ned, he thinks her too meddlesome, and anyway, she did talk Jessie Hicks out of accepting him."
"Do you suppose, that Mrs. Ffinch could talk you out of accepting anyone?"
"How can you be so silly! Anyway, there will be no occasion, for I don't intend to marry."
"Bosh! Wait till you are older, and then we shall see what we shall see."
"I'm quite old enough to know my own mind."
"Not you!"
"Don't be rude. Do you know, that I shall be eighteen on Tuesday?"
"I know that you are trying to pull my leg, miss! You are not an hour over sixteen—if so much. I should put you down at fourteen if I were asked."
"Well, if you won't believe me, you can see the certificate of birth and baptism.—I was born at Fairplains."
"But, Nancy," suddenly pulling up his cob, "I've always understood you were a mere child—if you really are eighteen—I—I feel completely bouleversé; in other words, shattered; for I've been treating you as a little girl, and all the time, you are a young lady! I declare, I'm so upset, I shall tumble off the cob!"
"Don't tumble yet; stick on, and I'll explain. Daddy likes me to look a mere child, and can't endure the idea of my growing up. So I always wear simple frocks, and short skirts—it was only the other day, I put my hair up."
"Did you wear a pig-tail?"
"Yes, of course I did—it was a beauty, too."
"And I know I'd have pulled it! that's one temptation removed! Well, let me here and now apologize for my many enormities. I'm most frightfully sorry; I wish you were only sixteen."
"You may go on just as if I were. They all do."
"Thank you, Nancy. And so Mrs. Ffinch is law-maker, the local dictator, and match-maker?"
"Yes. She is immensely proud of the Meach affair; but not so proud of Fred Pollard's match. She married him off to a girl who was most unsuitable—so much so, that Fred fled to Ceylon, and the Pollards are not very good friends with Finchie! She does not wish Ted to marry Jessie Hicks; for then Nicky would have to move out of The Corner, and he might take it into his head, to run away with Nellie—and she has magnificent plans for her."
"Wheels within wheels," exclaimed Mayne. "It strikes me all the same, that these young people are not desperately in love; if they were, they'd never take all this so tamely, or so to speak, lying down."
"Well you see, they are all very busy one way or another, and have no time. When they do meet at tennis, Finchie mixes the sets, and sorts them out, as you saw!"
"Yes, I saw; but I must confess I did not notice the usual interesting signs of mutual attachment."
"No? What are the signs?"
"I don't know much about it, but sitting in one another's pockets, holding one another's hands, and obviously wishing us all at Jericho."
"Yes. Haven't you been in love yourself? You must—you are getting on!"
"Getting on, you rude child! Why, I'm only seven and twenty. As to being in love—no, never what you may call, seriously."
"Seriously?"
"That is to say unable to eat, or sleep—living solely to see her—or if not her—the postman, who carries her priceless letters."
"Ah, you jeer at love! Perhaps it may pay you out one day."
"Perhaps! And what about you, Nancy? Has no smart young tennis champion awakened your interest?"
She burst into a peal of laughter—her first laugh for four whole days.
"No, I've never been in love—or ever will; I haven't a tiny scrap to spare from Daddy; and here he comes to meet us—with poor lonely Togo."
"Well, Nance," he called out, "I've just fixed up a splendid treat for your birthday."
"What is it? Oh, tell me quickly—quickly!"
"We are going down to Holikul for three days for a shoot. There is a big native holiday that draws off our coolies, and I've invited the Corner boys; you shall undertake the commissariat, and play the queen of the party."
"How delightful, Daddy!" cried Nancy; then as she glanced at Mayne, "Oh, poor Captain Mayne!—your jaw has dropped four cubic inches; but I do assure you, it will be all right—when I'm out on a beat, and sit up in a machan, I'm so deadly, deadly, quiet, that you might hear a fly sneeze!"