MARRIAGE AND DEATH
Very early the next morning when Nancy came out of her father's room, she found Mrs. Hicks already in the verandah, wrapped in a flaming kimona, and sipping a cup of tea.
"Well, dear child?" she began, then paused, and looked at her interrogatively.
"Daddy has been talking to me," she announced in a dull voice, staring at Mrs. Hicks with a curious dazed expression, "and—he—he wishes me—to marry Captain Mayne."
"Lors!" exclaimed her companion, jumping to her feet. "Whatever for?"
"Because I'm so alone in the world, and have no home!" replied the girl, as if she was repeating a lesson.
"And what does the Captain say?"
"He wishes it too."
"And what do you say, Ducky?"
"Oh," with a frantic gesture of her hand, "is it any matter about me? Don't you know, that I would kill myself, that I would be cut in little pieces, if it would give any relief to Daddy,—and I am the one thing that seems to trouble him."
"Well, I won't say that it isn't a wise plan!" declared Mrs. Hicks, folding her fat arms in her kimona; "the Captain is a fine young fellow, and has everyone's good word,—even Mrs. Pollard, and you know how she takes a bit out of people. But still, if you don't really fancy him, dearie, I wouldn't. Marriage," now sitting down, "is a big affair, not to be settled at a moment's notice, like a game of tennis. This Mayne, they say, has high and mighty relations, and I don't believe there's ever been a word of love talk between you—much less a kiss."
Nancy made a movement of fierce repudiation.
"And from something Mrs. F. dropped," resumed Mrs. Hicks, "I know she has her plans for you—as well as others."
"Don't!" cried the girl. "Don't talk of plans, and schemes—it's this very second that counts. I shall do whatever pleases Daddy—and I'm going to speak to Captain Mayne now."
"Well, maybe it's all for the best! Anyhow, it'll be a wonderful ease to your poor father. God help you, my child!"
"They wish the marriage to take place to-morrow," said Nancy, and her lips twitched visibly as she added—"when Mr. Brownlow comes."
"Well I never!" ejaculated Mrs. Hicks, and her round ruddy face assumed an awestruck expression, "but there's sense in that too. If it was put off, and you were to go home, things might happen. Some young men are as slippery as eels. Mind you, I'm not saying one word against Mayne; he doesn't seem that sort—his mouth has a tight look. Still, one of you might be talked out of it—like my own Jessie."
During this oration, Nancy's face had become as rigid and set as that of a waxen mask, suddenly laying her hand on Mrs. Hicks' arm, she said:
"If father dies, I don't care what becomes of me! I only hope and pray, I may not live long. I'll do anything he asks for now,—fancy the horror that would haunt me,—if I were to say no, to his very last wishes!"
"Nancy, child, if you could only cry, it would be such a wonderful relief to your poor heart. Lors, here is Mayne coming! Maybe you'd better take him into the Den, and talk it out face to face."
"You know all about it, Nancy," he began, when she beckoned him to follow her into the little room, where both had spent such pleasant hours.
She nodded assent. Within the last three days the girl appeared to have undergone an extraordinary change; the childish air had vanished; her face was shrunken, and drawn, all life and spontaneity had departed. She wore a long white peignoir, which gave her height and dignity, and looked years older—in short, it was another personality.
"You know I'm awfully fond of you, Nance," continued Mayne, stooping to take a cold, limp hand, "and that I'll do my very best to make you happy."
"Happy!" and she dashed his hand aside, "as if I could ever be happy again!"
"You will, by and by," he went on steadily, unmoved by her outburst; "we shall settle down; you will get used to soldiering—and this awful time will be as a bad dream."
"Never," rejoined Nancy with emphasis. "Bad dreams are forgotten. Do you imagine, that I shall ever forget this?" and she stared at him with a pair of tearless, glittering eyes. Then there ensued a long, expressive, and uncomfortable pause, during which Togo trotted in, and gazed at the couple. They seemed so odd,—almost like two strangers: the girl sitting by the closed piano, the man with his hands in his pockets, standing with his back to the wall. After a moment's hesitation, and bewilderment, Togo trotted out.
"Well, Nancy, what do you think?" inquired Mayne at last.
"I'll do anything father wishes—anything to make him at ease. They say," and she choked, then continued in a hard, metallic voice, "he has only two days to live."
"I wish to God it had been me instead," burst out Mayne.
"So do I," agreed Nancy, with pitiless fervour, and something wild, and hostile, looked out of her eyes as she added, "and only for Daddy, it would have been you."
"That is true; he gave his life for mine."
"And," said the girl, rising as she spoke, "I am to give mine to you; well, since he wishes it, you may take it!"
Without another word or glance, she turned her back upon Mayne, and departed to her post in the sick-room.
During all this time, Mrs. Hicks, as her husband had boasted, came well to the fore. Apparently accustomed to sickness, and death, she was surprisingly energetic and practical, altogether a saner, more subdued, and silent, Mrs. Hicks.
The doctor's verdict had now gone forth, and the whole establishment was figuratively clothed in sackcloth and ashes. Neighbours from far and near crowded the verandah; melancholy and dejected, these awaited bulletins, and in some cases, farewell interview with their dying friend.
Nancy never appeared among the callers,—everything remained in the hands of Dr. and Mrs. Hicks. When a visitor entered the sick-room, she noiselessly slipped away, but at other times, Travers' dog, and Travers' daughter, were his chief companions.
The grim drawing-room had been completely altered to suit its present use. Most of the hateful black furniture was piled up behind the screen! A small camp bed, a long arm-chair, and a round table occupied the middle of the apartment. On the latter, a few books, photographs, and odds and ends—Travers' poor treasures—had been hastily collected.
The sick man was not in bed, but reclined in the long chair wrapped in his dressing-gown,—with death in his face, a stout heart in his breast,—the only cheerful inmate in Fairplains. His left arm and hand were terribly swollen. With his right he had written a few lines to his sister, and to Fletcher.—Short notes enclosed and addressed by Nancy.—Also he had made his will, and given her many directions, and much advice; to all of which the girl had listened with immovable composure—knowing that to break down would be terribly distressing to her father—who, with extraordinary fortitude, now calmly awaited the end.
The following morning Mr. Brownlow arrived, and was hospitably entertained by Mrs. Hicks. To his immense surprise, the wire which summoned him, had invited him not only to visit a sick friend, but to prepare for the solemnization of a marriage, and his amazement was not lessened, when informed that Travers' little Nancy was to be the bride!
A lengthy interview with the dying man was interrupted by Mrs. Hicks, who entered the drawing-room, bearing in either hand a large vase of white lilies—a signal for the wedding ceremony. Presently Mayne appeared in his Sunday suit, prayer-book in hand, followed by Dr. Hicks, Ted Dawson, and, by special desire, Francis, a Catholic. The last to arrive was Nancy wearing a fresh white linen frock. Then the doors were closed, and after a little confidential discussion, and whispering, the ceremony commenced.
The couple about to be married, took their places before Mr. Brownlow,—who used an old prie-dieu as desk.—Nancy stood as close as possible to her father, who, at the question, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" in a firm, loud voice, answered, "I do."
Accordingly "Eleanora Nancy" was married (with her mother's wedding-ring) to "Derek Danvers Mayne." The bridegroom appeared grave and anxious, the bride looked like an automaton, going through a mechanical performance, for which she had been carefully wound up.
When the Service was ended, the certificate duly signed, and witnessed, there was a celebration of the Holy Communion, and the little gathering retired.
It was an ominous fact, that as soon as she found herself alone, the first thing that the bride did, was to tear off her wedding-ring, and lock it away. It had been decided by Mayne and Travers, that the marriage was to be kept secret, at least until after the funeral, and everything went on precisely as if it had not taken place.
With regard to the funeral, the presence of Mr. Brownlow awaiting the occasion for his services, seemed to Nancy, Mayne, and others, a most hideous and heartrending necessity: Laurence Travers was still in the land of the living, and here was his friend Brownlow, waiting on at Fairplains,—as all the world was aware,—in order to read the funeral service over his dead body!
Nancy and Mayne encountered one another in the sick-room and at meals,—for Mrs. Hicks was inflexible with regard to food. She scolded vigorously, in a subdued voice, when the girl refused to eat; demanding to know, what was the good of her starving herself, and of being laid up, and no use to anyone?
Nancy rarely opened her lips, the dread of her impending bereavement was beyond words. She had lost much of her deep tan colour, and looked pinched, and haggard; it was a young face, aged and racked with torture, yet so far, she had not shed one single tear. On the contrary, her eyes had a fixed glassy stare, like those of a wax doll.
"Feed her up, and keep her going!" was Dr. Hicks' counsel to the newly-wed bridegroom. "The girl is so unnaturally restrained, that I'm afraid of some sort of a bad collapse."
But whenever Mayne urged Nancy to rest, or to spare herself, he was met with an impatient shrug, or a brusque refusal; and realized the uncomfortable fact, that she rarely spoke to, or looked at him, of her own accord; but naturally every precious moment was devoted to her dying father.
Travers' slight recovery on the day of the wedding was followed that night by a grave relapse, turning to delirium, finally coma; and the following day, he passed away at sunset. The prayers for the dying offered by Mr. Brownlow were almost drowned in the clanging of the coolies' gong. Their task for the day was over—and Travers' life's work ended at the same hour.
That night the bungalow itself was silent as a tomb, but the peaceful repose was broken by the weird death wail in the go-downs and coolies' quarters.
The funeral was immense. People from great distances, hills and plains alike, flocked to pay the last tribute to an old friend.—Laurence Travers had been in Coffee for twenty-five years.
Among the most prominent mourners were Mr. and Mrs. Ffinch; she had only returned home that morning, and was shocked by the news which assailed her, almost before she had set foot in her house. Having been beyond the reach of letters, this was the first that she had heard, even of Travers' illness: and the sudden announcement of his death, was a stunning blow. Although tired, and inclined to be hysterical, she pulled herself together with a great effort in order to accompany her husband to Fairplains.
During the Burial Service many of the women wept. Nancy never shed a tear, but stood by the grave-side like a graven image in white stone. Afterwards, she fled away to her room, where she locked herself in; refusing admittance to all,—even deaf to the beseeching of her own dearest, and broken-hearted, "Finchie."
Truly these were really miserable days for Derek Mayne! who weighed down by the loss of a good friend, and his own share in the tragedy, had now added to his trouble, a wife who undoubtedly hated him! He read this fact in her dull, but still expressive eyes. She avoided him pointedly; even at the funeral, she had moved from his side in order to stand by Mrs. Ffinch; and once, when he had made an attempt to offer consolation and a caress, she had looked at him so fiercely; almost as if she could have struck him! Of course the miserable child was nearly off her head—and no wonder; but this was not an encouraging beginning for a life-long partnership!
His leave would be up in three days, and what then? The estate must be taken in hand at once: Ted and Nicky were working it at present, like the good fellows that they were, but a capable manager who could live on the spot, was in this, the busiest season, absolutely essential.
In the East, events march with amazing speed; as one man falls, another fills his place—and so the world rolls on. Almost everything at Fairplains, except such matters as books, guns, a few pieces of old china and silver, belonged, as Travers had once expressed it, "lock, stock and barrel" to Tom Fletcher; so the personal estate was easily wound up. The assets were small; but on the other hand—there were no debts.
Dr. Hicks had taken his departure, but his good, capable wife still remained in charge of Nancy, and the household. Mayne and she dined tête-à-tête; and somehow in her brusque matter-of-fact way, she cheered him: she talked of Nancy as "a darling; a girl with a heart of gold, who, when she had found her breath again, after such a terrible experience, would make him the best of wives, and was fit for any society."
"You only saw the jungle side," she explained, "but I can tell you, that Miss Nancy is accomplished; she can play the piano, and sing and dance as well as the best of your tip-toppers; she didn't waste her time at school, you bet! She cost Laurence Travers about two hundred a year, he never spared any expense upon his girl—we all know that."
When Mrs. Hicks had withdrawn—she was an early to bed lady—Mayne wandered about alone in the bright moonlight, thinking sorrowfully of the dead man.
Was it but a week ago, when they two, discussing a question of European politics, had paced this very path, and since then, his companion had set out for the undiscovered country? It seemed incredible.
By and by he went and stood by the newly made grave; something was lying across it, crushing all the beautiful wreaths and flowers. What was it? On nearer inspection it proved to be Togo; who recognized his disturber with a threatening growl.
From the grave Mayne returned to the bungalow, and sat for a long time alone in the empty verandah—what a change was here! The merry voices, and the laughing that filled it a week ago, already belonged to the past; every door stood wide, and a chill death-like stillness pervaded the premises. Even in the servants' quarters—what a singular absence of sound!
All at once a wholly inexplicable impulse impelled Mayne to enter the room where Travers had breathed his last; the corners looked mysteriously, and forbiddingly dark; but in the centre, where the moonlight streamed,—it was as light as day. The little iron cot had been neatly made up, in the long chair—Mayne started, the moon discovered a prone figure—Nancy! with her head buried among the cushions; and something in the absolute abandonment of her limp and lifeless attitude, brought to his mind the picture of a dead white bird.
He stole away, noiseless as a shadow, with these two scenes indelibly fixed upon his memory; Togo, keeping watch and ward over the grave, Nancy prostrate in the death chamber. Surely few men had ever awakened such profound grief, as Laurence Travers.