"NANCY SITS WITH SORROW"
Nancy, the ayah, Togo and the luggage, arrived at Coimbatore station without any incident, much less a half-expected "hue and cry." Here Mrs. Simpson awaited them with her roomy bullock cart, drawn by a pair of huge Nellore bullocks, and carried the little party to her large and comfortable bungalow on the outskirts of the town. She was delighted to welcome her nursling,—to whom she had always been devoted.—She made her eat, and insisted upon putting her to bed, and treating her precisely as if she were still a small child!
When Nancy was at rest, in her spacious white cot, Jane Simpson sat by her side, and listened with tearful sympathy to details of the illness and death of her former master; for all this, she had been prepared, but the unexpected news of Nancy's marriage, reduced her to a condition of stunned, and horrified silence.
Jane Simpson was by nature excessively prim, a little narrow-minded, strictly conventional, but a most worthy person. Her house, her person, and especially her hands, were beautifully kept. When she had deposited Nancy at school in Eastbourne, she subsequently turned her attention to professional nursing, and after several years' experience, had attracted the attention of one of her patients, married him, and returned to India,—a country she abused for its slack unpractical ways, but nevertheless liked it all the same. Bob Simpson's pay was liberal, and although they had no family, Jane was a very busy and contented woman.
From her point of view, everything should be foreseen, cut and dried, punctual to a second, and absolutely proper and correct. This sudden marriage of her little girl to an acquaintance no better than a stranger, figuratively swept her off her feet! However, like a prudent woman, she said little. Nancy was looking desperately ill, a different creature from the buoyant Nancy of Fairplains: so silent, haggard, and lifeless. What further information Mrs. Simpson required was eagerly supplied by the ayah, who though not actually present, had witnessed the marriage ceremony in the drawing-room,—through an obliging crack in the door.
"Mayne Sahib and the Missy, standing before the Padre, both looking too sorry. Mayne, he very nice gentleman. His butler telling, a good sahib, and no evil liver,—everyone liking. He money got, too. Yesterday giving me twenty rupees," and the ayah's black eyes glistened greedily.
"Do you think he will come down here after Miss Nancy?" anxiously inquired Mrs. Simpson.
"How I telling, Memsahib?" throwing up her small brown hands, "but for what good? My Missy plenty sick, soon, soon, very sick—and maybe die.—Ah ye yoh!" and she wrung her hands.
Part of this augury came true. The dreaded reaction set in, Nancy had a bad attack of fever, and was seriously ill. She was lucky to find herself in Jane Simpson's care, and with the help of a good doctor, and the best of nursing, at the end of three weeks, she had recovered; but rose from her bed a shattered wreck, wasted to a shadow, with a small wan white face, from which all trace of sunburn and tan had now completely disappeared.
During the fever, Mrs. Simpson kept all visitors steadily at bay. Training as a professional nurse, had invested her with an inflexible attitude, and even Mrs. Ffinch, who had motored down on two occasions, could not succeed in interviewing the invalid; but when Nancy was convalescent, the position was stormed.
Mrs. Ffinch brought her neighbour, Mrs. Hicks, with her in the car, and during most of the journey, the two ladies wrangled, for they held diametrically opposite views with respect to the protégée they were about to visit. Mrs. Hicks declared "that it would be a great pity there should be a complete breach between Nancy and Captain Mayne." She was sentimental, and soft-hearted in her way,—fond of the girl, and well disposed towards the man.
"By and by, if they're let alone, believe you me, they'll make friends! After all, Mayne is a fairly good match. I am told he has five hundred a year, and expectations from an uncle."
"Yes," broke in Mrs. Ffinch, who was not soft-hearted, and whose own love affair had been strangled. "You can imagine the uncle's delight—I know the old man—when he hears that his nephew and heir, has picked up a little nobody off an Indian coffee estate!"
"I don't think that's a very nice, or kind, way to speak of Nancy," gobbled Mrs. Hicks, swelling with indignation.
"My dear, good Mrs. Hicks, don't be angry; it's not my idea, I do assure you; only one that would undoubtedly present itself to this rich old man! I propose to shelter Nancy under my own wing. I shall be going home next spring, and as soon as she has recovered from her grief, I shall take her about, and give her a good time—and——"
"And marry her off," broke in Mrs. Hicks, with challenging insolence. "Match-making with you is just a play; all excitement and amusement. However, you can't marry Nancy, for you know as well as I do, she has a husband already!"
"Nothing of the sort," rejoined the other, "any claim that Captain Mayne would put forward could easily be refuted. He won't do it though, and I suppose if he chose, he could sue Nancy for desertion."
Argument waxed fast and furious, and Mrs. Ffinch had much the best of the conflict. She kept her temper admirably, whilst her opponent was in a red-hot towering rage. On such occasions she completely cast all fear, and awe of the "Dictator," to the winds, and told her various, plain, and unpleasant truths. On the present occasion, she said:
"You know very well, that if you had been here and had a hand in this marriage of Nancy's, you would have made her stick to it through thick and thin—but as it was all got up in a hurry, and, so to speak, behind your back, you'll do all you can to smash it!"
Mrs. Ffinch's reply was an icy and dignified silence. The proper and suitable punishment for her companion would have been to open the door of the car, request her to descend, and allow her to walk the remainder of the distance down to Coimbatore.
For a long time, neither matron spoke; and the motor skimmed rapidly down the winding road, passing many familiar land-marks. The cold fit was now on Mrs. Hicks. She had let herself go, and said too much, and there wasn't the smallest doubt that her companion—from what she knew of her—would hold a truce for the present, but in some way or another "have it in for her" on a future occasion!
As they sped along the flat plains, in the direction of Coimbatore, Mrs. Ffinch broke the silence.
"I propose to take Nancy back with me this evening; her room is ready, and most of her mourning has been finished, so, dear Mrs. Hicks, on our return journey, I'm sure you won't mind sitting in front with the chauffeur, and I will take the poor child in beside me."
In her own opinion she was carrying out the part of a benevolent friend—she was saving Nancy from a loveless union, and the misery of being dragged round the world, by a man who did not want her.
The two well-meaning visitors were greatly shocked when they beheld their young protégée. She looked so dull, and vacant, almost like another creature! Her attitude resembled that of a wounded creature, cowering, and withdrawing, from those who wished to do her good. She resisted all Mrs. Ffinch's importunities and persuasions to accompany her to Clouds Rest. This, was the one subject on which the girl seemed to have a fixed opinion; nothing would induce her to return to the hills. Otherwise, whether she was to remain at Coimbatore, or go to England, to live, or to die,—was apparently a matter of complete indifference.
Whilst Mrs. Ffinch was holding a whispered conference with Jane Simpson, Mrs. Hicks seized the opportunity to give Nancy the note from Mayne. The girl turned it over listlessly.
"It is his answer to yours," explained Mrs. Hicks. "He wrote it right away, and gave it to me. I thought it better to wait until I could bring it down myself."
"I suppose so, thank you," she said as she opened it, glanced over it, and then tore it into four pieces. "That's done," she said, looking at Mrs. Hicks, with unexpected animation.
"Well, I'm not so sure!" rejoined the matron, "and I'm not of the same mind as Mrs. Ffinch. We quarrelled about the business the whole way down. Indeed, I think myself, she had half a mind to put me out on the side of the road! I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me, and said lots of things I'm sorry for now. I expect Mrs. Ffinch is bitterly disappointed that you won't go back with her, Nancy. I shouldn't be surprised if she carried her point yet, and you know we'd all be only too glad to have you among us. Hush! here she comes!"
As the time passed, Nancy's grief and misery, instead of abating seemed to increase. She was no longer an invalid, but helped Nurse Jane about the house, knitted, sewed, and walked out daily. Her attitude was one of an unnatural passivity. Grief had burnt into her very soul, and her inner being was absorbed with one obsession: the memory of her father. Apparently his image filled her thoughts to the exclusion of all else. This much, Nurse Jane gathered, during their infrequent conversations—for Nancy now was almost dumb. As for Mayne, the girl appeared to have forgotten his existence! She was completely prostrated by the loss of her parent, and gradually sinking into an apathetic condition of mind and body, from which at all cost, she must be redeemed.
As Bob Simpson's cheery good humour, and Jane's authoritative efforts, had not the smallest effect upon this white-faced silent inmate, Mrs. Ffinch and Mrs. Hicks and Ted Dawson were summoned,—and held, so to speak, a committee upon the case. They decided that the girl must have a complete change, otherwise, it would be impossible for her to regain her normal balance! Mrs. Ffinch relinquished her efforts to induce Nancy to live with her, had obtained her aunt's address, and sent her one of her most diplomatic letters—to which there had been a cool, but polite reply.
Mrs. Jenkins had also written to her niece, offering to receive her, and to give her an asylum until she could make other arrangements. Nancy, who had been two months at Coimbatore, was a wan, hollow-eyed spectre of herself: it was evident, that in her present environment she would never recover her mental poise. In the day-time she sat and walked, and talked like some dull automatic figure—entirely indifferent to her surroundings. As Mrs. Ffinch gravely considered her—she mentally concluded that, "that way madness lies!" and Mrs. Simpson's friends, who had known the gay and happy Miss Nancy Travers, assured one another, there was no doubt at all, but that the broken-hearted girl was either dying, or going out of her mind!
"She must be sent away at once!" such was Mrs. Ffinch's mandate, after a protracted interview with Nurse Jane. "There is her aunt's invitation—she has the money for her passage, her mourning is ready, and, as it happens, most providentially, Mrs. Sandilands is going home by the Patna. They can travel together. I shall wire to Cook, make all arrangements, secure a separate cabin for Nancy, and this day week, she will find herself at sea!"