THE COFFEE ESTATE
The Fairplains coffee, fully maintained its high reputation, and the accompanying food was on the same satisfactory level; fresh cream, bread and butter, apricot jam, and new-laid eggs, grilled ham and chicken—what a welcome change, from the sodden West Coast fare, to which Mayne had been accustomed. Besides the menu, he could not help being impressed by the deep mutual affection, existing between Travers and his daughter; how quietly she forestalled all his requirements, how his dark eyes softened, when they met her glance, and how the pair laughed, and chaffed, one another with light-hearted enjoyment.
Mayne cast a thought to the domestic atmosphere of his own home. What a contrast to this! There, a fashionably youthful woman of fifty, shrank from the too convincing appearance of a son of seven and twenty, and her early morning manner was particularly chilly and acidulated. Breakfast was never a convivial meal.
Lady Torquilstone, an only child and heiress, among her many suitors, had, to the disappointment of her parent, accepted handsome Derek Mayne, a mere officer,—and not even an eldest son! and accompanied him when he joined his regiment in India. As soon as the glamour of a new life, and a new world, had worn off, the lady drooped. In India, she found a dreadful spirit of equality—no nicely partitioned sets, only the sternest rule of "precedence," in short, from her point of view no "society" whatever!
Money failed to give her the prominent position she considered to be her right, she was merely Mrs. Derek Mayne, a Captain's wife, and one of the herd! Unfortunately the marriage was not a success; the heiress was discontented, and irritable, she snubbed and tyrannized over her good-natured husband,—and spent most of her time in England.
Captain Mayne died in Jubbulpore of cholera,—when his happy wife was dancing at a London ball,—and within the least conventional period, his widow married Lord Torquilstone, an elderly, but well preserved peer, and hardened man of the world; they shared the same tastes—particularly racing, and Bridge—and lived for eight months of the year in a gloomy, but imposing house in Mayfair,—where it required a combination of three men-servants, to open the hall door.
Derek Mayne Junior had never been permitted to become "an encumbrance"; school, Sandhurst, and his Uncle Richard, lifted the weight of child, boy, and man, from his mother's shrinking shoulders,—and he made only an occasional and brief appearance at his so-called "Home."
"I'm afraid you will have lots of spare time on your hands," said Travers to his guest. "This is our busy season, and I can only get off for a shoot now and then,—but Nancy will take you on, when I have an extra full day."
"What do you call a full day?"
"Well, when I start at seven, with roll call of the coolies, am out till twelve; after a rest and tiffin, I go round and see how the weeding and picking is done? then to the factory to weigh coffee, afterwards attend to office work, which sometimes carries me on till eleven o'clock at night."
"But I don't allow that now," said Nancy with a proprietary gesture.
"No," agreed Travers, "because this young lady wants a playfellow, and has no conception of the labour and anxieties, that belong to a coffee estate. Sometimes a planter will awake, to find what has been compared to a fall of snow,—the blossom in flower! It is a pretty sight; but for three days, he lives in a quaking agony for fear of rain—rain would spell the ruin of the whole crop. To insure a good setting of the bean or berry, we must have several days of sunshine."
"I suppose the picking is all done by hand?" said Mayne, who from his place could observe various black heads bobbing about among the coffee bushes.
"Yes, I get my labour from Mysore. I must take you down to the pulping-house, and let you see some of the process."
"I gather that coffee-planting is an uncertain business?"
"You may say so!" replied Travers. "We are liable to leaf disease, rain, and rot. However, a planter is a sanguine creature, and if he has a bad season, his cry is 'next year.'"
"Now Daddy, we won't have any more coffee till after dinner," announced Nancy authoritatively. "Captain Mayne has not been introduced to the best dogs. This"—pushing forward a large white bull terrier,—"is Sam. Uncle Sam, my property, and shadow."
"I say, what a splendid fellow!" exclaimed Mayne. "Come along and talk to me, Uncle. I love dogs—have you had him long?"
"Ever since he was born. Bessie, his mother, was brought from England as a puppy. She looked after me when I was small, and was so clever and wise. I am sorry to say she died before I came home,—but her son has adopted me."
"Well, Bessie lived to a ripe old age," said Travers; "she must have been thirteen—an extraordinarily intelligent, almost human creature. When the poor old lady felt that her end was approaching, she went round every one of her haunts to bid them farewell—down to 'The Corner,' up to 'Clouds Rest,' and even to the nearer sholahs and beats. Day after day she was to be seen hurrying along all by herself—a strange journey——"
"You have not talked to Togo yet," interposed Nancy, the irrepressible. "Father belongs to him, and sleeps in his room. Come here, and show yourself, my Togo! He is a shy, and eccentric person—nearly always carries a stone in his mouth—a trick inherited from his retriever ancestors."
The animal in question was a yellow and white, curly-haired, long-legged spaniel, with a jaunty tail carried high over his back, and a pair of beseeching dark eyes.
"What do you think of him?"
After a moment's hesitation Mayne replied:
"Well, I've no doubt Togo is a good sort—he reminds me of a variety of dogs I've seen!"
"Variety—you mean he is a mongrel?"
"I'd rather not commit myself. Perhaps he is a particular hill breed?"
"No, but one of the best of our pack," said his owner, "and if he seems all leg, he is really all heart. Come here, Togo,—'handsome is, that handsome does,' eh Togo?"
And Togo went over and laid his head on his master's knee, and turned a deeply reproachful gaze upon the stranger.
"I'm going down to the factory, if you'd care to come," said Travers. "I'll show you the lie of the land, and Nancy can concentrate on her tea-party."
Mayne accepted with alacrity, and in a few minutes, the two men, followed by the two dogs, were to be seen descending the hill.
"I knew a fellow of your name long ago," announced Travers; "I was one of the juniors, when he was in the sixth form at Harrow; a remarkably good-looking chap, Derek Mayne. We small fry worshipped him—he was Captain of the Eleven."
"It must have been my father; he was at Harrow, and his name was Derek Mayne—so is mine."
"Then in that case," said Travers, halting for a moment, and confronting his companion, "I am delighted to meet his son; although I lost sight of him for ages and ages, I remember your father just as well as if we had met but yesterday; such an active, cheery sort of chap, with a wonderful influence, and personality. I know he went into the Army, and died young."
"Yes, twenty-five years ago out here—cholera. I don't remember him at all—I wish I could."
"Once he came and spent a few days at Lambourne, my father's place, and I felt tremendously flattered, and proud. Everyone was taken with him, and such a cricketer! Those were the pleasant days before our grand smash. Are you an only child?"
"I am."
"What hard lines for your mother to have six thousand miles between you and her! I know what that means."
Mayne made no reply. He had good reason to believe, that distance was of no account, and his absence, more or less of a welcome relief.
"Yes, I know exactly how she feels," repeated good, simple-minded Travers; "when my little girl went away from me to England,—the whole world seemed changed, and dark."
His love of Nancy was the keynote of the man.
"Well, here is what we call a factory—not much like your idea of one, I'll swear,—and a bit of an eyesore into the bargain."
The factory was an ugly, solid brick building, with a flat zinc roof, and vast verandahs; in and out of which, the laden coolies swarmed like ants in an ant-heap. All seemed working at the highest pitch, and everything pointed to a big crop; here Travers was the acute, energetic and authoritative Manager; eyes and ears, hung upon his words, which happened to be in fluent Canarese.
At the appointed hour, Mayne,—whose kit had arrived,—presented himself in the drawing-room at Fairplains; looking very business-like, in his well-cut white flannels, and tennis shoes. Here host and hostess were already awaiting their guests.
The apartment was gloomy and old-fashioned—in spite of Miss Nancy's obvious attempts to work a change, with gay cushions, white curtains, and a wealth of flowers; these items entirely failed to overpower the depressing effect of a double suite of Black Bombay furniture—sofas, armchairs and tables; all heavily carved, and upholstered in shabby purple damask,—the original Fairplains furniture, brought from Bombay at vast expense, fifty years previously.
The walls were hung with a weird grey paper, covered with a pattern that recalled urns, and weeping willows; the ceiling was crossed by great beams, and the yellow keys of an aged piano, seemed to grin defiance at every innovation! Mrs. Travers and her daughter had been in turn defeated by the overhanging beams, and funereal furniture, and so the apartment of the early sixties, remained more or less deserted. Nancy generally received her friends in the verandah, or the cheerful, shabby "Den," common to her parent, and herself.
"Is not this room hideous?" she said, appealing to Mayne. "No one likes it. I think it's because when people die,—they are laid out here."
"Nancy!" protested her father, "you don't know what you are talking about! The fact is," turning to Mayne, "this room was once the glory of the old lady who first lived at Fairplains, and there was a sort of understanding that it was not to be transformed,—so here it is, as you see! We only use it on state occasions."
"Once in a blue moon," added Nancy. "The servants say it's haunted, and I believe the old lady comes here still. If any article happens to be moved, it's put back in its place, the same night—it really is; flowers die in a few hours, and I always feel as if this was a brooding, creepy sort of place—I don't like to be here alone after dark—I feel a sense of something terrifying in that far corner—! Dad, shall I take Captain Mayne down and show him the tennis ground? We are proud of that."
"All right, Nan, I'll do figurehead, and receive the company,—and pass them on to you. They will be here at any moment."
The four tennis courts had been, so to speak, scooped out of the hill, and lay open on one side to a sheer descent, enclosed with stout wire netting. A flight of steps connected the ground with the broad terrace in front of the bungalow.
"It's A1," remarked Mayne, "kunkur courts, I declare!"
"My mother had it made in the days when Daddy was rich," explained the girl, "but for years and years it was forgotten,—and overgrown with grass and brambles."
"And you restored it?"
"No indeed, Mr. Fletcher resurrected the poor old tennis ground—wasn't it good of him?"
"He plays himself, of course?"
"Oh no, he is quite old—much older than father. We have lived with him, since I came out."
"Were you long at home?"
"Eleven endless years. Daddy came over four times to see me; only for that, I believe I'd have died. Here are the Hicks!"—pointing to a party who were riding up the road in Indian file. "The stout lady on the white pony is Mrs. Hicks, or ''Icks'—she drops her aitches all over the place; once someone sent her a sheet of paper covered with them,—and she took it as a capital joke."
"Why not?" said Mayne. "After all, why make a fetish of one letter?"
"Yes, and some people who cling to their aitches, work the poor letter 'I' to death."
"That's rather sharp, and very true too, Miss Nancy."
"I believe I am sharp in seeing some things. Mrs. Hicks is blind as a bat, but immensely good-natured,—and so kind to animals."
"Do you call her kind to that unfortunate pony? She must weigh fourteen stone if she weighs an ounce!"
"Oh, he's a 'Shan,' and well up to weight. Anyhow, she is active—wait till you see her skipping about the tennis courts! Those two girls are her daughters, Fanny and Jessie—they keep her in great order."
"Do they indeed—but why?"
"Because of her love for bright colours, her giggling, and loud laugh, and the funny things she will say—before they can stop her!"
At this moment, the lady in question loomed large upon the top of the steps, and Nancy ran to meet her. A ruddy, dark-eyed matron, with a rollicking expression,—wearing a stiff white skirt, comfortable canvas shoes, and a flowing green sash.
"Well, Nance!" she called out, "'ow are you? This your friend?"—indicating Mayne with a nod.
"Yes; Captain Mayne—Mrs. Hicks."
Mayne bowed, with slightly exaggerated deference.
Mrs. Hicks nodded approvingly, and said:
"These are my two girls, Miss Fanny and Jessie—Captain Mayne," and she waved her bat towards two trim, lady-like young women. "They are first-class tennis players," she continued, "and you can't go wrong,—whichever you choose."
Mayne had not intended to make a selection, but the matter was taken out of his hands by Nancy.
"I'm playing with father; and Mrs. Hicks, I know you like to play with Andy Meach. Captain Mayne, you had better secure Jessie," and she gave him a little push.
Thus committed to a decisive move, he asked if Miss Jessie would honour him?
Her blushing acceptance was rudely cut short by her parent, who said:
"It's all very fine for you to make up sets, my good Nancy! but you know as well as I do, that as soon as our commander-in-chief arrives, she will upset the whole of our little bag of tricks, and make us play with whoever she chooses—and talk of an angel!"—lifting her eyes—"here comes the Honourable Mrs. Ffinch."