"THE CORNER"
For a bachelor abode "The Corner" proved unexpectedly comfortable, and well-furnished.
"Wouldn't you swear a couple of old maids lived here?" said Dawson, as he ushered his guest into the dining-room. "This is all Byng's doing," pointing to a precisely-laid table,—where four little hill-ferns, in four little white china wheelbarrows, supported a central ornament. "He found things pretty rough and tumbled, when he joined me three years ago."
"You may say so!" corroborated his cousin, now entering sleek-headed and refreshed, unfolding a smart silk handkerchief as he spoke. "Why, there was hardly a sheet or a towel—nothing but rags—only one tumbler, one breakfast-cup, and two plates, both cracked!"
"Oh come, draw it mild!" protested the other. "Anyhow, the Missy—I call him the 'Missy'—gives picnics and tiffins, we have an ice machine, a piano, and lace-edged tea-cloths! Now sit down, I'm sure you are starving."
A black-bearded butler brought in a substantial cold hump, salad, roast potatoes, bread, butter, cheese, and a huge cake; whilst his satellite, an attendant chokra, supplied each of the company with a long and well-iced peg.
"Not much of the old maid in this quarter!" remarked Mayne, when he had swallowed a few mouthfuls, indicating the splendid tiger-skins, and heads, that surrounded the party. "That bison—I say, what a fellow!" surveying the trophy with eyes of envious respect.
"Yes, a good specimen," assented Dawson. "You should see those at Fairplains. Travers is the finest shot in Southern India. Have you ever done any big game shooting?"
"Nothing bigger than a hare! I've always been mad keen on trophies, and when my uncle wrote about this invitation, I nearly stood on my head. Supposing Fletcher's manager has received no instructions, and gives me the boot?"
"No fear," rejoined Byng emphatically. "Travers is the great shikari in these hills, a magnificent shot, and absolutely without a nerve in his body. If you are a keen sportsman—a red-hot enthusiast—he will love you as a son, or brother."
"How splendid! What's he like?"
"I'll tell you all about him, when we adjourn outside. Have one of these Trichys?"
With a Trichy between his fingers, Mayne followed his host into the verandah, and there, subsided into a deep and seductive chair. His eyes ranged over the unfamiliar outlook, of rich green coffee bushes, heavy forestry, and vague, blue plains, as he meditatively rolled the cheroot.
"It's rather a painful story about Laurence Travers," began Byng, blowing a cloud.
"Then—er—perhaps you'd rather——"
"Oh, it's common property—no scandal. Travers' father lived to spend his last penny, and left nothing but debt for the family. So Laurence, instead of going into the Army, came out here when he was two and twenty; he had a little capital, and started coffee planting at Fairplains. After a good season, he went home on three months' leave,—and got caught, coming out!"
"Caught!" repeated Mayne.
"Fell head over ears in love with a fellow passenger; a young governess bound for a situation in Melbourne. She had not a penny, needless to say. They were married, and lived very happily, in spite of the wrath of his relations,—whose chief asset was family pride. Mrs. Travers did up the house, started a garden, rode about all over the place, and made heaps of friends; she was Irish, very pretty, lively, hospitable, and an immense favourite. Those were fat years for coffee too—and Travers prospered."
"Oh, get on!—don't be so long-winded!" growled Dawson, who was nursing a fox terrier, whilst jealous dogs of various sorts surrounded his chair.
"Well," resumed Byng, "after a good while, there was the usual baby—a girl. Travers was in the seventh heaven, but Mrs. Travers somehow began to go down hill, though she would not give in; other people saw it, and urged her to take a change, or to go home. She stuck it out, that she was as strong as a horse. However, when the child was about a year old, Travers, coming in late one afternoon, discovered her sitting in the verandah,—as he supposed asleep,—with the baby on her lap. When it turned out that she was stone dead, he went nearly raving mad; in those days the place was a bit isolated, neighbours were far off; not like it is now,—the Ffinches and Hicks within a couple of miles. Strange to say, the servants had the sense to put away his razors and fire-arms, and to send for the nearest doctor. He gave Travers a sedative, and found that Mrs. Travers had died of long-standing heart disease. She was buried in her garden.
"After this blow, Travers appeared to have no further interest in anything in the wide world,—bar the kid. She had a superior English nurse, and the most wonderful frocks, sashes, and dolls, that had ever been seen on these hills. Travers could not bear her out of his sight, and brought her about with him everywhere,—even shooting. When Nancy was six, she got typhoid—our crystal clear streams are deceptive—and she nearly went out, and had to be sent home. Her father took this separation terribly to heart; after her departure, they say, he used to sit for hours, in a sort of dream, just smoking, and staring into space! Some people thought he was going dotty; and it sounds a funny thing to say, but in a way, the child was his ruin! An irresistible magnet, that drew him to England, and often at the most critical seasons. There, he had no occupation; here, his coffee estate was going to pot. Other planters warned him, but in spite or all they could say, he would leave as manager, one, Doria, a cunning half-caste,—such an oily persuasive rascal,—to take on his job.
"There had been bad seasons, and losses,—common to the whole community, and this fellow urged Travers to raise a mortgage, and Travers, who wanted ready money, and was dying to be off home, agreed, and departed. Then Doria, left to his own devices, set about to rob and plunder in the most shameless way; he pocketed a whole season's profits, also large arrears of debts—and cleared out, leaving no address."
"I believe he is in South America," interposed Dawson. "Go on, Nicky—you'd make your fortune in the Bazaar!"
"I think," resumed Byng, "that it must be nearly five years since Travers returned, and found himself completely smashed. He made a desperate effort to pull things together, but it was too late; the coffee was neglected, and blighted, the bungalow full of mildew and cobwebs,—and the mortgagees were calling for their capital. I must say, they behaved infernally badly; would not give Travers a dog's chance; foreclosed, and sold up Fairplains. Fletcher bought it, lock, stock and barrel, and kept on Travers, as his manager. He has a bungalow, and four hundred rupees a month—and is worth double. When Fletcher is away—he is boss, and lives in the big house."
"Where he was once lord, and master!" exclaimed Mayne. "What frightfully hard luck,—I wonder he stayed on."
"Hobson's choice! He'd got to live, and to pay for the kiddie at home. Now she is grown up, and out—and——"
"Do you mean to tell me," interrupted Mayne, pushing back his chair, "that there is a girl at Fairplains?"
"I am thankful to say there is! She is the life and soul of the neighbourhood. We should all be uncommonly dull without our Nancy—she is full of energy, and true joie-de-vivre—does everything bang off on the spur of the moment, and is the apple of her father's eye."
"And mine," supplemented Dawson, "apple of both eyes."
"Yes, she put new life into Travers," resumed Byng, "he is like another man; goes all over the place to picnics, and tennis, and takes an interest in his personal appearance—not like my cousin here," with a contemptuous gesture of his thumb.
"Oh, go on!" grunted Dawson, "I haven't thirty-eight ties hanging on a string—I've no red silk socks—and no looks! Travers, though he is nearly fifty, is far and away the handsomest fellow in these parts; he's like a king! I suppose it's the old blue blood—and one of the best, into the bargain."
Mayne listened with ill-suppressed impatience to this long eulogy. What were the handsome planter, and the apple of his eye, to him? His programme must be entirely revised.
"But I say," he broke in at last. "It's one thing to go shooting with a bachelor, my uncle's old pal—but another pair of shoes, to quarter myself on his manager, who has a grown-up daughter—even if he wanted to go for a week's shikar, he could not leave her at home alone."
"Oh, she goes with him," was Dawson's staggering announcement, "she's an A1 shot."
"Then that settles it," declared Mayne, rising to his feet. "Two is company! Only my baggage is on its way to Fletcher's, I'd ask for a bed here, and start down the ghât to-morrow. Anyway, I won't stay at Fairplains more than a couple of days."
"Oh, won't you?" said Byng, with ironical emphasis, "I advise you to 'wait and see.' Nancy won't be the fly in the ointment—she's a rattling good little housekeeper, and will make you uncommonly comfortable. She does not always go out shooting; sometimes Mrs. Ffinch comes over, and keeps her company—they are tremendous pals."
"Yes, if you are really anxious to see first-class sport," broke in Dawson, "don't let a scruple, or a little girl, stand in your way. Take my advice, and make no arrangements, till you have seen Fairplains for yourself."
"Well, I daresay you are right," said Mayne, after a weighty silence. "It does seem rather rotten, to have taken this long journey, and be, so to speak, headed off by a petticoat. I—might be sorry afterwards."
"You are bound to be," rejoined Dawson with conviction.
"All right then, I'll push on. Have the Travers any neighbours besides yourselves, and this Mrs. What-you-may-call her?"
"Oh, yes, the Ffinches at Clouds Rest, are within two miles—there are only the two of them. He, given over body and soul, to money-making, and coffee—otherwise just Mrs. Ffinch's husband! She, is our local dynamo, and keeps everything going;—extraordinarily clever woman, absolutely wasted out here;—would make a great Prime Minister, or Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Then we have the Hicks'. Dr. and Mrs. and two girls; he was doctor on board a liner—and picked up a lady passenger."
"More of a passenger, than a lady," corrected Dawson, "but a rare good sort."
"And the girls ditto," continued his cousin. "These are our nearest—if not dearest. You'll soon get to know everyone, and everyone will know you,—and give you lots of sport."
"Well then, I think I'll make a start, if you'll send for the cob, and syce; it's seven o'clock."
"It's a fine starlight night, and no hurry; only the Travers' are early birds," said Dawson, when Mayne's cob was led up. "There's a coolie to guide you. I expect we shall see you pretty often—mind you look in, when you can."
"Upon my word, I don't know how to thank you! You have been most awfully good in taking me in like this," said Mayne. "Perhaps Fletcher has not written; and you may have me back on your hands to-morrow morning," and with a laugh, and a salute, he sprang into the saddle, and cantered away, closely pursued by syce, and coolie.
"A real cheery chap!" remarked Dawson, as he looked after the parting guest; "no 'haw-haw' nonsense about him. I like his eyes,—and he laughs like a boy."
"Boy! He must be seven or eight and twenty," said Byng, "may be more. Money, I should say. I noticed his watch, and he paid a smart sum for that cob. He's not a bad-looking chap—I hope he won't turn the child's head?"
"Not likely!" rejoined Dawson, "Nancy's head is too well screwed on, and she has no room for anyone in her thoughts, but her Daddy—as for that fellow, his one and only object in life, is to bag a tiger!"
Having pronounced this dictum, Dawson flung himself into a long cane chair, and picked up The Planter's Gazette.