THE PANTHER'S FIRST VICTIM
The tennis party had dissolved, dinner was an agreeable memory, and Mayne with his new friends, sat out in the broad verandah, and gazed at a moon,—which, like a pale golden disc, hung midway in the dark blue sky.
The two men were smoking, Sam was circling uneasily round his unheeding mistress, when she suddenly said:
"Do tell me, Captain Mayne, what you think of Mrs. Ffinch—isn't she charming?"
"She seems to be awfully clever, and amusing, and full of go."
"Yes," said Travers, "she manages the whole community with the very best intentions. I can't help feeling a little sorry for her."
"Sorry, father!" exclaimed Nancy, "why sorry?"
"Well, you see, she has no children, no positive home interests; her wonderful talents and exertions, are squandered among strangers. Ffinch has made a fortune—some say two—and yet he won't stir. He is rooted in coffee; so poor woman, is she! If he only would take her to London, there backed up by his long purse, she would be in her natural element; an admirable organizer of important functions, bazaars, charity balls, and political receptions; dealing with affairs on a grand scale, instead of running our tuppenny-halfpenny concerns."
"But these, no doubt with success?" said Mayne.
"Well, yes, on the whole—there have been one or two lapses, but a sacrificial goat was always on the spot!"
"Father!" broke in Nancy, "how can you be so horrid? You are talking like an odious cynic. Finchie has done no end of wonderful things—patching up all the quarrels, and getting people into good posts. She is always right—if ever she wants a scapegoat—here am I!"
"Noble child!" Travers ejaculated, and he surveyed his daughter with laughing eyes.
"Captain Mayne," she resumed, "don't you think Captain Calvert good looking?"
"Um—no," then after a doubtful pause, "more the other thing,—since you ask me."
"Bad looking, I suppose you mean. How funny!"
"I understand," said Travers, "that Mephistophelian cast—it does appeal to women and children."
"You have got into the wrong side of your chair, Daddy. What dreadful things you are saying—talking of Finchie's scapegoats, and seeing a likeness to the old gentleman, in Captain Calvert."
"I must confess I am rather surprised to find him in this part of the world," said Mayne, "he is not a sportsman—but a Society man, who likes big functions, the theatre, and cards."
"Oh, it's pretty warm down below just now," replied Travers, "and the Ffinches do their guests uncommonly well. Calvert is a pleasant fellow, and comes over here sometimes for a game of tennis; he and Nancy are pals. Well," rising as he spoke, "to-morrow I must be up and about at five o'clock—so that you and I can shoot in the early afternoon. Nancy child, it is time for bed, and just look how Sam is yawning!"
"Why, Daddy, it's only half-past ten," she protested, but all the same she rose, and having bid Mayne good-night, and folded her father in an overpowering embrace, went away to her own room, attended by her sleepy shadow.
Time at Fairplains flew with what seemed to Mayne, amazing speed; the shooting surpassed his most sanguine expectations; his excursions to the low country had resulted in two fine tigers, and several pairs of noble horns. When Travers was unable to accompany him, Ted Dawson and Andy Meach had come to the front, and shown the stranger capital sport. Mayne found this simple life delightful; a novel perspective and atmosphere; instead of familiar barrack bugles, here he was awoke by the clanging of a gong, summoning the coolies to their labours.
With Mayne it was a case of a happy surrender to his environment; the delicious life-giving air, good wholesome food, and congenial society, all contributed to this condition. He enjoyed listening to playful family arguments and squabbles,—when weary, after a long day's tramp, he lounged at delicious ease, in a comfortable, if shabby old chair; there was generally something piquante and provoking in Nancy's conversation. He and she were now on the most friendly footing; he had given her elaborate instructions in the important art of making a tie; she mended his socks, replaced lost buttons, and had even cut his hair! Also he called her Nancy, and was a little disposed to lecture, and tease her, in big elder brother fashion.
Mayne, however, discovered that there were two distinct Nancies; one of the morning, the other of the afternoon. The earlier young lady was a serious person, with the heavy responsibility of a household upon her shoulders. From chotah hazri till mid-day, she was occupied, first with the cook—a bearded retainer, who had carried her in his arms. The two conferred with the deepest solemnity over menus, the bazaar accounts, and the contents of the store-rooms. Then she visited the poultry yard, and the garden, superintended and helped to fill and trim the lamps, and finally sat down to make or mend. Nancy was an expert with her needle, and frequently extended a kindly hand towards the rags and tatters of "The Corner"; altogether a grave, silent, industrious mistress of Fairplains.
The afternoon Nancy was her opposite; neither grave, nor silent, but an exuberantly irresponsible chattering chit, who broke into song as she went about, in a sweet rather childish voice, waltzed her reluctant parent up and down the verandah, played tennis, rode with boyish pluck and abandon, sat with dangling legs on the ends of tables, talked ridiculous nonsense to the dogs and ponies, and was rarely seen to open a book, or to write a letter.
Mayne, who had no sisters, or girl cousins, mentally adopted Nancy as something of both; but as Miss Travers, and a young lady, it never occurred to him to take her seriously.
The Fairplains guest had been hospitably entertained by all the neighbours; tennis parties at the Hicks', tiffin at "The Corner," and dinner at Clouds Rest—where he was in particular request,—a request that savoured of a command—for Mrs. Ffinch had discovered that she knew his people at home—and her invitations were both frequent, and imperious. Travers was far too busy to dine abroad, Nancy never deserted her parent, and on several occasions Mayne went alone to Clouds Rest to dine and sleep. This abode was more on the lines of an English country house; here were curtains, carpets, elegant modern furniture, and appointments; nothing shabby or ramshackle, in or about the premises, which was staffed with first-rate native servants, had a luxurious "go as you please" atmosphere, and kept late hours. Champagne and caviare, and other important importations were offered at dinner; after the best Havanas came Auction Bridge at high points.
Captain Calvert still lingered in these "Capuan" quarters. One morning, he and Mayne awaited their hostess in the verandah, where breakfast was served; she was an hour late, and Captain Calvert's sharp appetite had undoubtedly affected his temper. After one or two nasty speeches about "damned lazy women," and "rotten arrangements," his remarks became more personal, and he twitted his companion with his mad craze for shikar.
"Upon my soul, I believe you'd go anywhere, even among half-castes and natives, if they were to promise you an extra good bag."
"Perhaps I would—in fact, I'm sure I would," admitted Mayne. "By the way, apropos of natives and shooting—what about your shoot up North? I heard you talking to a Nawab coming out on the Medina, and you put in pretty strongly for an invite."
"Yes—did I?" drawled Calvert, lifting his thin black eyebrows, "I forget—I believe. I—er—wanted to have a look at the country."
"So it did not come off, eh?"
"No, as well as I remember, there was some hitch about dates. Talking of dates," he went on, with a significant glance, "are you putting in all your leave at Fairplains?"
"I hope so," was the bold rejoinder, "I shall be jolly sorry when it comes to my last week!"
"Ah! Well, yes, the little red-haired girl is not half bad fun,—brown as a coolie, but what delicious feet, and ankles! If she were to sit reversed, with her feet above the table—I see," catching Mayne's furious glance. "Well then, I'll give you another picture. Some day, Miss Nancy will be a handsome woman,—though she's more of a boy, and a tomboy now. She has odd flashes—that set one wondering, and I bet you, will give her husband a lot of surprises!"
"That'll do!—don't let us discuss her any further!" exclaimed Mayne impatiently.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Calvert with a loud laugh, "I apologize! Upon my soul I'd no idea——"
"There is no idea," interrupted Mayne. "Miss Travers and I are very good friends. She is one of the straightest and the best. So natural and simple."
"How nice for you!"
"I only wish she was my sister," persisted her champion.
"By Jove,—do you?" drawled Calvert. "Well, I don't!" and he expelled a cloud of smoke from his thin, well-cut nostrils. "I'm, as you see,—smoking like the Indians,—to appease hunger. Presently I shall take a reef in my belt. I say," after a pause, "look at old Ffinch riding along the hillside. He breakfasted hours ago! I can't imagine why he does not chuck all this? Everyone knows he is quite too grossly prosperous—and she, with her talents, and her energy, is thrown away out here."
"Yes," agreed Mayne, "she's awfully clever, and go-ahead."
"A lot of what Americans call, 'Get up and go!' about her," said Calvert. "Wonderful driving force,—and what a woman to talk! She'd make a fine figure of a Sunday in Hyde Park; or taking a hand in some big revolution. Yes"—slowly closing his eyes—"I can see her in the tumbril," he concluded, with morose vindictiveness.
"I say, what amazing pictures you have in your mind's eye," said Mayne—who was not imaginative, "a cinematograph isn't in it!"
"Oh, here she comes at last!" said Calvert, tossing away his cheroot, and rising, he added with his most courtly air, "Welcome, welcome, dear lady—as the sun upon a darkened world."
Immediately after breakfast, Mayne ordered the cob, and rode away in spite of Mrs. Ffinch's urgent appeals for him to remain, and "spend a nice long day." He felt that at present, he could not endure any more of Calvert's society. What a poisonous tongue,—what a shameless climber; and there was such calculation and method in his schemes. He, by his own confession, made a point of cultivating the right people—chiefly through their womenkind—and cherished well-founded hopes of a comfortable, and prominent post on someone's staff.
He insinuated that he (Mayne) was sponging on the Travers', he read the accusation in the fellow's eyes—(Calvert himself was just the sort to cheat at croquet, and sponge on old ladies).—With regard to his host, he felt blameless. Travers treated him as the son of his old school-fellow; he and Nancy made him one of themselves, and allowed him to share in their interests, jokes, and even secrets. He knew all about the new habit, that was on its way from England for Nancy's birthday. Here his reflections were put an end to by the sight to Fairplains plantation, the motley pack, and Nancy herself.
That same night after the household had retired, and the premises were supposed to be wrapped in sleep (though some of the servants were gambling in their go-downs) Mayne was aroused by a wild piercing scream. He jumped out of bed, and as he hurried on some clothes, saw a bare-footed white figure, lamp in hand, flash down the verandah shrieking:
"Sam! Sam! A panther has taken him! Daddy—Daddy—hurry!"
Mayne snatched his gun, and rushed out; the light was very faint, but as he ran up the path, he was aware of a choking noise, and a something large bounding along not far ahead. He followed the sound, in among the rocks and bushes, and then suddenly lost it. By this time, the whole place was swarming with men armed with sticks and lanterns, Nancy in a blue garment, and her father half dressed, heading an excited crowd. Alas! the tragic truth had to be faced—Sam was gone! taken from the door of his mistress's room, and carried off in his sleep, by one of those treacherous devils.
With bobbing lanterns, crashing sticks, and loud harsh shouts, the whole of the rocks were most thoroughly beaten, but without result; of dog or panther there was not a trace. After an hour's exhaustive search, Mayne returned to the bungalow—his lamp had gone out. Here in the verandah he distinguished a sobbing figure; Nancy, alone and in uncontrollable grief. Between her sobs she moaned:
"Oh, my poor darling Sam! Oh, the cruelty—oh, Daddy, what shall I do—what shall I do?" and she suddenly flung herself upon Mayne, and sobbed out in the tone of a child asking for consolation, "Daddy, Daddy, what shall I do?"
They were the same height, and in the dark, she had mistaken him for her father,—who was still pursuing a hopeless search among the rocks,—but the situation was not the less embarrassing,—especially as the girl clung to her supposed parent, with both arms clasped tightly round his neck, and her face buried in his coat. Suddenly she realized her mistake, and with a violent jerk, drew herself away.
"Why, you're not Daddy!" she gasped out, breathlessly, "I know by the feel of your coat. It's Captain Mayne—I've been—hugging."
"It's all right, Nancy," taking her hands in his. "Poor little girl! I'm just as sorry for you, as ever I can be, and I'll never rest, till I bring you in the skin of the brute that has killed Sam. Here is your father now," and Mayne tactfully withdrew, and abandoned the pair to their grief,—Nancy's the wildest, and most poignant, that he had ever witnessed.
The following day, Francis the butler, mysteriously imparted to Mayne the news, that Sam's collar, and one paw had been found.
"But say not one word to the Missy. We bury in dogs' graveyard; the beast is a big female with young cubs, therefore is she overbold. That dog Sam," and his black eyes looked moist, "I also loved him, too much."