Dear Captain Mayne,
Before you read this, I shall have left Fairplains. I have been thinking hard the last two days, and am quite sure, that it is best for us to part now,—and never to meet again. Let us forget the dreadful ceremony of last Friday. You know, that we agreed to it, only to satisfy my dear father,—at least that was my intention,—so that he might be at ease in his mind, before he left me. On this point, our aim was accomplished; and there let the matter end. I feel certain, that you have no true wish, that I should live with you—'until death us do part.' Far from it. I am just a little hill girl, and not the least one of your sort. For my own part, the mere sight of you brings before me that horrible struggle with the panther, when Daddy interposed, and saved you. I know you are honourable, and a man of your word, and wish to give me—as payment—a home and your name; but I cannot accept one or other, for—to be honest—I shall never like you again, and if I were forced to live with you, I should loathe you.
It seems dreadful to write this down in black and white, but it is the truth; and surely the truth is best? I am so absolutely miserable that I wish I was dead: I could easily kill myself with an overdose of chlorodyne—we keep a large store on account of the coolies—and I would be buried in the garden beside them, and be no further trouble to anyone; but Daddy always said, 'Suicide was a coward's act,' and I shall struggle on somehow. Mrs. Ffinch, who, as you know, is immensely clever, had a long talk with me yesterday. She pointed out that you and I were entirely unsuited; that apart from the circumstances, we would have been almost the last people in the world to think of marrying one another; that you had told her the idea of marriage had never entered your mind, and it would be the ruin of your career. This can easily be prevented. No one, except the Hicks and Teddy Dawson, knows of the ceremony. The parson is about to settle in Tasmania;—they will all be dumb. Here in India, people so frequently separate, scatter, and forget that they had ever met. I shall do my utmost to forget you, and I hope you will let me drop out of your thoughts as completely as if you had never seen me; and should we meet—which I trust is unlikely—let it be as strangers. Do not be at all concerned about my future. I have sufficient money to pay for my passage, I have friends at home, and if the worst come to the worst, I can be a lady's help, or governess. At any rate, I shall be independent. I hope you will not think, that in taking this step, I am also breaking my promise to father. You know, that his one idea, as he lay dying, was for my happiness; and I shall be far happier—if I ever can be happy again—to feel, that I am free—also that you are free. I believe, that if I had followed my first intention of keeping to the letter of our contract, and accompanied you down to Cananore, we should have been the two most miserable people in the whole world.
Believe me,
Yours faithfully,
Nancy Travers.
This was a much longer and fuller epistle than Nancy had intended to send; but she was determined to make everything absolutely plain. Possibly it was a stupid letter, and no doubt she had repeated herself several times; also it was brusque, and rude. It might make Captain Mayne dislike her extremely. In that case; so much the better! If Mrs. Ffinch had written such a letter, how well it would have been expressed; how beautifully she would have taken off the raw edges, and made it almost a pleasure to read! Well, there it was; she would not look at it again, in case she might alter something, so she thrust it into an envelope, sealed it, and laid it beside her other despatch.
Mrs. Hicks was only too sympathetic with Nancy's severe headache. She paid several visits, imparting remedies, and outside intelligence. Captain Mayne had not yet returned from his round of farewell calls, but all his baggage had been packed by his "boy," everything was ready for a start the next afternoon, and he had ordered up a pair-horse tonga, for the use of the ayah, and herself.
"I shall remain here to see you off, Nancy, my dear," she announced, "and I've got hold of an old shoe that I intend to throw after you!"
"Dear Mrs. Hicks, you are always so kind," said the girl, "and I'll never forget what you have been to me, during this last awful week."
Afterwards Mrs. Hicks remembered, that in Nancy's kiss there was something soft and lingering—something in the nature of a farewell.
Nancy, having taken an emotional leave of Francis, handed him two letters to be immediately delivered, and prepared to depart at twelve o'clock that night. Under the auspices of a high full moon, she rode away from Fairplains, accompanied by Togo, and followed by her syce. The domestic servants were aware of her impending departure,—for is not everything known in the cookhouse, and go-down? When she came up the drive, they were all, so to speak, paraded—standing in one long line, to see the last of their little Missy. As she passed, she nodded to each individually, and when she had reached the corner, where the private track joined the great cart road, turned in her saddle, to look back on her home, and to wave a valediction to the crowd.