"Yes, and he is my understudy, and very smart. How do you put in time here?"
"I don't put in much, I'm a planter—I've an estate up in Mysore, and manage another; but I run down to see the family, and this is the slack season for coffee. My sisters come up for the hot weather, but the old folks never stir, a couple of salamanders!"
"If it's not an impertinent question, what induced your father to settle here?"
"Oh, lots of things; sentiment for one, and to get out of the reach of his Europe relations, for another. You see he was married before, and my half-brothers and sisters tormented him to go back to England. He loves India, it's in his very bones, and this was the first place he came to, after he landed in the country."
"It must be pretty deadly for your sisters."
"They don't mind. Jessie is mad about poultry and tennis, and Tara—she is much younger than we are—has her books, and her horse, and is the sort of girl that's happy anywhere. Well, I notice you are writing for the dâk, it goes out at twelve, so I'll take myself off. See you this evening?" and Tom Beamish rose, jammed his pith "mushroom" on his head, and lumbered forth.
Some time after the carriage had returned, Mallender went over to the General's quarters; a fine stone-built two-storeyed abode, and well-preserved specimen of its time. It stood in a spacious compound with two gateless entrances, which met in a sweep under a high-tiled porch; many comfortable-looking buff fowls were pecking and promenading round the premises,—which wore an air of solid ease and leisure. Two gorgeous peons with scarlet belts, brass badges and enormous turbans, were in waiting and salaamed profoundly. Having shouted the usual summons "Boy!" a brisk servant appeared, salaamed, and said, "Please to come this way," and led the visitor across a centre room into a wide verandah, commanding an extensive view of river, bazaar, and distant plain and hills. Here in a high-backed chair sat or hybernated, the venerable survivor of other days; a still fine-looking old man with the remnants of a magnificent physique; his noble head was now somewhat sunken on his shoulders; attached to his white drill coat, he wore the tarnished badge of his rank, and on his breast a row of war medals. General Richard Beamish did not look his age, not by ten years—his skin was wonderfully smooth, his blue eyes keen and bright; his limbs, however, were shrunken, and his bony hands displayed the dark knotted veins of age.
"I'm glad to see ye," he called out in a shaky and excited voice, a voice unexpectedly strong, "a stranger is a great event here—what's your name, young sir?"
"Geoffrey Mallender."
"God bless me! I knew a Geoffrey Mallender thirty years ago, he was drowned—or something—there was a sort of mystery."