"Lord love you, no! Our little cemetery is not even consecrated; however, people don't die up here, the climate holds them. As soon as you are fit, I'll take you round the neighbours. My nearest is a woman."
"A woman! What's she doing on a coffee estate?"
"Running a big plantation for all it's worth,—and working like a Trojan. I'm her adviser. Her husband, Major Bourne, died four years ago, a good, unpractical, easy-going Army man, and left her with a heavily-mortgaged property, two boys, and not a penny."
"By Jove!"
"Well, she faced the situation, sold off her jewellery, piano, and ponies, and started to make the place pay. She bought cows, and supplies good butter, she set up a bakery, and makes bread and cakes; knits socks, and sells them, and has lots of custom. I never saw a more determined or hard-working creature. Now the boys are at school; some mortgages are paid off; she has engaged a lady-help, and is going ahead like steam. It was rather expected she'd marry again, but she's not that sort—her mind is dead set on Harvey and Jim."
A week later, on a Sunday afternoon, Tom drove his friend over to Kartairi to call on Mrs. Bourne, who being a popular and influential lady, received the whole countryside on that day. The verandah was crowded with visitors; nearly all planters, and nearly all talking shop or sport,—whilst the hostess dispensed tea, and her celebrated hot cakes. Most of the assembled company looked forward to "Mrs. B.'s Sundays." Here they met their fellows and had tennis; here they were sure of a warm welcome, of sympathy, or a little doctoring, or even a little advice, if required. To many an exile, Kartairi represented a sort of local home.
Mallender was duly presented to Mrs. Bourne; a lady of forty with a slim figure, a pair of very bright brown eyes, and a firm chin. She wore a well-fitting white lace blouse, a black skirt, and an air of inexhaustible energy and will power.
The hostess was inclined, as it is expressed, to "make a fuss," with the invalid; to get an arm-chair, and cushions, and place him near herself; but the guest declined her good offices rather brusquely, and backed away into the outer circle of the company,—where amid inquisitive glances he found a seat, and a retreat.
"Best leave him alone," growled Tom, "he is all abroad still, and hates talking," and with a regretful glance at the distant figure so conspicuously aloof, she nodded in assent.
Mallender's head ached with sharp stabbing pains, the recent jolting in the bamboo cart was no doubt the cause of this; he felt ill and slack, and all this coffee-planter talk bored him to death. As he sat morosely apart—thinking that it would be better he were dead than a helpless log, and a burden to himself and his friends, someone came through a door beside him, carrying two plates piled with cake; he looked up, and was surprised to recognise Barbie Miller! Such a smiling Barbie, with a brilliant complexion and happy eyes.