All the world admitted that once upon a time “old Mother Brande” must have been a beautiful woman. Even now her fair skin, blue eyes, and chiselled features entitled her to rank as a highly respectable wreck. Who would have thought that refined, fastidious, cynical Pelham Brande would have married the niece of a lodging-house keeper? Perhaps if he had anticipated the career which lay before him—how unexpectedly and supremely successful he was to be, how the fierce light inseparable from high places was to beat upon his fair-haired Sarabella—he might have hesitated ere he took such a rash and romantic step. Little did he suppose that his fair-haired Sally, who had waited so capably on him, would one day herself be served by gorgeous scarlet-clad Government chupprassis; or that she was bound to walk out of a room before the wives of generals and judges, and that she would have a “position” to maintain! But who is as wise at two and twenty as he is at fifty-two? At two and twenty Pelham Brande had just passed for the India Civil Service, and was lodging in London; and whilst preparing for the Bar he got typhoid fever, and very nearly died. He was carefully tended by Mrs. Batt, his landlady, and her lovely niece Sarabella, who was as fair as a June rose, and as innocent as a March lamb.
The best medical authorities assure us, that nothing is so conducive to convalescence as a skilful and pretty nurse, and under the influence of Sara’s ministrations Mr. Brande made rapid progress towards recovery, but fell a victim to another malady—which proved incurable. He did not ask his relations for permission or advice, but married his bride one morning at St. Clement Danes, took a week’s trip to Dover, and two first-class passages to Bombay.
As a rule, junior civilians are despatched without ruth to lonely jungle districts, where they never see another white face for weeks, and their only associates are their native subordinates, their staffs of domestics, and the simple dwellers in the neighbouring villages. Now and then they may chance on an opium official, or a forest officer, and exchange cheroots, and newspapers; but these meetings are rare. After a busy university career, after an immense strain on the mental faculties, necessary to passing a severe examination, the dead sameness of that life, the silence and loneliness of the jungle (aggravated by the artless prattle of the office baboo), is enough to unhinge the strongest mind. Miles and miles from the haunts of his countrymen, from books and telegrams, and the stir and excitement of accustomed associations, the plunge from the roar of the London streets, and life at high pressure, to the life in a solitary up-country district, is indeed a desperate one; especially if the new-comer’s eyes and ears are not open to the great book of Nature—if he sees no beauty in stately peepul-trees, tracts of waving grain, venerable temples, and splendid sunsets; if he does not care to beat for pig, or shoot the thirsty snipe, but merely sits in his tent door in the cool of the evening, his labours o’er, and languishes for polo, cards, and theatres. Then he may well curse his lot; he is undeniably in a bad way.
Pelham Brande had nothing to fear from loneliness or ennui. Sara made him an excellent helpmate. She picked up the language and customs with surprising facility; she proved a capital housekeeper, and as shamelessly hard at a bargain as any old native hag. But she never took to books, or to the letter “h.” For years the Brandes lived in out-of-the-way districts, and insignificant stations, until by slow degrees his services and abilities conducted him to the front. As advancing time promoted him, his wife declined in looks, and increased in bulk, and her tastes and eccentricities became fixed. Pelham was not actually ashamed of his partner, but he was alive to the fact, that, with a cultivated gentlewoman at the head of his establishment, he would have occupied a vastly more agreeable social position. But he never admitted—what his friends loudly affirmed—that, as he sat opposite to Sara day after day, he was also sitting face to face with the one great mistake of his life!
Twice he had taken her to Australia for six months, but never (nor did she desire it) to her native land. Once, years ago, he ran home himself, and was received by his relations, as relations generally welcome a wealthy, childless, and successful man. They even brought themselves to ask, somewhat timidly, for Sara; and she, on her part, sent them generous consignments of curry powder, red pepper, and her own special and far-famed brand of chutney. The good lady had not many resources beyond housekeeping. She read the daily paper, and now and then a society novel, if it was plentifully peopled with lords and ladies; she could write an ordinary note, invitation, or refusal, and a letter (with a dictionary beside her). She was fond of her cows, and poultry, and adored her dog Ben; gave excellent, but desperately dull dinners; dressed sumptuously in gorgeous colours; enjoyed a gossip; loved a game of whist—and hated Mrs. Langrishe. She lived a monotonous and harmless life, vibrating between the hills and plains each season, with clockwork regularity.
As Mrs. Brande sat before her fire, and watched the crackling pinewood, she was not happy. Officially she was the chief lady of the place, the “Burra mem sahib;” but clever Mrs. Langrishe was the real leader of society, and bore away all the honours—the kernel, so to speak, of distinction, leaving her but the miserable shell. With a young and pretty girl as her companion, she would be more insufferable and more sought after than ever. As it was, she, Sara Brande, could make but little stand against her; and once her enemy was allied to a charming and popular niece, she might figuratively lay down her arms and die. She was a friendless, desolate old woman. If her little Annie had lived, it would have been different; and she had no belongings, no nieces. No! but—happy thought!—Pelham had no less than three, who were poor and, by all accounts, pretty. He had helped their mother, his sister, to educate them; he sent them money now and then. Why should she not adopt one of these girls, and have a niece also? Yes, she would write herself; she would speak to Pelham that very evening after dinner (it was his favourite dinner). The more she became accustomed to the idea, as she turned it over in her mind, the more she was filled with delight, resolve, and anticipation. The girl’s route, steamer, room, dresses, were already chosen, and she was in the act of selecting her future husband, when Mr. Brande entered, brisk and hungry.
After dinner, when Mr. Brande was smoking a cigarette, his artful wife opened the subject next to her heart, and remarked, as she handed him a cup of fragrant coffee—
“Pelham, you are often away on tour, are you not? and I feel uncommon lonely, I can tell you. I am not as active or as cheerful as I used to be. I’m too old for dancing, and tennis, and riding. Not that I ever was much hand at them.”
“Well, do you want to come on tour? or shall I buy you a pony, or hire you a companion?” inquired Mr. Brande facetiously—a clean-shaven, grey-haired man, with thin mobile lips, keen eyes, and, at a little distance, a singularly boyish appearance. “What would you like to do?”
“I should like to ride and dance by proxy,” was the unexpected answer. “Let us ask out one of those Gordon girls, your nieces. I’d be very good to her; and you know, Pel, I’m a lonely creature, and if our own little Annie had lived, I would not be wanting to borrow another woman’s daughter to keep me company.”