At first I was afraid that after the shock of Guy’s death poor Netta would lose her reason. Of course they all came to us, that same dreadful afternoon, leaving the birthday feast already spread, the bran pie in the verandah, the music on the piano; never had there been such a hasty flight, such a domestic earthquake. We endeavoured to keep the mysterious tragedy to ourselves. Little Guy had brain fever; surely it was natural that relations should be together in their trouble, and I declared that I, being a noted nurse, had bodily carried off the child, who was followed by the whole family.
People talked of “A stroke of the sun,” but I believe something of the truth filtered into the Bazaar—where all things are known. Shortly after little Guy’s death Netta took Baba home, declaring she would never, never return to India, and Tom applied for and obtained a transfer to another station. He sold off the household furniture, the pretty knick-knacks, the pictures, all that had gone to make Netta’s house so attractive, for she could not endure to look on them again. They had been in that house. As for the Red Bungalow, it is once more closed, and silent. The squirrels and hoo-poos share the garden, the stables are given over to scorpions, the house to white ants. On application to John Mahomed, anyone desirous of becoming a tenant will certainly find that it is still to be had for a mere song!
X
THE SCARECROW
Edgar Lovett, Esq., B.A., Collector of Munser, lounged in a long chair in his verandah, enjoying an excellent cheroot; and as he had but recently despatched a satisfactory day’s work and a fairly satisfactory meal, the condition of his mind was serene.
Lovett was a clever, hard-working civilian—to whom the adjective “rising” had been applied; he was thirty years of age, heir to a nice property—and unmarried.
In a fair-haired, grave-eyed style the collector was not ill-looking, strong to hold his own with mankind in club, cricket-field, or cutcherry; but in the society of ladies, he—so to speak—went to pieces, and became pathetically anxious to please—nervous, sensitive, and shy.
The years he had spent in an out-of-the-way district had ill-prepared him for his present position, where, advanced to a large station, he found himself within the circuit of those rays which beat upon an important official, and the object of benevolent interest to ladies both young and old.
Lovett was not alone on the present occasion; the slight lad who was strutting up and down the verandah, with his hands in his pockets, and a cheroot in his mouth, was his youngest brother, Bobbie, midshipman on H.M.S. Bobadil, then on the East Indian station, who had obtained two days’ leave ashore, and had run down from Bombay to pay his relation a visit.
Bobby was “a pretty boy” with a pair of mischievous, long-lashed eyes, a fresh complexion, and a crop of curly chestnut hair; he was also a youth with a bold, enterprising character, and a peculiarly active mind.
“I say, old man,” he exclaimed, suddenly accosting his elder, “you seem to have done yourself pretty well in this berth! A 1 bungalow—furnished and fitted out first-class, with sofas, cushions, and lampshades—there is even a tea-cosy, and a piano!”