“Bosh,” said Tom, reddening. The same idea had once occurred to his slower intelligence, only to be angrily repudiated. “She might be my mother, you young donkey.” All the same, he had vivid recollections of when he would fain have sauntered round the gardens with Lily—it was the aunt, who had held him in agreeable dalliance; it was she who picked flowers and placed them in his button-hole with her own white fingers and a girlish simper; it was she who asked for his photograph, who kept him a prisoner in close tête-à-tête at tennis-parties and dances, whilst his whole mind was on the rack to know what had become of Lily. At first he had thought Miss Browne a harmless, vain, loquacious old maid; but subsequently he overheard sharp, bitter speeches to her niece; he had seen Lily’s tears, her constant humiliations; had contrasted her dowdy old dresses with her aunt’s brilliant toilettes, and had come to the conclusion that Miss Browne was a selfish, scheming vixen, and that he could not endure the sight of her. As time went on, Bungalow 25 became quite transformed, thanks to Mrs. Cornwall, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, who gave not only sympathy and useful hints, but practical assistance: pretty furniture was picked up and covered with new cretonne, curtains were hung in doorways, new matting was laid down, pictures were disposed on the walls, a pony cart, side saddle, cook and ayah, were figuratively laid in. Miss Browne was to be received by Mrs. Cornwall, and married from her house; in the monotonous cantonment life at Blazapore, the arrival of Captain Galway’s pretty young bride was awaited with extraordinary interest.
Miss Browne, Senior (Christian name, Lavinia), had been a beauty in her day, and still possessed some remains of her former good looks; she was now upwards of forty, but, with a youthful figure, well-cut gowns, and smart little bonnets, might be taken for five-and-thirty—especially in a veil, or with her back to the light. Many people wondered that she was not married, and no one was more astonished at this omission than Miss Browne herself. Of course, she had refused scores of offers—fifty-nine altogether—and had had two heart-breaking disappointments. This she imparted to her friends, naturally in the strictest confidence. She also informed them that nothing would induce her to marry now; her affections were in the grave, and all she had to live for was her niece—a strange, eccentric, impassive girl, who detested society. Now, Miss Browne herself was ordered “cheerful surroundings” by her medical man, and to be a great deal in the open air, with lively, pleasant associates, and to take moderately active exercise; as, for instance, tennis-playing and dancing, and to indulge in change of scene, and the best and soundest Burgundy. She was rather partial to the military, and made no secret of her taste. Her solid-looking, comfortable detached house was always open to the officers (unmarried) of the garrison; not merely for miserable little afternoon teas, but good substantial luncheons and well-cooked dinners. At these Miss Browne presided in ravishing toilettes, and with the airs of a belle of twenty. She was generally supported by one or two mature matrons, but her niece was never present—to tell the honest truth, she was marshalling the dishes in the back hall, or occupied in the kitchen.
One autumn morning Miss Browne came down to breakfast, unlocked the post-bag, and took out the letters. She was not in a genial humour. It was a raw kind of day, and her dressmaker’s bill had been a disagreeable surprise. What was this thin epistle, an Indian letter?
“Miss Browne, The Grove.”
Her face became rather red; then she tore it open, and after glancing at the signature, proceeded to devour it. It ran as follows:—
“Dear Miss Browne,
“I wish I might put my dear Miss Browne, but I hope the answer to this letter will give me that delightful privilege” (Tom had thought this a very neat and effective opening). “I have not seen you for nearly two years, but I have heard of you through the Covingtons, and that you are still unmarried. Absence has made the heart grow fonder in my case. I trust it has been the same in yours—at least, that you have not forgotten me, and those jolly days we spent together the year before last. I have just got my company, and I write the same day to ask you to be my wife. I can now offer you a comfortable home, and I am sure you would like India. If you could come out this cold weather, and marry me in Bombay, I should esteem it an honour.”
This sentence seemed somewhat cold and commonplace to Tom, so he added—
“Darling Miss Browne, you knew that I adored you, but dared not speak sooner; if you love me, come out as soon as ever you can, and make Blazapore a paradise—For yours most faithfully,