“Nonsense! the woman is here; cake, trousseau, and all complete. Lily, of course, is done with me. When the story is known I shall be the laughing-stock of India. If I don’t marry her she will bring an action, as sure as fate. No, no. My idea is, a touch of the sun. Grove, the doctor, is a good chap. He’ll say it was that. I’ve been on the ranges all day—a touch of the sun, and this,” taking up the revolver as he concluded.
“Put it down,” said his friend, angrily. “Listen to me. We must go over there to dinner, and to-morrow you shall go on the sick list, and stay there. All I want is time.”
Jack dared not leave his friend alone in his present condition (suicidal), and after a long and exciting altercation he prevailed on him to accompany him over to the colonel’s. Tom looked white, haggard, and miserable; anything but the impersonation of a happy lover. He sat beside his bride-elect, nobly representing “the death’s-head at the feast”—his bride, who was dressed in a marvellous French toilette of white brocade, whose ears, throat, and fingers glittered with diamonds, and who was in exuberant spirits. The company were greatly surprised at Tom Galway’s idea of “a pretty girl of nineteen,” but politely dissembled their amazement. Possibly Tom was more worldly wise than they had supposed. “The old girl”—such was their profane definition—had evidently lots of money; but Tom was a deadly failure as a lover; however, if Miss Browne was satisfied, there was no more to be said!
After dinner there was a little music. Tom sat beside his fiancée on a conspicuous sofa, and looked as if he was awaiting execution, or was thinking of all his dead relations. Jack played the banjo, and sang, “Mary had a Little Lamb,” and various other silly songs, and presently the guests went away. Mrs. Cornwall thoughtfully manœuvred so as to leave the lovers to make their adieux alone. Unhappy Tom! He walked abruptly over to “the wrong Miss Browne,” held out a limp hand, and said good night, whereupon she rose, and looked as if she was going to fall on his neck, and he turned precipitately and fled.
The next day Tom was in high fever—in real earnest. A touch of the sun on the ranges. His head was shaved, and an hospital nurse procured. Of course Miss Browne was tenderly anxious, and very much grieved and concerned, but she saw no reason to sit in sackcloth and ashes. She had seen other specimens of the officers of the Pioneers, and began to think she was rather throwing herself away upon Tom Galway! She had met Major Pratt at a dinner-party at the general’s—quite a little impromptu affair—and he had noted the new arrival with interest. Her income (trebled) had been casually imparted to him by Jack Murray as a profound secret. Three thousand a year! What luck for Tom Galway! If he had only had such a chance—and the money was undoubtedly there, for she talked intelligently of funds, shares, and mortgages. Her diamonds were valuable, her dresses costly. She was not half bad-looking either. He affected deep sympathy for her and Tom. “Lucky Tom!” he exclaimed; “what envy, hatred, and malice he had stirred up in Blazapore!” He sat close to her, and administered neat little speeches and sugared compliments, and entreated her to look out for a wife for him, and when she went away he squeezed her hand. The next day he called, and the next day he called and brought a bouquet, and the next day he called and brought a book, and the following day a tiger-skin. He damned Tom Galway with the faintest praise. “He was good-looking. Yes! but—now she must not fly at him—heavy, good-natured, but densely stupid. Rather a butt, you know, and indeed only for him (Major Pratt) would have got into one or two very nasty scrapes.” The major had made up his mind to marry Miss Browne, and was calmly confident of his ultimate success. Tom Galway was hors de combat, and all is fair in love and war, and in the end it came to pass that Major Pratt prevailed and carried off the prize! The little Miss Browne had seen of Tom had not impressed her favourably; his shaven head, long bony hands, shabby clothes, and gaunt appearance afforded a painful contrast to the spruce, agreeable little major. Moreover, he was a field officer and not a junior captain, and a far more suitable match in every respect. In an incredibly short time Jack Murray’s anticipations were realized. A few honeyed speeches, a few drives with the major in Jack’s dog-cart, a few bouquets and cheap but judicious presents, and Miss Browne had exercised her sex’s privilege and changed her mind! She wrote a long letter of apology to Tom, deploring her own cruelty and his broken heart, praying that time would alleviate his misery, and pleading, as extenuating circumstances, Major Pratt’s irresistible fascinations and her woman’s weakness. That same evening she and the major ran away together. No one gave chase,—and they were ultimately married by special licence in Madras.
Jack lost no time in bearing the great news to his friend. All Blazapore was quivering with the shock. That mercenary little wretch the major had carried off Tom Galway’s heiress. Unlucky Tom!
“It’s all right, Tom; here’s your release,” holding up the letter that cried “Peccavi.” It had been consigned to Jack as a matter of course, he being the major’s chief adviser and confidant. “She’s in the regiment. I could not help that; we had to sacrifice some one, and the major deserved it.”
“Oh, Jack,” said his friend, wringing his hand till the tears stood in Jack’s eyes, “you have saved my reason, and my life.”
“Rubbish! If you had allowed me to draft the first letter there would have been none of this bother. Served you jolly well right for addressing it to Miss Browne.”
“She might have known,” stammered Tom. “She could not have thought that I meant her.”