ODDS AND ENDS

: : : By B. M. Croker : : :
Author of “Her Own People,” “In Old Madras,”
“The Company’s Servant,” “Given in Marriage,”
“Bridget,” “Blue China,” etc.

LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO.
: : PATERNOSTER ROW : :

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ODDS AND ENDS

I
THE SPARE BED

“What is the matter? What has happened?” asked Aunt Lizzie. “Just open the window and find out,” she added, with her usual brisk decision.

It was nine o’clock on a dull September evening, and we two ladies were seated side by side in a 40 h.p. Daimler, which had suddenly come to a full stop on a country road, in the west of Ireland. On either hand stretched a wide expanse of dark mysterious country, to which the white waving bog cotton gave a ghostly, weird appearance. Black water in neighbouring bog-holes flashed back on us like phantom eyes, a dazzling reflection of the motor’s huge lamps. Undoubtedly our outlook was sombre and discouraging—as if the land nurtured some secret sorrow that no stranger could properly understand. The moon had not yet risen, but was shyly peeping at us from behind a low range of distant hills; not a soul was in sight, nor a sound to be heard, except the cry of a belated curlew, and the voices of our men; the car itself had ceased to throb.

As the chauffeur came to the window, and touched his cap, my aunt said:

“Have you missed the road, Watkin? Or is it a breakdown?”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit of both, ma’am. You see, these ’ere cross-country roads is terrible puzzling, and I’m thinking we took the wrong turn about three mile back. Then there’s been a kind of a mishap to the car—this extra twenty miles and bad road has done it. If we had stopped at Mulligooley for the night I was going to overhaul her, and have her all right for the morning.”

Watkin (an old servant) was obviously aggrieved; he had no sympathy with his mistress’s continual craving to push on, and would have preferred to spend the night in a poky country hotel, sup and smoke comfortably, and brag a little about his car.

“But surely we ought to be near the station by this time. I’ll get out and have a look round.” As she spoke, my aunt nimbly descended, and I followed. For her fifty-five years, she was an extraordinarily active and energetic person.

Gaze around as we might, there was no sign of lights, or station, and, as far as one could judge by appearances, we four people, standing by an empty motor, were alone in a world of brooding solitude.

“Do you think, Watkin, we have any chance of getting on?”

“Well, ma’am, I’m afraid not. You see, if it was only a burst tyre—we might manage—but——” he coughed behind his dogskin glove.

But he was too wise to say “I told you so.” This foolish late trip had been made entirely against his warning and advice; and behold us with night at hand, stranded on a desolate bog road, apparently out of humanity’s reach. My aunt, Miss Elizabeth Barrett, and I, had been making a tour through Ireland, and so far everything had gone smoothly; roads, weather, motor, even the accommodation at inns was better than we anticipated. We had visited Portrush, the Giant’s Causeway, Dublin, Wicklow, Killarney, Connemara, and were now on our way to Queenstown—and England.

“I expect this is the adventure at last!” suggested my aunt cheerfully; “it would be too bad to leave Ireland without one.”

“If it is the adventure,” I answered, “it is not of the description I care for. I——”

“Of course not,” she interrupted, “but you are three and twenty—I know your kind!”

“So I suppose we shall spend the night sitting in the road?” I grumbled.

“No, no, that is not to be thought of, with your delicate chest. We shall get a bed somewhere. Ah!” in a tone of triumph, “look over to the left, on the rising ground—there is a light—two lights—it’s a house!” Then, raising her voice, she said to the footman, “Jopp! I see a cottage on that hill. Take one of the car lamps, and go and ask if they can give us a night’s lodging.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Jopp, and presently he set off with, as it seemed to me, considerable reluctance, in the direction of this beacon. Meanwhile we remained in the motor—whilst Watkin grovelled beneath it—and watched the lamp flickering over the bog, and taking a surprisingly zig-zag course.

“I was sure there would be some house,” said my companion complacently, “and I do hope the bed will be clean! It will be rather fun for once, won’t it?”

Her character was optimistic, active, and restless. She gave the impression of being determined to get all she could out of what remained to her of life—since her youth and middle age had been cruelly cramped and sacrificed.

My aunt was slim and erect, with thin clear-cut profile, keen blue eyes, beautiful white hair, and a very strong will. And why not? A spinster lady, with no encumbrance, no ailing relatives, and four thousand a year, can well afford one. Aunt Liz had not long enjoyed such easy circumstances. Most of her life had been absorbed in assiduous attendance on a hypochondriacal old godfather; her spring and summer had passed in housekeeping, nursing, reading aloud, listening to continuous grumbling, scolding, and symptoms and accompanying the invalid to endless foreign cures. Such had been her existence. For this servitude she received sixty pounds a year, and washing; but when her tyrant died it was found that he had not been ungrateful, and had left her an unexpectedly large fortune, and, late as it was, she lost no time in becoming a live woman! A cottage in the country, a flat in town, and a motor, were soon among her possessions, but for the greater part of the year she lived in the car. Watkin, her late godfather’s coachman, had learnt this new job; Jopp, the footman, was his nephew, so we were quite a little family party! My sister and I were orphans—she, however, had a husband. Aunt Liz had always been more than good to us; I was supposed to be her favourite of the two, because I had her nose, was rather delicate, and not the least afraid of her sharp tongue. For some time I was a probationer in the Children’s Hospital in Great Ormonde Street, but my health broke down, and I was now companion to my aunt—and she was my nurse!

Although we did not admit the fact, I think there is no doubt that we were both in the enjoyment of a comfortable little nap, when we were disturbed by the return of Jopp—looking extraordinarily hot and mud-stained.

“Well?” we asked in the same breath.

“I am very sorry, ma’am, but the people at the house—it’s a full mile away—mostly talk Irish. I made out that they have no beds—they want what there are themselves; but if you wouldn’t mind settin’ up in the kitchen they make no objection.”

“No, I daresay not!” rejoined my relative, throwing up her chin, “and one hears so much of Irish hospitality! I intend to sleep there, and I shall go over and interview her myself—I suppose it’s a woman?” appealing to Jopp.

“Yes, ma’am, quite a crowd of women—a houseful, I should say. It’s a rough sort of place for ladies; it looked like a kind of wedding party.”

“A party—that settles it! Millie” (to me) “we will start at once—wrap up well. I am afraid we shall have rather a disagreeable walk, but it will be something to spend a night in a real Irish cottage. Jopp will carry our dressing-bags, and Watkin the lamp. No one will touch the car, and anyway, they cannot carry it away, so we will all sleep out.”

Here I must draw a decent veil over our muddy excursion, our climbing of gates, evading of bog-holes, and wading through fields. At last we turned into a deep lane; this led up to a yard, in which stood an enormous manure-heap, several empty turf-carts, and a long, slated house of one story. There were lights in three windows, and my aunt hammered vigorously on the door, which was immediately opened by a tall woman with black hair and high cheek-bones. She stood in a sort of little entrance, from which one could see into a kitchen with a roaring turf fire. It appeared to be full of people.

Aunt Liz, in her high, clear English accent, made her request with civil confidence. A bed for her niece and self, and permission for the men to sit up in the kitchen; she promised to give no trouble, and would pay well.

“I am terribly sorry, me lady, but I can’t take ye in nohow,” declared the woman; “we are shockingly put about—and the house is throng as it is.”

My aunt edged her way further and looked eagerly round the kitchen; there were three or four men smoking, half a dozen women staring, and one very old crone in a large white cap hunched up inside the big chimney shook her stick at us, and gabbled in Irish.

“Have you no place you could put us into?” enquired my never-to-be-denied relative; “our car has broken down—we really cannot remain in the road all night; my niece has a dreadful cold. I am prepared,” and she looked full into the woman’s eyes, and I knew she was thinking of adventure, “to pay handsomely.”

“An’ what wud ye call handsome?” asked the other, in a high, whining key.

“Say three pounds.”

“Is it three pounds? No, me lady. I really couldn’t upset the house for that. What wud ye say to six?—maybe then I’ll be talkin’ to ye—and let the two men have an air of the fire, and give you and the girleen a good bed between yees.”

“What—six pounds—for one night! Why, it’s more than a London hotel.”

“Bedad, yes, I’m charging yees, because it’s not a hotel, and for the raison that I’ll have to square it with me Gran—for it’s her bed—ye might see her there in the corner crouched up like an old wet hen. If ye will just stand outside the door a couple of minutes, I’ll argufy it out wid her—but she is terribly crabbed in herself, and it’s like enough she’ll pull the head off me!”

It was a novel and humiliating experience to be turned out of doors, there to await a verdict—Watkin and Jopp, too—and Jopp, who was young and foolish, stared at his uncle and winked expressively.

Meanwhile, within, a fierce discussion raged; loud sentences in an unknown tongue actually reached the would-be guests; it sounded as if a furious quarrel and real battle of words were taking place, with angry shouts and stamping, but after ten minutes’ uproar the door was flung wide and the woman of the house reappeared.

“I have it fixed up elegant! Walk in, if ye plase, and welcome,” and she ushered our party into her kitchen. The men stood up, and shuffled with their feet, and, with Irish courtesy, extinguished their pipes; the women stared, the old crone chattered like an angry monkey, and pointed significantly to the door.

Hot strong tea and hot well-buttered soda-bread were offered, and found delicious.

“It will be extra, ye understand,” whispered the hostess behind her hand, “two shilling—but I felt sure ye’d be the better of a mouthful, whilst they were redding up the room, and getting yer bed made.”

In ten minutes we were established in the bedroom, which opened out of another apartment at the opposite side of the front and only door, and was boarded, white-washed, and looked, though bare, unexpectedly possible. There was a wooden bed, a large green wooden press, a chest of mahogany drawers, and looking-glass, a washstand, and numerous religious pictures nailed on the wall—at least four of the Blessed Virgin and the Sacred Heart—over the bed hung a large crucifix.

“We won’t take off all our clothes,” said my aunt, as the door closed, “the sheets are sure to be damp—though they are quite clean. I see she has left us matches. Oh, what a luxury to lie down. B-r-r-r, but the sheets are cold!” and she gave a shiver. To me, the sheets felt as if they had been iced, but I was too sleepy and tired to mind, and soon passed into the land of dreams.

I think I must have been asleep three or four hours—it seemed like three or four minutes—when I was awakened by my aunt shaking me vigorously. She was sitting up in bed.

“Millie—how you do sleep!” she said. “There’s a noise in the press that awoke me. Listen!”

As I could hear nothing, I naturally asked:

“What is it?”

“Hush!” she said impatiently. For a time there was no sound. It seemed to me we were like two fools, sitting up side by side in dead silence in the dark.

At last—yes!—certainly there was a movement in the press—a sort of sliding and shuffling, a bump!

“There!” she exclaimed, hastily lighting the candle. “You hear! Now I intend to see what it is. It’s my opinion there’s a man in the wardrobe!”

As she spoke, my valiant aunt sprang out of bed, candle in hand, turned a handle, and flung the door wide open. Then she gave a loud quavering screech, as something in the wardrobe toppled forward, and fell upon her bodily.

I flew out of bed, just in time to see that the corpse of a little wizened old man, in a brown wrapper—or habit—had tumbled from the press, and lay at my aunt’s feet; and in spite of my excellent hospital training, for the moment I lost all self-control, and screamed too!

Our united shrieks brought the assembled household to the spot. The hostess burst in first, demanding: “What’s this at all, at all?” Then as she caught sight of the corpse, “Oh, Holy Fathers! there’s for ye now!”

“An’ well served,” added another woman, thrusting herself forward, “an’ serves ye right, Maggie Behan, letting out the death-bed from under yer old granddada for lucre—and the breath hardly out of him, sure,” she continued in a shriller key and with impassioned gestures. “It’s no wonder on earth the poor old man made a disturbance and annoyance, and come out of the press ye had him put away in. Faix, never ye fear, he’ll have it in for ye yet!”

The body of the aged grandfather had, with my assistance, now been lifted on to the bed from which we had so unceremoniously ousted him.

“What does it all mean?” demanded my aunt, speaking with as much dignity as was compatible with a pair of black satin knickers; then snatching up a skirt, she wound it hastily about her and boldly met the eyes of half a dozen men, including her own servants.

“Faix, then I’ll tell yer ladyship, and no lie about it,” volunteered a little swarthy man; “him that’s dead was me granddada—there’s herself in the kitchen. He was mortial old; we were going to wake him—just a small bit of a wake—when ye come, first yer man, then yerself, and wouldn’t take no. Me wife felt bad to be denying the two nice English ladies a bed, and the bog air so cold—so—so—and seeing the money was good, and wanted, we laid our heads together and settled to turn out the old chap for the night—and have our wake without him. Sure, don’t I know well enough he’d be glad to accommodate any lady for six sovereigns. We had a notion of puttin’ him up the chimney, but for his new habit, and we made him all right and tight in the press—but”—and he looked round—“his legs give way. Ye see, he hasn’t the use of them, this while back. Well, it’s all wan to him, and I hope yer ladyship will take the bed at half-price—ye had half a night, ye see. I give ye me honour ’twas the best we could do for ye, and the money will bury him elegant, and as for him disturbin’ ye, I’m sorry he didn’t let ye sleep it out.”

“If you will be so good as to withdraw, we will dress,” said my aunt, who had recovered her self-possession; “and if it is all the same to you, we’ll sit in the kitchen till daybreak, and then perhaps you can send us on a car to the junction.”

The remainder of that night we did sit in the kitchen, drawn up within a large and hospitable circle. Our hostess had not realised that there was a social line of demarcation between our companions and ourselves; my aunt and Watkin shared a form, and I sat on a reversed turf-creel, squeezed in between Jopp and Maggie Behan. Tea, whisky, and porter were in steady circulation; a combination of porter and whisky struck me as a novelty, but was evidently well known to and highly appreciated by some of the company. I am sure that but for my own embarrassing proximity, Jopp would have liked to sample it.

As we sat there in the light of a huge turf-fire, I learnt more of Ireland and listened to more wit and good stories than I had ever done in my life. A tall, red-haired man, called “Foxy Pat”—who seldom smiled—kept, without the least apparent effort, and with but two or three exceptions, the kitchen in a roar. A couple who never laughed interested me greatly: a girl of my own age, but quite beautiful, the true Irish type, with black hair and wonderful blue-black eyes; the other, a young man, equally handsome, with some resemblance to the girl, straight and broad-shouldered, with a nobly-set-on head, and dark as a Spaniard. I noticed that they rarely spoke, but gazed at one another from time to time; their expression was so grave as to be almost tragic. In answer to a whispered question, Maggie Behan replied, also in a whisper:

“Them’s the two McCarthys—Norah and Dermot; ye see, they can’t marry, being second cousins. He is going to Ameriky on Monday—and sure, ye’ve only to look at them to tell yerself as their two hearts is broke.”

I must confess that this piece of information had the effect of depressing my spirits to such an extent that even the brilliance of Foxy Pat’s best story failed to raise them.

As soon as the light began to creep in at the window the gathering broke up, the wake—that was not a wake; the wake where the corpse had been shut in a press and its bed given to two ladies—was over. Aunt Lizzie paid up the full price agreed upon, and we partook of a parting cup of tea before we set out for the station—a distance of eight miles. Thither we were ignominiously conveyed on a turf-cart drawn by a young irresponsible long-tail, and after a most exciting drive, and several hairbreadth escapes, arrived at the railway hotel in time for an early breakfast. We had brought our bags with us, and mention that we had had a breakdown on the way—but not a word of our experience. Subsequently we retired to bed, where we enjoyed several hours of undisturbed repose. Late in the same afternoon the motor turned up in good order, none the worse for its night out—and the following day we started for Queenstown, and home.

This was our only adventure in Ireland! Aunt Lizzie—who thinks the whole incident too shocking for words—has requested me never to mention it to a soul; but I sometimes wonder if Watkin and Jopp have been equally discreet.

II
UNAVOIDABLY POSTPONED

A great white Orient liner lay in the harbour of Colombo, with her Blue Peter flying. The coaling process was accomplished, and her passengers—who had lunched and scattered over the town and its environs—were being thus summoned to abandon Ceylon’s spicy breezes for the breezes of the sea.

As the Oriana was homeward bound from Melbourne, naturally most of her freight were Australians—squatters and their families taking a trip to the old country, wealthy men from the big towns, tourists who had been visiting the Colonies, parsons, actors, doctors, engineers, with their corresponding women-folk.

And now a small Indian contingent had been contributed; these the so-to-speak residents of three weeks eyed with the same description of curiosity, superiority, and faint hostility which schoolboys experience with regard to new pupils.

Among the group of pale mem-sahibs, sunburnt planters, children, ayahs and green parrots, was one figure and face, well known, not merely to the captain and officers, but to several of the passengers, who hastened to offer the arrival a hearty greeting.

This individual was a certain popular sportsman who roamed the world in search of big game and “heads.” The Hon. Lumley Grantham was the only son of Viscount Nesfield, and in a way the despair of his parents, who were anxious that he should remain at home and “settle,” instead of which he roved about the globe, a modern wandering Jew (as sudden in his arrivals and departures), energetic, enterprising, and erratic. He had been in the Army, but the Service did not accord sufficient leave to enable an ardent sportsman to shoot in the Rockies, and to fish in New Zealand; and so, after a few years’ restraint, he threw off his uniform and unbuckled his sword. He had a passion for trophies, and owned the most unique and comprehensive collection of almost every known horned animal, from a moose to a jungle sheep. To add to his collection he spared neither effort nor expense. If he heard some notable animal discussed one evening at his club, such as a rare red bull in the Shan Hills, a strange antelope in Borneo, the chances were that he would immediately look up trains and steamers on the spot, and depart on his quest within the week. His marches and stalkings beyond the bounds of civilisation were fruitful in dangers and hardships, and his mother, who was devoted to him, lived in an agony of apprehension that some day, instead of securing his object and prize, the prize should turn the tables and make a prey of her only son! For weeks and even months she did not hear from him—he was probably in Thibet, Somaliland, or Central America—and the unhappy lady would lie awake for hours, thinking of “Must” elephants, tigers, cholera, earthquakes and snakes. Oh, if Lumley would only fall in love with some nice girl, marry her, and stay at home, how happy and thankful she would be; and she secretly vowed a window in their country church, should this blessed event ever take place. Lady Nesfield knew so many charming girls; these she cautiously praised and brought to the notice of Lumley; but, unfortunately, it is so seldom that a young man and his mother admire the same girl; also Lumley’s shooting proclivities had made him wary—he, like Tennyson’s character, “saw the snare, and he retired,” preferring his roving life, and freedom.

Lumley was now thirty-two years of age, but looked older; tall, and without a superfluous ounce of flesh on his bones, as wiry and sinewy as a greyhound; his skin was brown, his short hair black, and two dark, keen eyes illuminated a pleasant but not handsome face. They were honest, watchful eyes, something like those of an intelligent dog, and when they smiled they became beautiful.

Captain Grantham’s manners were easy and unaffected; he could find something to say to everyone, from a royal duke to an Indian beater, and was equally popular with all grades of society; a well-known character on most liners, whether to the Cape, America, Bombay, or Melbourne, he was, during his constant trips, continually coming across former fellow-travellers.

On the present occasion, when he and his baggage came up the side, Captain Grantham received quite an ovation from half a dozen acquaintances. With one or other of these he subsequently paced the deck, and smoked and talked till the Oriana was well out to sea, relating thrilling shikar stories, and his recent exploits, with the gusto and enthusiasm of a schoolboy. He described the hunting down and capture of a big Rogue elephant in the Annamulley Jungle, and the notable pair of ibex horns he had brought from the Pulnay Hills.

After dinner, as he sat on deck in the starlight, talking to a matronly acquaintance, he said:

“It seems a full ship—quite a number of girls, too—all homeward bound.”

“Yes,” she answered, “and some of them pretty. The two with the scarlet tam-o’-shanters are the Miss Todds, heiresses from Woorolango. And the one in the white yachting cap is said to be the belle of Sydney.”

“And who is the dark girl who sits at the end of the first officer’s table?”

“Beside a delicate lady with white hair and a bloodless face? I do not know, except that they are Mrs. and Miss Loftus, presumably mother and daughter. The girl is devoted to the invalid, and never leaves her side; they keep entirely to themselves.”

“Must be rather slow for the young lady?”

“No doubt it is; but when she is spoken to she merely smiles and answers ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Conversation cannot flourish under such circumstances, can it?”

“Do they know no one?”

“No. No one knows them, or who they are—which amounts to the same thing.”

“She is a handsome girl, with a thundering good figure, and looks well-bred.”

“Appearances are sometimes deceitful!”

“I don’t know about that—one has an intuition——”

“I believe you are going to break the spell of silence, and make the lady’s acquaintance.”

“Yes—why not?”

“Why not, indeed? But you will find it easier said than done! She has never opened a conversation with anyone during three weeks. I’ve even tried to talk to her myself!”

“Ah! I see you are a little piqued.”

“I am not the only one who is piqued. I think the damsel is inclined to give herself airs—we are possibly not good enough—but I expect she will thaw to you.”

“Come now. I call that rather a nasty one, Mrs. Seymour! What have I done to deserve it?”

“Nothing—forgive me, and help me on with my cape, and we will take a little turn before I turn in. As for the Loftus party, they may have very good reasons for keeping all at arm’s-length”—she paused and stared at him significantly—“for not wishing to know us, or us to know them,” and, as she spoke, the lady rose from her chair, as if the subject were closed and done with.

Like a true sportsman, Captain Grantham was patient and pertinacious; he bided his time—but biding one’s time on the trackless ocean, aboard a fast liner, is not the same thing as tracking a quarry in the pathless forest. There is a limit to postponement—a limit represented by the port of arrival.

For several days he made no progress whatever, beyond discovering that the lady was admired by the men-folk, and suspected by the ladies, who, whilst admitting the patent fact of her filial devotion, had nothing to say in her favour. There was plenty to occupy the time among the passengers, and one sulky girl was soon overlooked—but not by Captain Grantham. She interested him; he was determined to make her acquaintance, and luck favoured him—a sudden lurch of the ship in the abominable current just off Socotra capsized the old lady’s chair, and she would have been hurled across the deck had he not dashed to her assistance, caught her bodily in his arms, and saved in all respects the situation. He took the entire charge of Mrs. Loftus, personally conducted her to her cabin, and subsequently collected books, spectacles, shawl, and was thus brought into communication with the young lady, and from that moment his object was secured. She proved not at all difficile once the ice was broken, but a charming and captivating acquaintance. After nearly four weeks’ silence, she seemed anxious to make up for lost time, and talked incessantly; she was also an admirable listener. Before they had reached Suez she had largely extended her acquaintance, and became as intimate with some of the passengers as previously she had been remote. But her first acquaintance was her chief ally; together they paced the deck for exercise, together they did problems in the papers, they played chess, and exchanged books and opinions, and sat for a long time after dinner watching the stars and the low tropical moon.

In the canal Captain Grantham, who was on the “amusement committee,” helped to get up a grand concert, and prevailed on Miss Loftus to sing. He had gleaned from her mother that she had a fine voice, and also a few other talents; as he sat beside the invalid’s long chair, he discovered that she was ladylike and refined; her surroundings indicated taste and money.

Rata, as the girl was called, was her only child. Mrs. Loftus was a widow returning to England, which she had quitted twenty-eight years previously. Her husband’s people came from Gloucester, and were nearly all dead.

She had lived near Christchurch, New Zealand, and only been twice to England since she and her husband had become colonists. Her brother had commanded a well-known regiment and was now a Brigadier in India.

Yes, Captain Grantham remembered to have seen him some years previously, and here was a link between them—such a very small matter will constitute a tie on board ship, especially when both the ends are anxious to be joined.

At the rehearsals for the concert, Miss Loftus discovered to her listeners a magnificent contralto voice. People vowed she was a second Melba; there was also something that thrilled and touched one’s very heart-strings in the expression of her rich, full notes.

The concert took place whilst the ship was in the Canal, and the Oriana seemed motionless, as it wound its way through the limitless sand; the concert was, of course, packed, every seat was occupied. There were the usual banjo and guitar ditties, men’s songs, a glee; then Miss Loftus stood up, all in white, and, without a note of music, sang “An Arab Love Song.”

The theme, which seemed peculiarly suitable to the encompassing desert, had a weird and impressive effect, and threw a momentary spell over the entire audience. There was a wild, passionate note in the singer’s voice that appealed to that something far down, hidden away and stifled, that is born in every human being.

All the world of the Oriana realised that they were listening to a voice entirely out of the common, to something unusual, unforgettable, and unique.

Miss Loftus presented a delightful picture; she was good to look at, as she stood up in the moonlight on the little platform—graceful, dignified, and yet so simple; last, by no means least, so undeniably handsome.

Her second song was a simple ballad, which caused a lump to rise in the throats of her audience; but when the last notes had died away among the sands, what applause—real applause! Such was the uproar and the acclamation, that a ship which was following became extremely envious, and half inclined to despatch a boat to inquire the reason of the unusual demonstration.

A Mediterranean moon looks sympathetically on lovers. What can be more romantic than those long, idle evenings on that romantic sea? By the time Malta was sighted, Lumley Grantham, the despair of mothers (his own included), had proposed and been accepted by Rata Loftus. Although they had only known one another three weeks, time at sea means ten times more than time on land. They had no distractions, or occupation, spent at least twelve hours of the day in each other’s society, and they had learnt one another’s tastes and characters—so far as these may be known before marriage. She listened eagerly to his sporting adventures—he, to her descriptions of New Zealand, her vivid little sketches of Colonial life, her craving to see England and other countries, to hear operas, concerts, and, above all, to visit Bayreuth during the festival.

When the news of the engagement leaked out, it was received on board with mixed feelings—but on the whole the ship was pleased. It was a wonderful catch for the girl; but she was handsome, accomplished, and rich. Some of the women murmured among themselves that, “for all anyone knew she might be an adventuress! and the uncle, who was a General, a fraud,” but they kept their suspicions to themselves.

Mrs. Loftus now became more active; the voyage had revived her. She walked on deck, a little erect figure with a stately pose of her white head, and even discussed her plans with other ladies.

She proposed to make London her headquarters for the present, to take a furnished house, and get Rata presented—it was only March; there were sure to be May drawing-rooms.

The happy couple—they were very much in love—went ashore, and spent a day at Gibraltar in the highest spirits, chaperoned by Mrs. Loftus. It was surmised that they had despatched telegrams and letters, and, at any rate, Miss Loftus wore a handsome ring on her engaged finger when she returned to the ship, loaded with gifts of fans, quaint bits of Moorish ornaments, and a fine mantilla, which she wore at a fancy ball two evenings later as a Spanish lady, and looked a Spanish donna to the life. On their arrival in London, Mrs. and Miss Loftus drove straight to the Carlton Hotel, and Lumley Grantham joined his family in Grosvenor Place.

The next day Lord and Lady Nesfield came to call on the new arrivals, and their son’s future bride.

They were not a formidable couple: he, a tall, bent, grey old man, with courteous manners; she, a pretty, impulsive little woman, enchanted that Lumley had chosen a wife at last, thankful for anyone, as long as she was not black, and prepared to be delighted with her daughter-in-law.

Rata for her part was much touched by their kind welcome, and all now went merrily as a marriage bell. Miss Loftus was handsome, healthy, ladylike; she had £25,000—quite ample, as Lumley had no occasion to marry a great fortune. Her mother was a refined and amiable woman, passionately devoted to her only child, and the attachment was most warmly returned. Rata was a girl of strong feelings, and it was patent to all that she was deeply in love with her fiancé. Mrs. Loftus, who was evidently a woman of wealth, was soon established in a fashionable house at Lowndes Square, with a smart carriage and an adequate staff, and all Lumley Grantham’s relatives and connections, male and female, crowded to call upon the lady of his choice.

They found her as handsome, graceful, and agreeable as they were led to expect, but perhaps a little unconventional and colonial. With respect to her voice, there could be but one opinion. She was a serious loss to the musical world, and could have made a fortune as a great prima donna. Invitations were showered upon 225, Lowndes Square. Miss Loftus was in continual request, and soon became a social favourite. She was a magnificent horsewoman, and rode every morning in the Row, accompanied by Captain Grantham.

Among the chorus of praise were a few discordant notes; the loudest and shrillest of these issued from the Hon. Mrs. Custance, Lord Nesfield’s only sister, a lady in somewhat narrow circumstances, with two tall, talkative daughters. Her view’s were not rigid respecting the marrying of first cousins, and Lumley’s engagement had been a shock to her, for she had always hoped that he would one day settle down, and marry either Maudie or Mag, instead of which he presented as fiancée a Colonial nobody, whom he had, so to speak, picked up at sea! Who was she? This was a question continually on her lips.

The Loftus family were undoubtedly respectable, but how was anyone to know she was one of them? And the uncle, a General, was possibly a myth. These people had no friends in London, and did not seem to know a soul.

But for all these objections Lady Nesfield found satisfactory replies. She was delighted at her son’s capture—now he would be chained fast, and kept at home. General Broome had written his congratulations, and was sending a present. Two of the Custance girls were to be bridesmaids; the wedding would take place in July, as the bride’s mother was in precarious health, and anxious to see her daughter happily married, as she believed—so she told Lady Nesfield in confidence—that her own days were numbered, and she could not bear the idea of leaving Rata alone in the world.

At the present moment she had rallied sufficiently to be able to accompany her girl to the park, the play, and elsewhere.

The questions of Mrs. Custance were also on the lips and in the mind of Lady Foxrock, Lumley Grantham’s only sister. She was undeniably one of the smart set. The childless wife of a wealthy old peer, ambition was her fetish, and, in spite of her passion for bridge, motoring, and racing, she still contrived to find time for the casting of social nets, and for bringing important intimacies into the family circle. She had always resolved that Lumley, “the wild hunter,” as she playfully called him, should marry—when he did take the step—to the advantage of his family, and she had mentally selected one of her exclusive friends, the rather passée daughter of a noble duke, with a splendid connection, and a considerable dower. She never dreamt, for one moment, that Lumley would find anything more attractive abroad than his usual horns, tusks, and skins; but home he came with a bride, so to speak, in his hand—a mere colonial nobody. Lady Foxrock took an invincible dislike to her on the spot—the dislike was mutual. Rata felt herself an antagonist to this tall, sour-looking lady, with a thin, high nose, pale, arrogant eyes, and slow, disdainful airs. Lady Foxrock could not understand why men admired the colonial; in her opinion, she was frightfully second-rate. And who was she? How, she asked her mother, did they know she was related to the Gloucestershire people? The uncle in India was probably a fiction! The girl had no friends in London and, for all that they could tell, might be an adventuress. Lumley’s interests must be watched—he was an idiot, where that girl was concerned.

Naturally Lady Foxrock had been indefatigable in her endeavours to discover something about the Loftuses, but, unfortunately, New Zealand was remote, and her acquaintances in the Colonies were limited, and she had a confused idea that people who lived in Melbourne or Sydney must, as a matter of course, be intimate with those in Christchurch and Wellington!

One sleepy afternoon, at Hurlingham, kind fate placed a clue in her hand. She was sitting in one of the little tents on the lawn, enjoying tea and strawberries; her near neighbours were a large merry party of acquaintances, and they gradually intermixed. Among the group was a grey-haired, square-built gentleman, who was presented to her as Mr. Dexter, spending a few months in England after an absence of thirty years. Lady Foxrock surveyed him critically; his clothes were ill-fitting, his gloves preposterous, but his carriage, square chin, and keen eyes, gave indication of a man of character, and importance.

He sank into a chair beside the lady, and said, “It is a pretty scene,” nodding his head at the numerous gay groups, the passing crowd, the lawn scattered with flower-beds, the tall trees, through which shimmered the river.

“Yes, but I’ve seen it so often,” she drawled, “its charm has faded a little.”

“Ah, well, if you had been thirty years in the colonies you would not complain of that.”

“Oh, really, I suppose not,” she answered indifferently, her attention diverted by the sight of her brother, his fiancée, Mrs. Loftus, and Lady Nesfield, who were then passing. She noticed that her companion started and stared hard; he even leant forward and gazed after the group; then, as he met her glance of interrogation, he said, “I’ve just seen a familiar face—a face from home.”

“Oh, then you are from New Zealand,” she exclaimed, “and have recognised Mrs. and Miss Loftus?”

“Ah,” he answered, “so you know them?”

“Yes; and you?”

“Very intimately once; but eighteen years ago they left our neighbourhood, and I entirely lost sight of them.”

“Who was Mr. Loftus?” she asked abruptly.

“A prosperous gentleman who owned several large ranches, and died a year ago, leaving a fortune.”

“Was he of good birth?”

“I should say so—but we don’t take much account of that in the Colonies, you know.”

“And Mrs. Loftus?”

“She was renowned for her philanthropy and charities. She had no children——”

“What! No children! She has a daughter—you saw her just now.”

“An adopted daughter,” he corrected.

“Impossible!”

“I assure you it is the case; there was no secret about it.”

“There is a secret about it now.”

“You seem interested in the family.”

“I should think I am, considering that Miss Loftus is going to marry my brother—Lord Nesfield’s only son.”

“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned amazement.

“But I do—the wedding is fixed to take place in ten days’ time. Shall we go outside this tent, and stroll about a little?—impossible to talk here.”

“Certainly,” and he moved a chair out of her way, and followed Lady Foxrock down towards the polo ground.

“I suppose there is no mistake, Mr. Dexter,” she began, “and you really recognise these people?”

“I recognise Mrs. Loftus. I could swear to her anywhere, to her white face and prominent blue eyes. The girl was only two, when I last saw her, but I believe her to be the same. She was very handsome, and her name, I believe, was Rata—named after a New Zealand flower.”

“Yes; it is Rata.”

“There never was any concealment or mystery respecting her. The Loftuses had no family. They were passionately fond of children, and they adopted a child, and, a short time after this, they moved away to the south island; and we lost sight of them.”

“Do you know who the child was?”

“Well”—with obvious reluctance—“yes, I do.”

“You will tell me, won’t you?” and she flashed on him a challenging glance from her small grey eyes.

A moment’s silence. At last he said, “No; I would rather not. It is not my business, and you must excuse me.”

“Oh, Mr. Dexter, won’t you speak out? It means so much to us.”

“There is absolutely nothing against the girl’s character. I think I can assure you of that.”

“Then it is her birth—that is the question.”

“Well, she is not responsible for that, is she?”

“No-o,” the negative was reluctant.

“She seems a fine, tall, beautiful young woman, and I’m sure she has been well brought up; she will be wealthy—what more do you want?”

“The truth, and nothing but the truth.”

“It is not always advisable to know the truth—sometimes silence is best.”

“And so you won’t speak,” she said impatiently, “you are inflexible?”

He bowed his head.

“Look here; we are just coming face to face with the party. Will you accost them?”

“No; I prefer not—unless Mrs. Loftus recognises me.”

They approached in a line, the two younger people handsome and radiant—Rata all in white, carrying a becoming pink sunshade—the elder ladies deep in mutual confidences. Little did they suspect that the smiling lady in grey, who had accosted them in passing, was elaborating a scheme which was to upset their happy anticipations.

“Well, Mr. Dexter,” said Lady Foxrock, “I see you are a man of honour, and respect the affairs of other people, and I must say, that, much as I should like to know something about my future sister-in-law, I admire your reticence immensely. We will consider our talk strictly confidential. Are you married?”

“Yes; that was my wife with the Greysons—the little woman in the blue toque.”

“You won’t mention the subject to her, will you?”

“No, certainly not. The less said the better.”

“Where are you staying?”

“At the Hyde Park Hotel—for a couple of weeks. We have not many friends in London.”

“Then I should like to do myself the pleasure of calling on Mrs. Dexter.”

“That is really very kind of you. I am sure she will be delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“And now,” said the lady, “we must go and look for our parties. They will think we are lost.”

Lady Foxrock was prompt in calling on Mrs. Dexter. She found her twenty years younger than her husband, and of a much inferior class—a yellow-haired, shallow, over-dressed little person, who was obviously flattered by a visit from her ladyship.

Her ladyship dangled some imposing invitations before her dazzled eyes, and then began to ask cautious questions about New Zealand.

Yes, she was New Zealand born herself, not long married—she had insisted on Joe taking her to England, for a spree like! She wanted to see the world a bit, and society. He had brought her, though all his own folk were dead—and he had no home now.

Had Mrs. Dexter ever heard of a Mrs. Loftus in her part of the world?

Yes, ages ago—she’d almost forgotten the tale.

“Oh, so there was a tale. How very interesting! Has it anything to do with her adopted daughter?”

Mrs. Dexter nodded, and giggled.

“The girl is in England now, you know, with Mrs. Loftus—and about to make a grand match.”

Lady Foxrock had touched the right chord; the little colonial was filled with a sudden spasm of envy.

“A splendid match—she!”

“Yes, to the son of a lord.”

“Oh—what!” and she burst out into an excited laugh. “Well, I declare, this is too fine a joke. If they only knew—wouldn’t they be wild!”

“Knew what?”

“Oh, I’d better not say—it might get out. I don’t want to be a spoil-sport; and Joe hates what he calls ‘gossip,’” and she put her finger on her lips.

Lady Foxrock drew herself up and looked dignified. “I assure you that I never gossip, Mrs. Dexter. If you can tell me who this girl was, and is, you will be doing me an enormous favour, and one I shall not forget; but, of course, if you feel that you have no wish to confide in me—and after all I am a stranger——” she paused, and her smile implied a threat.

After all, she was Lady Foxrock, and if she was denied this small request, good-bye to a box at the Opera, an invitation for Lady Foxrock’s fancy ball—and other delights.

“Well, then, look here; I will tell you,” and she suddenly leant forward. Her visitor also approached her head, her heart beat fast—these moments are the sparks of life!

“Miss Loftus, the adopted daughter of Mrs. Loftus, is just a——”

There was a footstep outside.

“Hark! my husband is coming!”

“Quick, quick, you must tell me!” cried Lady Foxrock, seizing her arm in an agony of suspense.

Mrs. Dexter once again leant forward, and whispered, and, ere her whispering had ceased, the handle rattled, and the two heads started apart, as the door opened and Mr. Dexter entered the room.

His wife had entirely recovered her self-possession and said, with incredible assurance, “Oh, there you are, dear. I’m so glad you’ve come in while Lady Foxrock is here.”

He advanced with broad, extended palm. Lady Foxrock, who seemed embarrassed, and strangely flushed, said:

“Yes; I’ve paid, you see, my threatened visit to your wife, and now”—rising as she spoke—“I must positively be going. I’m such a busy person, my quarters of an hour are all filled up.”

“I am sorry I did not come home a little sooner,” said Joe Dexter, who saw that his wife was flattered and gratified, and felt proportionately pleased.

“I will send the cards to-morrow,” continued Lady Foxrock, “and I shall hope to see you both on the 29th,” and with a gracious handshake her ladyship swept out.

Once seated in her carriage, she felt herself trembling with excitement; a few civil words, a card of invitation, what had they not brought her? The match between Lumley and the New Zealander was practically broken off—in a few hours the notification would appear in the Morning Post!

She was determined to strike at once—no time like the present, and no time to be lost. She ordered her footman to drive to Lowndes Square.

Mrs. Loftus was at home, resting on the sofa in the back drawing-room. She had had an unusually fatiguing day, and looked ghastly as she struggled to her feet to receive Lady Foxrock. Her ladyship, being Lumley’s sister, had the entrée at all hours to the temporary home of his fiancée. Yet Lady Foxrock was antipathetic to both Rata and her mother. She was cold, arrogant, interfering, and inquisitive—it seemed almost impossible that she could have been born a Nesfield!

“It is a little late,” she said, glancing at a clock, “but I could not have slept to-night if I had not come to see you. I want to ask you something important about—Rata.”

The lady’s manner was menacing, and at the conclusion of her sentence the eyes of her hostess resembled those of some long-hunted animal, that the cruel hunter has tracked to its lair at last!

“What about Rata?” she faltered, as she sank into a seat; her hands were shaking visibly.

“Yes, what about Rata?” echoed a full, gay voice. “Talk of an angel, and here I am!” she added playfully as she advanced, a delightful vision in a summer gown and flowery hat.

“Darling,” cried Mrs. Loftus, “run away for a little. Lady Foxrock wishes to speak about you.”

“But, dearest, if Leonora is going to talk about me, don’t you think you are rather cruel to banish me? Curiosity is one of my strongest characteristics!”

“Enough of this nonsense,” thought the visitor, and, turning roughly on Mrs. Loftus, she said, “I wish Rata to remain here—it is essential”; and then, turning quickly to Rata, she added, “If you are so naturally inquisitive, has it never occurred to you to wonder who you are?”

“Oh, my God!” murmured Mrs. Loftus under her breath, “it has come! Rata, as you love me, leave me here alone with Lady Foxrock,” and she half rose and stretched out an appealing arm.

“No, dearest; if there is going to be trouble, I will stand by you. As to wondering who I am, Leonora,” now facing the lady, “why should I, when I know that I am Rata Loftus?”

“By all accounts, you have cherished a delusion. You are no more to Mrs. Loftus than to me—you are an adopted child. Mrs. Loftus adopted you, when you were two years old.”

“Well, even so, she is my mother,” coming over and taking her hand. “I could not love her more if she were ten times my mother.” And she raised her eyes defiantly to Lady Foxrock.

“Yes—yes,” faltered the miserable Mrs. Loftus. “Yes, darling; you are not my real child. I hoped you would never, never know—and now!”—looking at Lady Foxrock—“is not that enough? Rata has always been to Edgar and me as our very, very own.”

“Enough!” echoed the visitor, “no, not nearly enough—not half enough. The girl should be made acquainted with her own race. Do you think I will stand by in silence and allow my only brother, the future head of the family, to marry a Maori?”

“A Maori! What nonsense!” cried Rata indignantly.

“Nevertheless, your own grandfather is still living,” she continued inexorably. “He is a chief called Ramparaha, and resides in a ‘Pa’——”

“There! you have killed her!” screamed the girl, rushing forward and catching Mrs. Loftus in her arms. Mrs. Loftus, whose blanched face had, during the above conversation, assumed a death-like hue, and who now collapsed without a word into a heap upon the sofa.

It was a dead faint indeed. Having laid her down and unfastened the neck of her dress, Rata dashed to the bell.

Then as she returned to the invalid she said, “I think you had better go—you have done your worst.”

“I have done my best for my brother,” answered Lady Foxrock fiercely. “I am sorry your patroness has fainted—she would have kept the secret always, to her very last hour; what I have stated is true—and can be proved.”

“Mother—mother,” murmured the girl, as she rubbed the cold hands. Then to a servant, “Run for the nearest doctor, and send some brandy. Mrs. Loftus is very ill; and let someone show this lady out.”

Lady Foxrock’s words were prophetic, for Mrs. Loftus had kept her secret to her dying hour. When the doctor and the brandy arrived, she was past all human aid.

It appeared that she had a most dangerous form of heart disease, and it was a marvel she had survived for so long.

Rata was stunned—she had sustained two violent shocks within the same hour: the announcement of her parentage, and the loss of her mother.

Her grief was at first as wild and uncontrollable as that of one of her savage ancestors; then she became as a creature of stone, and shut herself up from all eyes, like some wounded animal, who would suffer alone. Lady Nesfield and Lumley were all sympathy and affection—they did not yet know the truth. Lord Nesfield undertook the funeral arrangements and Lady Nesfield—who could not prevail on Rata to leave the house—offered to take up her quarters in Lowndes Square; but this Rata declined. She and her sorrow, her anguish, and her fears were sufficient company for one another. The day after the funeral, a paragraph to this effect appeared among the fashionable intelligence:

“Owing to the sudden death of Mrs. Loftus, the marriage of Miss Loftus and Captain the Hon. Lumley Grantham, fixed for the 13th inst., is unavoidably postponed.”

When affairs were returning to their normal course, Lady Foxrock made her parents and her brother acquainted with the result of her investigations into the past of their future relation. At first their amazement transcended expression. The intelligence fell like a moral avalanche; they were all three stunned by the information.

“A Maori!” they repeated; “a Maori—a Maori!”

“But she is so accomplished and graceful, and sings so splendidly,” argued Lady Nesfield.

“I believe many Maori women are graceful, and have fine voices.”

“And so fair,” objected his lordship.

“Her father was an Englishman.”

“And she never knew this till the other day. Oh, poor child!”

“The discovery you made killed the old lady,” added Lord Nesfield.

“It certainly hastened her end,” she admitted; “but, according to the doctors, she ought to have died years ago; in fact, it was a miracle she lived so long!”

“It is an extraordinary affair,” exclaimed her father, “a most terrible disclosure—it seems incredible; and that such a—I may say—unheard-of catastrophe should occur in our family——”

His family, his pedigree, was Lord Nesfield’s pride; a long descent stirred his enthusiasm; before all things in the world he respected blue blood. His ancestors had fought at Cressy and Poitiers—he claimed descent from Henry the Seventh; that his only son and heir should marry a Maori woman—the descendant of cannibals and savages! Never. He was sorry for Lumley and the girl, but his resolution was embodied in the word never.

When Rata permitted Lady Nesfield to see her, she realised by instinct that she was acquainted with her story, although not a word was uttered. And Lumley—he knew also. He called to see her daily, and sent her flowers and notes, but she still remained mute and invisible.

At last she reappeared and granted him an audience in the drawing-room. But here was a Rata he had never seen before, dressed in trailing black, and looking worn, hollow-eyed, and aged.

He felt as if this girl were a stranger.

“No, no; don’t kiss me, Lumley,” she protested. “Sit down in that chair, and let me talk to you. In the first place, I wish to show you a letter. In my—in—Mrs. Loftus’s despatch-box I found this addressed to me, and inscribed, ‘To be opened after my death.’ It will tell you everything you ought to know.”

He glanced at the letter in his hand. It began:

“Dearest Rata,

“When your eyes read these words I shall be no more, and I am now about to tell you what I never imparted to you in life. You are not my own child, but my adopted daughter. Your parentage will startle you, my dear; you were born in a Maori ‘Pa’ near Wellington. I saw you there, a lovely, fair baby of two years old, fell in love with you, and, after a little time persuaded your grandfather, Ramparaha, chief of a great tribe, to give you to me, to bring up absolutely as my own. You were an orphan, and he had other grandchildren. Your father was an Englishman of good birth—needless to tell you his name. Your mother was the most beautiful girl of her race in the whole of the North Island. They were married by a priest, and by the rites of her tribe. Not long afterwards he was drowned in the lake Tavatara; your mother died in giving you birth, and that is your history. We never regretted the step we took—you were always our joy and comfort. We moved away from the neighbourhood of Wellington, and brought you up as an English girl; you have not one Maori trait in your character. I feel that my life hangs by a thread, and I intend to take you to Europe, where I hope you may make friends, and possibly marry. Once you have won the love of a good man, who will be your protector and guardian, I am ready to depart in peace. He will have to be told the truth some day, when you are his wife, and, if he loves you, it can make no difference.

“My will, enclosed with this letter, was drawn up in New Zealand, and is perfectly legal, and formal. In it I speak of you as Rata, my adopted daughter, and leave you all I possess. Make good use of this wealth, dear child, and be happy.”

When Lumley Grantham came to the end of this letter he looked up, and met the eyes of his fiancée, and for some seconds they surveyed one another in silence. She was the first to speak.

“It makes a difference—a terrible difference, Lumley, does it not?”

“But you are not changed.”

“I am—I am a Maori. Imagine it! A Maori! I seem to feel different—to summon up strange, dim dreams. A tall old man with feathers on his head—yes—of a low, dark hut with smoke——”

“No—no,” protested Lumley, “that is your imagination. Your nerves have gone to pieces.”

“And I would always be thinking of that.”

The man felt curiously embarrassed—the girl was so matter-of-fact, so unlike herself; there was something unfamiliar, and almost stern about her.

“Your father is, of course, overwhelmed by the news,” she resumed. “I remember he asked to see the Loftus’s pedigree—think of my pedigree! Tell me, what does he say? Oh, speak to me plainly—he will not have me as a daughter-in-law?”

“He likes you personally, Rata, so does my mother; you know that, but—but——”

“Yes, it is a tremendous but—an impassable but—I understand.”

“Of course it will never be known beyond ourselves.”

“It will,” she interrupted. “My mother hugged herself with the same delusion—yet the secret crept out—and killed her!”

“It shall not kill us,” he answered slowly. “We will, on the contrary, smother and bury it.”

“Ah, easier said than done! Now tell me frankly, Lumley, what are your family proposing to do with me?”

“To find you a nice lady companion, and let you travel for a bit.”

“Yes—and then?”

“Well, I——” he stammered, “I’m not sure that they suggested anything further. To be honest, my father will not hear of our marriage. My mother is heartbroken; but she, too, is against it. Leonora—is—is——”

“Triumphant! That is understood. And you, Lumley?”

“I am ready to marry you to-morrow. I love you, Rata. Of course you come first of all; but I do not wish to quarrel with my father, or break my mother’s heart. It seems so hard to hit on the right thing, and decide. I want a good think—all by myself. I will go off alone to-morrow morning into the country, and come back and tell you what the result is, and then we can make our plans.”

“Very well.”

“What time shall I come—may I say four o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Then four o’clock to-morrow without fail.”

Rata awaited the appointed hour—which meant so much to her—with feverish impatience; long before the time she was pacing the drawing-room and watching the timepiece. Did Lumley mean to abandon her? Was the suggestion of travelling on the Continent but the preliminary to a final farewell? Had he not been confused, embarrassed, unlike himself, and cold, when they had met the previous day, although his sympathy for her loss had seemed truly real and sincere? With these thoughts forming and glowing in her brain she worked herself into a condition of the highest mental tension. Four o’clock—half-past five—and no Lumley; he who was so true to his word, and so punctual! What did it mean? It meant, that he had decided against her, and dared not venture to announce the fact face to face.

After this came the agonies of waiting for the postman’s knock. No letter, not a line from him. All that night she lay wide awake, thinking for herself, and enduring a mental torture such as she had never dreamt of—it was ten times worse than mere physical pain. So Lumley was lost to her—as well as her mother. She had not a relation in Europe, and was practically alone in the world.

The following day came and passed with leaden feet. It brought piles of cards of condolence and inquiries. There were letters from dressmakers, milliners, and shops, papers, circulars, notes from acquaintances, legal looking documents—not a sign from Lumley. Oh, it was too cruel of him to torture her like this! About five o’clock, she relinquished all hope and made up her mind to act for herself.

Lumley Grantham had taken his bicycle by rail down to Croydon, and started for a long, solitary spin. He always enjoyed his own society, and could not exist without plenty of exercise, and, as he skimmed along the country roads, his brain was hard at work, sorting out the pros and cons of an extremely difficult situation. He was resolved to marry Rata—to that point his mind was anchored—but in deference to his father’s sensibilities he felt that he was bound to do nothing suddenly. He and Rata must wait; time would soften the sharp edge of the shock that his parents had sustained. Rata could travel; she had never seen the Continent. He would run out to South Africa for a few months—and possibly by Christmas.... Here his bicycle ran over a loose stone—he lost his balance and fell heavily on his head. An hour later, he was found by a farmer’s carter, taken to the farm, and there laid, still insensible, under the shade of the best four-poster. A doctor was summoned, and announced slight concussion of the brain, and rest essential; but it was two days before the traveller was fit to return to London. His mother—accustomed to his erratic departures—was only slightly concerned—and hailed his reappearance with relief.

Two days after his appointment, he arrived to keep it, but found, to his surprise, that Miss Loftus was not at home, and the household seemed a little upset.

Miss Loftus had departed that morning in a four-wheeler, taking a small box and a bag with her, and leaving her maid without any instructions. She had not mentioned when she proposed to return.

And as it turned out, Miss Loftus never did return. She had walked out of the house, and abandoned her belongings, all her jewellery, including engagement ring, letters, papers, personal possessions, and the will of the late Mrs. Loftus.

Presently the family lawyers arrived, and dismissed the servants, gave up the house, and set about tracing the heiress. But she seemed to have vanished, as it were, into the air. Lord Nesfield was agreeably and obviously relieved, until he was assured by his son that, unless the lost lady was found, he would never marry, and this statement considerably modified his joy, for Lord Nesfield disliked his next heirs, the Nesfields of Barlow, even more intensely than the idea of a daughter-in-law with strange blood in her veins!

Lumley Grantham, after fruitless visits, first to Gloucestershire, and then Lahore, finally set out for New Zealand, “the wonderland of the world,” with its mountains, glaciers, waterfalls, and lakes. Here it took some time tracing a lady who, three months previously, had landed at Dunedin; but he tracked her steps patiently, and at last discovered that she had disappeared among a Maori tribe near Kaiapui in the lake country. Here he sought the great “Pa” of the chief Ramparaha, and found him, the splendid wreck of a fine Maori warrior, wrapped in a cloak of feathers, his head adorned with the plumes of authority, enjoying a long pipe in the door of his abode. Around were various Maori women, young and old, with thick, grizzly black hair and tall, graceful figures, dressed, as is the present custom, in skirts and blouses, instead of their picturesque native costumes. A few fine, stalwart men were loitering about, smoking and talking. Over them all lay the spell of unconquerable indolence—children, dogs, and flies were the only objects endowed with vitality.

In reply to Captain Grantham’s question, the chief replied, “Yes, one white woman come here two moons ago—my daughter’s daughter, she said—but she was all English. Her mother was Tassila the beautiful, who died young. I gave her baby to a lady from Wellington. Twenty years after the baby comes back to the tribe; but she is a stranger.”

“Yes, of course she is,” assented his visitor, with emphasis.

“She liked not our food, nor our ways, although we held a Tangi in her honour and gave poi deones and hakas. She would not even look—also she knew not our tongue. She sat all day alone in her hut and wept, and ate nought, and grew thin, oh, so thin—and then she—as was best—left us.”

“Where is she?” enquired Captain Grantham eagerly; “you know?”

“Oh yes,” gravely nodding his plumed head, “I know.”

“And will you take me—will you show me?”

“Why do you seek her?”

“Because she and I were to have been married, and I have come to fetch her back to England.”

“Ah!” rising stiffly, “and so you were to marry my granddaughter Rata. Then follow me, and I will show you where she is.”