CHAPTER III.

We were nearing Port Said, and there was a talk of getting up a fancy

ball in the Canal, the night the steamer was “tied up;” an energetic

lady--there is always one among the passengers--managed it, and

cleverly evolved costumes out of almost nothing. There were Indians,

Chinese, Japanese, Britannia’s draped with flags; lazy people who

were merely _poudré_, and clowns, playing cards, demons, and witches.

The passengers of a P. and O. (anchored close by) came on board, and

there--with the silent desert stretching away at either side--was

enacted a scene of revelry, and all went merry as a marriage bell.

Our ship gave the supper, the men the champagne. Mrs. Raymond was not

allowed to dress in costume, or to dance; though it had been suggested

that she should go as “Beauty,” and her husband as the “Beast,” or as

the “Princess Baldrabadoura,” and her husband as the “Magician.” I

fancy she had had a struggle to be present at _all_, for she looked

rather pale, and her eyes were decidedly red, as she came and sat near

me. I was only a spectator, a withered old wallflower.

“Can you not dance?” I asked, as she steadily refused partner after

partner.

“Oh yes, I can, and I am so fond of it, too; but Mr. Raymond does not

think married ladies ought to dance.”

“I go further,” he said--coming nearer as he spoke--“I don’t think any

ladies ought to dance; they lower themselves by doing so. They should

leave all this display to nautch-girls; it is only fit for such! Look

at that lady,” pointing to Mrs. Swift, in a very short dress, “and look

at that one,” indicating another in an exceedingly low body, “and you

call _them_ civilized and refined? I call them no better than savages!

They are on a par with a negro woman, who dances round a fetish.”

“You would shut them up, if you had anything to say to them?” I

remarked sarcastically.

“I would--in their graves,” was the startling reply.

“I agree with you, that there is dancing and dancing, and I cannot

admire these frantic polkas, or the kitchen lancers.”

“Ah, if you European ladies were not so prejudiced, you would allow

that our Zenana system was a sound one.”

“No, never; I should never go to that extreme,” I maintained

indignantly.

“But listen to me. Do our women romp about with other men--half

clothed, too!--and shame their husbands who stand looking on? You saw

those ladies racing round the deck yesterday for a gold bangle; what

sort of an exhibition did you call it?”

I called it an exhibition of stockings, but I held my tongue. There

_was_ something in what he said. Some ladies, I knew, might be

eliminated from society with much advantage to womankind in general.

“_You_ think our women have no liberty,” he pursued, gesticulating with

his thin brown hands.

“I am sure they have not,” I answered emphatically.

“Another mistake! They have far more than in English families. Although

the world does not see them, our mothers and wives pull all the strings

from behind the purdah. No family matter is settled without them; be it

weddings, purchase of land or jewels, all those affairs are generally

arranged by them; they are far more deferred to in money matters than

European women, who are often beaten, and almost always neglected or

ignored where business is in question. An old lady like you, were she

of my people, would have great authority. And they have ample variety;

they drive about from one Zenana to another, and hear all the news,

and drink coffee with their friends. Nor are they debarred from male

society; they see their husbands and brothers and uncles. Once a woman

is married, why should she desire to see another man than her husband?

There is where the great mistake is made in your country; were your

ladies kept in strict seclusion, there would be no disgrace, none of

those shocking scandals that become more common every day.”

“Have _you_ never any?” I demanded in my tartest tone.

“Rarely, rarely, very rarely.”

“And when one is discovered, what happens?”

“Do not ask me _too_ much,” was his mysterious reply. “I maintain here

to you, an enlightened English lady, who knows India, and knows the

world, that our Zenana life, our women’s lives, is infinitely superior

to yours. Where women smoke and drink, and shoot and hunt, and have

their liberty, and make a very bad use of it--ours have sufficient

liberty, but no licence.”

“And yet many cannot read or write, and spend their days playing

childish games, dressing dolls, quarrelling, or eating sweets; their

minds are a blank.”

“Better so than be full of wickedness.”

“And yet you read French novels yourself; you have had a good

education; you have seen the world. A woman is to be shut up between

four walls, spending her days like some wound-up mechanical toy. Is she

not as much a human being as you are?”

“No; she is an inferior,” was his astounding statement.

“_Thank_ you,” I replied, with an arctic bow.

“But she is well watched and cared for,” he calmly proceeded, “and is

very happy in her home, and has enormous influence.”

“And yet she may not sit in her husband’s presence; and when he enters

a room, must stand with her face to the wall!”

“That is seldom done now; these customs are going out of fashion.”

“Yes, like the bow-string and the sack!” I retorted, with a spice of

temper.

At this moment some one came and offered to take me down to supper, and

I was not sorry to leave Mr. Raymond; there was an odd glitter in his

eyes, and a repressed tone in his speech, that I did not altogether

relish. He had not been pleased with my thrust about the sack and

bow-string, and for my part I had not fancied being so plainly informed

that I was “an old woman.” We were never such good friends after that

night, and I think he had an insane idea that _I_--I, strait-laced

Louisa Paulet--encouraged those two light-hearted officers in their

fluttering round his wife!

Captain Fuller took me into his confidence one evening, and said--

“What can have persuaded that lovely girl to marry that horrible

man? Did he pass himself off as an Italian, or a Greek, or what?

Handsome, I suppose he is, but what an expression! And it strikes me,

that the nearer he approaches his native shores, the more native he

becomes--even in his dress. He has dropped his smart tweed suit for

white duck, his deerstalker for a fez, and the fine new gloss of his

European manners has worn down. He would like to poison _me_, and I

should be delighted to kick him--to kick him for half an hour.”

“Well, I sincerely hope you will keep the peace; we have only seven

days more. We sight Perim to-night,” I added consolingly.

“Seven days more! Yes, I wonder what sort of a life that wretched girl

will lead. She is very simple, and as ignorant in some ways as a child.”

“She will have carriages and horses, and servants, and lovely diamonds.”

“And do you think they will make her happy?”

“I am sure I don’t know; it satisfies some women.”

“Yes, but not when they are married to a native of India, with whom

they can have but little in common, and who has an uncivilized temper.

Where is she to live?” he inquired, with undissembled interest.

“I do not know,” I returned, with a shake of my head. “She is rather

vague about it herself.”

“But surely you can find out? You have been very kind to her, and I am

certain that to feel she has one friend of her own sex in the country,

would make her happier. Give her your address; you might drop her a

line, and ask how she is getting on. It would be an act of charity;

for, to tell you the truth, I have my doubts of that fellow. I would

not trust him as far as I could throw him.”

I seemed (I suppose because I am stout and motherly-looking) to be the

general repository of people’s confidences, for one afternoon, before

dinner, Mrs. Raymond came and took Charles’s chair--her husband was

deep in a game of chess. He glanced up for a second, but he evidently

considered that she was safe with me, and resumed his play. I looked at

her closely; she had been crying. This was the second time I had seen

her with red eyes. She moved her chair, so that she sat with her back

to the chess-players, and said--

“I have not had a talk with you for a long time, Mrs. Paulet.”

“No, my dear; but we can have a good chat now. You are not looking

yourself; have you a headache?”

“I--I feel the heat; oh, I do hope we are not going to a very hot

place.”

“I hope not,” I answered cheerfully.

“And in six more days I shall know! Mrs. Paulet, I wonder if I shall

ever see you again. Oh, I _hope_ I shall!”

“Perhaps some day you will come and pay me a little visit at

Tamashabad?”

“How I should love to stay with you, but----”

“But what?”

“My husband would not let me go, I am sure. Oh, dear Mrs. Paulet, I

feel so _safe_ when I am near you!” and her eyes filled with tears.

“What does the girl mean?” I asked impatiently.

“I mean”--lowering her voice, two tears now rolling slowly down her

cheeks--“that my marriage has been a terrible mistake. I am afraid of

Mr. Raymond, I am--indeed. Oh, why did I ever leave my home?”

To hear a bride of a few weeks talk in this way gave me a most

unpleasant sensation.

“Nonsense, my dear girl! you are only a little bilious; it is the sea

air. If you had not liked the man, I’m sure you would not have married

him.”

“It was all my mother’s doing,” she rejoined in a choked voice. “You

see--I need not tell you--that I am not a lady by birth like you, and

it was a grand match for the likes of me.”

“Tell me where you met him, and how it all came about? You may be sure

I shall keep whatever you relate to myself.”

“I met him up in the lake country, where my mother keeps a little

inn--The Trout and Fly. She is a widow and has three daughters; I am

the youngest--and best looking.”

“Yes, go on.”

“I was always a bit spoiled, I suppose on account of my looks, and I

was sent to quite a genteel boarding-school in Carlisle, where I learnt

French and the piano, and when I came home I was never asked to help in

the housework like Lizzie and Susan, or to wash dishes or cook; mother

could not bear me to soil a finger, and so I used to sew and do a

little millinery and that. She never allowed me, even in the busy time,

to set foot in the bar or coffee-room, or to come across visitors at

all; but one day I met Mr. Raymond on the stairs.” She paused, sighed,

and then added in a most melancholy tone, “And that began it all!”

“I suppose so,” I acquiesced sympathetically.

“Yes, he stayed and stayed, and he hung about, till he met me and spoke

to me. He was very rich and handsome, and had such beautiful clothes

and rings--so different from any of the village people. He took a fancy

to me, he told mother, and asked if he might walk out with me; and of

an evening we used to walk together, and he told me lovely stories,

and was very attentive, and gave me a gold watch and chain; and people

talked in a horrid way, but mother shut them up fine! He was a real

grand gentleman, and he was going to marry me; he and she had settled

it, she said. If I had had to choose, and he had had the same as young

Joe the boatman, my own cousin, I’d have married young Joe. However, we

were married very quietly, and he carried me off to London, and bought

me splendid dresses, and took me to the theatres and parks, and we had

a fine hired carriage of our own. Then we went to Paris, and I liked

that; and oh! he bought me such lovely diamonds. I never wished for

a thing that I did not get it. Just like in a fairy tale. But though

he was very kind to me, I never could bring him to speak to me of his

relations, his religion, or his home, and I know no more about them now

than I did then,” she said with a little sob, “and here we are within

four days of Bombay. I have a presentiment that something is going to

happen, and I cannot sleep for thinking of it, my heart does palpitate

so!” As she spoke, her whole frame quivered.

“Indigestion, my dear! Pray, what could happen to you?” I asked.

“I don’t know; but sometimes Mr. Raymond is very angry with me, and he

frightens me. He cannot endure me to speak to any one, scarcely even to

_you_; and he told me that if I ever spoke to Captain Fuller again he

would lock me up in my cabin. He is quite capable of it. Ah! what would

I not give to be at home? Shall I ever see our dear hills and lakes

again?”

“Of course you will,” I hastily rejoined; “and meanwhile you will see a

very interesting new country, where I hope you will be very happy.”

“God grant it, Mrs. Paulet!” she returned gravely. “But sometimes I

feel that I shall never be happy again,” and she gave a little dry sob.

“You should have reflected well before you married. You are very young;

you could hardly know your own mind.”

“Yes; but you see mother is a strong-minded woman, and manages us all.

I never chose a dress for myself, let alone a sweetheart. And he was

very liberal to mother; he bought her a lease of the house, and poor

mother was just dazzled. Oh, if I was only back again, sitting over the

fire in the little parlour, with Susan and Lizzie, I’d never ask to see

a diamond, or a horse, or a silk dress, as long as I lived! Yes, it’s

getting much warmer.”

I looked round to see the meaning of this irrelevant remark, and

discovered Mr. Raymond close to us, regarding our confidences with a

pair of most suspicious eyes.

The next morning he blandly informed us at breakfast that “Mrs. Raymond

was not well, and was going to remain in her cabin--a touch of fever, a

mere nothing.”

I volunteered to go and see her, to take her quinine, eau de Cologne,

oranges. My offer was stiffly declined. “His wife had everything she

required; all she needed was repose.” We did not see her that day,

nor the following one, nor could we gain access to her cabin by fair

means--or even by foul--for when I surreptitiously tried the door

(having left Mr. Raymond on deck), I found Ahmed Khan on duty as

sentry, and he assured me with a scowl that “Mem Sahib sota hye” (Mem

Sahib asleep).

Mrs. Sharpe came to me next morning, and said excitedly, “Louisa, you

_always_ say I am finding mares’ nests, but I am certain there is

something wrong about those Raymonds; we have not seen her for three

days--not since Monday night.”

“No, but that proves nothing. She has not been looking well

latterly--she has fever.”

“The doctor has not been called in. _He_ waits on her himself; and when

he is card-playing, and on deck, the door is locked.”

“Pray, how do _you_ know?” I demanded judicially.

“I watched and tried it, and then I knocked, and she said, ‘Come in,

please;’ but I saw Ahmed, and he sent me away. ‘Sahib’s hookum; missus

sick, could see _no_ Mem Sahib.’ Then I can tell you something more.

Her cabin is next Miss Lacy’s, and Miss Lacy says she hears dreadful

sobbing and crying. What _is_ to be done? Shall we speak to the

captain?” concluded Mrs. Sharpe.

“No; a man’s cabin is his castle, and his wife is his private property.

We cannot break in, and see her against his will.”

“The thing is to communicate with her.”

“Yes, but how?” I inquired.

“I have thought it all out. This evening, when he is playing cards,

I shall slip away, and go into Miss Lacy’s cabin and knock on the

partition, at the back of Mrs. Raymond’s berth. Don’t _you_ go; he may

suspect you, but he won’t miss _me_.”

“Well?” I said breathlessly, as I entered her cabin that night, “what

success?”

“He was much too clever for me,” she replied. “I had barely knocked and

said, ‘Mrs. Raymond.’ And she said, ‘Oh, who is it?’--‘Mrs. Sharpe,

from Mrs. Paulet. Are you better?’--‘I am quite well. I never was ill.

Hush!’ And I heard her cabin door opened, and _he_ came in; he did

not talk at first, but I knew he was there. After a time he said, ‘I

have brought your sleeping draught.’ I had my ear to the berth. ‘Oh,

please, please no,’ she cried; ‘I don’t want it, and the other made me

so heavy for two days. Oh, anything but the sleeping draught!’ and she

began to sob. ‘_Take it!_’ you should have heard his voice; it actually

frightened me through the boards. And then I crept stealthily away,

feeling quite queer and shaky, not to say guilty.”

“We get in to-morrow at nine o’clock,” I said. “Of course we shall see

her then. We will watch and waylay them. Poor girl! what does he mean

by shutting her up and drugging her?”

The steamer arrived in dock at six--three hours before her time, and

before we were up. What a bustle there was! After our seven-o’clock

Chotah hazree, packing our small parcels and wraps, receiving our

letters and friends--we _are_ a selfish world--it was breakfast-time

ere I thought of the poor prisoner. I went to the cabin door and

knocked; no answer. I turned the handle; the door opened, the cabin was

empty!

“How is this?” I said to the stewardess Theresa, a fat, oily-tongued

Italian.

“Oh, the signora was very, very sick, and the good signor was so

attentive, he waited on her himself (he had given Theresa a handsome

tip--that I could see). He was so anxious about her, that as soon as

we were in dock, he carried her on deck in his arms, well wrapped up.

There was a doolie waiting with eight bearers. He placed her in it with

his own hands, and she was taken away.”

On further inquiry, a doolie and eight bearers, accompanied by a

respectable elderly servant, had been seen going towards the city, and

there all trace of the Raymonds was lost.

* * * * *

Raymond was, of course, a fictitious name. The unhappy girl, and

the mysterious stranger, had totally disappeared; none of their

fellow-passengers ever heard of them again. They were both engulfed in

that wide and extremely vague address known as “Up country.” To this

day, Mrs. Sharpe and I, when we meet, shake our heads together over a

certain little mutual intrigue, and jointly wonder what has become of

Mrs. Raymond.

_THE KHITMATGAR._

“Whence and what art thou, execrable shape?”--MILTON.

Perhaps you have seen them more than once on railway platforms in the

North-West Provinces. A shabby, squalid, weary-looking group, sitting

on their battered baggage, or scrambling in and out of intermediate

compartments; I mean Jackson, the photographer, and his belongings.

Jackson is not his real name, but it answers the purpose. There are

people who will tell you that Jackson is a man of good family, that

he once held a commission in a crack cavalry regiment, and that his

brother is Lord-Lieutenant of his county, and his nieces are seen at

Court balls. Then how comes their kinsman to have fallen to such low

estate--if kinsman he be--this seedy-looking, unshorn reprobate, with

a collarless flannel shirt, greasy deerstalker, and broken tennis

shoes? If you look into his face, who runs may read the answer--Jackson

drinks; or his swollen features, inflamed nose, and watery and

uncertain eye greatly belie him.

Jackson was a _mauvais sujet_ from his youth upwards, if the truth

must be confessed. At school he was always in trouble and in debt. At

Oxford his scrapes were so prominent that he had more than one narrow

escape of being sent down. Who would believe, to look at him _now_,

that he had once been a very pretty boy, the youngest and best-looking

of a handsome family, and naturally his mother’s darling? Poor woman!

whilst she lived she shielded him from duns and dons, and from his

father’s wrath; she pawned her diamonds and handed over her pin-money

to pay his bills; she gave him advice--and he gave her kisses. By the

time he had joined his regiment, this reckless youth had lost his best

friend, but his bad luck--as _he_ termed it--still clung to him and

overwhelmed him. His father had a serious interview with his colonel,

paid up like a liberal parent, and agreed to his son’s exchange into

a corps in India. “India may steady him,” thought this sanguine old

gentleman; but, alas! it had anything but the desired effect. In India

the prodigal became more imprudent than ever. Cards, racing, simpkin,

soon swallowed up his moderate allowance, and he fell headlong into

the hands of the soucars--a truly fatal fall! Twenty per cent. per

month makes horrible ravages in the income of a subaltern, and soon he

was hopelessly entangled in debt, and had acquired the disagreeable

reputation of being “a man who never paid for anything, and always

let others in, when it was a question of rupees.” Then his name was

whispered in connection with some very shady racing transaction, and

finally he was obliged to leave the service, bankrupt alike in honour

and credit. His father was dead, his brothers unanimously disowned him,

and for twenty years he fell from one grade to another, as he roamed

over India from Peshawar to Madras, and Rangoon to Bombay. He had been

in turn planter, then planter’s clerk, house agent, tonga agent; he had

tried touting for a tailoring firm and manufacturing hill jams; and

here he was at fifty years of age, with a half-caste wife, a couple of

dusky children, and scarcely an anna in his pocket. Undoubtedly he had

put the coping-stone on his misfortunes when he took for his bride the

pretty, slatternly daughter of a piano-tuner, a girl without education,

without energy, and without a penny.

Ten years ago Fernanda Braganza had been a charming creature (with the

fleeting beauty of her kind), a sylph in form, with superb dark eyes,

fairy-like feet, and a pronounced taste for pink ribbons, patchouli,

and pearl-powder. This vision of beauty, who had gushed to Jackson

with her soul in her exquisite eyes, and who was not insensible to the

honour of marrying a gentleman, was she the selfsame individual as this

great fat woman, in carpet slippers, and a bulging tweed ulster, who

stood with a sallow, hungry-looking child in either hand? Alas! she was.

The Jacksons had come to try their fortunes at Panipore--a small

up-country station, where there were two European regiments and half a

battery of Artillery--for is not Tommy Atkins ever a generous patron

to an inexpensive photographer? The finances of the family were at a

very low ebb that February afternoon, as they stood on the platform

collecting their belongings, a camera and chemicals, a roll of frowsy

bedding, a few cooking things, a couple of boxes, also a couple of

grimy servants--in India the poorest have a following, and third-class

tickets are cheap. Jackson had a “three-finger” peg at the bar,

although there was but little in his pocket, besides a few cards and

paper posters, and thus invigorated proceeded to take steps respecting

the removal of his family.

Poverty forbade their transit in a couple of ticca gharries, and

pride shrank from an ekka; therefore Jackson left his wife in the

waiting-room whilst he tramped away in the blinding sun and powdery

white dust to see if there was accommodation at the Dâk Bungalow. It

proved to be crammed, and he had not yet come down to the Serai, or

native halting-place. He was (when sober) a man of some resource. He

made his way up to the barracks and asked questions, and heard that

the station was in the same condition as the Dâk Bungalow, quite

full. Even Fever Hall and Cholera Villa were occupied, and the only

shelter he could put his head into was the big two-storied bungalow

in the Paiwene road. It had been empty for years; it was to be had at

a nominal rent--say two rupees a week--and there was no fear of any

one disturbing him _there_! It was large and close to the barracks,

but greatly out of repair. With this useful intelligence, Mr. Jackson

rejoined his impatient circle, and, with their goods in a hand-cart,

they started off for this house of refuge without delay.

Past the native bazaar, past the officers’ mess, past the church,

then along a straight wide road, where the crisp dead leaves crackled

underfoot, a road lined with dusty half-bare trees, whose branches

stood out in strong relief against a hard blue sky, whilst a vast

tract of grain country, covered with green barley and ripe sugar-cane,

stretched away on the right. On the left were a pair of great gaunt

gate piers, leading by a grass-grown approach, to the two-storied

bungalow--an imposing-looking house, that was situated well back

from the highway amid a wilderness of trees, and rank and rotting

vegetation. Distance in this case certainly had lent enchantment to

the view! When the little party arrived under the wide, dilapidated

portico, they found all the doors closed, the lower windows stuffed

with boards, matting, and even paper in default of glass; weeds and

creepers abounded, and there was a dangerous fissure in the front wall.

After knocking and calling for about ten minutes, an ancient chowkidar

appeared, looking half asleep. At first he thought it was merely a

party from the station, wishing, as was their eccentric custom, “to go

over” the haunted house, the Bhootia Bungalow; but he soon learnt his

mistake from the voluble, shrill-tongued mem-sahib.

This family of shabby Europeans, who had arrived on foot, with all

their belongings in a “_tailer_” from the station, had actually come

to stay, to sleep, to _live_ on the premises! Grumbling to himself,

he conducted them up an exceedingly rickety, not to say dangerous,

staircase--for the lower rooms were dark and damp--to three or four

large and cheerful apartments, opening on a fine verandah. Mrs. Jackson

was accustomed to pitching her tent in queer places, and in a very

short time she had procured from the bazaar a table, a few chairs, and

a couple of charpoys, and furnished two rooms--she had but little to

unpack--whilst Kadir Bux, the family slave, vibrated between cooking

and chemicals. Meanwhile Mr. Jackson, having washed, shaved, and

invested himself in his one linen collar and black alpaca coat, set

forth on a tour of inspection, to stick up posters and distribute

cards. His wife also made her rounds; the upper rooms were habitable,

and the verandah commanded a fine view; it overlooked the park-like

but neglected compound, intersected with short cut paths, and which,

despite its two grand entrance gates, was now without hedge or paling,

and quite open to the road, a road down which not a few ladies and

gentlemen in bamboo carts or on ponies were trotting past for their

evening airing. Below the suite Mr. Jackson had chosen, were the dismal

vault-like rooms, the chowkidar with his charpoy and huka, and beyond,

at the back of the bungalow, the servants’ quarters and stables,

both roofless. Behind these ruins, stretched an immense overgrown

garden (with ancient, dried-up fruit trees, faint traces of walks and

water-channels, and a broken fountain and sundial) now abandoned to

cattle. On the whole, Mrs. Jackson was pleased with her survey. She had

never as yet inhabited such a lordly-looking mansion, and felt more

contented than she had done for a long time, especially as Jackson was

on his best behaviour--he had no friends in the place, and scarcely any

funds.

In a short time Mr. Jackson had acquired both. His good address, his

gentlemanly voice, and the whisper of his having once been an officer

who had come to grief--who had been unfortunate--went far in a military

station. With extraordinary discretion he kept his belongings entirely

out of sight; he also kept sober, and consequently received a number

of orders for photographs of groups, of bungalows, and of polo ponies.

He had the eye of an artist and really knew his business, and although

some were startled at the strength of the pegs which he accepted, he

had a large and lucrative connection in less than no time, and rupees

came flowing in fast. As he and the invaluable Kadir worked together,

he talked glibly to portly field-officers and smooth-faced subalterns,

of men whom _he_ had known, men whose names at least were familiar to

them--distinguished veterans, smart soldiers, and even celebrated

personages. He attended church, and sang lustily out of a little old

Prayer-book, and looked such a picture of devout, decayed gentility,

that the tender-hearted ladies pitied him and thought him quite

romantic, and hastened to order photographs of all their children, or,

children being lacking, dogs. Little did they know that Mr. Jackson’s

shabby Prayer-book would have been sold for drink years previously,

only that he found it an absolutely unmarketable article!

Meanwhile Mrs. Jackson was convinced that she was positively about

to be “a lady at last.” She purchased frocks for her sallow girls, a

dress and boots for herself; she set up a rocking-chair and a cook,

and occasionally drove to the bazaar in a “ticca” gharry, where

she looked down with splendid dignity on the busy bargaining wives

of Tommy Atkins. The chaplain’s lady had called upon her, also the

barrack-sergeant’s wife, who lived in a small bungalow or quarters

beyond the garden. She had haughtily snubbed this good woman at

first, but subsequently had thawed toward her, for several reasons.

Jackson, having been uproariously drunk, and unpleasantly familiar to

an officer, had now fallen back on the sergeants’ mess for his society,

and on private soldiers for his patrons. He was still doing a roaring

trade, especially in cartes-de-visite at six rupees a dozen. He bragged

and talked, and even wept, to his listeners in the barrack-rooms, and

in the canteen: listeners who thought him an uncommonly fine fellow,

liberal as a lord, flinging his coin right and left. They little

guessed the usual sequel, or of how the Jackson family were wont to

steal out of a station by rail in the grey dawn of an Indian morning,

leaving many poor natives, who had supplied their wants in the shape

of bread and meat, coffee, and even clothes, to bewail their too

abrupt departure. Jackson was “on the drink,” as his wife frankly

expressed it, never home before twelve o’clock at night, and then had

to be helped upstairs, and Mrs. Jackson found these evenings extremely

wearisome. She rarely read, but she did a little crochet and not a

little scolding; she slept a good deal; and, as long as her coffee and

her curry were well and punctually served, she was fairly content,

for she was naturally lethargic and indolent. But still she liked to

_talk_, and here she had no one with whom to exchange a word. She pined

for the sound of another female tongue, and accordingly one afternoon

she arrayed herself in her new hat with scarlet cock’s feathers,

also her yellow silk gloves, and with the cook as a body-servant and

to carry her umbrella, she sallied forth to return the visit of the

barrack-sergeant’s wife. She had not far to go--only through the

garden and across the road. The barrack-sergeant’s wife was knitting

outside in her verandah, for the weather was “warming up,” when Mrs.

Jackson, all-gorgeous in her best garments, loomed upon her vision.

Now, Mrs. Clark “had no notion of the wives of drunken photographers

giving themselves hairs! And don’t go for to tell _her_ as ever that

Jackson was a gentleman! A fellow that went reeling home from the

canteen every night!” But she dissembled her feelings and stood up

rather stiffly, and invited her visitor into her drawing-room, a

small apartment, the walls coloured grey, furnished with cheap straw

chairs, covered in gaudy cretonne, further embellished by billowy white

curtains, tottering little tables, and a quantity of photographs in

cotton velvet frames--a room of some pretensions, and Mrs. Clark’s

pride. Its unexpected grandeur was a blow to Mrs. Jackson, as was also

the appearance of two cups of tea on a tray, accompanied by a plate of

four water-biscuits. It seemed to her that Mrs. Clark also set up for

being quite the lady, although _her_ husband was not a gentleman. The

two matrons talked volubly, as they sipped their tea, of bazaar prices,

cheating hawkers, and the enormities of their servants. “My cook,” was

continually in Mrs. Jackson’s mouth. They played a fine game of brag,

in which Mrs. Jackson, despite her husband who had been an officer, of

her cook, and of her large house, came off second best!

“I can’t think,” she said, looking round contemptuously, “how you can

bear to live in these stuffy quarters. I am sure _I_ couldn’t; it would

kill me in a week. You should see the splendid rooms we have; they do

say it was once a palace, and built by a nabob.”

“May be so,” coolly rejoined her hostess. “I know it was a mess-house,

and after that an officers’ chummery, fifteen or twenty years ago; but

no one would live there now, unless they had _no other_ roof to cover

them, and came to a place like a parcel of beggars!”

“Why, what’s up with it?” inquired Mrs. Jackson, suddenly becoming of a

dusky puce, even through her pearl-powder.

“Don’t you know--and _you_ there this two months and more?”

“Indeed I don’t; what is there to know?”

“And haven’t you seen him?” demanded Mrs. Clarke, in a key of intense

surprise--“I mean the Khitmatgar?”

“I declare I don’t know what you are talking about,” cried the other,

peevishly. “What Khitmatgar?”

“What Khitmatgar? Hark at her! Why, a short, square-shouldered man,

in a smart blue coat, with a regimental badge in his turban. He has

very sticking-out, curling black whiskers, and a pair of wicked eyes

that look as if they could stab you, though he salaams to the ground

whenever you meet him.”

“I believe I _have_ seen him, now you mention it,” rejoined Mrs.

Jackson; “rather a tidy-looking servant, with, as you say, a bad

expression. But bless you! _we_ have such crowds of officers’

messengers coming with chits to my husband, I never know who they are!

I’ve seen him now and then, of an evening, I’m sure, though I don’t

know what brought him, or whose servant he is.”

“Servant!” echoed the other. “Why, he is a ghost--the ghost what haunts

the bungalow!”

“Ah, now, Mrs. Clark,” said her visitor, patronizingly, “you don’t tell

me you believe such rubbish?”

“Rubbish!” indignantly, “is it? Oh, just you wait and see. Ask old

Mr. Soames, the pensioner, as has been here this thirty year--ask any

one--and they will all tell you the same story.”

“Story, indeed!” cried Mrs. Jackson, with a loud, rude laugh.

“Well, it’s a true story, ma’am--but you need not hear it unless you

like it.”

“Oh, but I should like to hear it very much,” her naturally robust

curiosity coming to the front. “Please do tell it to me.”

“Well, twenty years ago, more or less, some young officers lived in

that bungalow, and one of them in a passion killed his Khitmatgar. They

say he never meant to do it, but the fellow was awfully cheeky, and he

threw a bottle at his head and stretched him dead. It was all hushed

up, but that young officer came to a bad end, and the house began to

get a bad name--people died there so often; two officers of _delirium

tremens_; one cut his throat, another fell over the verandah and broke

his neck--and so it stands empty! No one stays a week.”

“And why?” demanded the other, boldly. “Lots of people die in houses;

they must die somewhere.”

“But _not_ as they do there!” shrilly interrupted Mrs. Clark. “The

Khitmatgar comes round at dusk, or at night, just like an ordinary

servant, with pegs or lemonade and so on. Whoever takes anything from

his hand seems to get a sort of madness on them, and goes and destroys

themselves.”

“It’s a fine tale, and you tell it very well,” said Mrs. Jackson,

rising and nodding her red cock’s feathers, and her placid, dark, fat

face. “There does be such in every station; people must talk, but they

won’t frighten _me_.”

And having issued this manifesto, she gave her hostess a limp shake of

the hand and waddled off.

“She’s jealous of the grand big house, and fine compound, fit for

gentry,” said Mrs. Jackson to herself, “and she thinks to get me out

of it. Not that _she_ could get in! for she has to live in quarters;

and she is just a dog in the manger, and, anyways, it’s a made-up story

from first to last!”

As she reached her abode, and called “_Qui hai! buttie lao!_” a figure

came out from the passage, salaamed respectfully, and, by the light of

a two-anna lamp on the staircase, she descried the strange Khitmatgar,

whose appearance was perfectly familiar to her--a short, square,

surly-looking person. No doubt he was one of Kadir’s many friends; the

lower rooms were generally overrun with his visitors.

“Send Kadir!” she said imperiously, and went upstairs, and as she spoke

the man salaamed again and vanished.

The wife of his bosom had a fine tale to tell Mr. Jackson the next

morning, as, with a very shaky hand, he was touching up some plates in

his own room.

“A Khitmatgar that offers free pegs!” he exclaimed, with a shout of

laughter. “Too good to be true. Why, I’d take a whisky and soda from

the devil himself--and glad to get it. My mouth is like a lime-kiln at

this moment--_Qui hai! whisky-pani do!_”

Many days, warm and sweltering days, rolled on; the hot winds blew the

crackling leaves before them, blew great clouds of red dust along the

roads, blew ladies up to the hills, and dispersed many of Jackson’s

patrons. But he did not care; he had made a good many rupees; he had

more than one boon-companion, and he drank harder than ever. “Why

not?” he demanded; “he had earned the money, and had the best right

to spend it.” He was earning none now. When customers came, Kadir

always informed them the sahib was _sota_ (asleep). Yes, sleeping off

the effects of the preceding night. Mrs. Jackson was accustomed to

this state of affairs, and what she called his “attacks.” She rocked

herself, fanned herself and dozed, and did a little crochet, whilst the

two children played quietly in a back room, with old photographs and

bits of cardboard. When her husband did awake, and enjoy a few hours’

lucid interval, it was only to recall bills and duns, and flashes of

his old life: the cool green park at home, the hunting-field, reviews

at Aldershot, his pretty cousin Ethel. Then the chill reality forced

itself upon his half-crazy brain. The park was this great, barren,

scorched compound, with the hot winds roaring across it; the figure in

the verandah was not Ethel in her riding-habit, but Fernanda in carpet

slippers and a greasy old dressing-gown. Was this life worth living?

Mrs. Jackson had seen the Khitmatgar several times; once she noticed

him looking down at her as she ascended the stairs, once he had

appeared in answer to her call, carrying a tray and glasses, but she

had boldly waved him away, and said, “Send Kadir; why does he allow

strangers to do his work?” There was something far too human about

the appearance of the man for her to give a moment’s credence to the

ghost-story.

One still hot night, a night as bright as day, Mrs. Jackson found the

air so oppressive that she could not sleep. She lay tossing from side

to side on her charpoy, looking out on the moon-flooded verandah, and

listening to the indefatigable brain-fever bird, when suddenly she

heard her husband’s familiar call, “_Qui hai, peg lao!_” He had been

drinking as usual, and had fallen into a sodden sleep in his own room.

After an unusually short interval, steps came up the stairs, shoes were

audibly slipped off, and there were sounds of the jingling of a glass

and bottle.

The door of Mrs. Jackson’s apartment opened into the verandah and stood

wide, on account of the intense breathless heat of that Indian night.

In a few moments some one came and paused on the threshold, tray in

hand, some one who surveyed her with a grin of Satanic satisfaction. It

was the strange Khitmatgar! There was a triumphant expression in his

eyes that made her blood run cold, and whilst she gazed, transfixed

with horror, he salaamed and was gone. In a second she had jumped out

of bed; she ran into the verandah. Yes, the long verandah was empty--he

had disappeared. She called excitedly to her husband; no answer. She

rushed into his room, to unfold her experience. Jackson was sitting

at the table, or rather half lying across it, his hands clenched, his

features convulsed, his eyes fixed--quite dead.

He had swallowed one of his chemicals, a fatal poison. Of course, there

was the usual ephemeral excitement occasioned by a tragedy in the

station, the usual inquest and verdict of temporary insanity, and then

a new nameless grave in the corner of the cantonment cemetery.

* * * * *

Jackson’s fate was generally attributed to whisky--or filthy country

liquor. “Poor fellow! his position preyed on his mind, and he drank

himself to death.”

This was the universal opinion in mess-room, barrack-room, and bazaar.

But there were one or two people, including his wife and Mrs.

Clark, who thought otherwise, and who gravely shook their heads and

whispered--“_The Khitmatgar_.”

_THE DÂK BUNGALOW AT DAKOR._

“When shall these phantoms flicker away,

Like the smoke of the guns on the wind-swept hill;

Like the sounds and colours of yesterday,

And the soul have rest, and the air be still?”

SIR A. LYALL.

“And so you two young women are going off on a three days’ journey,

all by yourselves, in a bullock tonga, to spend Christmas with your

husbands in the jungle?”

The speaker was Mrs. Duff, the wife of our deputy commissioner, and

the two enterprising young women were Mrs. Goodchild, the wife of

the police officer of the district, and myself, wife of the forest

officer. We were the only ladies in Karwassa, a little up-country

station, more than a hundred miles from the line of rail. Karwassa was

a pretty place, an oasis of civilization, amid leagues and leagues of

surrounding forest and jungle; it boasted a post-office, public gardens

(with tennis courts), a tiny church, a few well-kept shady roads, and

half a dozen thatched bungalows, surrounded by luxuriant gardens. In

the hot weather all the community were at home, under the shelter of

their own roof-trees and punkahs, and within reach of ice--for we

actually boasted an ice machine! During these hot months we had, so to

speak, our “season.” The deputy commissioner, forest officer, police

officer, doctor, and engineer were all “in,” and our gaieties took the

form of tennis at daybreak, moonlight picnics, whist-parties, little

dinners, and now and then a beat for tiger, on which occasions we

ladies were safely roosted in trustworthy trees.

It is whispered that in small and isolated stations the fair sex are

either mortal enemies or bosom-friends! I am proud to be in a position

to state that we ladies of Karwassa came under the latter head. Mrs.

Goodchild and I were especially intimate; we were nearly the same

age, we were young, we had been married in the same year and tasted

our first experiences of India together. We lent each other books,

we read each other our home letters, helped to compose one another’s

dirzee-made costumes, and poured little confidences into one another’s

ears. We had made numerous joint excursions in the cold season, had

been out in the same camp for a month at a time, and when our husbands

were in a malarious or uncivilized district, had journeyed on horseback

or in a bullock tonga and joined them at some accessible spot, in the

regions of dâk bungalows and bazaar fowl.

Mrs. Duff, stout, elderly, and averse to locomotion, contented herself

with her comfortable bungalow at Karwassa, her weekly budget of letters

from her numerous olive-branches in England, and with adventures and

thrilling experiences at secondhand.

“And so you are off to-morrow,” she continued, addressing herself to

Mrs. Goodchild. “I suppose you know _where_ you are going?”

“Yes,” returned my companion promptly, unfolding a piece of foolscap as

she spoke; “I had a letter from Frank this morning, and he has enclosed

a plan copied from the D. P. W. map. We go straight along the trunk

road for two days, stopping at Korai bungalow the first night and Kular

the second, you see; then we turn off to the left on the Old Jubbulpore

Road and make a march of twenty-five miles, halting at a place called

Chanda. Frank and Mr. Loyd will meet us there on Christmas Day.”

“Chanda--Chanda,” repeated Mrs. Duff, with her hand to her head.

“Isn’t there some queer story about a bungalow near there--that is

unhealthy--or haunted--or something?”

Julia Goodchild and I glanced at one another significantly. Mrs. Duff

had set her face against our expedition all along; she wanted us to

remain in the station and spend Christmas with her, instead of going

this wild-goose chase into a part of the district we had never been

in before. She assured us that we would be short of bullocks, and

would probably have to walk miles; she had harangued us on the subject

of fever and cholera and bad water, had warned us solemnly against

dacoits, and now she was hinting at ghosts.

“Frank says that the travellers’ bungalows after we leave the main

road are not in very good repair--the road is so little used now that

the new railway line comes within twenty miles; but he says that the

one at Chanda is very decent, and we will push on there,” returned

Julia, firmly. Julia was nothing if not firm; she particularly prided

herself on never swerving from any fixed resolution or plan. “We take

my bullock tonga, and Mr. Loyd’s peon Abdul, who is a treasure, as you

know; he can cook, interpret, forage for provisions, and drive bullocks

if the worst comes to the worst.”

“And what about bullocks for three days’ journey--a hundred miles if

it’s a yard?” inquired Mrs. Duff, sarcastically.

“Oh, the bazaar master has sent on a chuprassie and five natives,

and we shall find a pair every five miles at the usual stages. As

to food, we are taking tea, bread, plenty of tinned stores, and the

plum-pudding. We shall have a capital outing, I assure you, and I only

wish we could have persuaded you into coming with us.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Mrs. Duff, with a patronizing smile. “I’m

too old, and I _hope_ too sensible to take a trip of a hundred miles in

a bullock tonga, risking fever and dacoits and dâk bungalows full of

bandicoots, just for the sentimental pleasure of eating a pudding with

my husband. However, you are both young and hardy and full of spirits,

and I wish you a happy Christmas, a speedy journey and safe return.

Mind you take plenty of quinine--and a revolver;” and, with this

cheerful parting suggestion, she conducted us into the front verandah

and dismissed us each with a kiss, that was at once a remonstrance and

a valediction.

Behold us the next morning, at sunrise, jogging off, behind a pair of

big white bullocks, in the highest spirits. In the front seat of the

tonga we had stowed a well-filled tiffin basket, two Gladstone bags,

our blankets and pillows, a hamper of provisions, and last, not least,

Abdul. Julia and I and Julia’s dog “Boss” occupied the back seat, and

as we rumbled past Mrs. Duff’s bungalow, with its still silent compound

and closed venetians, we mutually agreed that she was “a silly old

thing,” that she would have far more enjoyment of life if she was as

enterprising as we were.

Our first day’s journey went off without a hitch. Fresh and

well-behaved cattle punctually awaited us at every stage. The country

we passed through was picturesque and well wooded; doves, peacocks, and

squirrels enlivened the roads; big black-faced monkeys peered at us

from amid the crops that they were ravaging within a stone’s throw of

our route. The haunt of a well-known man-eating tiger was impressively

pointed out to us by our cicerone Abdul--this beast resided in some

dense jungle, that was unpleasantly close to human traffic. Morning

and afternoon wore away speedily, and at sundown we found ourselves

in front of the very neat travellers’ bungalow at Korai. The interior

was scrupulously clean, and contained the usual furniture: two beds,

two tables, four chairs, lamps, baths, a motley collection of teacups

and plates, and last, not least, the framed rules of the establishment

and visitors’ book. The khansamah cooked us an excellent dinner (for a

travellers’ bungalow), and, tired out, we soon went to bed and slept

the sleep of the just. The second day was the same as the first--highly

successful in every respect.

On the third morning we left the great highway and turned to the left,

on to what was called the Old Jubbulpore Road, and here our troubles

commenced! Bullocks were bad, lame, small, or unbroken; one of Mrs.

Duff’s dismal prophecies came to pass, for after enduring bullocks who

lay down, who kicked and ran off the road into their owners’ houses,

or rushed violently down steep places, we arrived at one stage where

there were no bullocks _at all_! It was four o’clock, and we were

still sixteen miles from Chanda. After a short consultation, Julia

and I agreed to walk on to the next stage or village, leaving Abdul to

draw the neighbourhood for a pair of cattle and then to overtake us at

express speed.

“No one coming much this road now, mem-sahib,” he explained

apologetically; “village people never keeping tonga bullocks--only

plough bullocks, and plenty bobbery.”

“Bobbery or not, get them,” said Julia with much decision; “no matter

if you pay four times the usual fare. We shall expect you to overtake

us in half an hour.” And having issued this edict we walked on, leaving

Abdul, a bullock-man, and two villagers all talking together and

yelling at one another at the top of their voices.

Our road was dry and sandy, and lay through a perfectly flat country.

It was lined here and there by rows of graceful trees, covered with

wreaths of yellow flowers; now and then it was bordered by a rude

thorn hedge, inside of which waved a golden field of ripe jawarri; in

distant dips in the landscape we beheld noble topes of forest trees

and a few red-roofed dwellings--the abodes of the tillers of the soil;

but, on the whole, the country was silent and lonely; the few people we

encountered driving their primitive little carts stared hard at us in

utter stupefaction, as well they might--two mem sahibs trudging along,

with no escort except a panting white dog. The insolent crows and lazy

blue buffaloes all gazed at us in undisguised amazement as we wended

our way through this monotonous and melancholy scene. One milestone was

passed and then another, and yet another, and still no sign of Abdul,

much less the tonga. At length we came in sight of a large village

that stretched in a ragged way at either side of the road. There were

the usual little mud hovels, shops displaying, say, two bunches of

plantains and a few handfuls of grain, the usual collection of gaunt

red pariah dogs, naked children, and unearthly-looking cats and poultry.

Julia and I halted afar off under a tree, preferring to wait for Abdul

to chaperon us, ere we ran the gauntlet of the village streets. Time

was getting on, the sun was setting; men were returning from the

fields, driving bony bullocks before them; women were returning from

the well, with water and the last bit of scandal; at last, to our great

relief, we beheld Abdul approaching with the tonga, and our spirits

rose, for we had begun to ask one another if we were to spend the night

sitting on a stone under a tamarind tree without the village.

“No bullocks,” was Abdul’s explanation. The same tired pair had come

on most reluctantly, and in this village of cats and cocks and hens

it was the same story--“no bullocks.” Abdul brought us this heavy and

unexpected intelligence after a long and animated interview with the

head man of the place.

“What is to be done?” we demanded in a breath.

“Stop here all night; going on to-morrow.”

“Stop where?” we almost screamed.

“Over there,” rejoined Abdul, pointing to a grove of trees at some

little distance. “There is a travellers’ bungalow; Chanda is twelve

miles off.”

A travellers’ bungalow! Sure enough there was a building of some kind

beyond the bamboos, and we lost no time in getting into the tonga and

having ourselves driven in that direction. As we passed the village

street, many came out and stared, and one old woman shook her hand in a

warning manner, and called out something in a shrill cracked voice.

An avenue of feathery bamboos led to our destination, which proved

to be the usual travellers’ rest-house, with white walls, red roof,

and roomy verandah; but when we came closer, we discovered that the

drive was as grass-grown as a field; jungle grew up to the back of the

house, heavy wooden shutters closed all the windows, and the door was

locked. There was a forlorn, desolate, dismal appearance about the

place; it looked as if it had not been visited for years. In answer to

our shouts and calls no one appeared; but, as we were fully resolved

to spend the night there, we had the tonga unloaded and our effects

placed in the verandah, the bullocks untackled and turned out among

the long rank grass. At length an old man in dirty ragged clothes, and

with a villainous expression of countenance, appeared from some back

cook-house, and seemed anything but pleased to see us. When Abdul told

him of our intention of occupying the house, he would not hear of it.

“The bungalow was out of repair; it had not been opened for years; it

was full of rats; it was unhealthy; plenty fever coming. We must go on

to Chanda.”

Naturally we declined his hospitable suggestion. “Was he the

khansamah--caretaker of the place?” we inquired imperiously.

“Yees,” he admitted with a grunt.

“Drawing government pay, and refusing to open a government travellers’

bungalow!” screamed Julia. “Let us have no more of this nonsense; open

the house at once and get it ready for us, or I shall report you to the

commissioner sahib.”

The khansamah gave her an evil look, said “Missus please,” shrugged

his shoulders and hobbled away--as we hoped, to get the _key_; but

after waiting ten minutes we sent Abdul to search for him, and found

that he had departed--his lair was empty. There was nothing for it

but to break the padlock on the door, which Abdul effected with a

stone, and as soon as the door moved slowly back on its hinges Julia

and I hurried in. What a dark, damp place! What a smell of earth, and

what numbers of bats; they flew right in our faces as we stood in the

doorway and tried to make out the interior. Abdul and the bullock-man

quickly removed the shutters and let in the light, and then we beheld

the usual dâk sitting-room--a table, chairs, and two charpoys (native

beds), and an old pair of candlesticks; the table and chairs were

covered with mould; cobwebs hung from the ceiling in dreadful festoons,

and the walls were streaked with dreary green stains. I could not

restrain an involuntary shudder as I looked about me rather blankly.

“I should think this _was_ an unhealthy place!” I remarked to Julia.

“It looks feverish; and see--the jungle comes right up to the back

verandah; fever plants, castor-oil plants, young bamboos, all growing

up to the very walls.”

“It will do very well for to-night,” she returned. “Come out and walk

down the road whilst Abdul and the bullock-man clean out the rooms and

get dinner. Abdul is a wonderful man--and we won’t know the place in

an hour’s time; it’s just the same as any other travellers’ bungalow,

only it has been neglected for years. I shall certainly report that old

wretch! The _idea_ of a dâk bungalow caretaker refusing admittance and

running away with the key! What is the name of this place?” she asked,

deliberately taking out her pocket-book; “did you hear?”

“Yes; I believe it is called Dakor.”

“Ah, well! I shall not forget to tell Frank about the way we were

treated at Dakor bungalow.”

The red, red sun had set at last--gone down, as it were, abruptly

behind the flat horizon; the air began to feel chilly, and the

owl and the jackal were commencing to make themselves heard, so we

sauntered back to the bungalow, and found it indeed transformed:

swept and garnished, and clean. The table was neatly laid for dinner,

and one of our own fine hurricane lamps blazed upon it; our beds had

been made up with our rugs and blankets, one at either end of the

room; hot water and towels were prepared in a bath-room, and we saw a

roaring fire in the cook-house in the jungle. Dinner, consisting of a

sudden-death fowl, curry, bread, and _pâté de foie gras_, was, to our

unjaded palates, an excellent meal. Our spirits rose to normal, the

result of food and light, and we declared to one another that this old

bungalow was a capital find, and that it was really both comfortable

and cheerful, despite a slight _arrière pensée_ of _earth_ in the

atmosphere!

Before going to bed we explored the next room, a smaller one than

that we occupied, and empty save for a rickety camp table, which held

some dilapidated crockery and a press. Need you ask if we opened

this press? The press smelt strongly of mushrooms, and contained a

man’s topee, inch-deep with mould, a tiffin basket, and the bungalow

visitors’ book. We carried this away with us to read at leisure, for

the visitors’ book in dâk bungalows occasionally contains some rather

amusing observations. There was nothing funny in _this_ musty old

volume! Merely a statement of who came, and how long they stayed, and

what they paid, with a few remarks, not by any means complimentary to

the khansamah: “A dirty, lazy rascal,” said one; “A murderous-looking

ruffian,” said another; “An insolent, drunken hound,” said a third--the

last entry was dated seven years previously.

“Let us write our names,” said Julia, taking out her pencil; “‘Mrs.

Goodchild and Mrs. Loyd, December 23rd. Bungalow deserted, and very

dirty khansamah.’ What shall we say?” she asked, glancing at me

interrogatively.

“Why, there he is!” I returned with a little jump; and there he was

sure enough, gazing in through the window. It was the face of some

malicious animal, more than the face of a man, that glowered out

beneath his filthy red turban. His eyes glared and rolled as if they

would leave their sockets; his teeth were fangs, like dogs’ teeth, and

stood out almost perpendicularly from his hideous mouth. He surveyed

us for a few seconds in savage silence, and then melted away into the

surrounding darkness as suddenly as he appeared.

“He reminds me of the Cheshire cat in ‘Alice in Wonderland,’” said

Julia with would-be facetiousness, but I noticed that she looked rather

pale.

“Let us have the shutters up at once,” I replied, “and have them well

barred and the doors bolted. That man looked as if he could cut our

throats.”

In a very short time the house was made fast. Abdul and the bullock-man

spread their mats in the front verandah, and Julia and I retired for

the night. Before going to bed we had a controversy about the lamp. I

wished to keep it burning all night (I am a coward at heart), but Julia

would not hear of this--impossible for her to sleep with a light in

the room--and in the end I was compelled to be content with a candle

and matches on a chair beside me. I fell asleep very soon. I fancy I

must have slept long and soundly, when I was awoke by a bright light

shining in my eyes. So, after the ridiculous fuss she had made, Julia

_had_ lit the candle after all! This was my first thought, but when

I was fully awake I found I was mistaken, or dreaming. No, I was not

dreaming, for I pinched my arm and rubbed my eyes. There was a man in

the room, apparently another traveller, who appeared to be totally

unaware of our vicinity, and to have made himself completely at home.

A gun-case, a tiffin basket, a bundle of pillows and rugs--the usual

Indian traveller’s belongings--lay carelessly scattered about on

the chairs and the floor. I leant up on my elbow and gazed at the

intruder in profound amazement. He did not notice me, no more than

if I had no existence; true, my charpoy was in a corner of the room

and rather in the shade, so was Julia’s. Julia was sound asleep and

(low be it spoken) snoring. The stranger was writing a letter at the

table facing me. Both candles were drawn up close to him, and threw

a searching light upon his features. He was young and good-looking,

but very, very pale; possibly he had just recovered from some long

illness. I could not see his eyes, they were bent upon the paper before

him; his hands, I noticed, were well shaped, white, and very thin.

He wore a signet-ring on the third finger of the left hand, and was

dressed with a care and finish not often met with in the jungle. He

wore some kind of light Norfolk jacket and a blue bird’s-eye tie. In

front of him stood an open despatch-box, very shabby and scratched,

and I could see that the upper tray contained a stout roundabout bag,

presumably full of rupees, a thick roll of notes, and a gold watch.

When I had deliberately taken in every item, the unutterable calmness

of this stranger, thus establishing himself in our room, came home to

me most forcibly, and clearing my throat I coughed--a clear decided

cough of expostulation, to draw his attention to the enormity of the

situation. It had no effect--he must be stone-deaf! He went on writing

as indefatigably as ever. What he was writing was evidently a pleasant

theme, possibly a love-letter, for he smiled as he scribbled. All at

once I observed that the door was ajar. Two faces were peering in--a

strange servant in a yellow turban, with cruel, greedy eyes, and _the

khansamah_! Their gaze was riveted on the open despatch-box, the money,

the roll of notes, and the watch. Presently the traveller’s servant

stole up behind his master noiselessly, and seemed to hold his breath;

he drew a long knife from his sleeve. At this moment the stranger

raised his eyes and looked at me. Oh, what a sad, strange look! a

look of appeal. The next instant I saw the flash of the knife--it was

buried in his back; he fell forward over his letter with a crash and

a groan, and all was darkness. I tried to scream, but I could not.

My tongue seemed paralyzed. I covered my head up in the clothes, and

oh, how my heart beat! thump, thump, thump--surely _they_ must hear

it, and discover me. Half suffocated, at length I ventured to peer

out for a second. All was still, black darkness. There was nothing

to be seen, but much to be heard--the dragging of a heavy body, a

_dead_ body, across the room; then, after an appreciable pause, the

sounds of digging outside the bungalow. Finally, the splashing of

water--_some one washing the floor_. When I awoke the next morning, or

came to myself--for I believe I had fainted--daylight was demanding

admittance at every crevice in the shutters; night, its dark hours and

its horrors, was past. The torture, the agony of fear, that had held me

captive, had now released me, and, worn out, I fell fast asleep. It was

actually nine o’clock when I opened my eyes. Julia was standing over

me and shaking me vigorously, and saying, “Nellie, Nellie, wake; I’ve

been up and out this two hours; I’ve seen the head man of the village.”

“Have you?” I assented sleepily.

“Yes, and he says there are no bullocks to be had until to-morrow; we

must pass another night here.”

“Never!” I almost shrieked. “Never! Oh, Julia, I’ve had such a night.

I’ve seen a murder!” And straightway I commenced, and told her of my

awful experiences. “That khansamah murdered him. He is buried just

outside the front step,” I concluded tearfully. “Sooner than stay here

another night I’ll _walk_ to Chanda.”

“Ghosts! murders! walk to Chanda!” she echoed scornfully. “Why, you

silly girl, did _I_ not sleep here in this very room, and sleep as

sound as a top? It was all the _pâté de foie gras_. You _know_ it never

agrees with you.”

“I know nothing about _pâté de foie gras_,” I answered angrily; “but

I know what I saw. Sooner than sleep another night in this room I’d

_die_. I might as well--for such another night would kill me!”

Bath, breakfast, and Julia brought me round to a certain extent. I

thought better of tearing off to Chanda alone and on foot, especially

as we heard (per coolie) that our respective husbands would be with us

the next morning--Christmas Day. We spent the day cooking, exploring

the country, and writing for the English mail. As night fell, I became

more and more nervous, and less amenable to Julia and Julia’s jokes.

I would sleep in the verandah; either there, or in the compound. In

the bungalow again--_never_. An old witch of a native woman, who was

helping Abdul to cook, agreed to place her mat in the same locality

as my mattress, and Julia Goodchild valiantly occupied the big room

within, alone. In the middle of the night I and my protector were awoke

by the most piercing, frightful shrieks. We lit a candle and ran into

the bungalow, and found Julia lying on the floor in a dead faint. She

did not come round for more than an hour, and when she opened her eyes

she gazed about her with a shudder and displayed symptoms of going off

again, so I instantly hunted up our flask and administered some raw

brandy, and presently she found her tongue and attacked the old native

woman quite viciously.

“Tell the truth about this place!” she said fiercely. “What is it that

is here, in this room?”

“Devils,” was the prompt and laconic reply.

“Nonsense! Murder has been done here; tell the truth.”

“How I knowing?” she whined. “I only poor native woman.”

“An English sahib was murdered here seven years ago; stabbed and

dragged out, and buried under the steps.”

“Ah, bah! ah, bah! How I telling? this not my country,” she wailed most

piteously.

“Tell all you know,” persisted Julia. “You _do_ know! My husband is

coming to-day; he is a police officer. You had better tell _me_ than

him.”

After much whimpering and hand-wringing, we extracted the following

information in jerks and quavers:--

The bungalow had a bad name, no one ever entered it, and in spite of

the wooden shutters there were _lights_ in the windows every night

up to twelve o’clock. One day (so the villagers said), many years

ago, a young sahib came to this bungalow and stayed three days. He

was alone. He was in the Forest Department. The last evening he sent

his horses and servants on to Chanda, and said he would follow in the

morning after having some shooting, he and his “boy;” but though his

people waited two weeks, he never appeared--was never seen again.

The khansamah declared that he and his servant had left in the early

morning, but no one met them. The khansamah became suddenly very rich;

said he had found a treasure; also, he sold a fine gold watch in

Jubbulpore, and took to drink. He had a bad name, and the bungalow had

a bad name. No one would stay there more than one night, and no one had

stayed there for many years till _we_ came. The khansamah lived in the

cook-house; he was _always_ drunk. People said there were devils in the

house, and no one would go near it after sundown. This was all she knew.

“Poor fellow, he was so good-looking!” sighed Julia when we were alone.

“Poor fellow, and he was murdered and buried here!”

“So I told you,” I replied, “and you would not believe me, but insisted

on staying to see for yourself.”

“I wish I had not--oh, I wish I had not! I shall never, never forget

last night as long as I live.”

“That must have been _his_ topee and tiffin basket that we saw in the

press,” I exclaimed. “As soon as your husband comes, we will tell him

everything, and set him on the track of the murderers.”

Breakfast on Christmas morning was a very doleful meal; our nerves

were completely shattered by our recent experiences, and we could

only rouse ourselves up to offer a very melancholy sort of welcome

to our two husbands, when they cantered briskly into the compound.

In reply to their eager questions as to the cause of our lugubrious

appearance, pale faces, and general air of mourning, we favoured them

with a vivid description of our two nights in the bungalow. Of course,

they were loudly, rudely incredulous, and, of course, _we_ were very

angry; vainly we re-stated our case, and displayed the old topee and

tiffin basket; they merely laughed still more heartily and talked of

“nightmare,” and gave themselves such airs of offensive superiority,

that Julia’s soul flew to arms.

“Look here,” she cried passionately, “_I_ laughed at Nellie as you

laugh at _us_. We will go out of this compound, whilst you two dig, or

get people to dig, below the front verandah and in front of the steps,

and if you don’t find the skeleton of a murdered man, then you may

laugh at us for ever.”

With Julia impulse meant action, and before I could say three words I

was out of the compound, with my arm wedged under hers; we went and

sat on a little stone bridge within a stone’s throw of the bungalow,

glum and silent enough. What a Christmas Day! Half an hour’s delay was

as much as Julia’s patience could brook. We then retraced our steps

and discovered what seemed to be the whole village in the dâk bungalow

compound. Frank came hurrying towards us, waving us frantically away.

No need for questions; his face was enough. They had found it.

* * * * *

Frank Goodchild had known him--he was in his own department, a

promising and most popular young fellow; his name was Gordon Forbes;

he had been missed but never traced, and there was a report that he

had been gored and killed in the jungle by a wild buffalo. In the

same grave was found the battered despatch-box, by which the skeleton

was identified. Mr. Goodchild and my husband re-interred the body

under a tree, and read the Burial Service over it, Nellie and I and

all the village patriarchs attending as mourners. The khansamah was

eagerly searched for--alas! in vain. He disappeared from that part

of the country, and was said to have been devoured by a tiger in the

Jhanas jungles; but this is too good to be true. We left the hateful

bungalow with all speed that same afternoon, and spent the remainder

of the Christmas Day at Chanda; it was the least merry Christmas we

ever remembered. The Goodchilds and ourselves have subscribed and

placed a granite cross, with his name and the date of his death, over

Gordon Forbes’s lonely grave, and the news of the discovery of the

skeleton was duly forwarded to the proper authorities, and also to

the unfortunate young man’s relations, and to these were sent the

despatch-box, letters, and ring.

Mrs. Duff was full of curiosity concerning our trip. We informed her

that we spent Christmas at Chanda, as we had originally intended, with

our husbands, that they had provided an excellent dinner of black buck

and jungle fowl, that the plum-pudding surpassed all expectations; but

we never told her a word about our two nights’ halt at Dakor bungalow.

“_THE OTHER MISS BROWNE._”

“Here’s my hand.

And mine, with my heart in’t.”

_The Tempest._

Tom Galway (of the Princess’s Own Pea Green Pioneers) had evidently

some weighty matter on his mind, as he lounged in a long chair in his

verandah, nursing a veteran fox-terrier, and puffing furiously at a

“Trichy” cheroot. Perhaps Tom was endeavouring to accustom himself to

his new honours? His step was in that day’s _Gazette_, and for the

last four hours he had been entitled to write “captain” at either end

of his signature. He was a broad-shouldered, well set-up young man of

eight-and-twenty, with sleepy-looking grey eyes, closely-cropped black

hair, and a luxuriant moustache; his countenance was more remarkable

for placid contentment than for brilliant intelligence. To tell the

honest truth, Tom was not particularly sharp; he had only scraped

through his examinations and mastered the drill-book by what he called

“the skin of his teeth,” and with extraordinary (and to him) exhaustive

mental exertions. His best friend never thought Tom Galway clever, but

he was sporting, good-natured, and good-tempered. He never made a joke

at any one’s expense--possibly because he could not--and he never said

an ill word of mortal; he was slow, his thoughts moved languidly and

took some time to grasp a subject; his blunders, literary and social,

were the delight of the mess; but he was a reliable officer, a keen

sportsman, and “Old Tom” was one of the most popular fellows in the

“Princess’s Own Pioneers.” Tom was in the unfortunate condition common

to a few other subalterns--Tom was impecunious; he did not gamble, bet,

or drink; he kept no stud beyond a gaunt old caster, who enjoyed the

appropriate name of “Barebones;” his clothes were latterly--tell it not

in Gath--manufactured in his own verandah. Where the money went to was

one of the desperate problems that frequently puzzled poor Tom; not

that there was so _much_ to go--two hundred and fifty rupees a month.

Innocent British reader, if you like to do a nice little mental sum,

a rupee is one shilling and threepence. Alas! alas! for the good old

days, when the beloved coin was worth two shillings; woe, woe to those

who have to remit money home. Luckily, Tom Galway was spared _this_

harrowing experience. Of what was Tom thinking so earnestly? Of the

burning currency question? Of his debts? Of his new responsibilities?

Whatever his thoughts were, they suddenly culminated in action, for he

cast away his cheroot, flung down the dog, went into the interior of

his bungalow, dragged out a well-preserved leather writing-case and

sat himself down before it. At this moment another young man, riding a

lean chestnut pony, and dressed in cricket flannels and a gaudy striped

coat, galloped up under the porch, as if he was being hotly pursued by

a pack of wolves. Throwing the reins to a panting syce, he shouted--

“Hullo, Tom, so there you are! I’ve just come from the mess. I’ve told

them to put the champagne in ice for to-night.”

“For what?” asked Tom, with a vacant look.

“Why, man alive, you’ve got to stand it! What are you mooning about?

Did you not get your company to-day?”

“Oh! of course; of course, to be sure,” assented Tom, eagerly.

“What are you about; aren’t you coming down to rackets?”

“No; it’s mail day,” protested Tom rather sheepishly.

“Bosh! Why, you know you never write a letter, you old humbug.”

“Well, any way, I’m going to write one _now_, so clear.”

“To our mutual tailor? Give him my kind regards, and tell him that

he will be paid in the coming by-and-by, and meanwhile to send you a

couple of new suits.”

“I don’t owe him a penny,” said Tom, biting the end of his pen. “I’ve

cleared _him_ off, thank goodness.”

“Wish I could say the same,” said his comrade, hitching himself up on

the corner of the table. “Maybe you are thinking of _another_ kind of

suit? I see my brilliant wit is thrown away on you! but you’ve heard of

a law suit, eh, and of a love suit? He’s blushing, I declare--he can’t

look me in the face. By Jove, he’s in love!”

“Look here, Jack,” said Tom, who certainly had become a shade redder,

“can you stop your tomfoolery for once, and listen to me rationally for

five minutes? I’m--ahem--I’m--thinking--of--getting married!”

At this announcement, Jack bounded off the table, rushed to the door,

and placing both hands to his mouth, gave a wild view halloa that made

the neighbouring compounds ring, and threw “Topper,” the terrier, into

a paroxysm of excitement.

Having thus relieved his feelings, he turned quite gravely to his

friend, drew up a chair, and leaning both elbows on the table, said--

“Tell us all about it, old chappie, but break it to me very gently, if

it’s one of our Blazapore spins.”

“No, no; no fear--she is at home.”

“I suppose your new-made honours have put THIS into your head?” said

Jack, surveying his chum with gaping half-contemptuous amazement.

“No--it has been in my head this long time; but, you see, I could not

afford to marry.”

“Has _she_ no coin?”

“Not a penny.”

“Come! that’s bad--and mind you, a captain’s pay is not a mine of

wealth.”

“She is not extravagant--neither am I--we shall do as well as our

neighbours.”

“I hope so,” said the other, dubiously; “but who _is_ she?”

“First of all, promise that you won’t go tearing round the station

telling every one.”

“Am I a cackling old woman!” demanded Jack, indignantly.

“Well, you remember when we were quartered at Baymouth--you recollect

the two Miss Brownes?”

“Yes, to be sure I do--aunt and niece; aunt, rather ancient, voice like

a peacock, smart frocks, pots of money; niece, pretty, and of course,

penniless.”

“It’s the niece,” said Tom, almost in a whisper.

“So I should _hope_. I am glad to find that I have cultivated your

taste to some purpose. I wish she had a few thousands and I would give

you my consent, and maybe, a wedding present.”

“Your consent is not going to be asked for.”

“And how long has this been going on, you sly dog? Are you engaged to

her?”

“No such luck. I could not well invite her to share a subaltern’s pay.

She is not married yet, I know, and I’m going to write to her this

mail, and ask her to be----”

“Mrs. Galway! Hooroo, hooray! And owner of Bungalow No. 25, two cane

chairs, one camp table, one fox-terrier dog, aged, ditto bay horse,

deaf and blind----”

“Shut up, will you, you young idiot?” said his friend, impatiently. “I

know that her aunt leads her a devil of a life, and to come out to a

home of her own would be a merciful release. You see she is companion,

ladies’ maid, gooseberry, and scapegoat. Poor girl, she has had hard

lines.”

“I remember Miss Browne, Senior--she was at every ball and tennis-party

in the place,” observed Jack Murray, thoughtfully. “The niece was

always kept well in the background. I was rather interested in the

niece _myself_, but her aunt declared she hated society and had other

engagements.”

“Her other engagements were sitting at home, darning stockings or

crying her eyes out,” said Captain Galway. “Her aunt is a Tartar, if

ever there was one. A soured, ill-natured, hypocritical old cat.”

“All the same she is a well-gilt old cat. Has heaps of coin. I wonder

if she will give her niece a dowry?”

“If she gives her her passage money I shall be agreeably surprised,”

was the prompt reply.

“Well, now, I suppose you want to write _the_ letter, and I won’t

disturb you,” said Jack Murray, rising, “unless I can be of any

assistance? Eh?”

“No, thank you”--very gruffly.

“Mind you say what you _mean_, and don’t make a mull of the whole

concern. ’Pon my word, I think you had better let me draft you a copy.”

For an answer his comrade took up a volume of the Queen’s Regulations

and shied it at Jack, who, ducking his head, just evaded the missile,

and, with another ear-splitting screech, mounted his barrack tat, and

gleefully decamped.

* * * * *

Jack was a merry subaltern, whose gaiety never knew a cloud, whose

face was never overcast, and who found existence intensely amusing,

thoroughly enjoyed life, and the pleasures, excitements, duties, and

diversions that it brought him.

It was no easy matter to Tom Galway to indite any letter--much

less a love-letter. (His departed friend could have knocked off a

_billet-doux_ in less than five minutes.) How he bit the end of his

pen, how he tore up sheet after sheet of the best crested regimental

notepaper, how he wished he had taken Jack Murray’s offer, I will

not linger to relate. In the end, he contrived to concoct and finish

a missive, and was so completely exhausted and done up, that he was

obliged to relieve his flagging faculties with a stiff whisky and soda.

“A letter like that takes it out of a fellow frightfully!” muttered

Tom, mopping his forehead. “However, it’s done, and off my mind.”

He was a person of slow mental evolution; he had been deliberating over

this step for months, and he had taken it at last. He dressed, carried

the letter over to the mess, saw it placed in the post-bag and started

on the first stage of its long journey. He stood and looked after the

letter-corporal with an unusually solemn face. Would he recall the

epistle if he could? No, no; ten thousand times, no. Nevertheless,

between the important invitation just despatched and the responsibility

of being actually captain of F company, our hero was considerably

sobered, and that night at mess his silence and abstraction, despite

several beakers of his own champagne, was the subject of unlimited

remark and chaff. He did not fire up at the news of a polo scurry, nor

join a tug-of-war with one of the punkah ropes, nor even jump at the

proposal to put a buffalo calf into Major Pratt’s bed! [N.B.--Major

Pratt was dining elsewhere. He was a little, lean, hungry-looking man,

with a sharp nose and red moustache, adored by his regiment, and the

idol of the fair sex--according to his own account. A less partial view

was taken by the world, but is not that generally the case? Men who had

a good opportunity of knowing the major, said that he was as deep as a

draw-well; that he shirked his work; that he funked riding, and that

he was a regular little screw! The fair sex said--but no matter! it is

enough for me to chronicle that they did not accept him at his own

valuation.]

Weeks rolled by, and then one happy, happy day the post-office peon,

with his tri-coloured turban, brought Captain Galway a telegram, that

had come all the way from England! It was brief, to the point, and most

satisfactory, and said--

“Yes--letter follows.--L. Browne.”

Tom showed this precious document to Jack Murray with undisguised

triumph, for Jack had been dubious of the answer, and when his chum

had talked, in foolishly sanguine moments, of “doing up the garden”

and “buying a piano, which was going a dead bargain,” Jack had thrown

cold water on these designs, and said, “I would not be so dead sure,

that she will come, my Thomas! It strikes me that you are counting your

chickens before they are hatched.”

Tom never argued the point, but frequently refreshed his hopes

by contemplating a certain photograph and a withered bunch of

forget-me-nots, that lay hidden in the recesses of his battered old

desk, and said to himself, “She will come right enough.”

Undeniably men are vain creatures.

After this auspicious telegram, Jack was silenced. His friend was

magnanimous, and did not say, “I told you so,” but he laboured

diligently in the garden, he bought the piano, he took his colonel’s

wife into his confidence, and he talked so incessantly of “her”--of

“Lily”--that Jack was seriously thinking of dissolving partnership and

moving into another bungalow. Of course, when it was noised abroad that

Tom Galway--Tom Galway! who did not know “God save the Queen” from the

“Dead March” in _Saul_--had purchased a piano, and that the instrument

was actually on view, in his barn-like abode, there was no need for

Tom to make any further announcement to his brother officers or the

station. It was plain that Tom was going to be married! Naturally he

was the legitimate object of any amount of chaff, which chaff he bore

with his usual phlegmatic good humour and a broad grin of ridiculous

complacency.

He had now received two precious letters from Lily; she announced

that she was making arrangements for coming out with some friends

immediately, as it was a good opportunity that might not occur again.

She had taken her passage in the P. and O. _Chusan_, and would be in

Bombay early in November.

A portion of this was imparted to Jack, but bits were skipped here and

there, in a highly suspicious manner.

“I suppose she says nothing of the _aunt_?” inquired Mr. Murray,

sarcastically.

“Not a word. The letters are short”

“Short and _sweet_, eh? Well, the only drawback that _I_ see is old

Miss Browne! She will be worse than a mother-in-law.”

“Not with the seas between us,” retorted Tom emphatically.

“She might come _out_,” suggested Jack. “By Jove! do you know that I

used to think she was rather sweet on you _herself_, eh?”

“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,