“SWEET PRIMROSE IS COMING!”
Captain Waring had gone down the hill, gallantly escorting Mrs.
Atherton and Miss Potter, and followed by an innumerable retinue of
servants, ponies, and baggage.
He left a blank behind him--also an unpaid mess bill. His square
shoulders, broad smile, and loud voice were missed in the club,
verandah, and elsewhere.
He was coming back to settle up his bills, he declared, “and he left
his cousin in pawn,” he added with a hearty laugh.
“Sara,” said her husband, coming in from his dressing-room, lathering
his face--he was always clean-shaven, and looked twenty-five at a
distance--“Waring is off. That young Jervis is all by himself; he has
a broken wrist, and can’t play polo or tennis. Why on earth don’t you
have him up here?”
“’Ark at the man!” appealing to Ben, who squatted beside her, helping
her to dispose of her buttered toast. Mrs. Brande was seated at a
little table in her own room, clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown, and
partaking of chotah hazree. “Haven’t I asked him till I am tired? I’ve
written to him, and gone to his house, and it’s all no use.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” rejoined her lord and master. “That
is to say--I must admit that women are sharper in these ways than we
are--if you think it’s all right, and there is no chance of his making
a fool of himself with Honor? No fear of his falling in love, eh?”
And as he calmly awaited her reply, he resumed operations with the
shaving-brush.
“In love with Honor! Ha! ha! that is a good idea! If he is in love
with any one it’s with _me_--so don’t say I did not put you on your
guard! Honor, bless your dear simple old heart! why, they see precious
little of one another, thanks to you, who always carry him off to
tennis or to talk; and when they are together, as well as I can make
out, they are fighting most of the time!”
“There’s nothing like beginning with a little aversion, so people say,”
remarked Mr. Brande.
“Diversion! There won’t be much for him here, poor boy, with his lame
arm. Do you remember, long, long ago, a Major Jervis of the Bengal
Cavalry--a splendid-looking man, especially in full dress and his
turban; a widower--he married again? This boy has a great resemblance
to him. I wonder if he is any relation.”
“Merely his father--I asked him the first time I saw him! Jervis was A1
at rackets. I knew him rather well. He married a second time, a woman
with tons of money in indigo and house property. The grand-daughter of
a Begum, she had a pair of eyes like hot coals, and led him a life to
correspond.”
“And what has become of him?”
“The boy is rather reserved, as you know, so I did not like to ask him,
but as _I_ have not heard of him for a good many years, I conclude that
he is dead; indeed, I am nearly certain of it.”
“And the Begum’s lacs have not done much for the son? I hope you will
get him to come here; take _no_ refusal--it must be miserable work
moping alone. All the same, I shall be huffed with him if he comes for
_you_, after saying no to _me_.”
“Sara, you are a truly consistent woman!”
“And you are a truly fearful object to behold, with your face all over
white; no wonder Ben is staring at you. There is the post peon--it must
be late.”
Mr. Brande’s invitation proved irresistible, and the very next day
saw Mark Jervis duly installed at Rookwood. The move occasioned no
comment--his wrist was broken and he wanted looking after: the Brandes’
bungalow had ever been a sort of auxiliary station hospital. The young
invalid soon made himself at home, and was certainly no trouble to
any one, as his hostess frankly informed him. He was interested in
the fowls and pigeons; he seemed knowing about ponies; he looked on
admiringly whilst Honor filled the flower-glasses, and gave his candid
opinion and advice; he played Halma with Mrs. Brande, and Patience with
Honor--and acted as umpire at tennis.
“Here is quite a pack of letters,” said Mrs. Brande, coming into the
verandah one morning, and critically examining them as she spoke. “One
for you, Honor, one for me, and two for Mr. Jervis--‘300, Prince’s
Gate,’ on the envelope”--handing it to him. “Is that the new style?”
“I really don’t know”--receiving his uncle’s epistle, and sitting down
on the steps beside Ben.
Mr. Brande had a pile of officials for his share, and soon every one
was plunged in their own correspondence.
“Uncle Pel,” said his niece, looking up from a crossed and scratchy
letter, “here is a long epistle from Mrs. Kerry, our rector’s wife.
She is going to hold a drawing-room meeting about missions, and she
wishes me to tell her,” reading aloud, “what I think of the prospect
of Christianity in this dark heathen land? I know nothing about the
matter; what is your opinion?”
“That is rather a tall order, a big question”--sitting erect, sticking
his eye-glass in his eye and focussing his niece. “I am sure I can tell
you very little. India is many years behind the age--it is populous
and isolated. The old creeds, however, are gradually being sapped. I
dare say in a hundred years India will be Christian, and”--dropping his
glass suddenly--“Britons may be Buddhists.”
“Oh, Uncle Pelham, do talk seriously for once; you know I could not
write that home. Mrs. Kerry,” again referring to her letter, “asks
particularly about the Hindoos!”
“Well, you can inform her that the Hindoos are naturally a devout
people, and must have a religion. Some are now theists, atheists,
agnostics; some mere coarse idolaters, who even in these days have
devil-worship and witch-burning--yes, within a hundred miles of a
college whose students devour Max Müller, and Matthew Arnold, and the
most advanced literature of the day.”
“And Mahomedans?”
“Mahomedans never change, and never will change, until, having read
history and science, they see themselves from another point of view.
You can assure your friend that they, too, have their missionaries, who
adopt street preaching and tract distribution, and that they may be
found in countless bazaars, expounding the teaching of the Prophet.
They make many converts, and among them some Christians! Pray tell the
lady _that_.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind, Uncle Pelham.”
“Among the Hindoos, whose caste is so firm, the social conditions
of the lower orders is so wretched and unchangeable, that numbers
become Mahomedans, where all are alike, where severe asceticism is not
necessary, and there are no outcasts, but scope for the indulgence
of any ambition. There is your aunt’s old ayah; she does not know
_what_ she is. She attends Hindoo and Mahomedan feasts impartially.
She believes alike in Vishnu and Mahomed; she also believes in whisky
schrab!”
“My dear Pel, how can you say such a thing!” broke in his wife,
indignantly. “Don’t be stuffing the child’s head with such dry rubbish,
but just look at _this_.” And Mrs. Brande, who had risen, solemnly
walked over and held out a photograph of a girl, and said, “Look here,
P.; never mind your missionary talk, but tell me what you think of
_that_? Who do you think she is?”
“An angel to look at, at any rate,” was the emphatic reply.
“Yes, did you ever see so perfect a face? Well, she is your own
niece--Fairy Gordon?”
Yes, it was indeed Fairy--an exquisite picture of her: soft, _posée_,
touched up, showing the best side of Fairy’s face--with Fairy’s best
expression.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Brande, turning to Honor, “I would not exchange
you for anybody, but _she_ is the beauty of the family, and no two
words about it. Eh, P.?”
“Beautiful indeed,” he assented; “but I prefer Honor’s bright little
phiz and big inquiring eyes.”
He was a judge of countenance, and even a flattering photograph could
not deceive him; there was a cruel pinched expression about the
beauty’s lips.
“Come and look at this, Mr. Jervis,” cried the proud aunt. “Is she not
lovely?”
“Yes ... lovely,” he responded. She was undoubtedly “the pretty one,”
though he secretly agreed with Mr. Brande.
“I wonder what Mrs. Langrishe would say to her--eh? Eh, Honor?”
What indeed! Honor flushed violently and smiled constrainedly, but made
no reply.
“And here is her nice little letter,” continued Mrs. Brande, dropping
it into Honor’s lap. “I must send her something, poor child.”
The missive was written over two sheets, in an enormous hand--a hand
that would have befitted a giantess--and ran as follows:--
“DEAR AUNT SARA,
“I seem to know you so well from Honor’s letters, that I would like
you to know a little about _me_, and I send you my photograph. It
is considered very like me, only my hair and complexion--which Honor
will tell you are my two _strong_ points--do not come out. We devour
her letters every week, and are quite familiar with Shirani, and the
people there, and the flowers and the exquisite scenery, and your dear
kind self. I envy Honor her delightful home--sometimes I cry when
I think of it (and you will suppose that I am very foolish)--with
balls, and parties, and picnics, and a pony of her own. Her life
is a contrast to that of her poor little sister Fairy, who has no
one to load her with kindness and gifts, and has not been to _one_
dance since May, and who must make a pair of gloves last for months.
However, I am not grumbling; Honor’s pleasures are mine. I feel your
great generosity to her, and am most grateful to you. When you have
time, I hope you will send me your photograph--we have not one of
you--and also a few lines to cheer up our long dull days. How I wish
we could _afford_ to go away for a change! I dare say Honor has told
you that at _first I_ was the one who was to have gone out to you, but
afterwards it was decided by the prudent ones of the family (Jessie
and Honor) that I was to remain at home. Still I have always had a
sort of feeling that I belonged to you, because for three whole days
I was the chosen one, and could hardly eat or sleep, I was so happy.
Excuse this rambling letter; I am not a bit _clever_, like the others,
but I am ever
“Your loving niece,
“FAIRY.
“P.S.--Is Honor engaged yet? She never mentions any admirers.”
It was the epistle of a Cinderella, and yet all her life Fairy had been
made the family queen. Honor’s cheeks crimsoned with anger (her aunt
imagined that it was the flush of shame or a guilty conscience) as she
thought of the various little privations of her own and Jessie’s life,
that Fairy might go softly; of the miles she had tramped, the shabby
clothes she had worn for Fairy’s sake. It was but the other day that
she had sent her eight pounds out of her allowance, instead of spending
it on that pink ball-dress. Now that she was absent, there was, as Mr.
Kerry had bluntly indicated, a larger margin for luxuries at home; it
was really too bad that Fairy should write out to simple Aunt Sara, in
this martyr-like vein.
Honor looked vexed, as she raised her eyes and met her aunt’s gaze--an
inquiring gaze.
“And so the other child wanted to come?”--handing the letter from Honor
to her husband. “And you never told me, you that are so free and open.
Tell me now, since her mind was so set on it, _what_ prevented her?”
“Aunt Sara, Fairy is not strong, not fit for long journeys or
excursions, late hours, or a foreign climate. Our doctor said it would
be madness for her to venture, and that was one reason. She changed
her mind of her own accord. She has always been the family pet.”
“But you mention one reason. What was the _other_?”
Honor now became scarlet. “It was no harm--I would rather not say,”
she stammered; “you will know some day,” and she looked desperately
distressed.
“I wonder if she would come out _now_?” said Mrs. Brande, musingly.
“We can put up two as easy as one. Eh, P.? The Hadfields expect Gerty
in November. She might come with her, and get five or six months’ fun
after all. It will give her something to talk of in future, and unless
I’m mistaken, _she_ will give people something to talk about. Eh, P.?”
Mr. Brande was slowly perusing his niece’s letter, but it did not
appeal to him; it had a cringing fawning smack. Bright-eyed, impetuous
Honor could never have penned such an epistle.
“There is a letter on the ground that you have not seen, Mrs. Brande,”
said Mark Jervis, as he picked it up.
“So there is, I declare; it is from Mrs. Primrose. I’m sure she wants
me to see about getting her house aired. She is rather late up this
season.” Mrs. Brande ran her eyes over the paper, and gave vent to an
expression of genuine dismay.
“What is the matter?” inquired her husband quickly.
“She cannot get away for ten days, and she is afraid to keep the child
down there any longer, the heat is so awful. She wants me to take her?”
“O Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Brande. “We would sooner take anything--short
of small-pox. Wire at once--no room here--there are telegraph forms on
my writing-table.”
“Too late,” groaned Mrs. Brande; “she has sent her off--‘trusting,’”
quoting the letter, “to my ‘well-known kindness and good nature!’ I’m
a great deal _too_ good natured, that’s what I am,” said Mrs. Brande,
with unusual irritation. “The child and ayah are actually at the
station now, and will be here the day after to-morrow.”
“Then I shall clear out, if I can possibly manage it,” said her
husband, emphatically.
“What is there about this child, Uncle Pel, that throws you and Aunt
Sara into such a panic?”
“Panic! I thank thee, niece, for teaching me that word! Yes; the very
word--panic. Oh! I forgot you and Jervis here are new-comers, but most
of the North-West have seen, or heard of, or suffered from ‘Sweet
Primrose.’”
“Sweet! What a name! A play on words, I suppose,” said Honor.
“And a gross misfit,” growled Mr. Brande.
“Pray give us a few more particulars, sir,” urged Mark. “Prepare
us--put us on our guard.”
“She is six years of age--an only child--‘_cela va sans dire_.’
Extremely pretty, and graceful, and intelligent.”
“Ah, I believe I shall like her,” said the young man, with an
appreciative nod. “I am prepared to be her champion. I’m rather fond of
children--especially pretty little girls.”
“She is as sharp as a surgical needle, active, greedy, restless,
prying--with a marvellous memory for the conversations of her elders,
and an extraordinary facility in relating them! The things that child
has said, with the air of a little innocent saint; the secrets she has
divulged to a whole room; the malapropos questions she has put----”
“Pelham!” interrupted his wife sternly, “if you are going to repeat
any of them, please wait until Honor and I have left the verandah. The
child is innocent enough,” she explained to Mark, “but mischievous,
and she delights in seeing her elders look miserable. Oh dear me! dear
me! I wish the next ten days were over. Ben can’t abide her, and no
wonder--she dropped hot wax on his nose; and last time I had her here,
she tried on every one of my best caps and bonnets, and threw them all
over the place. But that was not the worst. At breakfast, one morning,
she heard Mr. Skinner telling some story of a horse he had bought,
which turned out to be a screw, and she clapped her hands in great
glee and screamed, ‘I know what _that_ is! I heard mother say that
_you_ were an awful screw.’ I thought I should have had a fit, and Mr.
Skinner has never put a foot inside this house from that day.”