The Bonagherry estate, to which Mallender was transported, stood at the
head of a slope, overlooking an open park-like distance; immediately
round the long low house was a garden full of English flowers, roses,
mignonette, violets,--subsequently extending into mere vegetables, such
as lettuce, artichokes and tomatoes; further back, were the stables,
drying grounds, coolie lines, and the premises were invested on all
sides by coffee. It was October; a busy time for planters, and almost
wherever the eye rested were dark brown coolies picking the crop.
Mallender, luxuriously reclining in a long chair in the verandah,
enjoyed the animated scene, and abandoned himself to his environment; a
cool sea breeze coming over the Western Ghauts, the perfume of familiar
flowers seemed to whisper of renewed vitality and the joy of living.
He had now been a week at Bonagherry, and felt better, and could creep
up and down the verandah with the aid of a stick.
The injury to his head occasionally clouded his brain,--and at times
he suffered agony; but things were coming back by degrees, and though
his mind sometimes dwelt on home, and his prospective voyage, he seemed
to have no bodily or mental energy. He was content to sit in the sun,
imbibing thin, delicious air, waited on by his kind, sympathetic
friends, Jessie and Tom, as well as the invaluable Anthony.
Tom was engaged all day, from the time the "ginty" or horn sounded to
summon the coolies, till long after sundown, when he would come into
the verandah, and cast his weary frame into a chair, and tell the
invalid of his doings.
"It will be a good crop," he answered, in reply to Mallender's
questions, "the picking goes well, but coffee isn't what it was--worth
a hundred pounds a ton. Now we are lucky if we get fifty--Brazil is
ruining us, and we have ninety miles' carting to do, before we get the
rail. Of course I have the old man at my back, but I must say I like to
make; and anyhow it's a free life."
"All work, and no play?" suggested his guest.
"No, not always; there's still some shooting, and lots of good fellows
within a ride. We generally have tennis on Sunday."
"No parson?"
"Lord love you, no! Our little cemetery is not even consecrated;
however, people don't die up here, the climate holds them. As soon as
you are fit, I'll take you round the neighbours. My nearest is a woman."
"A woman! What's she doing on a coffee estate?"
"Running a big plantation for all it's worth,--and working like a
Trojan. I'm her adviser. Her husband, Major Bourne, died four years
ago, a good, unpractical, easy-going Army man, and left her with a
heavily-mortgaged property, two boys, and not a penny."
"By Jove!"
"Well, she faced the situation, sold off her jewellery, piano, and
ponies, and started to make the place pay. She bought cows, and
supplies good butter, she set up a bakery, and makes bread and cakes;
knits socks, and sells them, and has lots of custom. I never saw a more
determined or hard-working creature. Now the boys are at school; some
mortgages are paid off; she has engaged a lady-help, and is going ahead
like steam. It was rather expected she'd marry again, but she's not
that sort--her mind is dead set on Harvey and Jim."
A week later, on a Sunday afternoon, Tom drove his friend over to
Kartairi to call on Mrs. Bourne, who being a popular and influential
lady, received the whole countryside on that day. The verandah was
crowded with visitors; nearly all planters, and nearly all talking
shop or sport,--whilst the hostess dispensed tea, and her celebrated
hot cakes. Most of the assembled company looked forward to "Mrs. B.'s
Sundays." Here they met their fellows and had tennis; here they were
sure of a warm welcome, of sympathy, or a little doctoring, or even a
little advice, if required. To many an exile, Kartairi represented a
sort of local home.
Mallender was duly presented to Mrs. Bourne; a lady of forty with a
slim figure, a pair of very bright brown eyes, and a firm chin. She
wore a well-fitting white lace blouse, a black skirt, and an air of
inexhaustible energy and will power.
The hostess was inclined, as it is expressed, to "make a fuss," with
the invalid; to get an arm-chair, and cushions, and place him near
herself; but the guest declined her good offices rather brusquely,
and backed away into the outer circle of the company,--where amid
inquisitive glances he found a seat, and a retreat.
"Best leave him alone," growled Tom, "he is all abroad still, and
hates talking," and with a regretful glance at the distant figure so
conspicuously aloof, she nodded in assent.
Mallender's head ached with sharp stabbing pains, the recent jolting in
the bamboo cart was no doubt the cause of this; he felt ill and slack,
and all this coffee-planter talk bored him to death. As he sat morosely
apart--thinking that it would be better he were dead than a helpless
log, and a burden to himself and his friends, someone came through a
door beside him, carrying two plates piled with cake; he looked up, and
was surprised to recognise Barbie Miller! Such a smiling Barbie, with a
brilliant complexion and happy eyes.
She passed on her errand, and presently in answer to a whisper from
Mrs. Bourne, approached Mallender with a cup of tea. He was so
shockingly altered, that she could hardly believe that this was the
same gay and good-looking young officer whom she had known six months
previously.
His head had been shaven, his face was drawn and colourless, his once
merry eyes looked lustreless; they had a strained expression, and were
sunken in deep hollows. As she put out her hand, he gazed at her
listlessly.
"How do you do, Captain Mallender, I hope you remember me?"
"Er--yes--I think so," he answered uncertainly, "in--in Madras, was it?
You rode the chestnut polo pony"; he made no attempt to take her hand,
nevertheless she drew up a chair, and sat down beside him.
"Where is he?" he asked, after a silence, during which, as she surveyed
him, the girl told herself that Death on the pale horse was swiftly
approaching her companion! poor, poor fellow! and her eyes suddenly
filled with unexpected tears.
"Where is he?" he persisted. "What have you done with him--the old
buffer with the fat neck?"
"I don't know who you are talking about," she answered, softly. "If it
is my father, he died--he----"
"No, no," he interrupted, peevishly, "I mean the other--the one you
married?"
"But I'm not married," she answered, colouring.
"So I see you and Miss Miller are old friends," said Tom, now joining
the little party, and drawing up a chair.
"Oh, I don't know about--_friends_," rejoined Mallender, with rude
significance. "I say, old chap, can you get me out of this? I can't
stand all this jabbering and jaw!" and totally ignoring the existence
of Barbie, he rose unsteadily to his feet, and stumbled down the steps.
"Don't mind him, his head is all wrong still," whispered Tom, "come
over as soon as you can, and help us to cheer him a bit. Jessie has
been expecting you every day."
"Yes, I know, but it's been such a heavy week with the butter, sixty
pounds," throwing out her pretty hands. "I'll come the first spare
hour. Hurry, hurry--don't let him drive!" indicating Mallender, who
was already in the tum-tum, and had taken up the reins; and Tom justly
alarmed instantly dashed out of the verandah and scrambled headlong
into the cart.
Three days later, Mrs. Bourne and her lady-help rode over to
Bonagherry, and found Jessie and the invalid on the verandah. He looked
better, and actually went down to assist the ladies from their ponies.
Subsequently he made himself useful at the tea-table in handing cups
and cakes. Apparently he had recovered his poise, and his manners!
After tea, Jessie took Mrs. Bourne away to consult with her about a
sick calf, and Mallender and Barbie were left alone.
"I'm sure I owe you an apology, Miss Miller," he suddenly began. "I've
a sort of blurred idea, that I was extraordinarily rude to you on
Sunday. You see, I have had a knock on the head--like what you had the
time the old Nizam came down with you, and at times I am a bit foggy."
"I quite understand. Don't think of it, please!"
"But I must. I've thought of it a good deal; on Sunday the drive upset
my blessed head, and I hardly knew where I was, or what I was doing."
"Then is the pain so bad?"
"Awful, sometimes; but don't let on to the Beamishes."
"Why not? Oh, I believe I can guess. I've heard how you saved Tara from
a terrible death."
"No, not death, you see _I_ am still here,--and of course it had to be
one of us. Tara is so young and pretty, and all her people so fond of
her, and no one would miss _me_. She's engaged to be married too."
"I know, and as for Archie Murray, he can't speak of it without
choking."
"The engagement?"
"How can you joke? You know perfectly well what I mean, he is longing
to come over to thank you."
"Miss Miller, as you love me!--no--I--I--whatever you do, don't let
him. I hate thanks, if he comes I'll have another relapse! He'd have
done just the same, if he was in my place."
"Very well, then, I'll do my best to protect you from Archie Murray,
but it won't be easy! Have you heard from the Tallboys lately?"
"No, not for ages. I'm sorry to say I'm in Fred's black books; and that
reminds me to ask, what I had done to be posted in yours, during the
latter end of my stay in Madras?"
He paused for a reply, but none came. Miss Miller had become
brilliantly pink, and was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"Come now," he continued, "if I was rude to you the other day, I had
some excuse,--but I shall be glad to hear what you have to say for
cutting me dead, over and over again?"
"I--I don't know _how_ I'm to tell you," she began, speaking very fast.
"I believed I had a good reason, and--later, I found out, that I had
been misinformed. I was very sorry, and ashamed--too; but you had left
Madras, and so I could not apologise. May I apologise now?"
"If I had some idea of what you were apologising for."
"Oh, it was a wicked, unfounded, cruel scandal, and Ada has written to
me, and told me all you did for her,--and that was your reward!"
"They say virtue is its own reward," he answered, with a smile. "I have
been out of society, and heard no gossip, and I can't for the life of
me see how there could be any scandal about Miss Sim and myself. Well,
anyway, it's all right now, you and I have put matters straight between
us. How do you come to be in these parts?"
"Father and mother went home last March, and--and----" suddenly her
voice seemed to fail her.
"So you did _not_ marry Colonel Harris?"
"No, I simply couldn't! I screwed up my courage, and told him so,
one day when mother sent us to look at a bungalow. At first, he was
incredulous, then shocked, finally--as I was determined, furious;--so
was mother. Within an hour she packed up my clothes, and sent me off in
a _gharry_ to the chaplain's wife in the Fort, with a letter to ask
her to get me into some charitable institution, as my parents disowned
me. I believe there were other dreadful things in the letter. Father
was kinder, he came to see me and say good-bye, and gave me a little
money, and told me to write to him at home to care of Grindlay and
Co.--and said, 'this is none of _my_ doing, Barbie--but your mother is
too strong for us!'"
"By Jove!" ejaculated Mallender; "strong is not the word----"
"Poor father, he died of heat apoplexy in the Red Sea. Of course, Mrs.
Tallboys came to my rescue, and found me this happy home. I've not many
friends out here, but those I have, are _splendid_!"
"I have not many either. Look here, Miss Miller, shall you and I be
pals? What do you say?"
"Yes," she answered, simply. This poor haggard fellow would not long be
in need of pals.
"Then give me your hand on that!" he said, eagerly.
She gave it, and he was still holding it with an emphatic and lingering
clasp, as Mrs. Bourne and Jessie re-entered the verandah.
"Miss Miller and I have been squaring up old scores," announced
Mallender, "signing a treaty of peace; for in Madras, we were dead
cuts, and now we intend to be allies."
Later that same evening, when Tom and Jessie compared notes, they
agreed, that the visit from Kartairi had wakened up Geoffrey in a
surprising way, and done him a world of good!