A whole month had elapsed since his arrival at Bonagherry, and the
invalid was now convalescent. He walked and rode about the estate with
Tom, was unaffectedly interested in the crop, and its prospects, and
wildly excited, when a panther took the "writer's" cow,--almost from
under his roof! Vainly did he beg, pray, and argue for a stalk. This
was inflexibly denied him, but he was permitted to visit, and mark,
the well-known and respected "track" that like a glorified "cat's run"
passed right through the estate.
The idler saw to the feeding and exercise of the pack of nondescript
dogs,--such as are kept on most coffee plantations--generally the
abandoned pets of people who have left the Hills and departed
to England. Among this mixed multitude was a brown retriever, a
respectable Aberdeen, a self-conscious pug, a Scotch deer-hound, a
beagle, several terriers, and various hounds of low degree. The pug
and the Aberdeen were adopted by Jessie, but the remainder of the pack
were frequently summoned to hunt wild pig or sambur, in the thickest of
adjacent sholahs.
Every Sunday the Bonagherry party went over to Kartairi, where Tom and
Jessie were conspicuous and victorious at tennis, whilst Mallender sat
and applauded, and talked to Mrs. Bourne, who was also a looker-on.
He liked her; the popular enterprising widow, had a wonderful power
of drawing out the best that was in a man, and offering her help and
sympathy. She had learned from Tom, that his friend was returning to
England as soon as he was fit; that he had come to India, on some sort
of forlorn hope, and signally failed in finding what he sought; and
thanks to his recklessness, had lost friends, health, and fortune.
To her guest Mrs. Bourne intimated that she was _au courant_ with the
outline of his little history, and was kind and comforting after her
own elder-sister fashion.
"Yes, this time last year you would not have known me!" he said, "I was
as strong as a horse, and fairly well off. Now, I am horribly poor and
look like some sickly, broken-down loafer, and--it's more or less my
own doing!"
"Nonsense," she answered, "your accident has made you take gloomy views
of yourself; in another month you will be all right;--this air has
worked wonders, and if you really are hard up, why not start coffee?"
"Yes, as a creeper?" and he laughed, "that's what you call a beginner,
don't you? Well, I'll think of it, Mrs. Bourne. I must say, I like an
open-air life, and Tom will shove me along. I might do worse."
To which she replied, "If you ask me, I don't think you can do better.
Coffee has been _my_ friend!"
* * * * *
About this time, Anthony came to his master with a grave, portentous
air, and said:
"I beg your pardon, saar, that Chinna-Sawmy boy no use here, and doing
no good."
"Oh, yes, he helps Miss Beamish, she likes him; he's a smart little
chap. I like him too."
"Still better go," rejoined Anthony, unmoved.
"Why?"
"No luck bringing. Master never catching Uncle. Master near losing
life. Master no money got."
"But that's not Sawmy's fault, poor beggar!"
"I beg your pardon, saar, better he go, nothing doing here, but feed
chickens, make dog food, and such like fool work--Master poor man."
"Six rupees a month won't break me; but does Chinna-Sawmy wish to
retire?"
"As Master pleases," then after a pause, "Yes, so I think--Sawmy has
one uncle, who is maistrey on coffee estate; that man Mootosawmy plenty
money got, and he calling for Chinna-Sawmy."
"Well, I shall soon be going to England, and if Sawmy thinks he can
better himself, send him here."
Presently Chinna-Sawmy appeared, all glittering eyes and white teeth.
"So you wish to take leave, Sawmy?"
"No, saar, I spending every day, _always_ with Master,--only that boy
Anthony, he say 'Better go.'"
"Oh, he is your patron, I know. You've been a good little chap, and I
want to give you a present."
Chinna-Sawmy's attitude stiffened.
"What would you like?"
A long and thoughtful pause ensued--during which Chinna-Sawmy twisted
his toes, with incredible flexibility.
"May I tell the plain truth?" he asked at last.
"Of course, what else?"
"Then Master please, I taking camera!"
Here was a most unexpected request! Mallender had visions of making
a donation of ten rupees, or an old, but useful silver watch. The
camera, bought in extravagant days, had cost ten pounds. Well, after
all, he would not want it again. No need to lug the thing to England.
Chinna-Sawmy was an expert now (the extra thumbs were surprisingly
useful) and could make his livelihood as a photographer. The camera
would represent his fortune; and the boy had been wonderfully attentive
in illness; lying outside his door ready for a call, day or night.
"All right, Chinna-Sawmy," he said, "it is yours."
Then Chinna-Sawmy straightway fell down upon his knees, and kissed his
master's boots.
A week later, Mallender received the amazing intelligence from Anthony.
"That Chinna-Sawmy boy done get married! Plenty good business--camera
catching wife!"
"Why, what nonsense!" protested his master with a laugh, "he is only a
child! Has he been kidnapped?"
"He is sixteen, saar, very small size; the girl, she is four years old,
Hindoo low caste. Chinna-Sawmy's rich uncle, he this marriage making,
and plenty big feast, and fire-works giving."
Two days later, the bridegroom appeared, to make his obeisance and
acknowledgments to his late employer, and the Beamish household. He
looked (a surprising experience) almost shame-faced, as he rode up
on a lean cow-hocked pony, with a profusion of yellow garlands round
his neck, accompanied by a large cortège, and a band, so to speak, of
tom-toms. After an interchange of compliments and good wishes, with
gifts of fruit, cigarettes, and sweets, Chinna-Sawmy and suite were
dismissed from the scene, in order to carouse, generally make merry,
dance and gamble, in the servants' go-downs.
It has been mooted that Chinna-Sawmy has recently set up a little
studio in Georgetown, Madras, under the name of "Charley Sammy, British
Photographer from Oxford Street, London." May he prosper! Anthony,
however, is sore displeased (and perhaps a little jealous), and quotes
a native proverb, to the effect that "the higher the monkey climbs, the
more he shows his tail!"
Early one delicious dewy morning, Mallender was awoke by noises, and an
unusual bustle in the verandah; he hastily threw on some clothes, and
looked out. There was Tom, reading a letter, and Jessie in her flannel
dressing-gown, sitting on the steps, crying in short convulsive sobs,
whilst a coolie stood stolidly aloof. He was a messenger sent on foot
from Wellunga, to inform his children that the General was dead.
"Well," exclaimed Tom, "the old man is gone at last!--found in his
chair, where he always liked to sit, facing west. They thought he was
asleep, and did not disturb him."
"I am very sorry," said Mallender.
"We must leave at once, Jess and I. I'll have a lot to see to, my
mother is broken up, and there's only Tara,--who is no good in a
crisis."
"It will make a tremendous change at Wellunga?"
"Yes; everything will tumble to pieces now; and the people will have
their will at last! My mother must come and live up here, and the old
place will stand empty. I say, Jess," to his sister, "you must take a
pull at yourself. Hurry up and have breakfast, and pack. If we start
soon we get down to-night, coolies and ponies were ordered by the
runner, and oh--about you, Mallender, you can't stop here alone!"
"Why not! Of course I can. I'm not a nervous young lady. I'll be your
overseer, understudy, and general bottle-washer!"
"No, no, you'd never have the right food, or care. You must go over to
Kartairi, and stay with Mrs. Bourne."
"Pretty cool cheek, she'd think it!"
"Not she--nothing she likes better, than nursing and mothering sick
fellows. I'll send her a line by the garden coolie."
His guest immediately made a mental note to the effect that _no_
messenger should go to Kartairi that day; fancy allowing himself to
be foisted on two women!--and he craftily turned the conversation, by
asking for employment, and instructions.
"I'm rather a duffer," he concluded, "but I can keep an eye on things,
and overawe the slackers."
"Yes; there will be lots for you to do," answered Tom. "You have a
good head for figures, and you can make up the writer's books, do the
roll-call, ride over the estate, look stern and important, and give the
maistrey reason to believe that you are up to every mortal dodge!"
"Which I'm not!" protested Mallender, "I hardly know chick coffee from
the real article. However, I'll poke about, and look after the picking,
and the pulping-house, and do my best and 'bluff' like auction bridge."
"Right you are! Mind that the children that do the ground picking
get one pice a seer, and now I must go and put my traps together,"
concluded Tom, who seized this opportunity to scribble a chit to Mrs.
Bourne, and expedited matters so successfully, that by eight o'clock,
he and his sister were ready to start. They took leave of their guest
in a duet of injunctions, with respect to his health. How he was not
to ride too far, or expose himself to sun, or rain, and assuring him
of their return within a week; then one in a chair, and the other on a
pony, they took their way down the long winding ghât road, which led to
the plains.
After breakfast Mallender, now "monarch of all he surveyed," visited
the dogs, inspected the cattle, and held a solemn conference with the
head maistrey. In the afternoon, he invested his head in a monstrous
pith topee, and rode about the estate; it was four o'clock, when he
returned to the bungalow for a tub and tea, but to his amazement,
neither were forthcoming; he found instead, a little note from Mrs.
Bourne, which said:
"Your luggage and servant are awaiting you at Kartairi. Tea is at 4.30.
Yours sincerely, Emily Bourne."
"Well, if this does not take the entire biscuit! Of all the cool
proceedings!" muttered Geoffrey, as he re-read the chit, and scratched
his head.
"I suppose there's nothing else for it. The bedding is gone, I must
stick to my sponge, and razors," and he followed them to Kartairi.
"I'm afraid, you think me a most arbitrary lady," said Mrs. Bourne, as
she welcomed her guest, "but I was so afraid you'd make excuses, and
entrench yourself alone at Bonagherry, that I sent over, and _raided_
your room!"
"Awfully kind of you," he murmured.
"I daresay you are awfully vexed, but you really are not yet out of the
wood. Barbie and I will look after you, and you will find we are not
_too_ bad to live with. Your bath is prepared, and tea will be ready in
a quarter of an hour."
The Beamishes were absent not for one, but three weeks, and during the
time, their late inmate found himself agreeably at home at Kartairi.
The house was run on more English lines than Bonagherry. A certain
amount of admirable cooking was accomplished at a little oil-stove
in the back verandah, lights in bedrooms were not the old oil and
wick in tumblers, but neat hand lamps. Those in the drawing-room wore
pretty silk shades, and the effect was eminently restful. Here flowers
abounded, there were luxurious, chintz-covered chairs, a piano, many
sketches and photographs, and an ample supply of books and magazines.
As an officer's wife, Mrs. Bourne had visited various countries, and
picked up a number of little portable treasures; she had taste too,
and a marvellous knack of making any home comfortable, and refined.
As the handsome, accomplished daughter of well-born people, it had
been expected, that Emily La Haye (whose French ancestor had taken San
Thomé) would contract a brilliant marriage; but to the disappointment
of her parents, she "threw herself away" on a good-looking Captain in
a line regiment,--an unpractical, extravagant, but popular fellow, who
had no money sense whatever; and here she was left with two boys, and a
pension of seventy pounds a year, struggling to make a living out of a
coffee estate in Southern India.
Her connections figuratively lifted up their voices, and wept,
when they talked of "Poor Emmie," and agreed, that she had made an
awful mess of her life, and had become very proud, and independent.
Nevertheless they posted her _The Queen_, and the _Weekly Times_ with
affectionate regularity, and welcomed her boys for their holidays.
Mrs. Bourne's tastes did not take the form of cake and
butter-making,--nor even of knitting stockings, and superintending
coffee picking. She was naturally artistic, and fond of music, and
books, she even wrote a little--and occasionally a bright and amusing
article signed by "Chick" appeared in the Indian journals; and now
that Barbie Miller was her assistant, the busy lady enjoyed some
leisure for her favourite pursuits. Barbie had no responsibilities
connected with coffee, but undertook the housekeeping, butter, cakes,
and poultry,--such an able energetic little creature, a delightful
companion, with a sweet unselfish character, and a sunny face. Into
this modest _ménage_ a third had unexpectedly entered; to do him
justice, Mallender gave no trouble; on the contrary, his servant
Anthony was a valuable acquisition; a priceless treasure! He could make
delicious coffee, carpenter, wait at table, paper a room, and sew!
Anthony's master spent most of the day over at Bonagherry, reappearing
in time for tea, so that that crushing incubus, "an idle man in the
house," was spared the two ladies. He assisted Mrs. Bourne too,
undertook certain business interviews--in which a man was secretly
respected, and a woman set at nought! He overlooked accounts,--for
Emily Bourne like many artistic people, had no head for figures,--and
set an excellent example of energy and early rising. Mallender enjoyed
this life amazingly. Open-air employment, the consciousness of having
put in a good day's work, and of being worth his salt, afforded him a
certain amount of satisfaction, and self-approval.
In the evening, the busy workers were at liberty for rest and
enjoyment. They sat together in the charming sitting-room, and occupied
themselves with music, books, poker, patience, and mere conversation.
Sometimes Mallender read aloud, whilst the ladies worked; and as he
now and then stole a glance over his book at his companions,--both so
daintily dressed, so busy, and so interested, and in the case of one,
so young and lovely,--he assured himself, that for the first time for
years and years, he felt absolutely happy, and at home!
But he was not by any means so happy, when the several admirers of Miss
Miller presented themselves upon the scene; riding over on Sunday, or
casually dropping in to tea. There were several _prétendants_--(poor
Tom Beamish had been among the crowd, but had confided to his friend,
that as he knew Miss Barbie would never look at him, though he had
lots of money, and would worship her all his life; he gave up, and
retired). The individual Mallender most disliked and feared, was a
man of the name of MacKenzie, known as "Mack," who owned a fine and
flourishing estate, had a worn, handsome face, and looked romantic!
He was about thirty-five years of age, and a person of substance, and
standing, among other planters. Anyone could see with half an eye, that
Mack was head over ears in love with little Miss Miller. So alas! was
Mallender--there was no mistake about the fact. He was aware that a
new phase in his life had opened, and felt strangely stirred. Little
fair-haired Barbie, had enthralled him; he had been her slave, ever
since the day at Bonagherry, when she had given him her hand, and
promise; and each hour, but served to rivet his chains. Chains he was
compelled to hug in secret, he dared not declare himself; a fellow
without a roof to offer, or a penny in his pocket--that is to say
beyond his passage money to England. As soon as he had returned home,
and looked into matters, and found out exactly where he stood, he would
come straight out, and ask her to marry him.--Meanwhile, what of _Mack_?
Another obstacle, was his own invincible reluctance to move, although
now strong and well, thanks to these Hills, and their clear vitalizing
air; he could not bring himself to leave them--how tear himself away?
Nevertheless go he must, and he assured himself, that he was in honour
bound to depart, and make no sign.
And Barbie--did she guess? how could she? He laughed and chaffed
with her, joined in duets, to Mrs. Bourne's accompaniment, rode,
played tennis, and card games, just as if she was nothing at all to
him--instead of being everything in the world. As for Barbie? The busy
young lady, no longer under the blight of her mother's rule, found
herself most unaccountably happy, and asked no more. Possibly the cause
of her happiness, was not far to seek;--but she had no idea of making
a search,--possibly she had a feeling, that if she looked too closely
into her possession, the enchanting vision might fade and disappear,
like some beautiful mirage of the desert.
As for Mrs. Bourne, she calmly and dispassionately surveyed the
situation, with the eye of sympathy and experience. She had long
guessed Mallender's secret,--naturally a simple affair to such a
clever woman. She liked Geoffrey; in fact, liked him so much, that she
hoped her own boys would be of the same stuff; thoughtful for others,
modest, and manly, and he had such nice frank eyes! What a pity, this
wild scheme had ruined him! She took upon herself to scold him roundly
for his obstinacy, and optimism, and concluded an animated lecture by
saying:
"After your interview with Brown and Co., you should have turned
straight round, and taken the first steamer for England."
"Then I should never have come to Mysore and met you, Mrs. Bourne,"
he answered gaily. "However, better late than never; as soon as the
Beamishes return, I'll hand over, and be off to see what I can scrape
together! Precious little, I'm afraid; for I've sunk my own money in
what is my Uncle's property; repairs to the house, and to some of the
farms, have swallowed up almost all I possess. Well, whatever I can
pick up, I'll bring back here, buy a little estate, and start as a
planter."
"Will you--I wonder?" murmured Mrs. Bourne looking at him meditatively.
To herself, she said, "If he returns, and finds Barbie married to Lewis
MacKenzie, he won't remain twenty-four hours!"