A great white Orient liner lay in the harbour of Colombo, with her
Blue Peter flying. The coaling process was accomplished, and her
passengers--who had lunched and scattered over the town and its
environs--were being thus summoned to abandon Ceylon’s spicy breezes
for the breezes of the sea.
As the _Oriana_ was homeward bound from Melbourne, naturally most of
her freight were Australians--squatters and their families taking a
trip to the old country, wealthy men from the big towns, tourists who
had been visiting the Colonies, parsons, actors, doctors, engineers,
with their corresponding women-folk.
And now a small Indian contingent had been contributed; these the
so-to-speak residents of three weeks eyed with the same description of
curiosity, superiority, and faint hostility which schoolboys experience
with regard to new pupils.
Among the group of pale mem-sahibs, sunburnt planters, children, ayahs
and green parrots, was one figure and face, well known, not merely
to the captain and officers, but to several of the passengers, who
hastened to offer the arrival a hearty greeting.
This individual was a certain popular sportsman who roamed the world in
search of big game and “heads.” The Hon. Lumley Grantham was the only
son of Viscount Nesfield, and in a way the despair of his parents, who
were anxious that he should remain at home and “settle,” instead of
which he roved about the globe, a modern wandering Jew (as sudden in
his arrivals and departures), energetic, enterprising, and erratic. He
had been in the Army, but the Service did not accord sufficient leave
to enable an ardent sportsman to shoot in the Rockies, and to fish in
New Zealand; and so, after a few years’ restraint, he threw off his
uniform and unbuckled his sword. He had a passion for trophies, and
owned the most unique and comprehensive collection of almost every
known horned animal, from a moose to a jungle sheep. To add to his
collection he spared neither effort nor expense. If he heard some
notable animal discussed one evening at his club, such as a rare red
bull in the Shan Hills, a strange antelope in Borneo, the chances were
that he would immediately look up trains and steamers on the spot, and
depart on his quest within the week. His marches and stalkings beyond
the bounds of civilisation were fruitful in dangers and hardships, and
his mother, who was devoted to him, lived in an agony of apprehension
that some day, instead of securing his object and prize, the prize
should turn the tables and make a prey of her only son! For weeks and
even months she did not hear from him--he was probably in Thibet,
Somaliland, or Central America--and the unhappy lady would lie awake
for hours, thinking of “Must” elephants, tigers, cholera, earthquakes
and snakes. Oh, if Lumley would only fall in love with some nice girl,
marry her, and stay at home, how happy and thankful she would be;
and she secretly vowed a window in their country church, should this
blessed event ever take place. Lady Nesfield knew so many charming
girls; these she cautiously praised and brought to the notice of
Lumley; but, unfortunately, it is so seldom that a young man and his
mother admire the same girl; also Lumley’s shooting proclivities had
made him wary--he, like Tennyson’s character, “saw the snare, and he
retired,” preferring his roving life, and freedom.
Lumley was now thirty-two years of age, but looked older; tall, and
without a superfluous ounce of flesh on his bones, as wiry and sinewy
as a greyhound; his skin was brown, his short hair black, and two dark,
keen eyes illuminated a pleasant but not handsome face. They were
honest, watchful eyes, something like those of an intelligent dog, and
when they smiled they became beautiful.
Captain Grantham’s manners were easy and unaffected; he could find
something to say to everyone, from a royal duke to an Indian beater,
and was equally popular with all grades of society; a well-known
character on most liners, whether to the Cape, America, Bombay, or
Melbourne, he was, during his constant trips, continually coming
across former fellow-travellers.
On the present occasion, when he and his baggage came up the side,
Captain Grantham received quite an ovation from half a dozen
acquaintances. With one or other of these he subsequently paced the
deck, and smoked and talked till the _Oriana_ was well out to sea,
relating thrilling shikar stories, and his recent exploits, with the
gusto and enthusiasm of a schoolboy. He described the hunting down
and capture of a big Rogue elephant in the Annamulley Jungle, and the
notable pair of ibex horns he had brought from the Pulnay Hills.
After dinner, as he sat on deck in the starlight, talking to a matronly
acquaintance, he said:
“It seems a full ship--quite a number of girls, too--all homeward
bound.”
“Yes,” she answered, “and some of them pretty. The two with the scarlet
tam-o’-shanters are the Miss Todds, heiresses from Woorolango. And the
one in the white yachting cap is said to be the belle of Sydney.”
“And who is the dark girl who sits at the end of the first officer’s
table?”
“Beside a delicate lady with white hair and a bloodless face? I do not
know, except that they are Mrs. and Miss Loftus, presumably mother and
daughter. The girl is devoted to the invalid, and never leaves her
side; they keep entirely to themselves.”
“Must be rather slow for the young lady?”
“No doubt it is; but when she is spoken to she merely smiles and
answers ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Conversation cannot flourish under such
circumstances, can it?”
“Do they know no one?”
“No. No one knows them, or who they are--which amounts to the same
thing.”
“She is a handsome girl, with a thundering good figure, and looks
well-bred.”
“Appearances are sometimes deceitful!”
“I don’t know about that--one has an intuition----”
“I believe you are going to break the spell of silence, and make the
lady’s acquaintance.”
“Yes--why not?”
“Why not, indeed? But you will find it easier said than done! She has
never opened a conversation with anyone during three weeks. I’ve even
tried to talk to her myself!”
“Ah! I see you are a little piqued.”
“I am not the only one who is piqued. I think the damsel is inclined to
give herself _airs_--we are possibly not good enough--but I expect she
will thaw to _you_.”
“Come now. I call that rather a nasty one, Mrs. Seymour! What have I
done to deserve it?”
“Nothing--forgive me, and help me on with my cape, and we will take a
little turn before I turn in. As for the Loftus party, they may have
very good reasons for keeping all at arm’s-length”--she paused and
stared at him significantly--“for not wishing to know us, or us to
know them,” and, as she spoke, the lady rose from her chair, as if the
subject were closed and done with.
Like a true sportsman, Captain Grantham was patient and pertinacious;
he bided his time--but biding one’s time on the trackless ocean,
aboard a fast liner, is not the same thing as tracking a quarry in the
pathless forest. There is a limit to postponement--a limit represented
by the port of arrival.
For several days he made no progress whatever, beyond discovering that
the lady was admired by the men-folk, and suspected by the ladies,
who, whilst admitting the patent fact of her filial devotion, had
nothing to say in her favour. There was plenty to occupy the time
among the passengers, and one sulky girl was soon overlooked--but not
by Captain Grantham. She interested him; he was determined to make
her acquaintance, and luck favoured him--a sudden lurch of the ship
in the abominable current just off Socotra capsized the old lady’s
chair, and she would have been hurled across the deck had he not
dashed to her assistance, caught her bodily in his arms, and saved in
all respects the situation. He took the entire charge of Mrs. Loftus,
personally conducted her to her cabin, and subsequently collected
books, spectacles, shawl, and was thus brought into communication
with the young lady, and from that moment his object was secured. She
proved not at all _difficile_ once the ice was broken, but a charming
and captivating acquaintance. After nearly four weeks’ silence, she
seemed anxious to make up for lost time, and talked incessantly; she
was also an admirable listener. Before they had reached Suez she had
largely extended her acquaintance, and became as intimate with some
of the passengers as previously she had been remote. But her first
acquaintance was her chief ally; together they paced the deck for
exercise, together they did problems in the papers, they played chess,
and exchanged books and opinions, and sat for a long time after dinner
watching the stars and the low tropical moon.
In the canal Captain Grantham, who was on the “amusement committee,”
helped to get up a grand concert, and prevailed on Miss Loftus to
sing. He had gleaned from her mother that she had a fine voice, and
also a few other talents; as he sat beside the invalid’s long chair,
he discovered that she was ladylike and refined; her surroundings
indicated taste and money.
Rata, as the girl was called, was her only child. Mrs. Loftus was a
widow returning to England, which she had quitted twenty-eight years
previously. Her husband’s people came from Gloucester, and were nearly
all dead.
She had lived near Christchurch, New Zealand, and only been twice to
England since she and her husband had become colonists. Her brother had
commanded a well-known regiment and was now a Brigadier in India.
Yes, Captain Grantham remembered to have seen him some years
previously, and here was a link between them--such a very small matter
will constitute a tie on board ship, especially when both the ends are
anxious to be joined.
At the rehearsals for the concert, Miss Loftus discovered to her
listeners a magnificent contralto voice. People vowed she was a second
Melba; there was also something that thrilled and touched one’s very
heart-strings in the expression of her rich, full notes.
The concert took place whilst the ship was in the Canal, and the
_Oriana_ seemed motionless, as it wound its way through the limitless
sand; the concert was, of course, packed, every seat was occupied.
There were the usual banjo and guitar ditties, men’s songs, a glee;
then Miss Loftus stood up, all in white, and, without a note of music,
sang “An Arab Love Song.”
The theme, which seemed peculiarly suitable to the encompassing desert,
had a weird and impressive effect, and threw a momentary spell over
the entire audience. There was a wild, passionate note in the singer’s
voice that appealed to that something far down, hidden away and
stifled, that is born in every human being.
All the world of the _Oriana_ realised that they were listening to a
voice entirely out of the common, to something unusual, unforgettable,
and unique.
Miss Loftus presented a delightful picture; she was good to look at,
as she stood up in the moonlight on the little platform--graceful,
dignified, and yet so simple; last, by no means least, so undeniably
handsome.
Her second song was a simple ballad, which caused a lump to rise in the
throats of her audience; but when the last notes had died away among
the sands, what applause--real applause! Such was the uproar and the
acclamation, that a ship which was following became extremely envious,
and half inclined to despatch a boat to inquire the reason of the
unusual demonstration.
A Mediterranean moon looks sympathetically on lovers. What can be
more romantic than those long, idle evenings on that romantic sea? By
the time Malta was sighted, Lumley Grantham, the despair of mothers
(his own included), had proposed and been accepted by Rata Loftus.
Although they had only known one another three weeks, time at sea
means ten times more than time on land. They had no distractions, or
occupation, spent at least twelve hours of the day in each other’s
society, and they had learnt one another’s tastes and characters--so
far as these may be known before marriage. She listened eagerly to his
sporting adventures--he, to her descriptions of New Zealand, her vivid
little sketches of Colonial life, her craving to see England and other
countries, to hear operas, concerts, and, above all, to visit Bayreuth
during the festival.
When the news of the engagement leaked out, it was received on board
with mixed feelings--but on the whole the ship was pleased. It was a
wonderful catch for the girl; but she was handsome, accomplished, and
rich. Some of the women murmured among themselves that, “for all anyone
knew she might be an adventuress! and the uncle, who was a General, a
fraud,” but they kept their suspicions to themselves.
Mrs. Loftus now became more active; the voyage had revived her. She
walked on deck, a little erect figure with a stately pose of her white
head, and even discussed her plans with other ladies.
She proposed to make London her headquarters for the present, to take a
furnished house, and get Rata presented--it was only March; there were
sure to be May drawing-rooms.
The happy couple--they were very much in love--went ashore, and spent
a day at Gibraltar in the highest spirits, chaperoned by Mrs. Loftus.
It was surmised that they had despatched telegrams and letters, and,
at any rate, Miss Loftus wore a handsome ring on her engaged finger
when she returned to the ship, loaded with gifts of fans, quaint bits
of Moorish ornaments, and a fine mantilla, which she wore at a fancy
ball two evenings later as a Spanish lady, and looked a Spanish donna
to the life. On their arrival in London, Mrs. and Miss Loftus drove
straight to the Carlton Hotel, and Lumley Grantham joined his family in
Grosvenor Place.
The next day Lord and Lady Nesfield came to call on the new arrivals,
and their son’s future bride.
They were not a formidable couple: he, a tall, bent, grey old man,
with courteous manners; she, a pretty, impulsive little woman,
enchanted that Lumley had chosen a wife at last, thankful for anyone,
as long as she was not black, and prepared to be delighted with her
daughter-in-law.
Rata for her part was much touched by their kind welcome, and all now
went merrily as a marriage bell. Miss Loftus was handsome, healthy,
ladylike; she had £25,000--quite ample, as Lumley had no occasion to
marry a great fortune. Her mother was a refined and amiable woman,
passionately devoted to her only child, and the attachment was most
warmly returned. Rata was a girl of strong feelings, and it was patent
to all that she was deeply in love with her _fiancé_. Mrs. Loftus, who
was evidently a woman of wealth, was soon established in a fashionable
house at Lowndes Square, with a smart carriage and an adequate staff,
and all Lumley Grantham’s relatives and connections, male and female,
crowded to call upon the lady of his choice.
They found her as handsome, graceful, and agreeable as they were led to
expect, but perhaps a little unconventional and colonial. With respect
to her voice, there could be but one opinion. She was a serious loss
to the musical world, and could have made a fortune as a great _prima
donna_. Invitations were showered upon 225, Lowndes Square. Miss Loftus
was in continual request, and soon became a social favourite. She was a
magnificent horsewoman, and rode every morning in the Row, accompanied
by Captain Grantham.
Among the chorus of praise were a few discordant notes; the loudest and
shrillest of these issued from the Hon. Mrs. Custance, Lord Nesfield’s
only sister, a lady in somewhat narrow circumstances, with two tall,
talkative daughters. Her view’s were not rigid respecting the marrying
of first cousins, and Lumley’s engagement had been a shock to her,
for she had always hoped that he would one day settle down, and marry
either Maudie or Mag, instead of which he presented as _fiancée_ a
Colonial nobody, whom he had, so to speak, picked up at sea! _Who_ was
she? This was a question continually on her lips.
The Loftus family were undoubtedly respectable, but how was anyone to
know she was one of them? And the uncle, a General, was possibly a
myth. These people had no friends in London, and did not seem to know a
soul.
But for all these objections Lady Nesfield found satisfactory replies.
She was delighted at her son’s capture--now he would be chained fast,
and kept at home. General Broome had written his congratulations,
and was sending a present. Two of the Custance girls were to be
bridesmaids; the wedding would take place in July, as the bride’s
mother was in precarious health, and anxious to see her daughter
happily married, as she believed--so she told Lady Nesfield in
confidence--that her own days were numbered, and she could not bear the
idea of leaving Rata alone in the world.
At the present moment she had rallied sufficiently to be able to
accompany her girl to the park, the play, and elsewhere.
The questions of Mrs. Custance were also on the lips and in the mind
of Lady Foxrock, Lumley Grantham’s only sister. She was undeniably one
of the smart set. The childless wife of a wealthy old peer, ambition
was her fetish, and, in spite of her passion for bridge, motoring, and
racing, she still contrived to find time for the casting of social
nets, and for bringing important intimacies into the family circle. She
had always resolved that Lumley, “the wild hunter,” as she playfully
called him, should marry--when he _did_ take the step--to the advantage
of his family, and she had mentally selected one of her exclusive
friends, the rather _passée_ daughter of a noble duke, with a splendid
connection, and a considerable dower. She never dreamt, for one moment,
that Lumley would find anything more attractive abroad than his usual
horns, tusks, and skins; but home he came with a bride, so to speak,
in his hand--a mere colonial nobody. Lady Foxrock took an invincible
dislike to her on the spot--the dislike was mutual. Rata felt herself
an antagonist to this tall, sour-looking lady, with a thin, high nose,
pale, arrogant eyes, and slow, disdainful airs. Lady Foxrock could
not understand why men admired the colonial; in her opinion, she was
frightfully second-rate. And who _was_ she? How, she asked her mother,
did they know she was related to the Gloucestershire people? The uncle
in India was probably a fiction! The girl had no friends in London
and, for all that they could tell, might be an adventuress. Lumley’s
interests must be watched--he was an _idiot_, where that girl was
concerned.
Naturally Lady Foxrock had been indefatigable in her endeavours to
discover something about the Loftuses, but, unfortunately, New Zealand
was remote, and her acquaintances in the Colonies were limited, and
she had a confused idea that people who lived in Melbourne or Sydney
must, as a matter of course, be intimate with those in Christchurch and
Wellington!
One sleepy afternoon, at Hurlingham, kind fate placed a clue in her
hand. She was sitting in one of the little tents on the lawn, enjoying
tea and strawberries; her near neighbours were a large merry party
of acquaintances, and they gradually intermixed. Among the group
was a grey-haired, square-built gentleman, who was presented to her
as Mr. Dexter, spending a few months in England after an absence of
thirty years. Lady Foxrock surveyed him critically; his clothes were
ill-fitting, his gloves preposterous, but his carriage, square chin,
and keen eyes, gave indication of a man of character, and importance.
He sank into a chair beside the lady, and said, “It is a pretty scene,”
nodding his head at the numerous gay groups, the passing crowd,
the lawn scattered with flower-beds, the tall trees, through which
shimmered the river.
“Yes, but I’ve seen it so often,” she drawled, “its charm has faded a
little.”
“Ah, well, if you had been thirty years in the colonies you would not
complain of _that_.”
“Oh, really, I suppose not,” she answered indifferently, her attention
diverted by the sight of her brother, his _fiancée_, Mrs. Loftus, and
Lady Nesfield, who were then passing. She noticed that her companion
started and stared hard; he even leant forward and gazed after the
group; then, as he met her glance of interrogation, he said, “I’ve just
seen a familiar face--a face from home.”
“Oh, then you are from New Zealand,” she exclaimed, “and have
recognised Mrs. and Miss Loftus?”
“Ah,” he answered, “so you know them?”
“Yes; and you?”
“Very intimately once; but eighteen years ago they left our
neighbourhood, and I entirely lost sight of them.”
“Who _was_ Mr. Loftus?” she asked abruptly.
“A prosperous gentleman who owned several large ranches, and died a
year ago, leaving a fortune.”
“Was he of good birth?”
“I should say so--but we don’t take much account of that in the
Colonies, you know.”
“And Mrs. Loftus?”
“She was renowned for her philanthropy and charities. She had no
children----”
“What! No children! She has a daughter--you saw her just now.”
“An adopted daughter,” he corrected.
“Impossible!”
“I assure you it is the case; there was no secret about it.”
“There is a secret about it _now_.”
“You seem interested in the family.”
“I should think I am, considering that Miss Loftus is going to marry my
brother--Lord Nesfield’s only son.”
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed, in unfeigned amazement.
“But I do--the wedding is fixed to take place in ten days’ time. Shall
we go outside this tent, and stroll about a little?--impossible to talk
here.”
“Certainly,” and he moved a chair out of her way, and followed Lady
Foxrock down towards the polo ground.
“I suppose there is no mistake, Mr. Dexter,” she began, “and you really
recognise these people?”
“I recognise Mrs. Loftus. I could swear to her anywhere, to her white
face and prominent blue eyes. The girl was only two, when I last saw
her, but I believe her to be the same. She was very handsome, and her
name, I believe, was Rata--named after a New Zealand flower.”
“Yes; it is Rata.”
“There never was any concealment or mystery respecting her. The
Loftuses had no family. They were passionately fond of children, and
they adopted a child, and, a short time after this, they moved away to
the south island; and we lost sight of them.”
“Do you know who the child was?”
“Well”--with obvious reluctance--“yes, I do.”
“You will tell me, won’t you?” and she flashed on him a challenging
glance from her small grey eyes.
A moment’s silence. At last he said, “No; I would rather not. It is not
my business, and you must excuse me.”
“Oh, Mr. Dexter, _won’t_ you speak out? It means so much to _us_.”
“There is absolutely nothing against the girl’s character. I think I
can assure you of that.”
“Then it is her _birth_--that is the question.”
“Well, she is not responsible for that, is she?”
“No-o,” the negative was reluctant.
“She seems a fine, tall, beautiful young woman, and I’m sure she has
been well brought up; she will be wealthy--what more do you want?”
“The truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“It is not always advisable to know the truth--sometimes silence is
best.”
“And so you won’t speak,” she said impatiently, “you are inflexible?”
He bowed his head.
“Look here; we are just coming face to face with the party. Will you
accost them?”
“No; I prefer not--unless Mrs. Loftus recognises me.”
They approached in a line, the two younger people handsome and
radiant--Rata all in white, carrying a becoming pink sunshade--the
elder ladies deep in mutual confidences. Little did they suspect
that the smiling lady in grey, who had accosted them in passing, was
elaborating a scheme which was to upset their happy anticipations.
“Well, Mr. Dexter,” said Lady Foxrock, “I see you are a man of honour,
and respect the affairs of other people, and I must say, that, _much_
as I should like to know something about my future sister-in-law, I
admire your reticence immensely. We will consider our talk strictly
confidential. Are you married?”
“Yes; that was my wife with the Greysons--the little woman in the blue
toque.”
“You won’t mention the subject to her, will you?”
“No, certainly not. The less said the better.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the Hyde Park Hotel--for a couple of weeks. We have not many
friends in London.”
“Then I should like to do myself the pleasure of calling on Mrs.
Dexter.”
“That is really very kind of you. I am sure she will be delighted to
make your acquaintance.”
“And now,” said the lady, “we must go and look for our parties. They
will think we are lost.”
Lady Foxrock was prompt in calling on Mrs. Dexter. She found her
twenty years younger than her husband, and of a much inferior class--a
yellow-haired, shallow, over-dressed little person, who was obviously
flattered by a visit from her ladyship.
Her ladyship dangled some imposing invitations before her dazzled eyes,
and then began to ask cautious questions about New Zealand.
Yes, she was New Zealand born herself, not long married--she had
insisted on Joe taking her to England, for a spree like! She wanted to
see the world a bit, and society. He had brought her, though all his
own folk were dead--and he had no home now.
Had Mrs. Dexter ever heard of a Mrs. Loftus in her part of the world?
Yes, ages ago--she’d almost forgotten the tale.
“Oh, so there was a tale. How very interesting! Has it anything to do
with her adopted daughter?”
Mrs. Dexter nodded, and giggled.
“The girl is in England now, you know, with Mrs. Loftus--and about to
make a grand match.”
Lady Foxrock had touched the right chord; the little colonial was
filled with a sudden spasm of envy.
“A splendid match--_she_!”
“Yes, to the son of a lord.”
“Oh--what!” and she burst out into an excited laugh. “Well, I declare,
this is too fine a joke. If they only knew--wouldn’t they be wild!”
“Knew what?”
“Oh, I’d better not say--it might get out. I don’t want to be a
spoil-sport; and Joe hates what he calls ‘gossip,’” and she put her
finger on her lips.
Lady Foxrock drew herself up and looked dignified. “I assure you that
I never gossip, Mrs. Dexter. If you can tell me who this girl was,
and is, you will be doing me an enormous favour, and one I shall not
forget; but, of course, if you feel that you have no wish to confide
in me--and after all I am a stranger----” she paused, and her smile
implied a threat.
After all, she was Lady Foxrock, and if she was denied this small
request, good-bye to a box at the Opera, an invitation for Lady
Foxrock’s fancy ball--and other delights.
“Well, then, look here; I _will_ tell you,” and she suddenly leant
forward. Her visitor also approached her head, her heart beat
fast--these moments are the sparks of life!
“Miss Loftus, the adopted daughter of Mrs. Loftus, is just a----”
There was a footstep outside.
“Hark! my husband is coming!”
“Quick, quick, you must tell me!” cried Lady Foxrock, seizing her arm
in an agony of suspense.
Mrs. Dexter once again leant forward, and whispered, and, ere her
whispering had ceased, the handle rattled, and the two heads started
apart, as the door opened and Mr. Dexter entered the room.
His wife had entirely recovered her self-possession and said, with
incredible assurance, “Oh, there you are, dear. I’m so glad you’ve come
in while Lady Foxrock is here.”
He advanced with broad, extended palm. Lady Foxrock, who seemed
embarrassed, and strangely flushed, said:
“Yes; I’ve paid, you see, my threatened visit to your wife, and
now”--rising as she spoke--“I must positively be going. I’m such a busy
person, my quarters of an hour are all filled up.”
“I am sorry I did not come home a little sooner,” said Joe Dexter, who
saw that his wife was flattered and gratified, and felt proportionately
pleased.
“I will send the cards to-morrow,” continued Lady Foxrock, “and I shall
hope to see you both on the 29th,” and with a gracious handshake her
ladyship swept out.
Once seated in her carriage, she felt herself trembling with
excitement; a few civil words, a card of invitation, what had they
not brought her? The match between Lumley and the New Zealander was
practically broken off--in a few hours the notification would appear in
the _Morning Post_!
She was determined to strike at once--no time like the present, and no
time to be lost. She ordered her footman to drive to Lowndes Square.
Mrs. Loftus was at home, resting on the sofa in the back drawing-room.
She had had an unusually fatiguing day, and looked ghastly as she
struggled to her feet to receive Lady Foxrock. Her ladyship, being
Lumley’s sister, had the _entrée_ at all hours to the temporary home of
his _fiancée_. Yet Lady Foxrock was antipathetic to both Rata and her
mother. She was cold, arrogant, interfering, and inquisitive--it seemed
almost impossible that she could have been born a Nesfield!
“It is a little late,” she said, glancing at a clock, “but I could not
have slept to-night if I had not come to see you. I want to ask you
something important about--Rata.”
The lady’s manner was menacing, and at the conclusion of her sentence
the eyes of her hostess resembled those of some long-hunted animal,
that the cruel hunter has tracked to its lair at last!
“What about Rata?” she faltered, as she sank into a seat; her hands
were shaking visibly.
“Yes, what about Rata?” echoed a full, gay voice. “Talk of an angel,
and here I am!” she added playfully as she advanced, a delightful
vision in a summer gown and flowery hat.
“Darling,” cried Mrs. Loftus, “run away for a little. Lady Foxrock
wishes to speak about you.”
“But, dearest, if Leonora is going to talk about _me_, don’t you think
you are rather cruel to banish me? Curiosity is one of my strongest
characteristics!”
“Enough of this nonsense,” thought the visitor, and, turning roughly on
Mrs. Loftus, she said, “I wish Rata to remain here--it is essential”;
and then, turning quickly to Rata, she added, “If you are so naturally
inquisitive, has it never occurred to you to wonder who you are?”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Mrs. Loftus under her breath, “it has come!
Rata, as you love me, leave me here alone with Lady Foxrock,” and she
half rose and stretched out an appealing arm.
“No, dearest; if there is going to be trouble, I will stand by you. As
to wondering who I am, Leonora,” now facing the lady, “why should I,
when I know that I am Rata Loftus?”
“By all accounts, you have cherished a delusion. You are no more to
Mrs. Loftus than to me--you are an adopted child. Mrs. Loftus adopted
you, when you were two years old.”
“Well, even so, she _is_ my mother,” coming over and taking her hand.
“I could not love her more if she were ten times my mother.” And she
raised her eyes defiantly to Lady Foxrock.
“Yes--yes,” faltered the miserable Mrs. Loftus. “Yes, darling; you
are not my _real_ child. I hoped you would never, never know--and
now!”--looking at Lady Foxrock--“is not _that_ enough? Rata has always
been to Edgar and me as our very, very own.”
“Enough!” echoed the visitor, “no, not nearly enough--not half enough.
The girl should be made acquainted with her own race. Do you think I
will stand by in silence and allow my only brother, the future head of
the family, to marry a _Maori_?”
“A Maori! What nonsense!” cried Rata indignantly.
“Nevertheless, your own grandfather is still living,” she continued
inexorably. “He is a chief called Ramparaha, and resides in a ‘Pa’----”
“There! you have killed her!” screamed the girl, rushing forward and
catching Mrs. Loftus in her arms. Mrs. Loftus, whose blanched face had,
during the above conversation, assumed a death-like hue, and who now
collapsed without a word into a heap upon the sofa.
It was a dead faint indeed. Having laid her down and unfastened the
neck of her dress, Rata dashed to the bell.
Then as she returned to the invalid she said, “I think you had better
go--you have done your worst.”
“I have done my _best_ for my brother,” answered Lady Foxrock fiercely.
“I am sorry your patroness has fainted--she would have kept the secret
always, to her very last hour; what I have stated is true--and can be
proved.”
“Mother--mother,” murmured the girl, as she rubbed the cold hands. Then
to a servant, “Run for the nearest doctor, and send some brandy. Mrs.
Loftus is very ill; and let someone show this lady out.”
Lady Foxrock’s words were prophetic, for Mrs. Loftus had kept her
secret to her dying hour. When the doctor and the brandy arrived, she
was past all human aid.
It appeared that she had a most dangerous form of heart disease, and it
was a marvel she had survived for so long.
Rata was stunned--she had sustained two violent shocks within the same
hour: the announcement of her parentage, and the loss of her mother.
Her grief was at first as wild and uncontrollable as that of one of
her savage ancestors; then she became as a creature of stone, and shut
herself up from all eyes, like some wounded animal, who would suffer
alone. Lady Nesfield and Lumley were all sympathy and affection--they
did not yet know the truth. Lord Nesfield undertook the funeral
arrangements and Lady Nesfield--who could not prevail on Rata to leave
the house--offered to take up her quarters in Lowndes Square; but
this Rata declined. She and her sorrow, her anguish, and her fears
were sufficient company for one another. The day after the funeral, a
paragraph to this effect appeared among the fashionable intelligence:
“Owing to the sudden death of Mrs. Loftus, the marriage of Miss
Loftus and Captain the Hon. Lumley Grantham, fixed for the 13th
inst., is unavoidably postponed.”
When affairs were returning to their normal course, Lady Foxrock
made her parents and her brother acquainted with the result of her
investigations into the past of their future relation. At first their
amazement transcended expression. The intelligence fell like a moral
avalanche; they were all three stunned by the information.
“A Maori!” they repeated; “a Maori--a _Maori_!”
“But she is so accomplished and graceful, and sings so splendidly,”
argued Lady Nesfield.
“I believe many Maori women are graceful, and have fine voices.”
“And so _fair_,” objected his lordship.
“Her father was an Englishman.”
“And she never knew this till the other day. Oh, poor child!”
“The discovery you made killed the old lady,” added Lord Nesfield.
“It certainly hastened her end,” she admitted; “but, according to the
doctors, she _ought_ to have died years ago; in fact, it was a miracle
she lived so long!”
“It is an extraordinary affair,” exclaimed her father, “a most terrible
disclosure--it seems incredible; and that such a--I may say--unheard-of
catastrophe should occur in _our_ family----”
His family, his pedigree, was Lord Nesfield’s pride; a long descent
stirred his enthusiasm; before all things in the world he respected
blue blood. His ancestors had fought at Cressy and Poitiers--he claimed
descent from Henry the Seventh; that his only son and heir should marry
a Maori woman--the descendant of cannibals and savages! Never. He was
sorry for Lumley and the girl, but his resolution was embodied in the
word _never_.
When Rata permitted Lady Nesfield to see her, she realised by instinct
that she was acquainted with her story, although not a word was
uttered. And Lumley--he knew also. He called to see her daily, and sent
her flowers and notes, but she still remained mute and invisible.
At last she reappeared and granted him an audience in the drawing-room.
But here was a Rata he had never seen before, dressed in trailing
black, and looking worn, hollow-eyed, and aged.
He felt as if this girl were a stranger.
“No, no; don’t kiss me, Lumley,” she protested. “Sit down in that
chair, and let me talk to you. In the first place, I wish to show you
a letter. In my--in--Mrs. Loftus’s despatch-box I found this addressed
to me, and inscribed, ‘To be opened after my death.’ It will tell you
everything you ought to know.”
He glanced at the letter in his hand. It began:
“DEAREST RATA,
“When your eyes read these words I shall be no more, and I am now
about to tell you what I never imparted to you in life. You are not
my own child, but my adopted daughter. Your parentage will startle
you, my dear; you were born in a Maori ‘Pa’ near Wellington. I saw
you there, a lovely, fair baby of two years old, fell in love with
you, and, after a little time persuaded your grandfather, Ramparaha,
chief of a great tribe, to give you to me, to bring up absolutely
as my own. You were an orphan, and he had other grandchildren. Your
father was an Englishman of good birth--needless to tell you his
name. Your mother was the most beautiful girl of her race in the
whole of the North Island. They were married by a priest, and by the
rites of her tribe. Not long afterwards he was drowned in the lake
Tavatara; your mother died in giving you birth, and that is your
history. We never regretted the step we took--you were always our
joy and comfort. We moved away from the neighbourhood of Wellington,
and brought you up as an English girl; you have not one Maori trait
in your character. I feel that my life hangs by a thread, and I
intend to take you to Europe, where I hope you may make friends, and
possibly marry. Once you have won the love of a good man, who will be
your protector and guardian, I am ready to depart in peace. He will
have to be told the truth some day, when you are his wife, and, if he
loves you, it can make no difference.
“My will, enclosed with this letter, was drawn up in New Zealand,
and is perfectly legal, and formal. In it I speak of you as Rata, my
adopted daughter, and leave you all I possess. Make good use of this
wealth, dear child, and be happy.”
When Lumley Grantham came to the end of this letter he looked up, and
met the eyes of his _fiancée_, and for some seconds they surveyed one
another in silence. She was the first to speak.
“It makes a difference--a terrible difference, Lumley, does it not?”
“But _you_ are not changed.”
“I am--I am a Maori. Imagine it! A Maori! I seem to feel different--to
summon up strange, dim dreams. A tall old man with feathers on his
head--yes--of a low, dark hut with smoke----”
“No--no,” protested Lumley, “that is your imagination. Your nerves have
gone to pieces.”
“And I would always be thinking of _that_.”
The man felt curiously embarrassed--the girl was so matter-of-fact, so
unlike herself; there was something unfamiliar, and almost stern about
her.
“Your father is, of course, overwhelmed by the news,” she resumed. “I
remember he asked to see the Loftus’s pedigree--think of my pedigree!
Tell me, what does he say? Oh, speak to me _plainly_--he will not have
me as a daughter-in-law?”
“He likes you personally, Rata, so does my mother; you know that,
but--but----”
“Yes, it is a tremendous but--an impassable but--I understand.”
“Of course it will never be known beyond ourselves.”
“It will,” she interrupted. “My mother hugged herself with the same
delusion--yet the secret crept out--and killed her!”
“It shall not kill us,” he answered slowly. “We will, on the contrary,
smother and bury it.”
“Ah, easier said than done! Now tell me frankly, Lumley, what are your
family proposing to do with me?”
“To find you a nice lady companion, and let you travel for a bit.”
“Yes--and then?”
“Well, I----” he stammered, “I’m not sure that they suggested anything
further. To be honest, my father will not hear of our marriage. My
mother is heartbroken; but she, too, is against it. Leonora--is--is----”
“Triumphant! That is understood. And you, Lumley?”
“I am ready to marry you to-morrow. I love you, Rata. Of course you
come first of all; but I do not wish to quarrel with my father, or
break my mother’s heart. It seems so hard to hit on the right thing,
and decide. I want a good think--all by myself. I will go off alone
to-morrow morning into the country, and come back and tell you what the
result is, and then we can make our plans.”
“Very well.”
“What time shall I come--may I say four o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Then four o’clock to-morrow without fail.”
Rata awaited the appointed hour--which meant so much to her--with
feverish impatience; long before the time she was pacing the
drawing-room and watching the timepiece. Did Lumley mean to abandon
her? Was the suggestion of travelling on the Continent but the
preliminary to a final farewell? Had he not been confused, embarrassed,
unlike himself, and cold, when they had met the previous day, although
his sympathy for her loss had seemed truly real and sincere? With these
thoughts forming and glowing in her brain she worked herself into
a condition of the highest mental tension. Four o’clock--half-past
five--and no Lumley; he who was so true to his word, and so punctual!
What did it mean? It meant, that he had decided against her, and dared
not venture to announce the fact face to face.
After this came the agonies of waiting for the postman’s knock. No
letter, not a line from him. All that night she lay wide awake,
thinking for herself, and enduring a mental torture such as she had
never dreamt of--it was ten times worse than mere physical pain. So
Lumley was lost to her--as well as her mother. She had not a relation
in Europe, and was practically alone in the world.
The following day came and passed with leaden feet. It brought piles of
cards of condolence and inquiries. There were letters from dressmakers,
milliners, and shops, papers, circulars, notes from acquaintances,
legal looking documents--not a sign from Lumley. Oh, it was too cruel
of him to torture her like this! About five o’clock, she relinquished
all hope and made up her mind to act for herself.
* * * * *
Lumley Grantham had taken his bicycle by rail down to Croydon, and
started for a long, solitary spin. He always enjoyed his own society,
and could not exist without plenty of exercise, and, as he skimmed
along the country roads, his brain was hard at work, sorting out the
_pros_ and _cons_ of an extremely difficult situation. He was resolved
to marry Rata--to that point his mind was anchored--but in deference
to his father’s sensibilities he felt that he was bound to do nothing
suddenly. He and Rata must wait; time would soften the sharp edge of
the shock that his parents had sustained. Rata could travel; she had
never seen the Continent. He would run out to South Africa for a few
months--and possibly by Christmas.... Here his bicycle ran over a loose
stone--he lost his balance and fell heavily on his head. An hour later,
he was found by a farmer’s carter, taken to the farm, and there laid,
still insensible, under the shade of the best four-poster. A doctor
was summoned, and announced slight concussion of the brain, and rest
essential; but it was two days before the traveller was fit to return
to London. His mother--accustomed to his erratic departures--was only
slightly concerned--and hailed his reappearance with relief.
Two days after his appointment, he arrived to keep it, but found, to
his surprise, that Miss Loftus was not at home, and the household
seemed a little upset.
Miss Loftus had departed that morning in a four-wheeler, taking a small
box and a bag with her, and leaving her maid without any instructions.
She had not mentioned when she proposed to return.
And as it turned out, Miss Loftus never did return. She had walked
out of the house, and abandoned her belongings, all her jewellery,
including engagement ring, letters, papers, personal possessions, and
the will of the late Mrs. Loftus.
Presently the family lawyers arrived, and dismissed the servants, gave
up the house, and set about tracing the heiress. But she seemed to
have vanished, as it were, into the air. Lord Nesfield was agreeably
and obviously relieved, until he was assured by his son that, unless
the lost lady was found, he would never marry, and this statement
considerably modified his joy, for Lord Nesfield disliked his next
heirs, the Nesfields of Barlow, even more intensely than the idea of a
daughter-in-law with _strange_ blood in her veins!
Lumley Grantham, after fruitless visits, first to Gloucestershire, and
then Lahore, finally set out for New Zealand, “the wonderland of the
world,” with its mountains, glaciers, waterfalls, and lakes. Here it
took some time tracing a lady who, three months previously, had landed
at Dunedin; but he tracked her steps patiently, and at last discovered
that she had disappeared among a Maori tribe near Kaiapui in the lake
country. Here he sought the great “Pa” of the chief Ramparaha, and
found him, the splendid wreck of a fine Maori warrior, wrapped in a
cloak of feathers, his head adorned with the plumes of authority,
enjoying a long pipe in the door of his abode. Around were various
Maori women, young and old, with thick, grizzly black hair and tall,
graceful figures, dressed, as is the present custom, in skirts and
blouses, instead of their picturesque native costumes. A few fine,
stalwart men were loitering about, smoking and talking. Over them all
lay the spell of unconquerable indolence--children, dogs, and flies
were the only objects endowed with vitality.
In reply to Captain Grantham’s question, the chief replied, “Yes,
one white woman come here two moons ago--my daughter’s daughter, she
said--but she was all English. Her mother was Tassila the beautiful,
who died young. I gave her baby to a lady from Wellington. Twenty years
after the baby comes back to the tribe; but she is a stranger.”
“Yes, of course she is,” assented his visitor, with emphasis.
“She liked not our food, nor our ways, although we held a Tangi in
her honour and gave _poi deones_ and _hakas_. She would not even
_look_--also she knew not our tongue. She sat all day alone in her hut
and wept, and ate nought, and grew thin, oh, so thin--and then she--as
was best--left us.”
“Where is she?” enquired Captain Grantham eagerly; “you know?”
“Oh yes,” gravely nodding his plumed head, “I know.”
“And will you take me--will you show me?”
“Why do you seek her?”
“Because she and I were to have been married, and I have come to fetch
her back to England.”
“Ah!” rising stiffly, “and so you were to marry my granddaughter Rata.
Then follow me, and I will show you where she is.”
And Ramparaha, the lineal descendant of the great Tuahariri, led the
way through the surrounding _raupo_, or scrub, up a very steep hill,
from the summit of which was a view of considerable extent.
“You see that big lake?” he said, pointing his shrivelled hand towards
a melancholy sheet of distant water, in which the mountains were darkly
reflected. “She is always staring at the water--some day it will take
her. Her heart is not here--but in her father’s country.”
As Ramparaha spoke, they reached a solitary wattled hut, and in
reply to a call, the ghost of Rata appeared in the doorway. She
was incredibly changed--robbed of every trace of beauty, worn and
emaciated--and wore a Maori skirt, and jacket, her masses of hair
hanging down her back. At first, she looked dazed, and startled;
then her black eyes took a fierce expression, as she surveyed her
grandfather’s companion in expressive silence.
“I have come to fetch you, Rata,” he said.
“The last time--you never came--you--_deserted_ me,” she answered
hoarsely.
“Rata, I could not help it--I met with an accident and was unconscious
for days. When I recovered you were gone--and I have searched the world
for you! Will you believe me, and come home?”
Ten minutes later, the befeathered old chief gave an audible grunt
of satisfaction and relief, as he beheld his granddaughter and the
Englishman walk down the hill together hand in hand.