"THE CORNER"
For a bachelor abode "The Corner" proved unexpectedly comfortable, and
well-furnished.
"Wouldn't you swear a couple of old maids lived here?" said Dawson, as
he ushered his guest into the dining-room. "This is all Byng's doing,"
pointing to a precisely-laid table,--where four little hill-ferns, in
four little white china wheelbarrows, supported a central ornament. "He
found things pretty rough and tumbled, when he joined me three years
ago."
"You may say so!" corroborated his cousin, now entering sleek-headed
and refreshed, unfolding a smart silk handkerchief as he spoke. "Why,
there was hardly a sheet or a towel--nothing but rags--only one
tumbler, one breakfast-cup, and two plates, both cracked!"
"Oh come, draw it mild!" protested the other. "Anyhow, the Missy--I
call him the 'Missy'--gives picnics and tiffins, we have an ice
machine, a piano, and lace-edged tea-cloths! Now sit down, I'm sure you
are starving."
A black-bearded butler brought in a substantial cold hump, salad, roast
potatoes, bread, butter, cheese, and a huge cake; whilst his satellite,
an attendant chokra, supplied each of the company with a long and
well-iced peg.
"Not much of the old maid in this quarter!" remarked Mayne, when he had
swallowed a few mouthfuls, indicating the splendid tiger-skins, and
heads, that surrounded the party. "That bison--I say, what a fellow!"
surveying the trophy with eyes of envious respect.
"Yes, a good specimen," assented Dawson. "You should see those at
Fairplains. Travers is the finest shot in Southern India. Have you ever
done any big game shooting?"
"Nothing bigger than a hare! I've always been mad keen on trophies, and
when my uncle wrote about this invitation, I nearly stood on my head.
Supposing Fletcher's manager has received no instructions, and gives me
the boot?"
"No fear," rejoined Byng emphatically. "Travers is the great shikari in
these hills, a magnificent shot, and absolutely without a nerve in his
body. If you are a keen sportsman--a red-hot enthusiast--he will love
you as a son, or brother."
"How splendid! What's he like?"
"I'll tell you all about him, when we adjourn outside. Have one of
these Trichys?"
With a Trichy between his fingers, Mayne followed his host into the
verandah, and there, subsided into a deep and seductive chair. His eyes
ranged over the unfamiliar outlook, of rich green coffee bushes, heavy
forestry, and vague, blue plains, as he meditatively rolled the cheroot.
"It's rather a painful story about Laurence Travers," began Byng,
blowing a cloud.
"Then--er--perhaps you'd rather----"
"Oh, it's common property--no scandal. Travers' father lived to
spend his last penny, and left nothing but debt for the family. So
Laurence, instead of going into the Army, came out here when he was
two and twenty; he had a little capital, and started coffee planting
at Fairplains. After a good season, he went home on three months'
leave,--and got caught, coming out!"
"Caught!" repeated Mayne.
"Fell head over ears in love with a fellow passenger; a young governess
bound for a situation in Melbourne. She had not a penny, needless to
say. They were married, and lived very happily, in spite of the wrath
of his relations,--whose chief asset was family pride. Mrs. Travers did
up the house, started a garden, rode about all over the place, and made
heaps of friends; she was Irish, very pretty, lively, hospitable, and
an immense favourite. Those were fat years for coffee too--and Travers
prospered."
"Oh, get on!--don't be so long-winded!" growled Dawson, who was nursing
a fox terrier, whilst jealous dogs of various sorts surrounded his
chair.
"Well," resumed Byng, "after a good while, there was the usual baby--a
girl. Travers was in the seventh heaven, but Mrs. Travers somehow began
to go down hill, though she would not give in; other people saw it, and
urged her to take a change, or to go home. She stuck it out, that she
was as strong as a horse. However, when the child was about a year old,
Travers, coming in late one afternoon, discovered her sitting in the
verandah,--as he supposed asleep,--with the baby on her lap. When it
turned out that she was stone dead, he went nearly raving mad; in those
days the place was a bit isolated, neighbours were far off; not like it
is now,--the Ffinches and Hicks within a couple of miles. Strange to
say, the servants had the sense to put away his razors and fire-arms,
and to send for the nearest doctor. He gave Travers a sedative, and
found that Mrs. Travers had died of long-standing heart disease. She
was buried in her garden.
"After this blow, Travers appeared to have no further interest in
anything in the wide world,--bar the kid. She had a superior English
nurse, and the most wonderful frocks, sashes, and dolls, that had ever
been seen on these hills. Travers could not bear her out of his sight,
and brought her about with him everywhere,--even shooting. When Nancy
was six, she got typhoid--our crystal clear streams are deceptive--and
she nearly went out, and had to be sent home. Her father took this
separation terribly to heart; after her departure, they say, he used
to sit for hours, in a sort of dream, just smoking, and staring into
space! Some people thought he was going dotty; and it sounds a funny
thing to say, but in a way, the child was his _ruin_! An irresistible
magnet, that drew him to England, and often at the most critical
seasons. There, he had no occupation; here, his coffee estate was going
to pot. Other planters warned him, but in spite or all they could say,
he would leave as manager, one, Doria, a cunning half-caste,--such an
oily persuasive rascal,--to take on his job.
"There had been bad seasons, and losses,--common to the whole
community, and this fellow urged Travers to raise a mortgage, and
Travers, who wanted ready money, and was dying to be off home, agreed,
and departed. Then Doria, left to his own devices, set about to rob
and plunder in the most shameless way; he pocketed a whole season's
profits, also large arrears of debts--and cleared out, leaving no
address."
"I believe he is in South America," interposed Dawson. "Go on,
Nicky--you'd make your fortune in the Bazaar!"
"I think," resumed Byng, "that it must be nearly five years since
Travers returned, and found himself completely smashed. He made a
desperate effort to pull things together, but it was too late; the
coffee was neglected, and blighted, the bungalow full of mildew and
cobwebs,--and the mortgagees were calling for their capital. I must
say, they behaved infernally badly; would not give Travers a dog's
chance; foreclosed, and sold up Fairplains. Fletcher bought it, lock,
stock and barrel, and kept on Travers, as his manager. He has a
bungalow, and four hundred rupees a month--and is worth _double_. When
Fletcher is away--he is boss, and lives in the big house."
"Where he was once lord, and master!" exclaimed Mayne. "What
frightfully hard luck,--I wonder he stayed on."
"Hobson's choice! He'd got to live, and to pay for the kiddie at home.
Now she is grown up, and out--and----"
"Do you mean to tell me," interrupted Mayne, pushing back his chair,
"that there is a girl at Fairplains?"
"I am thankful to say there _is_! She is the life and soul of the
neighbourhood. We should all be uncommonly dull without our Nancy--she
is full of energy, and true _joie-de-vivre_--does everything bang off
on the spur of the moment, and is the apple of her father's eye."
"And mine," supplemented Dawson, "apple of both eyes."
"Yes, she put new life into Travers," resumed Byng, "he is like another
man; goes all over the place to picnics, and tennis, and takes an
interest in his personal appearance--not like my cousin here," with a
contemptuous gesture of his thumb.
"Oh, go on!" grunted Dawson, "_I_ haven't thirty-eight ties hanging on
a string--I've no red silk socks--and no looks! Travers, though he is
nearly fifty, is far and away the handsomest fellow in these parts;
he's like a king! I suppose it's the old blue blood--and one of the
best, into the bargain."
Mayne listened with ill-suppressed impatience to this long eulogy.
What were the handsome planter, and the apple of his eye, to him? His
programme must be entirely revised.
"But I say," he broke in at last. "It's one thing to go shooting with
a bachelor, my uncle's old pal--but another pair of shoes, to quarter
myself on his manager, who has a grown-up daughter--even if he wanted
to go for a week's shikar, he could not leave her at home alone."
"Oh, she goes with him," was Dawson's staggering announcement, "she's
an A1 shot."
"Then _that_ settles it," declared Mayne, rising to his feet. "Two is
company! Only my baggage is on its way to Fletcher's, I'd ask for a
bed here, and start down the ghât to-morrow. Anyway, I won't stay at
Fairplains more than a couple of days."
"Oh, _won't_ you?" said Byng, with ironical emphasis, "I advise you
to 'wait and see.' Nancy won't be the fly in the ointment--she's
a rattling good little housekeeper, and will make you uncommonly
comfortable. She does not always go out shooting; sometimes Mrs. Ffinch
comes over, and keeps her company--they are tremendous pals."
"Yes, if you are really anxious to see first-class sport," broke in
Dawson, "don't let a scruple, or a little girl, stand in your way. Take
my advice, and make no arrangements, till you have seen Fairplains for
yourself."
"Well, I daresay you are right," said Mayne, after a weighty silence.
"It does seem rather rotten, to have taken this long journey, and be,
so to speak, headed off by a petticoat. I--might be sorry afterwards."
"You are bound to be," rejoined Dawson with conviction.
"All right then, I'll push on. Have the Travers any neighbours besides
yourselves, and this Mrs. What-you-may-call her?"
"Oh, yes, the Ffinches at Clouds Rest, are within two miles--there are
only the two of them. He, given over body and soul, to money-making,
and coffee--otherwise just Mrs. Ffinch's husband! She, is our local
dynamo, and keeps everything going;--extraordinarily clever woman,
absolutely wasted out here;--would make a great Prime Minister, or
Secretary for Foreign Affairs. Then we have the Hicks'. Dr. and Mrs.
and two girls; he was doctor on board a liner--and picked up a lady
passenger."
"More of a passenger, than a lady," corrected Dawson, "but a rare good
sort."
"And the girls ditto," continued his cousin. "These are our nearest--if
not dearest. You'll soon get to know everyone, and everyone will know
you,--and give you lots of sport."
"Well then, I think I'll make a start, if you'll send for the cob, and
syce; it's seven o'clock."
"It's a fine starlight night, and no hurry; only the Travers' are early
birds," said Dawson, when Mayne's cob was led up. "There's a coolie to
guide you. I expect we shall see you pretty often--mind you look in,
when you can."
"Upon my word, I don't know how to thank you! You have been most
awfully good in taking me in like this," said Mayne. "Perhaps Fletcher
has not written; and you may have me back on your hands to-morrow
morning," and with a laugh, and a salute, he sprang into the saddle,
and cantered away, closely pursued by syce, and coolie.
"A real cheery chap!" remarked Dawson, as he looked after the parting
guest; "no 'haw-haw' nonsense about him. I like his eyes,--and he
laughs like a boy."
"Boy! He must be seven or eight and twenty," said Byng, "may be more.
Money, I should say. I noticed his watch, and he paid a smart sum for
that cob. He's not a bad-looking chap--I hope he won't turn the child's
head?"
"Not likely!" rejoined Dawson, "Nancy's head is too well screwed on,
and she has no room for anyone in her thoughts, but her Daddy--as for
that fellow, his one and only object in life, is to bag a tiger!"
Having pronounced this dictum, Dawson flung himself into a long cane
chair, and picked up _The Planter's Gazette_.