"EXIT NANCY"
It was after sundown, when Nancy's eloquent visitor had taken a
prolonged farewell, and a reluctant departure. She was immediately
succeeded by Mrs. Hicks, charged with cheerful talk, anxious
interrogations and an enticing description of the forthcoming dinner;
nevertheless, the girl declared that she felt dead tired, and would
rather not appear, but have something sent in to her on a tray.
As soon as the servants' voices, and the clatter of plates, assured
her that the meal was in active progress, Nancy slipped out, and stole
down to the tennis ground, in order to breathe a little fresh air, and
secure an uninterrupted think. The tennis ground was the most secluded
resort about the premises,--being sunken in the hillside, and invisible
from the bungalow. It was a pregnant coincidence, that the recently
married couple had each sought the same sanctuary!
Nancy paced slowly to and fro; the agony of apprehension, and the
tension of a desperate hope, had come to an end. She was turning over
in her mind the various statements that Mrs. Ffinch had so frankly
disclosed. One or two stark-naked facts boldly presented themselves.
Fact number one: Captain Mayne had married her for no other reason,
than to discharge a debt, and to give her his protection, and a
home. This plain and odious truth, was unbearable. Once upon a
time--indeed only a week ago--she had liked Captain Mayne so much;
but now her feelings had undergone a sharp change, and all she
felt for him, was shuddering aversion. Yesterday, when he had put
his hand on her shoulder, she had felt inclined to scream! It was
undeniable--proclaimed another stout fact--that she had assented to the
marriage; but if it was ruinous to Captain Mayne, abhorrent to herself,
and unfair to them both,--_why_ hold to it?
Another glaring truth revealed, that she was absolutely
homeless--unless she followed her fate to Cananore, or accepted what
was neither more nor less than Mrs. Ffinch's charity! Surely there must
be a third alternative? For the last eighteen months, she had held the
purse-strings, and saved her Daddy many rupees, and after the servants'
wages and other expenses were settled, there remained sufficient money
to pay her passage home, and leave a margin of about twenty pounds.
She would go straight to her old school at Eastbourne: Mrs.
Beccles--who had always been her friend--would no doubt allow her to
remain there for a week or two, and assist her to find a situation
as companion, or governess. She was determined not to be carried off
to Clouds Rest; there, to become a pensioner, and non-paying guest.
She was really fond of Finchie, who was immensely kind, and generous;
but Finchie had more than once openly lamented, that "she so soon got
tired of people!" What if she grew tired of her? As Nancy cast her
thoughts back, she recalled the reigns of Blanche Meach; of Nicky Byng;
of Jessie; and there was no denying the fact that at the moment, she
herself was the official favourite. Even if she went to Clouds Rest for
a few weeks,--it would be only to prolong the present agony, and defer
a crisis.
To remain in the neighbourhood of Fairplains, where she and her father
had been so supremely happy; with strangers occupying their rooms,
riding their ponies, playing on this very tennis ground,--no, never!
And then all the talk and commiseration, although so kindly meant,
would drive her crazy! There was a loop-hole of escape overlooked by
Mrs. Ffinch. She would go down to her old nurse, Jane Simpson, at
Coimbatore, and start to-morrow night, leaving two letters, one for
Captain Mayne, and one for Finchie. Finchie would be furious; she could
almost see her face, after she had read and digested her leave-taking
epistle! But, after all, she must live her own life, such as it was;
and go her own way. What she did, or where she went, was of little
matter to anyone. Nurse Jane would not worry her with plans, and
questions--she understood; she always did; and later on, when she felt
stronger, not so queer, and dazed, and the monsoon was over, she would
go home--that is to say, to England.
As Nancy made up her mind to this plan, she beheld Togo coming slowly
down the steps, and looking about cautiously. Catching sight of the
object of his quest, he flew to her side.
"So you were afraid we were _all_ gone, dear, were you?" and she lifted
him,--a heavy armful,--sat down, and placed him on the bench beside
her. Togo endeavoured to make frantic demonstrations of affection,--but
was firmly restrained. His mistress held him fast with her arm round
his neck, and there the two sat, and gazed on the moon-flooded
plains,--an exquisite scene in silver. It all looked so still, so calm,
and in a word, so heavenly. "Oh, Togo," she murmured. "The world is the
same, but everything in it, is changed for you--and me."
Suddenly something in Nancy's throat seemed to give way, and she
buried her face in Togo's woolly neck; the ice had melted, and for
the first time, she wept,--but not for long. In a surprisingly short
time, she choked back her sobs--and with a supreme effort recovered
her composure, restrained her streaming tears, as she had done Togo's
caresses,--and administering a kiss in the middle of his forehead, rose
and returned to the bungalow,--stealing into her own quarters almost
like a thief.
Manœuvring among the shadows, she had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hicks
and Captain Mayne smoking together on the verandah. What good friends
they seemed to be! In her room she found awaiting her, a dainty
little meal (now cold), and offered it to Togo. As a rule the dog
had a healthy and unfastidious appetite, but to-night, he merely
sniffed at the plate, and turned sorrowfully away. To avoid a scene of
recrimination, and remonstrance, Nancy gulped down some cold soup, and
ordered the ayah to remove the tray, "quick, quick, quick," and when
Mrs. Hicks had gone to bed, to send Francis to speak to her.
Sounds in the still hill regions carry far, and the Clouds Rest "gurra"
would be heard striking ten faint strokes, when Francis appeared in the
doorway. Salaaming with grave dignity, he awaited Nancy's commands.
"Francis," she said, "you have known me as a baba, and have always been
good to me."
"No, no," he protested, "Missy good to me."
"Yes, you have," she contradicted flatly, "and you know it,
Francis--and I want you to help me now."
"Whatever the Missy says, that I do," and once more he salaamed with
both hands.
"Well, I want you to do a good deal! You know that I was married by the
Padre Sahib, because my father wished it, and I was thankful to please
him, but it is not a good marriage; and I do not intend to leave here
with the Captain Sahib on Wednesday, but will go down to Nurse Jane at
Coimbatore instead--and you must manage it."
"Nurse Jane, Missy," he repeated, "but for why? That very, awfully
foolish business. The Captain Sahib very nice gentleman. Master like
him,--everyone too much like him."
"And I," pointing to herself, "do _not_ like him! Francis, can you
understand?" and she gazed at him steadily.
Francis made no answer, but looked down, and gravely contemplated his
flexible brown toes.
"Listen to me," she continued, "to-morrow night, I am leaving
Fairplains; you will get a bandy, and coolies, for the luggage, and the
ayah; also I am taking Togo. If I return to England, he shall be in
your keeping. At present, he and I, comfort one another. I will ride
the grey pony down the ghât, and Tumbie syce can attend, and bring him
back. Later, all my belongings are to be sent to Coimbatore. Do you
bring them yourself. I shall have much to say to you--to-night it
hurts me to talk."
"May I speak one word, Missy? Now you are married to this gentleman
Captain,--suppose you run away, he making plenty bobbery; he not
swearing or calling names, that gentleman I know. All the same, I think
he is strong,--and there will be much trouble."
"It will be all right, Francis; you need not be afraid. I shall give
you a letter for him, and he will be _glad_ to let me go,--and never
see me again."
Francis made a noise like "tch, tch, tch." "Oh, Missy, already have we
got too much sorrow--will you thrust more upon us--and yourself----?"
"More--sorrow--we could not have," declared his reckless young
mistress. "Now for my plans," she continued.
"I want you to send a coolie with a telegram to prepare Nurse Jane. I
shall remain in this room to-morrow; sick--and I _am_ sick--and I wish
I was dead! At night, when all is still, I intend to ride away down to
the railway station. Francis, it is for you to make all the bandobast.
I know you will help me. Good-night," and he was dismissed.
By the first streak of dawn, the next morning, Nancy crept out to
visit, for the last time, the newest grave. She was so early that no
one beheld her, but the birds, and Togo.
During the long hours when Mrs. Hicks was busily engaged in counting
glass, china, and cooking pots (for the inventory), or reposing on her
beloved bed, Nancy and her ayah were occupied in making final, but
secret arrangements. When these were completed, Nancy sat down and
wrote two letters. The first was to Mrs. Ffinch,--and began:
DEAR KIND FINCHIE,
This is to say, that I am going my own way. Please do not be vexed.
You will hear of me at my nurse's in Coimbatore. I feel somehow
that I want her, as when I was a small kid, and had had a bad fall;
later, I hope to go to England; for much as I adore the hills, I
cannot endure them just now. Give my love to all my friends, and
please _do_ understand, that I am most grateful to you for your
kind offer, to have me with you at Clouds Rest,--and forgive,
Your loving,
NANCY.
Having completed and addressed this, she sat for a long time with
a sheet of note-paper before her, resting her head upon her hand,
nibbling the penholder, and making up her mind how to frame a letter to
Captain Mayne. At last she began, and wrote--rapidly, almost without a
pause:
DEAR CAPTAIN MAYNE,
Before you read this, I shall have left Fairplains. I have been
thinking hard the last two days, and am quite sure, that it is best
for us to part _now_,--and never to meet again. Let us forget the
dreadful ceremony of last Friday. You know, that we agreed to it,
only to satisfy my dear father,--at least that was _my_
intention,--so that he might be at ease in his mind, before he left
me. On this point, our aim was accomplished; and there let the
matter _end_. I feel certain, that you have no true wish, that I
should live with you--'until death us do part.' Far from it. I am
just a little hill girl, and not the least one of your sort. For my
own part, the mere sight of you brings before me that horrible
struggle with the panther, when Daddy interposed, and saved you. I
_know_ you are honourable, and a man of your word, and wish to give
me--as payment--a home and your name; but I cannot accept one or
other, for--to be honest--I shall _never_ like you again, and if
I were forced to live with you, I should loathe you.
It seems dreadful to write this down in black and white, but it is
the truth; and surely the truth is best? I am so absolutely
miserable that I wish I was dead: I could easily kill myself with
an overdose of chlorodyne--we keep a large store on account of the
coolies--and I would be buried in the garden beside _them_, and be
no further trouble to anyone; but Daddy always said, 'Suicide was
a coward's act,' and I shall struggle on somehow. Mrs. Ffinch, who,
as you know, is immensely clever, had a long talk with me yesterday.
She pointed out that you and I were entirely unsuited; that apart
from the circumstances, we would have been almost the last people
in the world to think of marrying one another; that you had told
her the idea of marriage had never entered your mind, and it would
be the _ruin_ of your career. This can easily be prevented. No one,
except the Hicks and Teddy Dawson, knows of the ceremony. The
parson is about to settle in Tasmania;--they will _all_ be dumb.
Here in India, people so frequently separate, scatter, and forget
that they had ever met. I shall do my utmost to forget you, and I
hope you will let me drop out of your thoughts as completely as if
you had never seen me; and should we meet--which I trust is
unlikely--let it be as strangers. Do not be at all concerned about
my future. I have sufficient money to pay for my passage, I have
friends at home, and if the worst come to the worst, I can be a
lady's help, or governess. At any rate, I shall be independent. I
hope you will not think, that in taking this step, I am also
breaking my promise to father. You know, that his _one_ idea, as he
lay dying, was for my happiness; and I shall be far happier--if
I ever can be happy again--to feel, that I am free--also that you
are free. I believe, that if I had followed my first intention of
keeping to the letter of our contract, and accompanied you down to
Cananore, we should have been the two most miserable people in the
whole world.
Believe me,
Yours faithfully,
NANCY TRAVERS.
This was a much longer and fuller epistle than Nancy had intended to
send; but she was determined to make everything absolutely plain.
Possibly it was a stupid letter, and no doubt she had repeated herself
several times; also it was brusque, and rude. It might make Captain
Mayne dislike her extremely. In that case; so much the _better_! If
Mrs. Ffinch had written such a letter, how well it would have been
expressed; how beautifully she would have taken off the raw edges, and
made it almost a pleasure to read! Well, there it was; she would not
look at it again, in case she might alter something, so she thrust it
into an envelope, sealed it, and laid it beside her other despatch.
Mrs. Hicks was only too sympathetic with Nancy's severe headache. She
paid several visits, imparting remedies, and outside intelligence.
Captain Mayne had not yet returned from his round of farewell calls,
but all his baggage had been packed by his "boy," everything was ready
for a start the next afternoon, and he had ordered up a pair-horse
tonga, for the use of the ayah, and herself.
"I shall remain here to see you off, Nancy, my dear," she announced,
"and I've got hold of an old shoe that I intend to throw after you!"
"Dear Mrs. Hicks, you are always so kind," said the girl, "and I'll
never forget what you have been to me, during this last awful week."
Afterwards Mrs. Hicks remembered, that in Nancy's kiss there was
something soft and lingering--something in the nature of a farewell.
Nancy, having taken an emotional leave of Francis, handed him two
letters to be immediately delivered, and prepared to depart at twelve
o'clock that night. Under the auspices of a high full moon, she rode
away from Fairplains, accompanied by Togo, and followed by her syce.
The domestic servants were aware of her impending departure,--for is
not everything known in the cookhouse, and go-down? When she came up
the drive, they were all, so to speak, paraded--standing in one long
line, to see the last of their little Missy. As she passed, she nodded
to each individually, and when she had reached the corner, where the
private track joined the great cart road, turned in her saddle, to look
back on her home, and to wave a valediction to the crowd.