A FRIEND IN NEED
Thanks to Mrs. Ffinch's promise and her prompt exertions, within a
week's time Nancy found herself in the Madras roads, on board the P.
& O. steamer _Patna_, bound for London. The _Patna_ was a full boat,
carrying a mixed multitude of cheerful passengers. Among these was
Blanche Sandilands (née Meach), a remarkably pretty woman in exuberant
spirits,--embarking on her first trip to England in the character of
a rich, popular, much admired young matron. Her cabin was crammed
with flowers and books, friends to bid her good-bye were assembled in
flattering numbers, and among these, she anxiously looked about for her
charge.
Yes, there was that invaluable Mrs. Ffinch,--and could it be Nancy
Travers? Nancy, so altered as to be almost unrecognizable. The bright
school-girl, she remembered, as just out from England, brimming over
with happiness, and gaiety, was now a wan white creature in deep
mourning, with sad abstracted eyes. Thank goodness, they were not
sharing the same cabin, or she would certainly be flooded out with
tears! What, she asked herself, could she do with her? Mrs. Sandilands
had been looking forward to such a ripping time on the voyage: the
Bruffs, and the Colvilles, Captain Yates and Mr. Orme, were on board,
but there would not be much fun for _her_, if all day long she was tied
to such a wet blanket as this poor child--who appeared to be actually
stupefied with grief.
To her immense relief, the lively lady soon discovered that Nancy
Travers would be no encumbrance. It was true that she sat beside her at
meals (nobly representing the traditional death's head), but otherwise
effaced herself, seeming to prefer solitude, and her own company,
sitting aloof with a book, or disappearing for hours into her nook of a
cabin in the stern.
Mrs. Sandilands lent her novels, offered her chocolates, and little
toilet luxuries, kissed her perfunctorily night and morning, and
left her to herself,--assuring her friends, that such was the truest
kindness, and went her own light-hearted way to play deck games, and
Bridge; or to embark on such amusing and harmless flirtations, as are
expected of the prettiest woman on the ship.
At Colombo the passengers went bodily ashore, and enjoyed the few gay
hours at the Galle Face Hotel, explored the bazaars, or darted off in
rickshaws to inspect the Cinnamon gardens. With their return at dinner
time, they brought a horde of new comers,--tourists, planters, and
their belongings.
Among the crowd, one figure was conspicuously prominent, and proceeded
at once to dominate the ship.
"Yet after all, what was Mrs. De Wolfe?" asked a girl plaintively, "but
an ugly, rude, old woman?"
The lady appeared to know several of the passengers, and to be a sea
friend of the captain's; for a special place had been reserved at his
table, also she enjoyed a large double cabin, and was attended by a
hard-featured, but dignified maid.
In appearance, Mrs. De Wolfe looked formidable enough! Tall and bony,
with a long, wrinkled face, a commanding hooked nose (a family feature
descending through generations), sharp black eyes, heavily marked
brows, and a tightly closed mouth, which, when open, displayed two
gleaming rows of expensively fitted teeth. Her hands exhibited knotted
veins, and surprisingly large knuckles, but the lady's most distinctive
endowment was a far-reaching, masculine voice. Her style of dress was
tailor-made, and suitable, her only jewellery, a thin wedding ring.
What was her claim to the almost subservient homage which she received?
She was suffered to break into the most interesting conversation; her
remarks were listened to with profound respect, and she was waited on
with slavish assiduity. Perhaps the answer was, that the old lady had
influence, a strong personality, a sharp tongue, and great possessions.
She was a masterful, independent individual, who did what she liked,
went where she fancied, and said what she pleased! Nancy shrank from
her instinctively, and when on deck, kept well out of her orbit, and
beyond the range of those piercing eyes.
One evening, as she sat pretending to read, she was startled by a deep
voice speaking over her shoulder. It said:
"What's the matter with you? Why don't you go and play about? You look
like a sick chicken!"
As Nancy gazed straight up into the old wrinkled face, her lips
twitched, but she made no reply. Mrs. De Wolfe, who evidently expected
an answer, waited for a moment, still staring fixedly. It was something
like the children's game of "Who will laugh first?" Then with an
indignant "Humph!" she moved away.
The _Patna_, four days out from Colombo, had experienced fairly
fine weather, and real tropical heat. Nancy slept in the top berth
of her tiny cubby hole, with the port wide open, and was dreaming
a delightful dream, when it suddenly turned to a sense of horrible
reality and _drowning_. She was roused by a wandering green wave,
which, having discovered an inviting porthole, flowed in torrents over
her prostrate form, and completely swamped the cabin. As soon as she
had recovered her breath, and the shock, she endeavoured to close the
port. It proved much too stiff. Then she sprang down into the water
on the floor, snatched at her dressing-gown, and opening the door,
screamed for a steward. A man in the next cabin had evidently met
with the same catastrophe, and was in a similar plight. He and Nancy
faced one another in the passage, a dripping, shivering pair! Very
soon a bedroom steward appeared on the scene, there was loud talking,
splashing, mopping. In the midst of this, a door opened, and a gruff
voice demanded:
"What's all this noise about?"
Then the face of Mrs. De Wolfe appeared. She wore a large lace-frilled
nightcap, "and looked for all the world," as the young man subsequently
described, "like the wolf in Red Riding Hood."
"There's been a sea into these two cabins, ma'am," explained the
steward, "and this 'ere lady and gentleman has been washed out!"
The old woman now came forth, and surveyed them impartially; the smart
clean-shaven man in pink pyjamas, and a blanket; the girl in a blue
dressing-gown, with two long plaits of hair dripping down her back, and
instantly recognized the "Ghost," Nancy's nickname on the boat.
"You come along in here," she commanded, stretching out her bony hand,
and taking her by the wrist. "Steward, send my maid at once," and the
cabin door closed on the pair--the wolf, and the lamb!
"You shall have dry things immediately," said Mrs. De Wolfe, "and
Haynes shall make you up a bed on the sofa here."
"Thank you, ma'am, you are very kind," chattered Nancy, whose teeth
were like a pair of castanets.
"Take a towel and dry your hair, Haynes will be here in a moment."
Almost as her mistress spoke, Haynes made her appearance in a trim
red flannel dressing-gown, and took the matter in hand with quiet
promptitude. Nancy soon found herself invested in a beautiful silk and
lace nightgown, which she regarded with unspeakable awe.
"It's quite all right, chicken," declared the old lady who had returned
to her berth, "I wear plain upper garments, and keep the show for what
I call my 'Undies.' It fits you to a T. Better sleep with the towel
round your head. How on earth do you manage to hide all that hair!"
"Less talking!" growled a voice from the neighbouring cabin.
"Haynes, you'll bring two teas at half-past seven," continued Mrs. De
Wolfe, totally unmoved by this command, "and now you may turn out the
light, and go."
In the ensuing darkness, Nancy was able to reflect at leisure upon
her novel position. She was actually sleeping in the cabin--and
the nightgown--of the woman she most feared and avoided of all the
passengers on board the _Patna_. Yet in spite of her overpowering
personality, she had proved to be a good Samaritan, and not so alarming
after all; consoled by this conviction, Nancy dozed off.
In the morning, Haynes--a celebrated Treasure--brought Nancy a cup of
delicious "private" tea, and when she had drunk it, and thanked her
hostess for a night's lodging, she slipped on her dressing-gown, and
fled into her own quarters--once more habitable.
The little episode of the "wash-out" had no immediate results beyond
the exhibition of two mattresses, and several blankets hung out to dry,
and Nancy's acquaintance with Mrs. De Wolfe went no further. She shrank
more and more into solitude and silence, and gave way to the gnawing
misery and loneliness of her heart--plunged in the agony of a terrible
loss, she was left to struggle in it quite alone.
One morning Mrs. De Wolfe encountered her face to face, at the top
of the companion ladder, nodded brusquely, and stared. The girl's
face subsequently haunted her. Oh, what a picture of real grief,--and
nothing but grief! Impressed by this vision, she proceeded to make
inquiries respecting the solitary young woman in mourning. Mrs.
Sandilands (a notable chatterbox) volubly related the tale of tragedy,
dwelt on Nancy's adoration for her father, their ideally happy life,
his death,--and her altered fortune.
"Nancy has no one belonging to her, except a disagreeable aunt," she
said, "a half-sister, who has been at daggers drawn with Mr. Travers
for twenty years; however she has offered what she calls 'an asylum' to
the girl, until she can find some job."
Mrs. De Wolfe nodded and grunted; she also marked, learned and inwardly
digested this information.
A grand fancy ball was got up on board the _Patna_, in order
to inaugurate her entrance into the Red Sea; the preparations,
arrangements and expedients, afforded almost as much enjoyment as the
dance itself. Such were its attractions, that Mrs. De Wolfe's special
Bridge table was ruthlessly dissolved. One of the keenest players was
appearing as Neptune, another as Mephistopheles, a stout, middle-aged
lady as Ophelia. Mrs. De Wolfe made no change in her plain rich evening
toilet--though more than one malicious tongue had suggested that "she
might get herself up as the Witch of Endor."
Tired of looking on at the whirling crowd, she went on deck, and
having descried a solitary figure leaning over the side, approached it
stealthily and, so to speak, pounced!
"No, don't go away, little sick chick!" she said, laying her bony grasp
on Nancy's arm. "Come over here, and talk to me," and Nancy was carried
away a helpless prisoner, to where two deck-chairs happened to be
placed close together. "You're not looking on?"
Nancy shook her head.
"No, I'm told you have had great trouble--and I'm very sorry for you."
"Thank you," said the girl stiffly.
"Come now, do you think it is right to give way to it like this?
keeping apart from your fellow creatures, and fretting yourself to
death?"
"I cannot help it."
"You could, if you tried."
"Oh, you don't know----" and Nancy caught her breath.
"Pardon me, I do know! Your chaperone told me all about it. I'm sure if
your father could see you,--and we have no proof otherwise,--it would
hurt him terribly to witness such hopeless, useless, misery."
"My father was the same himself," declared Nancy, "after my mother
died, and I was sent to England."
"I know; your friend, Mrs. Sandilands, an exhaustive talker, assured
me, he was so heart-broken, that he allowed his affairs to what is
called 'go to the dogs.' Did he not regret _that_?"
"Yes, he did--but I have no affairs."
"You have your life to lead, my dear. Come, do not play the coward, but
brace yourself for the race that is before you."
"Oh, I can't," she muttered; "if I could only _die_!"
"What nonsense," protested the old lady, "I've no patience with this
silly sort of talk."
For a moment there was no answer, and the silence was filled with the
blare of the band, and a rousing Two-step.
"Because perhaps you don't know what trouble is," murmured Nancy at
last.
"Don't I? I am not disposed to talk of my private affairs with
strangers--but for once, I will." A harsh tragedy looked out of her
old eyes, as she added: "Listen. You possibly see me a gruff, selfish,
overbearing old woman, with not a thought in the world beyond her
dinner, and a rubber of Bridge. Nevertheless, I have indeed known
anguish--the wounds throb still. My husband left me, when we were young
and happy; my eldest boy was killed at Magersfontein, my youngest,
died of typhoid in India,--all alone; and here am I, all alone,--with
nothing awaiting me but the grave." She paused, for a moment. "Now you
have, I trust, a long useful life, and many happy hours before you.
Why, you cannot be more than eighteen."
"I was eighteen three months ago."
"And eighteen wishes to die! Mrs. Sandilands tells me you are going to
live with an aunt in London. May I hear her name?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Jenkins. She has a house in Queen's Gate."
"Strange, I think I've heard of her. She is a widow like myself,--very
comfortably off. Her chief interest in life, is her health, a _malade
imaginaire_. Do you know anything of nursing?"
"Not much, I am afraid."
"Well, then, my dear, I am well experienced--and I am going to
prescribe for you. You are to come along with me, and look on at the
ball; and then we will go and have a bit of supper. Yes, I _insist_!"
There was no gainsaying this old lady.
When Mrs. De Wolfe and her young friend parted that night in their
mutual passage, she said:
"I intend to take you in hand, Miss Nancy Travers. I shall not allow
you to sit idle in the market-place, eating your heart out. To-morrow
I'll give you some knitting, and teach you to play Piquet and Patience.
You can look upon me as your deputy chaperone."
As deputy chaperone, she took entire charge of Nancy--who felt
powerless to resist--the girl interested her surprisingly. When she
forgot herself, she could talk, she could sew, she could even smile!
By the time the _Patna_ was in the Canal, Nancy was better. The
sea-air revived her; her new acquaintance acted as a tonic, kept her
incessantly occupied, promenaded the deck with her, told her stories,
gave her sound advice, and from being a mere crumpled heap of hopeless
misery lifted her once more to a foothold in life.
It had been discovered that the "Ghost," as she was called, was an
excellent pianist, and consequently much in request to accompany song
or violin. This demand brought her into communication with other young
people--which was good for Nancy.
Mrs. Sandilands was amazed at the acquaintance which had been struck
up between two such incongruous characters as Mrs. De Wolfe, and the
Travers girl. What had they in common? However it came about, the old
woman had effected a wonderful change, and as it were restored the
Ghost to life, and the material world. She now went to and fro and
mixed with other people, and no longer spent hours shut up in her
little cabin.
When the _Patna_ was in the Channel, Mrs. De Wolfe said to her protégée:
"Do not forget to give me your address, my dear, and I will come and
see you."
"That will be very kind."
"I stay in London occasionally, but my home is in the country,--also in
the wide world--for I travel a great deal. Excuse my plain speaking,
my dear, but have you no income at all? I understand that your father
was a Travers of Lambourne, and I believe they went through every penny
they possessed?"
"I have twenty pounds a year," replied Nancy, "and I have had a good
education; but I'm afraid I look too young to be a governess. If the
worst comes to the worst, I might go into a shop. I think I'd rather
like that--millinery, or a ladies' outfitting--a sort of place where
there are no men."
"Are you afraid of them?"
"Oh no," and she laughed.
"No love affairs yet, I should imagine," said Mrs. De Wolfe, with
customary bluntness.
"No love affairs," repeated Nancy, but she coloured vividly.
"Ah! then there _is_ someone?" remarked her astute questioner.
"Yes, there was someone; someone I don't like; but it had nothing to do
with a love affair--and I pray that we may never meet again."
"I'm afraid that will be no use, my dear--we all meet the very people
we don't want to see!"
"Well, I shall always want to see _you_!" said Nancy impulsively.
"I'm glad of that, my child, for the number of people who never wish to
see me again, is fairly large. I hate cruelty, and snobbery; I speak
out my mind rather freely, as I tramp through life. Well, my little
chick, I've given you a lift on the road, haven't I?"
"You have indeed; I can't tell you all you have done for me, roused
me from a stupor, that was creeping over me,--and helped me to make a
fresh start. I can never thank you enough, never!"
"I don't want thanks. Give me deeds. You must write to me, Nancy. My
bankers, Coutts, will always find me, and if I don't answer, never
mind; I'm a shocking correspondent, my pen never saves my tongue. I'll
come and see you when I pass through Town, and I hope I'll find you
doing well. Be amenable to your father's sister: a rich, self-centred,
elderly woman. Accept hard knocks--they will brace you--later on,
you may find your life in pleasant places. I'd like to take you with
me to Scotland, but I am under orders to visit old friends, who fix
one's date of arrival, train, and room, with a firmness there is no
withstanding, and I dare not be a deserter."
Nancy's were not the only thanks received by this social missionary.
Pretty Mrs. Sandilands overwhelmed her with effusive gratitude, and
flattering speeches.
"You took the girl off my hands, dear kindest lady, and have turned her
into a new creature! I cannot imagine how you did it!"
"A little sympathy, and fellow-feeling, was all that was required."
Mrs. Sandilands coloured guiltily, and then replied:
"Nancy is like her father, you see--she takes everything so terribly,
so foolishly, to heart."
"But what a good thing it is, that she happens to have a heart to take
things to! Such folk are not common objects of the sea or shore in
these days."
"Perhaps because people don't wear their hearts on their sleeves,"
retorted Mrs. Sandilands sharply. At this moment, her companion was
summoned to receive a Marconigram, and she found herself unexpectedly
abandoned with all the honours of the last word!
Later that same day, the _Patna_ was berthed in the London Docks, and
her horde of passengers scattered afar, every man and woman to their
own; in most cases to forget within a few hours, those who had been
their daily associates for the last four weeks.