A PRACTICAL JOKE.
Sir Reginald left for Cannes the end of November, intending to spend
a week there, and to be home, of course, long before Christmas.
Meanwhile, a plot he little dreamt of had been hatched for his benefit.
A storm was brewing; in fact, a regular cyclone threatened his domestic
atmosphere.
When he was in India with the Fifth Hussars, among his few lady
acquaintances outside the regiment there was one who had taken an
immense fancy to him--a fancy he by no means reciprocated. She was
the daughter of an old Commissariat officer, who had survived to enjoy
his off-reckonings and settled down at Cheetapore. “After thirty-eight
years of India, he could not stand England,” he said; “one winter there
would finish him.”
Miss Mason had been already four seasons on the plains. The climate was
beginning to tarnish her beauty--the dark Italian style, her friends
declared. Her foes, on the other hand, did not scruple to accuse
her of “four annas in the rupee”--native blood, in fact. She was,
nevertheless, one of the belles of the station. Time was flying, as
I have said before, her good looks were waning, and she was becoming
extremely anxious to be settled. Fully determined to marry well,
thoroughly bold and unscrupulous, and believing firmly in Thackeray’s
dictum, “that any woman who has not positively a hump can marry any man
she pleases,” she looked about her, to see whom she would have.
One of the Fifth Hussars for choice; they were mostly well-born, and
all rich. After some hesitation, she made up her mind that Captain
Fairfax (as he then was) was perhaps the most desirable of the lot. A
future baronet, of distinguished appearance, young, rich, and extremely
popular, what more could she wish for? Not much, indeed.
But he rarely mixed in ladies’ society; and there was a certain
_hauteur_ about him--a kind of “touch-me-not” air--that inclined her
to think he might give her some trouble. But then he was worth it. How
good-looking he was--his keen dark eyes, regular features, and thick
moustache, together with his slight well-knit figure, quite fulfilled
her beau-ideal of a handsome, gallant hussar.
So she prepared to lay siege to him, and at once commenced to bring her
heavy guns into action. But it was in vain--all in vain. It was useless
to waylay him in the ride of a morning; with a hurried bow he cantered
on. It was equally futile to get a friendly chaperon to escort her to
cavalry parades on Wednesday mornings, for after drill he invariably
went off to stables. Polo, at which he was a great performer, was also
a blank, as whenever it was over, instead of lounging and talking to
the lady spectators, he mounted his hack and disappeared. At the races
she was more successful, and began to think she was making way at last.
The Hussars had a tent, and, being one of the hosts, Sir Reginald was
brought in contact with her repeatedly. But what she attributed to
special attention was merely the courtesy with which he treated all the
sex.
At balls she danced with him several times; but she could see that
he much preferred dancing to talking, and grudged every moment that
she wasted in conversation. However, “Rome was not built in a day.”
“Patience,” she thought, “and I shall be Lady Fairfax yet. He is no
flirt, and does not devote himself to any lady here, married or single.
All this is a point in _my_ favour,” she reflected. “He only wants
drawing out; he is reserved and cold, but never fear, I shall thaw
him.” She invited him repeatedly to her father’s house, invitations
which he steadily and politely declined, and still not discouraged,
made a point of stopping and accosting him wherever they met, were it
on the road, coming out of church, or at the band. She endeavoured to
arrange playful bets on trifling subjects, and made frequent allusions
to the language of flowers; forced button-holes on him, and finally
calling him to her carriage as he was riding past at the band, one
evening--it was dark, and he fondly hoped to disappear unnoticed--she
entreated him to dismount and have a chat.
“I cannot--very many thanks--as this is guest-night, and I have some
fellows coming to dinner, and it is now”--looking at his watch--“a
quarter to seven.”
“And what of that?” she returned playfully; “surely you can spare _me_
a few minutes?”
Dead silence, during which her victim was revolving in his brain his
chances of escape.
“Have you any sisters, Captain Fairfax?” she inquired, apropos of
nothing.
“No; I wish I had.”
“You would be very fond of them, I am sure”--effusively.
“I daresay I would.”
“Ah!” she exclaimed, leaning over and patting his horse’s back
caressingly, and looking up into his face with her bold black
eyes--“ah, Captain Fairfax, how I should like to be your sister!”
With an imperceptible shudder he replied in his most frosty tone:
“You do me far too much honour, Miss Mason.”
“Not at all,” she said impressively; “_nothing_ is too good for you, in
my opinion.”
“You are very kind to say so, I am sure,” he replied, much embarrassed.
“I must really be off,” gathering up his reins.
“Stay, stay--one second,” she entreated. “You remember the cracker we
pulled together at the General’s on Monday, and I would not show you
the motto? I was ashamed.”
“No doubt you were; some wretched, vulgar rubbish”--preparing to depart.
“No, no, not that,” she cried eagerly, “only--only--you will understand
all when I give it to you--when _I_ give it to _you_, you understand. I
know you will not think it either wretched or vulgar when you read it.
Do not look at it till you get home and are quite--quite _alone_,” she
added, pressing an envelope into his most reluctant hand.
“All right,” he replied, taking off his hat and rapidly riding away,
only too glad to escape.
In the privacy of his own room he opened the mysterious envelope, and
held its contents--a narrow slip of paper--to the lamp. It ran as
follows:
My hand, my heart, my life, are thine;
Thy hand, thy heart, thy life, are mine.
“Not that I know of,” he exclaimed fiercely, and colouring to the roots
of his hair. “The woman must be insane,” he muttered, tearing the motto
into fragments and scattering them on the floor. “She could not really
think I cared two straws about her. If it is a joke, as of course
it is,” he proceeded, “it is by no means a nice one, or one that a
thoroughly lady-like girl would ever dream of practising. If she _were_
my sister,” he continued, with a grim smile, “I would give her a piece
of my mind that would astonish her weak nerves. God forbid she was any
relation to me!” he added fervently. “I’ll give her an uncommonly wide
berth for the future.”
This mental resolve of his was most rigidly carried out. He avoided
Miss Mason in an unmistakable manner, and held aloof from society on
her account. It took her some time to realise this painful fact, but
when she did grasp it her whole soul rose in arms; and hearing about
the same period a remark he had made about her--viz. “that she might
be considered a fine-looking woman, but was not at all his style,
and that he thought her awfully bad form.” This, though breathed in
confidence over a midnight cheroot, _en route_ from a dance where Miss
Mason had been making herself more than usually conspicuous--came
round to her ears, and acted like a match in gunpowder, oil in flame.
The most venomous hatred took the place of her former admiration, and
an insatiate craving for revenge filled her fair bosom--a revenge she
fully determined to gratify on the earliest possible occasion.
Time went on, the Hussars left for England, and the wedding of Alice
and Reginald found its way into the _Home News_. “Now,” thought she,
“I will have my innings. I will drop a shell into his camp that will
astonish him, to say the least of it, and I’ll light the match at once.”
* * * * *
Miss Mason’s dearest friend and inveterate ally was spending the day
with her. It was October, and although the hot weather was a thing
of the past, yet it was still warm, and occasionally muggy. Tiffin
concluded, the two ladies retired, Indian fashion, to Miss Mason’s
room, and there donned cool white dressing-gowns, and subsided into
long cane-lounges. For some time the monotonous creaking of the
punkah-rope alone broke the silence.
Presently Miss Mason said: “Harriet Chambers, I have been a good
friend to you. Have I not stood by you through thick and thin, and
helped you out of one or two nasty scrapes?”
“You have indeed, dear Charlotte,” replied Mrs. Chambers in grateful
accents, and with a visibly heightened colour.
“Well now, I want you to do something for me--only a trifle after all,
but still I would rather trust you than anyone.”
“What can I do? Whatever it is, I shall be only too glad,” returned
Mrs. Chambers effusively.
“Well, my dear, I’ll soon tell you. You recollect Captain Fairfax of
the Hussars?”
“Yes, of course I do; a dark young man, who won the Arconum cup, and
spent all his time out shikarring.”
“Exactly! but he found time enough to be very rude to me and I wish to
pay him off somehow.”
“But what did he do?” asked Mrs. Chambers, her curiosity aroused.
“Never mind what he did--he treated me shamefully, cruelly,
abominably,” returned Miss Mason with venomous _empressement_ and a
noble indifference to facts.
“Well, at any rate, he has left the country now,” put in Mrs. Chambers
soothingly.
“But a letter can always reach him. I know his address at home. He
is just married, and I was thinking of giving them a little bone
of contention to amuse themselves with--something to ruffle up the
dead, flat monotony of the honeymoon. For instance, a sham marriage
certificate would give her a good fright.”
“Oh! but, my dear Charlotte,” gasped her friend, raising herself to a
sitting posture, “you are joking. You would not think of such a thing.”
“Would I not?” replied Charlotte, with an unpleasant laugh and shake of
her head. “I have thought of it, and, what is more, I mean to do it.”
“But you might cause fearful mischief; and, besides, I am sure it’s
forgery,” Mrs. Chambers added with an awe-struck voice.
“Not a bit of it,” said Miss Mason lightly. “I have laid all my plans.
Listen,” she continued, sitting up. “Oh, bother these mosquitoes,”
waving her handkerchief to and fro. “Now attend to me. You know the
clerk of All Saints’, a stupid, drunken old wretch, who would sell
his soul for ten rupees. I have bribed him to let me have the church
register and a lot of spare printed copies of certificates--blank
forms, you know. I pretend I want to look out something for a friend.
He brought the register here this morning, and I am to have it ready
for him when he calls after dark; for, although there are very few
weddings--more’s the pity--and no one troubles about the register at
All Saints’, yet such books are not supposed to go travelling about in
this style. Here it is,” and from beneath the mattress of her bed she
produced a thick calf-bound volume. “Here are the printed forms,” she
continued, getting up and busying herself arranging a writing-table,
which she pushed towards her friend, whose eyes followed her movements
in dumb amazement. “Now,” she said, “Harriet, you are to copy a
certificate of marriage on one of these blank strips, do you see.”
“I!” cried Mrs. Chambers. “Good heavens, Charlotte, you are out of your
mind! It would be downright forgery. You are mad to think of it.”
“Forgery! Folly--it’s only a joke. After the first glance, no woman in
her senses would see it in any other light. It’s a joke, I tell you--a
_joke_, and I know,” she added, looking her friend straight in the
face, “that for several _reasons_ you will not refuse me.”
“Oh, but really--really,” faltered her victim.
“Yes, but really you will do it. Do you think I would ask you to do
anything that was not right--that was illegal? Come, come, Harriet,
here is a chair. You imitate writing so splendidly, you will have to
oblige me, and I’ll give you my gold swami earrings into the bargain,
besides all the good offices I have already done for you.”
Finding herself in the presence of a vigorous will, Mrs. Chambers,
who was weak-minded and indolent, eventually succumbed, and very
reluctantly settled to her task. The last marriage certificate was
used as a copy, and splendidly imitated by Mrs. Chambers; the name of
Reginald Fairfax was substituted for the man, and Fanny Cole for the
spinster. The witnesses’ and the clergyman’s signatures were added. The
only name that was really forged was the clergyman’s: “A correct copy
of certificate of marriage as signed and attested by me.--HUGH PARRY.”
This was a facsimile; the remaining part of the certificate was in a
round clerkly hand, as if copied by that functionary. It was finished,
and, villanous document as it was, was in every respect to all
appearance an authorised and legal copy of a certificate of marriage.
Miss Mason having quieted her friend’s scruples by assuring her
over and over again that it was “only a joke,” and having refreshed
her with five-o’clock tea and half a brandy-and-soda, and sworn her
to profoundest secrecy, dismissed her tool with much affectionate
demonstration. She then locked up the book and papers and went for a
drive, with the calm conviction that she had done a good afternoon’s
work. The following day an anonymous letter containing the mock
certificate was despatched to Lady Fairfax.
I should here mention that when the old clerk called for the register
and his ten rupees, and got them, he hastened to the Bazaar and laid in
a fine supply of arrack, which he conveyed to his solitary “go down.”
His orgie was on such an extensive scale that when he upset a lighted
kerosine lamp he was perfectly incapable of stirring or extinguishing
it, so he and his house and the marriage register were all consumed
together. This occurrence was related to Miss Mason a few evenings
afterwards at the band, as one of the items of local “gup;” also
that the church register was missing--had recently and mysteriously
disappeared; and that the general belief was that the defunct clerk had
made away with it.
Miss Mason received the intelligence as a polite but totally
disinterested listener; but as she rolled along the dusty roads in her
carriage, on her way home, she thought all the time of her little joke
and its probable consequences.
“‘Sweet is revenge, especially to women.’ I forget who wrote that;
but it’s true,” she murmured. “Mine is even more complete than I had
expected. Mr. Parry is dead; the clerk and the register burnt; the
witnesses, John and Jane Fox, gone to Australia nearly two years ago.
Clear yourself if you can, Sir Reginald Fairfax; I’ll not help you; and
I think you will find that I have given you a difficult task.”
Such were Miss Mason’s reflections, and her amiability for the next
two or three days was as surprising as it was unbounded. Occasionally
she would lean back in her low capacious Singapore chair, drop her book
in her lap, and indulge in a long and evidently delightful reverie,
bewildering her foolish old father by sundry fits of wholly unexplained
suppressed laughter.
“What ails you, Charlotte, my girl? What’s the matter?” he asked once,
somewhat timidly.
“Oh, nothing. Nothing that would interest you, daddy; only a little bit
of a practical joke that I have played on somebody.”