“OTHER PEOPLE HAS NIECES TOO.”
Mrs. Sladen had not only given Mrs. Brande a piece of news; she had
introduced her to a grand idea--an idea that took root and grew and
flourished in that lady’s somewhat empty mind, as she sat alone in her
drawing-room over a pleasant wood-fire, which she shared impartially
with a sleek, self-conscious fox-terrier.
All the world admitted that once upon a time “old Mother Brande” must
have been a beautiful woman. Even now her fair skin, blue eyes, and
chiselled features entitled her to rank as a highly respectable wreck.
Who would have thought that refined, fastidious, cynical Pelham Brande
would have married the niece of a lodging-house keeper? Perhaps if he
had anticipated the career which lay before him--how unexpectedly and
supremely successful he was to be, how the fierce light inseparable
from high places was to beat upon his fair-haired Sarabella--he might
have hesitated ere he took such a rash and romantic step. Little did he
suppose that his fair-haired Sally, who had waited so capably on him,
would one day herself be served by gorgeous scarlet-clad Government
chupprassis; or that she was bound to walk out of a room before the
wives of generals and judges, and that she would have a “position” to
maintain! But who is as wise at two and twenty as he is at fifty-two?
At two and twenty Pelham Brande had just passed for the India Civil
Service, and was lodging in London; and whilst preparing for the Bar
he got typhoid fever, and very nearly died. He was carefully tended by
Mrs. Batt, his landlady, and her lovely niece Sarabella, who was as
fair as a June rose, and as innocent as a March lamb.
The best medical authorities assure us, that nothing is so conducive to
convalescence as a skilful and pretty nurse, and under the influence of
Sara’s ministrations Mr. Brande made rapid progress towards recovery,
but fell a victim to another malady--which proved incurable. He did
not ask his relations for permission or advice, but married his bride
one morning at St. Clement Danes, took a week’s trip to Dover, and two
first-class passages to Bombay.
As a rule, junior civilians are despatched without ruth to lonely
jungle districts, where they never see another white face for weeks,
and their only associates are their native subordinates, their staffs
of domestics, and the simple dwellers in the neighbouring villages. Now
and then they may chance on an opium official, or a forest officer,
and exchange cheroots, and newspapers; but these meetings are rare.
After a busy university career, after an immense strain on the mental
faculties, necessary to passing a severe examination, the dead sameness
of that life, the silence and loneliness of the jungle (aggravated by
the artless prattle of the office baboo), is enough to unhinge the
strongest mind. Miles and miles from the haunts of his countrymen,
from books and telegrams, and the stir and excitement of accustomed
associations, the plunge from the roar of the London streets, and life
at high pressure, to the life in a solitary up-country district, is
indeed a desperate one; especially if the new-comer’s eyes and ears are
not open to the great book of Nature--if he sees no beauty in stately
peepul-trees, tracts of waving grain, venerable temples, and splendid
sunsets; if he does not care to beat for pig, or shoot the thirsty
snipe, but merely sits in his tent door in the cool of the evening, his
labours o’er, and languishes for polo, cards, and theatres. Then he may
well curse his lot; he is undeniably in a bad way.
Pelham Brande had nothing to fear from loneliness or _ennui_. Sara
made him an excellent helpmate. She picked up the language and customs
with surprising facility; she proved a capital housekeeper, and as
shamelessly hard at a bargain as any old native hag. But she never
took to books, or to the letter “h.” For years the Brandes lived in
out-of-the-way districts, and insignificant stations, until by slow
degrees his services and abilities conducted him to the front. As
advancing time promoted him, his wife declined in looks, and increased
in bulk, and her tastes and eccentricities became fixed. Pelham was
not actually ashamed of his partner, but he was alive to the fact,
that, with a cultivated gentlewoman at the head of his establishment,
he would have occupied a vastly more agreeable social position. But
he never admitted--what his friends loudly affirmed--that, as he sat
opposite to Sara day after day, he was also sitting face to face with
the one great mistake of his life!
Twice he had taken her to Australia for six months, but never (nor
did she desire it) to her native land. Once, years ago, he ran home
himself, and was received by his relations, as relations generally
welcome a wealthy, childless, and successful man. They even brought
themselves to ask, somewhat timidly, for Sara; and she, on her part,
sent them generous consignments of curry powder, red pepper, and her
own special and far-famed brand of chutney. The good lady had not many
resources beyond housekeeping. She read the daily paper, and now and
then a society novel, if it was plentifully peopled with lords and
ladies; she could write an ordinary note, invitation, or refusal, and
a letter (with a dictionary beside her). She was fond of her cows, and
poultry, and adored her dog Ben; gave excellent, but desperately dull
dinners; dressed sumptuously in gorgeous colours; enjoyed a gossip;
loved a game of whist--and hated Mrs. Langrishe. She lived a monotonous
and harmless life, vibrating between the hills and plains each season,
with clockwork regularity.
As Mrs. Brande sat before her fire, and watched the crackling pinewood,
she was not happy. Officially she was the chief lady of the place,
the “Burra mem sahib;” but clever Mrs. Langrishe was the real leader
of society, and bore away all the honours--the kernel, so to speak,
of distinction, leaving her but the miserable shell. With a young and
pretty girl as her companion, she would be more insufferable and more
sought after than ever. As it was, she, Sara Brande, could make but
little stand against her; and once her enemy was allied to a charming
and popular niece, she might figuratively lay down her arms and die.
She was a friendless, desolate old woman. If her little Annie had
lived, it would have been different; and she had no belongings, no
nieces. No! but--happy thought!--Pelham had no less than three, who
were poor and, by all accounts, pretty. He had helped their mother, his
sister, to educate them; he sent them money now and then. Why should
she not adopt one of these girls, and have a niece also? Yes, she would
write herself; she would speak to Pelham that very evening after dinner
(it was his favourite dinner). The more she became accustomed to the
idea, as she turned it over in her mind, the more she was filled with
delight, resolve, and anticipation. The girl’s route, steamer, room,
dresses, were already chosen, and she was in the act of selecting her
future husband, when Mr. Brande entered, brisk and hungry.
After dinner, when Mr. Brande was smoking a cigarette, his artful wife
opened the subject next to her heart, and remarked, as she handed him a
cup of fragrant coffee--
“Pelham, you are often away on tour, are you not? and I feel uncommon
lonely, I can tell you. I am not as active or as cheerful as I used to
be. I’m too old for dancing, and tennis, and riding. Not that I ever
was much hand at them.”
“Well, do you want to come on tour? or shall I buy you a pony, or hire
you a companion?” inquired Mr. Brande facetiously--a clean-shaven,
grey-haired man, with thin mobile lips, keen eyes, and, at a little
distance, a singularly boyish appearance. “What would you like to do?”
“I should like to ride and dance by proxy,” was the unexpected answer.
“Let us ask out one of those Gordon girls, your nieces. I’d be very
good to her; and you know, Pel, I’m a lonely creature, and if our
own little Annie had lived, I would not be wanting to borrow another
woman’s daughter to keep me company.”
Mr. Brande was surveying his wife with a severely judicial expression;
it relaxed as she spoke of their only child, buried far away, under a
tamarind tree, on the borders of Nepaul.
Yes, their little Annie would have been five and twenty had she lived,
and doubtless as lovely as Sally Batt, who had turned his head,
mitigated his success, and whom he rarely repented of having married.
“Your sister has three girls,” she continued, “and she is badly off.
What is the pension of a colonel’s widow? Why, less than some folks
give their cooks.”
“It is not considerable, certainly, and Carrie finds it hard enough
to make both ends meet; she never was much of a manager. But, Sally,
a girl is a great responsibility, and you are not accustomed to young
people.”
“No; but I can learn to study them, for I’m fond of them. Say ‘Yes,’
Pel, and I’ll write. We will pay her passage, of course, and I’ll meet
her myself at Allahabad.”
Mr. Brande tossed the end of his cigarette into the fire, fixed his
eye-glass firmly in his eye, and contemplated his wife in silence. At
last he said--
“May I ask what has put this idea into your head all of a sudden?”
“It’s not--exactly--sudden,” she stammered; “I’ve often a sort of
lonely feel. But I must truthfully say that I never thought of your
niece till to-day, when I heard that Mrs. Langrishe is getting up one
of hers from Calcutta.”
Mr. Brande jerked the glass hastily on to his waistcoat, and gave a
peculiarly long whistle.
“I see! And you are not going to be beaten by Mrs. Langrishe--you mean
to run an opposition girl, and try which will have the best dresses,
the most partners, and be married first? No, no, Sally! I utterly
refuse to lend myself to such a scheme, or to allow one of Carrie’s
daughters to enter for that sort of competition.” And he crossed his
legs, and took another cigarette.
“But listen to me, Pel,” rising as she spoke; “I declare to you that
I won’t do what you say, and, any way, _your_ niece will be in quite
a different position to the Langrishe’s girl. I’ll be as good to her
as if she was my own--I will indeed!” and her voice trembled with
eagerness. “I’m easy to get on with--look how long I keep my servants,”
she pleaded. “These Gordons are your nearest kin; you ought to do
something for them. I suppose they will come in for all your money.
Your sister is delicate, and if anything happened to her you’d have to
take, not one girl, but the whole _three_. How would you like that?
Now, if one of them was nicely married, she would make a home for her
sisters.”
“You are becoming quite an orator, and there is something in what you
say. Well, I’ll think it over, and let you know to-morrow, Sally. As to
leaving them my money, I’m only fifty-two, and I hope to live to spend
a good slice of it myself.” And then Mr. Brande took up a literary
paper and affected to be absorbed in its contents. But although he had
the paper before him, he was not reading; he was holding counsel with
himself.
He had not seen Carrie’s girls since they counted their ages in
double figures; they were his nearest of kin, were very poor, and
led dull lives in an out-of-the-way part of the world. Yes, he ought
to do something, and it would please the old lady to give her a
companion, and a pretty, fresh young face about the house would not be
disagreeable to himself. But what would a refined and well-educated
English girl think of her aunt, with her gaudy dresses, bad grammar,
mania for precedence, and brusque, unconventional ways? Well, one thing
was certain, she would soon discover that she had a generous hand and a
kind heart.
The next morning Mr. Brande, having duly slept on the project, gave his
consent and a cheque, and Mrs. Brande was so dazzled with her scheme,
and so dazed with all she had to think of, that she added up her bazaar
account wrong, and gave the cook a glass of vinegar in mistake for
sherry--which same had a fatal effect on an otherwise excellent pudding.
In order to compose her letter comfortably, and without distraction,
Mrs. Brande shut herself up in her own room, with writing materials and
dictionary, and told the bearer to admit no one, not even Mrs. Sladen.
After two rough copies and two hours’ hard labour, the important
epistle was finished and addressed, and as Mrs. Brande stamped it with
a firm hand, she said to herself aloud--
“I do trust Ben won’t be jealous. I hope he will like her!”
Being mail day, Mrs. Brande took it to the post herself, and as she
turned from dropping it into the box, she met her great rival coming
up the steps, escorted by two men. Mrs. Langrishe was always charming
to her enemy, because it was bad style to quarrel, and she knew that
her pretty phrases and pleasing smiles infuriated the other lady to the
last degree; and she said, as she cordially offered a neatly gloved
hand--
“How do you _do_? I have not seen you for ages! I know it’s my business
to call, as I came up last; but, really I have so many engagements, and
such tribes of visitors----”
“Oh, pray don’t apologize!” cried Mrs. Brande, reddening; “I’d quite
forgotten--I really thought you had called!” (May Sara Brande be
forgiven for this terrible falsehood.)
It was now Mrs. Langrishe’s turn to administer a little nip.
“Of course you are going to dine at the Maitland-Perrys’ next week?”
(well knowing that she had not been invited). “Every one who is
_anybody_ is to be there. There are not many up yet, it is so early;
but it will be uncommonly smart--as far as it goes--and given for the
baronet!”
“No, I am not going, I have not been asked,” rejoined Mrs. Brande with
a gulp. She generally spoke the truth, however much against the grain.
“Not asked! how very odd. Well,” with a soothing smile, “I dare say
they will have you at their _next_. I hear that we are to expect quite
a gay season.”
“And I was told that there will be no men.”
“Really! That won’t affect you much, as you don’t ride, or dance, or go
to picnics; but it is sad news for poor me, for I am expecting a niece
up from Calcutta, and I hope the place will be lively.”
“But I _do_ mind, Mrs. Langrishe, just as much as you do,” retorted
the other, with a triumphant toss of her head. “Perhaps you may not
be aware that I am expecting a niece, too?” (How could Mrs. Langrishe
possibly divine what the good lady herself had only known within the
last few hours?) “Yours is from Calcutta, but mine is all the way from
England!” And her glance inferred that the direct Europe importation
was a very superior class of consignment. Then she added, “Other people
has nieces too, you see!” And with a magnificent bow, she flounced down
the steps, bundled into her rickshaw, and was whirled away.
Mrs. Langrishe stood watching the four blue and yellow jampannis,
swiftly vanishing in a cloud of dust, with a smile of malicious
amusement.
“Other people has nieces too, you see!” turning to her companions with
admirable mimicry. “She is not to be outdone. What fun it is! Cannot
you fancy what she will be like--Mrs. Brande’s niece, all the way from
England? If not, I can inform you. She will have hair the colour of
barley-sugar, clothes the colours of the rainbow, and not an ‘h’!”