CHAPTER I

A STRANGER IN THE LAND

"I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah?"

An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together they—or rather their horses—toiled up a sharp ascent.

"Oh yes, I heard him," grunted the other with a shrug.

"And what did you think, Ted?"

"That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he'll snuff-out!"

"Well, of course it's Shandy, but I've a notion, there is something in his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the estates were chock full of gold."

"Oh, there's gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it," declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade.

"Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops—the berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I've heard that lame Maistrey—whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened up—say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains—run right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered in jungle."

"Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I've heard these fool stories, but there's nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of ammonia.

The two planters, accompanied by a pack of dogs, were riding up the steep, short cut leading to their joint estate, which was situated on the western slopes of a hill range, in Southern India. Edward Dawson, the elder of the pair, was a big, loosely put-together man, of five and thirty (he looked considerably younger, thanks to his round, beardless face), with almost lint-white locks, and candid blue eyes. His clothes were decent—which is all that could be said for them; a cotton shirt, wide open at the neck, canvas breeches, leather belt, and a battered topee, completed his kit.

Dawson was the son of a retired Indian general, who had wisely invested part of his savings in coffee, when estates were cheap; and had thereby provided for an heir of simple and bucolic tastes—a good, honest fellow, who loved the land of his birth, was keen on his job, and spoke Tamil and Canarese, with effective fluency.

Nicholas Byng, his companion, cousin, and partner, was a slight, young man, with neat features, quick, bright eyes, and a remarkably clear idea of the importance of appearances—especially of his own appearance. He wore a well-made drill suit and polo boots, and rode a long-tailed, useful-looking, bay thoroughbred, bearing the discouraging name of "Mad Molly."

Byng, the darling of a widowed mother, had been intended for the Army, but was "spun" so repeatedly, that his failure appeared to have become a confirmed habit. The death of his parent put an end to further efforts, and a certain high-handed uncle then deported him to the Chicknabullnay Estate. Here, for the first time in his career, he put his unaccustomed shoulder to the wheel, and, after a year's apprenticeship, became partner and sub-manager. He liked the life.

Teddy, for all his unconventional, "jungly" ways, was a good sort; a strong man, who kept the reins in his ugly big fists, and was master. His partner enjoyed ample liberty and holidays—oh, it was not all "coffee"—and Nicky was able to disport himself in Madras, and fashionable—alas! rather remote—hill stations; he got a bit of shooting, was making money, and, on the whole, the billet suited him down to the ground.

The couple had been to the foot of the ghât on business connected with the transport of their crops; every yard they now travelled carried them further and further from dense, tropical forests, sweltering heat, and swampy valleys, and nearer to the quiet beauty of the grassy uplands.

Turning a sharp corner, they debouched into a little glade where three tracks met, and here, with a slight shock of surprise, discovered that prominent figure in early Victorian fiction, known as "a solitary horseman."

Dawson, who was still expounding on the scandalous price of bone manure, broke off his sentence with:

"I say,—who's this?"

"Hello, good afternoon," said the stranger, raising a smart topee, "I heard your voices, and waited. I don't know these parts, and I'm afraid I've lost my bearings."

The "lost one" was a well set-up, self-possessed individual, mounted on a fine waler cob, and accompanied by a wiry, and more than half-naked syce.

"I expect we will soon put you all right," said Byng,—ever the speaking partner—"Where are you bound for?"

"A place called Fairplains; the estate of one James Fletcher."

"Then you are just five miles out; you overshot the mark by that native village among the plantain trees, near the bridge. Why didn't you stick to the road?"

"Well, I suppose because I'm an adventurous idiot," was the modest reply, "and I was told that a bridle-path cut off seven miles."

"So it does,—but it depends upon which bridle-path. This one has put you on, a good ten."

"I say, what a confounded nuisance!" exclaimed the wanderer, looking down at his blown, and sweating, steed.

"Our place is barely a mile from here," announced Dawson, speaking for the first time. "Come on with us, have a drink, give the gee a feed, and a rub-down, and we will send a coolie to put you on the way to Fairplains—unless you'll stay the night?" he added, with true planter's hospitality.

"Thanks awfully, but I'd better shove on. I'll be glad to stop an hour at your diggings, and give the cob a rest—he's pretty well done."

"Not the usual 'Hirling,' I see," remarked Byng.

"No, I brought him from Cananore; he is awfully soft—that climate is only fit for horned cattle!"

"Yes, beastly wet," agreed Byng, his bright eyes taking in the well-knit figure and military bearing of the cob's master. "Your regiment quartered there?"

"It is—my name is Mayne—Derek Mayne—an uncle of mine is a pal of Fletcher's, he invited me up for six weeks' shooting—and naturally I came like a shot!"

"But Fletcher has gone home—went off ten days ago!"

"What do you say?" cried Mayne, reining up his horse.

"It's a fact; he has been rather seedy, and ran down to see a doctor in Madras, who ordered him to start then and there for London—it was a case for an immediate operation."

"Poor chap! I'm most awfully sorry. Well," after a reflective pause, "I'm in a pretty big hole. I had a line from Fletcher three weeks ago, and I've got my leave all right, and have written to announce my arrival, but the shoot is off! I suppose I must make for one of these hill stations. I can't tell you how I've been looking forward to this shikar trip—my first."

"Oh, I expect you will be all right," said Dawson reassuringly; "Fletcher is bound to have left instructions; he is a most reliable old boy. Let me introduce myself. My name is Dawson, and this," waving a huge paw, "is my cousin, Nicholas Byng. We run a coffee estate known as Chicknabullnay,—but called by our neighbours 'The Corner.' He is the ornamental, and I'm the working partner."

"Come, I like that!" broke in his cousin: "I live with my nose to the grindstone. I've been on duty since six o'clock this morning; down at Burliar, making a bundobast for our crop."

"We would give you some shooting," continued Dawson, "but nothing like what you'd get at Fairplains—that has always had a Shikari owner, who knows the best grounds, and beats in the low country, as well as he knows his A B C, and can call out any amount of good, plucky beaters."

"Well, I sincerely hope it will be all right, as you believe, and that the manager has been warned by Fletcher; otherwise, it's no great matter, as I am a complete stranger to them both. I say, what a mixed multitude!" pointing to the pack.

"Yes, all sorts and conditions," replied Byng, "and a real good specimen of an average planter's pack, only ours are absolutely healthy—no red mange."

"But what variety!" said Mayne, turning in his saddle to survey them. "A fox hound, three beagles, a deer-hound, half a dozen fox terriers, several—any other sort—a bull terrier, and what was once a poodle."

"Yes, and the poodle has the brains of the lot. You see how it is; people going home are glad to leave their dogs in a good climate. Most of ours, have a history! The deer-hound was given to me by a girl, the poodle came from a French priest at Pondicherry, the fox-terrier with the black head, belonged to a poor chap who died. They get on together fairly well, all being fond of sport, and they have a rattling good time."

"Lucky dogs!"

"Yes," put in Dawson, "hunting, drawing sholahs for sambur, and pig, and at home, there are rats and bandicoots. Two dog-boys feed and brush them—and a few live indoors."

"A few!" echoed Byng, "make it a dozen! The poodle and fox-terriers,—like the poor,—are always with us, and I've found a couple of beagles in my bed before now, and"—as an old retriever came slowly towards the party, "here comes a pensioner to welcome us. This is Chicknabullnay."

For the last quarter of a mile, the journey had been on a well-metalled cart road, and through a crop of dense green coffee bushes; now, a sudden curve brought the back of a long, low bungalow with adjoining gardens, stores, and stables, into sight. As the trio rode down a steep slope, dog-boys, and syces, hurried forward to claim their respective charges.

The guest dismounted rather stiffly, and was escorted by Dawson straight through the house, and into the front verandah. Here the view that lay before them was startlingly unexpected; low hills to right and left had, as it were, been cleft by some volcanic convulsion, and disclosed a far-away, and exquisite, blue panorama of the plains.

"Oh I say!" Mayne exclaimed involuntarily.

"Hits you bang in the eye, doesn't it?" was Dawson's complacent rejoinder. "Most planters manœuvre for a fine outlook—the one up at Fairplains is the same—but Fletcher swears, ten times better. Now come along inside, and have a wash."

CHAPTER II

"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?"