Interference

The Nankin was favoured with splendid weather, and palpitated eastward at the rate of fifteen knots an hour, between a cobalt blue sky and a mirror-like sea. The globe-trotting season had set in with unusual severity, and there were two hundred and fifty passengers on board, including about seventy ladies, and among these Miss Redmond was singled out as one of the most fascinating spins! Yes—she was already tasting the delights for which she had so long languished. Her bright dark eyes, animated manners, pretty frocks, and pretty figure, met with general approval, and she anticipated her wedding day by displaying a goodly portion of her trousseau, and embarked on a series of vivacious flirtations.

To do her justice, they were above board, and comparatively harmless, and from the grey-haired captain to a smooth-faced sub-lieutenant she had many slaves. She changed her cavaliers almost as often as her toilettes, and yet the ladies bore her no ill-will, nor did they discourse of her in whispers, as they did of that other siren, who smoked cigarettes behind the wheel-house—not alone. Belle implored Mrs. Calvert in eager piteous accents not to divulge the fact that she was going out to be married to Mr. Holroyd.

“Why not, my dear? I think any girl might be proud to be engaged to George Holroyd,” protested George’s friend.

“Oh, of course, but I want to enjoy myself, and have a little fun before my wings are clipped. Look at those two engaged girls in charge of the Captain! How dreadfully dull and dowdy they are; you would not wish me to be like them?”

But if Belle was not going out to India to change her name, why were all her boxes and belongings branded I. F. H., and on one tell-tale trunk was actually painted in bold white letters “Mrs. George Holroyd.” Her secret was well known (the other girls took care of that), and she was as plainly marked “engaged” as any reserved railway carriage. She had soon many particular lady friends, and of admirers a great host; with everything she had ever coveted in her wardrobe, with India before her, and nothing to do, but talk, and laugh, and dress, and flirt, Belle was, for once in her life, a thoroughly happy woman. She had nothing to wish for—no, not even the presence of George! He might object to her acting with Count Calincourt, and might possibly misunderstand her friendship with Mr. Beaufort, a rich M.P., who paid her immense attention, and, when they landed at Malta, had loaded her with half the contents of Borg’s shop. She had a callous heart, a faultless digestion, and a torpid conscience. To her eager, volatile disposition, the act of forgetfulness was second nature, and she never cast a retrospective glance to her own detested past, and but few to Noone and its occupants; En avant was her mental war-cry! Her morning début on deck was a sort of triumphal procession from the companion ladder to her chair! At least half a dozen swains were in her train. One carried her pillow, another her book, a third her fan, a fourth her scent bottle; the ladies, too, were deeply interested in her arrival; they were on the qui vive to see what new and beautiful raiment she would wear, and she always looked as trim and smart as if she had stepped out of a bandbox. It was nothing to this appreciative, nodding, smiling circle, that she had left the cabin she shared with Mrs. Calvert, Miss Gay, and another, in a deplorable condition. Her belongings, such as brushes, combs, shoes, hair-pins, gowns, strewn broadcast, within very narrow limits. Enough for them, that the effect of her labours was excellent, and a few pretty apologies and a little bit of “butter” were ample payment in her opinion for Miss Rose Gay, who was tidying, folding, and evolving order out of chaos below.

Belle looked so pretty, and chatted so pleasantly, that she was a general favourite. She was the mainspring of amusement, too; she taught games, gave riddles, sang delightfully on the moon-lit deck, to the accompaniment of a guitar, acted admirably, and gave readings; got up Mrs. Jarley’s waxworks, and was quite a leading spirit on board the Nankin. And if she was a little untidy in the cabin, and now and then made thoughtless speeches—who is perfect?

Her dog “Mossoo” was not quite so popular, although he also entertained his fellow-travellers by walking on his head, waltzing and dying. His mistress made such a fuss about him, insisted on having him to sleep in her berth, kept up a continual commotion about his food, allowed him to lie on other people’s chairs, and clipped him with other people’s scissors. He was not a pleasant poodle and took no pains to make himself agreeable. He was self-conscious, affected, and vain. He had a little brown snub nose, round reddish-brown eyes—that seemed full of wicked thoughts—and a mole on his upper lip, not concealed by his moustache, which gave him a sneering supercilious expression. He appeared to be saying: “But you are only human beings, I am an accomplished French poodle.” Most people like dogs, but “Mossoo” made no friends. He was despised by the ship cat, detested by the crew, and was once stigmatised by an angry steward as “a lazy good-for-nothing brute, who slept all day and ate like a passenger.” As the voyage wore on, Miss Redmond’s popularity became a little threadbare. She talked too much, and, in her eager desire to cater for listeners, she sometimes said things that were best omitted, made daring little jokes at the expense of other ladies, related amusing anecdotes that were for the benefit of the cabin—not the deck. Some of the men (seasoned old Indians), who were acquainted with George Holroyd, made polite advances to his bewitching little black-eyed bride—and were smilingly repulsed when they spoke of him. She merely laughed, and shrugged her shoulders, carelessly, and changed the subject; and subsequently they shrugged their shoulders, and wondered what a smart fellow like Holroyd, such a popular chap, and good all round, could see in that chattering, flighty, over-dressed doll.

Mrs. Calvert (Belle’s chaperon) was a slight, refined, rather worn-looking woman, who had left four young children at home, and was following her husband’s fortunes, whilst her sister, Miss Gay, accompanied her—possibly in quest of her own. She was plain, but so neat and smart that she was almost pretty; clever, bright, and amiable—and both sisters were unmistakably ladies in every sense of the word. These two, and another, shared Belle’s cabin. It was not as if she shared theirs, for the whole of that restricted apartment was pervaded by her belongings, from gloves and shoes to “Mossoo’s” coat, collar and bones. In such narrow quarters, one is not long in discovering the true character of one’s fellow-passenger; there is no better opportunity for mutual insight, and many a lasting feud or friendship has been born in a four-berthed cabin! Belle began well: she was affectionate to Mrs. Calvert and her sister (and agreeable to Miss Cox—who made up the quartette), insisting on Miss Gay calling her by her Christian name, and effusive with offers of scent, face lotions, and various loans of small articles, eager to do every one’s hair, eager to alter people’s hats—in fact most anxious to ingratiate herself—and she succeeded. She kissed Mrs. Calvert—in spite of that lady—and wound her arm round Miss Gay’s waist or leant upon her as they paced the deck in the twilight. But by and by, capricious Belle found “other fish to fry.” Her head was a little turned by her unusual social success; she became less demonstrative in her affection, and alas! alas! her temper began to be seen! One day it appeared in great force in the cabin, as they were dressing for dinner, all somewhat hot and hurried.

“Did you see that horrid Mr. Noakes throwing ‘Mossoo’ out of his chair,” she said, “as if the poor dog was doing any harm? Mr. Noakes is a detestable cad! A regular ‘’Arry.’”

“He is a friend of mine,” said Miss Cox stiffly, “and I beg you not to call him names.”

“Stuff,” exclaimed Belle, with the light of battle on her face, “I can’t help your having cads for friends, this is a free ship! I shall say what I please, I shall say more—birds of a feather flock together.”

“You shall not say what you please to me,” returned the other, not knowing with whom she had to cope, nor that it was a fatal mistake to argue with Miss Redmond; but argue she did, and she had the best of the dispute, whilst Mrs. Calvert and her sister were the miserable witnesses to a quarrel that would have disgraced the Kilkenny cats! Miss Redmond, boiling over with ungovernable fury, gave her too ready opponent a smart slap on the face with the back of a hair brush, a slap that left a mark—a mark that was shown to the Captain—and after this, there was a somewhat constrained silence. Belle held her head high, and pretended that she did not care. Nor did she notice, later in the evening, how some of the ladies whispered and looked. This scene was the precursor of several of a similar type; there were hot words, though no blows, in other places, and she missed her mother desperately on these occasions—her mother who had always officiated as her buffer and shield. These cruel people received her hysterical apologies so very, very coldly. By the time that Bombay lighthouse was in view, Belle’s evanescent popularity had almost wholly disappeared. What would she have said, had she peeped over the shoulder of one of her former admirers, and seen the letter he was writing for the mail.

“We have lots of girls on board, some going out to be married, some on promotion, some pretty, some plain. A Miss Redmond takes the cake, as far as looks and frocks go. She plays the guitar and sings and acts and is coming out for amusement only, and means to go far. She has a truly tropical temper, and has embroiled herself with several of her sex, and for all her bright eyes and many fascinations, I heartily pity the poor devil who is to marry her.”

Yes, Belle’s temper had as usual been her social bane, and most of the ladies who were her fellow-passengers (forgetting all her pretty time-killing efforts) spoke of her subsequently in their several circles as “that awful creature we came out with on board the Nankin.” Mrs. Calvert and her sister were silent and circumspect, and by an immense outlay of tact and forbearance managed to keep an unbroken peace, but they lived in a state of repressed nervous excitement, and more than once were appealed to, and almost forced into a quarrel either with her or Miss Cox. Mrs. Calvert marvelled at what possessed George Holroyd to marry this shallow, restless, fiery little person, who rarely named him, and then with as much emotion as if she were speaking of her washerwoman.

One afternoon, when she and her sister were leaning against the bulwarks watching the deep green water, and sheets of lace-like foam that fell away from the steamer’s bows, they began to discuss their charge with bated breath.

“I cannot imagine what has happened to George Holroyd,” exclaimed Mrs. Calvert. “How can he call her a simple little country girl?” glancing across at Belle.

“Yes,” returned her sister, “he must be very blindly in love, if he supposes her to be but nineteen.”

“She looks quite ten years older—nearly as old as I am,” said Mrs. Calvert.

“And so she is,” replied Miss Gay. “I heard her talking of being at Ascot on a Cup day, and some one said, ‘Why that horse ran eleven years ago.’ She seemed so vexed, and said that she was taken by her mother when she was quite a little girl in short petticoats.”

“I shall be truly thankful when this voyage is over! We have had fine weather certainly, but what storms—my nerves, I know, have all gone to pieces, but sometimes, Rosie, I tremble all over!”

“Now that she and Miss Cox don’t speak it is better,” said her sister consolingly.

“But Miss Cox’s friends have all cut her, and so have several people. Oh! I little knew what I was undertaking,” rejoined Mrs. Calvert with a groan.

“I wonder whether Mr. Holroyd knows what he is undertaking?”

“Poor fellow! I am sure he has no suspicion of her temper—I wish you had seen the letter he wrote to me about his pretty inexperienced young bride.”

“Pretty, yes; inexperienced, no; young, no.”

“He has married her for herself alone. She has not a fraction; he actually paid for her passage. Her face is her sole fortune.”

“If he could but see her in her true colours, I am sure he would thankfully furnish her with a return ticket,” said Miss Gay briskly—“and there’s the first bell, let us hurry down and get dressed before she appears upon the scene, for you know, we won’t get near the glass!”

The Nankin arrived in Bombay a few hours earlier than she was expected, and the steam launch which brought off the company’s agent, various eager husbands, some servants to welcome old masters, and all the letters—did not bring George Holroyd.

The Calverts and their fair charge had been installed for some hours at Watson’s Hotel before he made his appearance, and during that time, although the bride-elect showed no anxiety, Mrs. Calvert was a prey to many misgivings.

Could he have heard of her quarrels and flirtations? Could he have changed his mind at the eleventh hour?

Belle, attired in a fresh and becoming toilette, was seated in the big verandah, surrounded by hopeful hawkers, and the cynosure of many admiring eyes. Some of her fellow-passengers were also sitting, or standing about, and there was a whisper among them, that possibly Miss Redmond’s bridegroom had cried off. They were all rather curious to see what manner of man he was, and his non-appearance occasioned some disappointment, and more excitement, now that an element of uncertainty was imported into the situation. But there was not the shadow of a cloud in Miss Redmond’s face, as she turned over jewellery and silver articles with childish delight, and excitedly bargained for rugs and phool-carries for her future drawing-room. Hearing a sudden exclamation of joy and relief from Mrs. Calvert, she raised her eyes, and saw George ascending the stairs, and with a bound across a case of rings, and three silver sugar-bowls, she fluttered out to meet him.

He was greatly altered, he looked worn, thin, and haggard; and he seemed to have aged ten years; his neatly-fitting tight suit hung loosely on him, and his hands were as emaciated as if he had just recovered from a long illness.

He explained, when the first greetings were over with Belle and the Calverts, that his train had broken down on the Ghauts, entailing a delay of twelve hours, and after a short parley, Belle, who was not the least bashful, placed her arm frankly within his, and led him away through a staring circle, into the privacy of the ladies’ sitting-room,—which happened to be empty.

“Well, George,” she exclaimed, “here I am you see,” and she put her hand on his shoulder, and gazed smilingly into his face.

Poor George, he had been nerving himself for this terrible interview for days, and the reality proved more than the anticipation.

“Yes, here you are, I see,” and he kissed her. “I hope you have had a good passage?”

“Delightful, but what dreadfully short notice you gave me, and”—as if it had only just struck her—“how desperately ill you are looking. Were you afraid that I would not come?”

“I have had a very bad go of fever,” he answered evasively. “And nothing knocks one over so quickly. I shall soon be all right.”

“And how do you think I am looking?” she enquired coquettishly.

“Prettier than ever,” he replied with promptitude, as he gazed dispassionately at his future wife—the wife that fate and Mrs. Redmond had sent him. She was really remarkably handsome, and appeared to be in the highest spirits, and utterly unconscious of her mother’s baseness.

“I am charmed with India so far!” she said, “with the funny Parsees with their coal-scuttle hats, and the brown natives, the warm atmosphere, the big buildings, the Portuguese waiters, the hotel and the hawkers, in fact, with everything.”

“I am very glad that India has made a good impression on you at first sight, and I hope you may never have any occasion to change your mind. I have got everything ready for you at Mangobad, and I think you will like your future home.”

“I am certain I shall. Oh, George, you don’t know how pleased I was to get your letter. How sly you were all along. I never could be quite sure that you cared for me, and I was very miserable; that dreadful life at Noone was killing me by inches. Here we have plenty of sun, and life and colour, and society and constant change. How happy we shall be!”

“I hope so, with all my heart,” he answered gravely.

“But how quiet and silent and solemn you are; what has happened to you? Has India this effect on people? You look like a death’s head.”

“You must not mind me. I have not yet got over the fever; it takes me some time to shake off. You must be gay enough for both of us,” with a rather dreary smile. “And now tell me, how did you leave them all at home. I mean your mother—and—and—Betty,” turning away so that she could not see his face.

“Mother saw me off herself, although she has been ailing a good deal, latterly; she will miss me very much, but she will have Betty.”

“But not for long,” rather sharply.

“Well, I don’t know; if you mean about Ghosty Moore, of course they like one another, and the Moores are fond of Betty, but nothing is positively settled as yet. I would never have got off without her, never have been ready in time; you really owe her a debt of gratitude, she worked almost day and night, and packed my boxes, and altered my dresses, and thought of every detail down to fans and oranges for the Red Sea. I shall miss her terribly. If there is any hitch about her marrying Ghosty Moore, we must have her out on a visit by and by, what do you think?”

George became very white, and made no reply.

“I know you like her, for you have often said so, and she would not be with us very long. She would be sure to marry, though of late she has completely lost her looks, whether it was from a cold, or fretting at parting with me, or worrying herself about Ghosty, I cannot say, but she is really growing quite plain. Shall we have her out if the match does not come off?”

“No. What puts her into your head just now? You have scarcely arrived in India yourself.”

“‘No,’ George, dear; what are you saying? ‘No,’ to me already?”

“I think married people are best by themselves. You know the saying, ‘Two are company, etc.’”

“How can you be so ridiculous; as if poor Betty would be in the way any more than she was at Noone!”

“At any rate, your mother could not spare her—even if there was no other reason.”

“That is true, and I am certain Augustus Moore could not spare her either. Betty will be old Sally Dopping’s heiress, and a great catch. Now let us go back to the others, I hate people to suppose that we are billing and cooing, it’s so stupid. By the way, those two friends of yours, Mrs. Calvert and her sister, are a pair of detestable cats. I can’t bear them, and I know they can’t bear me. I shall be so glad when I am formally handed over to you. Come along now, they are making tea in the verandah, let us join the rest of the company,” to which request George agreed with rather suspicious alacrity. That interview was over, and he had played his part pretty well. So he said to himself, as he wiped his pale forehead, and followed his unsuspecting fiancée out of the room. Sitting opposite to Belle, as she sipped her tea, and chattered volubly, he realised what a very pretty woman she was, especially when he contrasted her with various faded matrons, who were waiting for the next homeward-bound steamer. She had all the advantages of taste, and dress, and freshness.

She was “handsome, agreeable, and good-tempered,” he assured himself, and he was doing what was right in his own eyes—and it might have been worse. Poor George!