CHAPTER XXIV.
“SWEET PRIMROSE IS COMING!”
Captain Waring had gone down the hill, gallantly escorting Mrs. Atherton and Miss Potter, and followed by an innumerable retinue of servants, ponies, and baggage.
He left a blank behind him—also an unpaid mess bill. His square shoulders, broad smile, and loud voice were missed in the club, verandah, and elsewhere.
He was coming back to settle up his bills, he declared, “and he left his cousin in pawn,” he added with a hearty laugh.
“Sara,” said her husband, coming in from his dressing-room, lathering his face—he was always clean-shaven, and looked twenty-five at a distance—“Waring is off. That young Jervis is all by himself; he has a broken wrist, and can’t play polo or tennis. Why on earth don’t you have him up here?”
“’Ark at the man!” appealing to Ben, who squatted beside her, helping her to dispose of her buttered toast. Mrs. Brande was seated at a little table in her own room, clad in a gorgeous dressing-gown, and partaking of chotah hazree. “Haven’t I asked him till I am tired? I’ve written to him, and gone to his house, and it’s all no use.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” rejoined her lord and master. “That is to say—I must admit that women are sharper in these ways than we are—if you think it’s all right, and there is no chance of his making a fool of himself with Honor? No fear of his falling in love, eh?” And as he calmly awaited her reply, he resumed operations with the shaving-brush.
“In love with Honor! Ha! ha! that is a good idea! If he is in love with any one it’s with me—so don’t say I did not put you on your guard! Honor, bless your dear simple old heart! why, they see precious little of one another, thanks to you, who always carry him off to tennis or to talk; and when they are together, as well as I can make out, they are fighting most of the time!”
“There’s nothing like beginning with a little aversion, so people say,” remarked Mr. Brande.
“Diversion! There won’t be much for him here, poor boy, with his lame arm. Do you remember, long, long ago, a Major Jervis of the Bengal Cavalry—a splendid-looking man, especially in full dress and his turban; a widower—he married again? This boy has a great resemblance to him. I wonder if he is any relation.”
“Merely his father—I asked him the first time I saw him! Jervis was A1 at rackets. I knew him rather well. He married a second time, a woman with tons of money in indigo and house property. The grand-daughter of a Begum, she had a pair of eyes like hot coals, and led him a life to correspond.”
“And what has become of him?”
“The boy is rather reserved, as you know, so I did not like to ask him, but as I have not heard of him for a good many years, I conclude that he is dead; indeed, I am nearly certain of it.”
“And the Begum’s lacs have not done much for the son? I hope you will get him to come here; take no refusal—it must be miserable work moping alone. All the same, I shall be huffed with him if he comes for you, after saying no to me.”
“Sara, you are a truly consistent woman!”
“And you are a truly fearful object to behold, with your face all over white; no wonder Ben is staring at you. There is the post peon—it must be late.”
Mr. Brande’s invitation proved irresistible, and the very next day saw Mark Jervis duly installed at Rookwood. The move occasioned no comment—his wrist was broken and he wanted looking after: the Brandes’ bungalow had ever been a sort of auxiliary station hospital. The young invalid soon made himself at home, and was certainly no trouble to any one, as his hostess frankly informed him. He was interested in the fowls and pigeons; he seemed knowing about ponies; he looked on admiringly whilst Honor filled the flower-glasses, and gave his candid opinion and advice; he played Halma with Mrs. Brande, and Patience with Honor—and acted as umpire at tennis.
“Here is quite a pack of letters,” said Mrs. Brande, coming into the verandah one morning, and critically examining them as she spoke. “One for you, Honor, one for me, and two for Mr. Jervis—‘300, Prince’s Gate,’ on the envelope”—handing it to him. “Is that the new style?”
“I really don’t know”—receiving his uncle’s epistle, and sitting down on the steps beside Ben.
Mr. Brande had a pile of officials for his share, and soon every one was plunged in their own correspondence.
“Uncle Pel,” said his niece, looking up from a crossed and scratchy letter, “here is a long epistle from Mrs. Kerry, our rector’s wife. She is going to hold a drawing-room meeting about missions, and she wishes me to tell her,” reading aloud, “what I think of the prospect of Christianity in this dark heathen land? I know nothing about the matter; what is your opinion?”
“That is rather a tall order, a big question”—sitting erect, sticking his eye-glass in his eye and focussing his niece. “I am sure I can tell you very little. India is many years behind the age—it is populous and isolated. The old creeds, however, are gradually being sapped. I dare say in a hundred years India will be Christian, and”—dropping his glass suddenly—“Britons may be Buddhists.”
“Oh, Uncle Pelham, do talk seriously for once; you know I could not write that home. Mrs. Kerry,” again referring to her letter, “asks particularly about the Hindoos!”
“Well, you can inform her that the Hindoos are naturally a devout people, and must have a religion. Some are now theists, atheists, agnostics; some mere coarse idolaters, who even in these days have devil-worship and witch-burning—yes, within a hundred miles of a college whose students devour Max Müller, and Matthew Arnold, and the most advanced literature of the day.”
“And Mahomedans?”
“Mahomedans never change, and never will change, until, having read history and science, they see themselves from another point of view. You can assure your friend that they, too, have their missionaries, who adopt street preaching and tract distribution, and that they may be found in countless bazaars, expounding the teaching of the Prophet. They make many converts, and among them some Christians! Pray tell the lady that.”
“I shall do nothing of the kind, Uncle Pelham.”
“Among the Hindoos, whose caste is so firm, the social conditions of the lower orders is so wretched and unchangeable, that numbers become Mahomedans, where all are alike, where severe asceticism is not necessary, and there are no outcasts, but scope for the indulgence of any ambition. There is your aunt’s old ayah; she does not know what she is. She attends Hindoo and Mahomedan feasts impartially. She believes alike in Vishnu and Mahomed; she also believes in whisky schrab!”
“My dear Pel, how can you say such a thing!” broke in his wife, indignantly. “Don’t be stuffing the child’s head with such dry rubbish, but just look at this.” And Mrs. Brande, who had risen, solemnly walked over and held out a photograph of a girl, and said, “Look here, P.; never mind your missionary talk, but tell me what you think of that? Who do you think she is?”
“An angel to look at, at any rate,” was the emphatic reply.
“Yes, did you ever see so perfect a face? Well, she is your own niece—Fairy Gordon?”
Yes, it was indeed Fairy—an exquisite picture of her: soft, posée, touched up, showing the best side of Fairy’s face—with Fairy’s best expression.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Brande, turning to Honor, “I would not exchange you for anybody, but she is the beauty of the family, and no two words about it. Eh, P.?”
“Beautiful indeed,” he assented; “but I prefer Honor’s bright little phiz and big inquiring eyes.”
He was a judge of countenance, and even a flattering photograph could not deceive him; there was a cruel pinched expression about the beauty’s lips.
“Come and look at this, Mr. Jervis,” cried the proud aunt. “Is she not lovely?”
“Yes ... lovely,” he responded. She was undoubtedly “the pretty one,” though he secretly agreed with Mr. Brande.
“I wonder what Mrs. Langrishe would say to her—eh? Eh, Honor?”
What indeed! Honor flushed violently and smiled constrainedly, but made no reply.
“And here is her nice little letter,” continued Mrs. Brande, dropping it into Honor’s lap. “I must send her something, poor child.”
The missive was written over two sheets, in an enormous hand—a hand that would have befitted a giantess—and ran as follows:—
“Dear Aunt Sara,
“I seem to know you so well from Honor’s letters, that I would like you to know a little about me, and I send you my photograph. It is considered very like me, only my hair and complexion—which Honor will tell you are my two strong points—do not come out. We devour her letters every week, and are quite familiar with Shirani, and the people there, and the flowers and the exquisite scenery, and your dear kind self. I envy Honor her delightful home—sometimes I cry when I think of it (and you will suppose that I am very foolish)—with balls, and parties, and picnics, and a pony of her own. Her life is a contrast to that of her poor little sister Fairy, who has no one to load her with kindness and gifts, and has not been to one dance since May, and who must make a pair of gloves last for months. However, I am not grumbling; Honor’s pleasures are mine. I feel your great generosity to her, and am most grateful to you. When you have time, I hope you will send me your photograph—we have not one of you—and also a few lines to cheer up our long dull days. How I wish we could afford to go away for a change! I dare say Honor has told you that at first I was the one who was to have gone out to you, but afterwards it was decided by the prudent ones of the family (Jessie and Honor) that I was to remain at home. Still I have always had a sort of feeling that I belonged to you, because for three whole days I was the chosen one, and could hardly eat or sleep, I was so happy. Excuse this rambling letter; I am not a bit clever, like the others, but I am ever
“Your loving niece,
“Fairy.
“P.S.—Is Honor engaged yet? She never mentions any admirers.”
It was the epistle of a Cinderella, and yet all her life Fairy had been made the family queen. Honor’s cheeks crimsoned with anger (her aunt imagined that it was the flush of shame or a guilty conscience) as she thought of the various little privations of her own and Jessie’s life, that Fairy might go softly; of the miles she had tramped, the shabby clothes she had worn for Fairy’s sake. It was but the other day that she had sent her eight pounds out of her allowance, instead of spending it on that pink ball-dress. Now that she was absent, there was, as Mr. Kerry had bluntly indicated, a larger margin for luxuries at home; it was really too bad that Fairy should write out to simple Aunt Sara, in this martyr-like vein.
Honor looked vexed, as she raised her eyes and met her aunt’s gaze—an inquiring gaze.
“And so the other child wanted to come?”—handing the letter from Honor to her husband. “And you never told me, you that are so free and open. Tell me now, since her mind was so set on it, what prevented her?”
“Aunt Sara, Fairy is not strong, not fit for long journeys or excursions, late hours, or a foreign climate. Our doctor said it would be madness for her to venture, and that was one reason. She changed her mind of her own accord. She has always been the family pet.”
“But you mention one reason. What was the other?”
Honor now became scarlet. “It was no harm—I would rather not say,” she stammered; “you will know some day,” and she looked desperately distressed.
“I wonder if she would come out now?” said Mrs. Brande, musingly. “We can put up two as easy as one. Eh, P.? The Hadfields expect Gerty in November. She might come with her, and get five or six months’ fun after all. It will give her something to talk of in future, and unless I’m mistaken, she will give people something to talk about. Eh, P.?”
Mr. Brande was slowly perusing his niece’s letter, but it did not appeal to him; it had a cringing fawning smack. Bright-eyed, impetuous Honor could never have penned such an epistle.
“There is a letter on the ground that you have not seen, Mrs. Brande,” said Mark Jervis, as he picked it up.
“So there is, I declare; it is from Mrs. Primrose. I’m sure she wants me to see about getting her house aired. She is rather late up this season.” Mrs. Brande ran her eyes over the paper, and gave vent to an expression of genuine dismay.
“What is the matter?” inquired her husband quickly.
“She cannot get away for ten days, and she is afraid to keep the child down there any longer, the heat is so awful. She wants me to take her?”
“O Lord!” ejaculated Mr. Brande. “We would sooner take anything—short of small-pox. Wire at once—no room here—there are telegraph forms on my writing-table.”
“Too late,” groaned Mrs. Brande; “she has sent her off—‘trusting,’” quoting the letter, “to my ‘well-known kindness and good nature!’ I’m a great deal too good natured, that’s what I am,” said Mrs. Brande, with unusual irritation. “The child and ayah are actually at the station now, and will be here the day after to-morrow.”
“Then I shall clear out, if I can possibly manage it,” said her husband, emphatically.
“What is there about this child, Uncle Pel, that throws you and Aunt Sara into such a panic?”
“Panic! I thank thee, niece, for teaching me that word! Yes; the very word—panic. Oh! I forgot you and Jervis here are new-comers, but most of the North-West have seen, or heard of, or suffered from ‘Sweet Primrose.’”
“Sweet! What a name! A play on words, I suppose,” said Honor.
“And a gross misfit,” growled Mr. Brande.
“Pray give us a few more particulars, sir,” urged Mark. “Prepare us—put us on our guard.”
“She is six years of age—an only child—‘cela va sans dire.’ Extremely pretty, and graceful, and intelligent.”
“Ah, I believe I shall like her,” said the young man, with an appreciative nod. “I am prepared to be her champion. I’m rather fond of children—especially pretty little girls.”
“She is as sharp as a surgical needle, active, greedy, restless, prying—with a marvellous memory for the conversations of her elders, and an extraordinary facility in relating them! The things that child has said, with the air of a little innocent saint; the secrets she has divulged to a whole room; the malapropos questions she has put——”
“Pelham!” interrupted his wife sternly, “if you are going to repeat any of them, please wait until Honor and I have left the verandah. The child is innocent enough,” she explained to Mark, “but mischievous, and she delights in seeing her elders look miserable. Oh dear me! dear me! I wish the next ten days were over. Ben can’t abide her, and no wonder—she dropped hot wax on his nose; and last time I had her here, she tried on every one of my best caps and bonnets, and threw them all over the place. But that was not the worst. At breakfast, one morning, she heard Mr. Skinner telling some story of a horse he had bought, which turned out to be a screw, and she clapped her hands in great glee and screamed, ‘I know what that is! I heard mother say that you were an awful screw.’ I thought I should have had a fit, and Mr. Skinner has never put a foot inside this house from that day.”