Proper pride

The Alligator put in at Malta for twenty-four hours, and all the passengers landed and “did” the sights. Reginald, in company with some fellow-sightseers, visited the cathedral, the fried monks, and other noteworthy objects, and, sentimental as it sounds, he strolled past the house where he had first met Alice.

“Who would have thought,” he said to himself, “that that simple, unsophisticated girl would have turned out so hard and unyielding? She had given him a bitter lesson; he had done with her and all womankind, that was certain;” but before he reached Port Saïd his heart was considerably softened.

The handsome young second lieutenant and he were constantly thrown together, and had become capital friends. They were partners at whist, and frequently played in the same game at deck-quoits. One evening they were standing in the stern, watching a large steamer passing in the distance, homeward bound, when the lieutenant abruptly broached the delicate subject of matrimony.

“No one would think,” he said, critically surveying his companion, “that you were a married man.”

“Then you are not as clever as a friend of mine, who declares that he recognises a Benedict at once by the cut of his boots, and could swear to his umbrella,” said Sir Reginald.

“You haven’t a married look about you,” resumed the sailor, “no, nor your wife either. I never was more amazed than when she told me she was married.”

“Indeed!” replied Sir Reginald stiffly.

“Yes, I put my foot in it rather; I always do if there is the slightest aperture for that extremity. Thinking her a girl come on board with her friends merely to see off some casual acquaintance, I told her that the chances were that many of those embarking would never see England again. A most happy remark, was it not?” observed the sailor emphatically.

“And what then?” asked his companion with averted eyes, busily arranging the focus of his opera-glasses.

“Oh!” she said, “don’t, my husband is going;” and then she burst into floods of tears. Such oceans I never saw; how they poured down into Portsmouth Dock I shan’t soon forget.

“Did she say that I was her husband?” inquired Sir Reginald, looking at him searchingly.

“Yes, of course she did. You are, are you not?” returning his gaze with wide-open curious eyes.

“I am,” very shortly. “After all, that is not a P. and O. boat. Now she is close, you can easily see that she is one of the Messageries; yes, you were right after all, and I was wrong,” said Sir Reginald, changing the conversation and handing the glasses back to the lieutenant.

A few minutes later he moved away, and leaning over the bulwarks in a secluded spot he finished his cheroot alone. Somehow his heart felt lighter than it had done for a long time; and when, some hours later, he went below to his “horse-box,” and found his own particular fellow-passenger asleep and snoring, he took out a cabinet photo of Alice, taken shortly after their wedding, and gazed at it long and earnestly. How happy she looked—how lovely! Infamously as she had treated him, there was no one like his Alice after all. He had the weakness to kiss the pasteboard and put it under his pillow, and in a few minutes was sound asleep.

The Alligator of course stopped at Port Saïd, that perennial abode of sand, flies, and dogs; full of melancholy-looking empty cafés chantants, where the performers, ranged on the platforms, and all ready to strike up, appear to be only waiting for an audience, and audience there is none. The sandy streets were full of people—Jews, Turks, infidels, and heretics. The home-coming Anglo-Indian, with stupendous mushroom topee swathed in a quarter of a mile of white puggaree, and armed with a large double-covered umbrella, passes the out-going “Griff,” got up in pot-hat, dogskin gloves, cane, etc., with a stony stare.

But a very little of Port Saïd goes a long way with most people; and the Alligator passengers, having laid in a supply of eau-de-cologne, oranges, and umbrellas, with which to face the Red Sea, were not sorry to troop back on board to the welcome signal of the “dinner” flag.

They edged their way cautiously through the Canal, and bore down the Red Sea with wind and weather in their favour. The sky and sea were like Oxford and Cambridge blue; there was not a ripple in the water. The far-receding Arabian coast engaged the attention of at least a dozen deluded opera-glasses looking out for Mount Sinai.

Oddly-shaped islands were passed, including the notorious “Brothers,” so little above water and so much in the line of traffic, that more than one ill-fated steamer has borne down on them at full speed and sunk like a stone. Aden was left behind in due time, and after a pleasant breezy run across the Indian Ocean, one early morning Colaba lighthouse was descried in sight, and not long afterwards they were steaming majestically up Bombay harbour, and anchored off the Apollo Bund. To a new arrival, how bright and gorgeous and eastern it all looked!

The long low stretch of land, covered with white and yellow buildings of all shapes and sizes, set off with a background of green trees; rising here and there against the turquoise sky were palms lofty and graceful, which alone made everyone realise that they were actually in the East at last.

The harbour was crowded with shipping. Steamers and sailing ships at anchor abounded on all sides; and flitting in every direction were native bunderboats plying between them and the shore. Fishing-boats, with enormous lateen-shaped sails, were spread up the harbour towards Elephanta. Even the grotesque junk was represented; and altogether the scene was novel and lively. And now for the moment of parting and disembarking on board the Alligator. None of the former were particularly tender, for there had been no very prononcé flirtations. In this respect the troopers pale before the P. and O., and those who were bound for the same station had generally herded together on the voyage out. There was wild work at the railway station, but after awhile the Alligator’s late freight were steaming along to their several destinations in Bengal, Madras, or Bombay.

Sir Reginald Fairfax and Captain Vaughan, Seventeenth Hussars, along with the draft in their charge, were forwarded to Camelabad; and after a wearisome three-days’ journey, half-blinded with glare and smothered with dust, they found themselves (figuratively speaking) in the arms of their brother “Braves.” The Seventeenth had only recently arrived in the station, and had barely shaken down into the quarters vacated by the out-going “Guides,” whose furniture, horses, and traps they had also succeeded to, after the exchange of sundry bags of rupees, as horses, traps and furniture, once settled at an Indian station, rarely leave it. An old habitué will say to a new arrival—a bride most likely, and vain of her first equipage:

“Oh, I see you have got the Carsons carriage.”

“Oh dear no; it is ours.”

“Yes, I know that, of course; but it was the Carsons’, and before that it belonged to the Boltons, who got it from the Kennedys, who brought it from Madras.”

Camelabad was a lively populous station, large and scattered. There was always something going on. The hospitality of the Anglo-Indian is proverbial; society, as a rule, pulls well together. The backbiting, scandal, and cause for scandal, so much attributed to Indian circles, is no worse out there than it is at home. The fact of being fellow exiles draws people together, and they are more genial to each other than in their native land.

But to return to Camelabad. It was certainly a very gay place; dances, dinners, theatricals, “At homes,” not to speak of polo matches, sky races, and paper-chases, succeeded each other rapidly. The Seventeenth Hussars were soon drawn into the giddy vortex; they set up a weekly “function,” and gave a capital ball, and speedily ingratiated themselves with their neighbours. They went everywhere and did everything, “as people always do who have not long come out,” quoth the Anglo-Indian of thirty years’ standing with lofty contempt. They all went out with one exception, and he never mixed in society; for which reason, strange to say, society was most anxious to make his acquaintance. The Seventeenth were repeatedly asked: “Why does not your junior major show? Excepting on boards or courts-martial, he is never to be seen.”

“Why does he not come and call?” a lady of high social position asked the colonel. “I want to have him to dinner. What makes him so unsociable? Such a handsome young man too! I saw him at the review on the Queen’s birthday. You must stir him up!”

“I can’t, my dear madam. I have tried to stir him up, as you call it, but it was no good. Nevertheless, he is a capital fellow; first-rate officer; keen sportsman; and awfully popular with men. But I take it he does not care for ladies; got rather a facer from one of them, I fancy.”

This having transpired, Sir Reginald became more interesting than ever to the public mind; but as all invitations invariably met the same fate—a polite refusal—he was in time permitted to “gang his ain gait,” and relegated to the ranks of the outer barbarians. He played polo with the regimental team, rode the regimental cracks in the sky races, and was looked on as an enormous acquisition by the Seventeenth, who considered him a kind of Admirable Crichton in a small way, his riding, shooting, and cricketing being much above par. His personal appearance they regarded with undisguised complacency as a valuable adjunct to the average good looks of the corps; and he was installed in their opinion as an out-and-out good fellow and thorough gentleman.

“I used to be sick of hearing some of the Fifth fellows quoting Fairfax for this, that, and the other,” remarked one; “but, strange to say, their swan is a swan after all, and has not turned out to be that very toothsome but homely bird—a goose!”

With all his popularity, he was the last man with whom any of them would have taken a liberty. He would have been bold indeed who would have asked him why he left the Fifth Hussars, not to speak of a fine country place, magnificent shooting, and ten thousand a-year, to lead a dull monotonous life on the scorching plains of India? He would have been bolder still who would have inquired about the fair and exceedingly pretty girl, that Captain Vaughan had seen sitting next him at dinner the day of embarkation. Who was she? Was she his sister or his sweetheart? Someone said he had a vague idea that Fairfax was a married man; but he was silenced and crushed by general consent.

Fairfax was a bachelor—crossed in love, if you will—but a bachelor pur et simple. Look at his bungalow—rigid simplicity. Look at his room—not a bit of woman’s work, not a photo, not an ornament. A perilously narrow camp-bed, a few chairs, a portable kit, a writing-table, and a squadron of boots, and that was all. There were a few books, chiefly on cavalry tactics and military history, leavened with half-a-dozen sporting novels; not a French one among them. Anything but like the accepted idea of a smart young cavalry officer’s lair. If, as they say, a man’s room is a type of himself, Fairfax was a soldier, a rigid moralist, and above all a bachelor, and one who would no doubt develop into an old bachelor into the bargain.

Captain Campbell and Lieutenant Harvey were sitting in their mutual verandah, in long chairs, clad in costumes more conspicuous for ease than elegance, smoking, taking away the characters of their neighbours’ horses, and minutely discussing the approaching big races. From horses they came to riders, and finally to Fairfax.

“He is one of the best fellows going, but I cannot make him out; he looks like a man with a story.”

“He does; and he has one you may be sure,” replied Captain Campbell with conviction, languidly puffing at his cheroot.

“If he was the life and soul of the Fifth, as we have heard, their ideas of mirth and jollity are more moderate than I could have imagined. Sometimes, I grant you, he is in fairish spirits, and he can say very amusing things; but, as a rule, he is silent and distrait. It is certainly in field sports and on parade that he shines most; brilliant sociability is not his forte.”

“No, decidedly not; and yet how all the fellows like him, from the latest youngster from home upwards; although he is down upon the boys at times, and has the art of being more politely and unpleasantly sarcastic than anyone I know. One would think he was forty to hear him talk, he is so circumspect and staid; and he can’t be more than six or seven and twenty at the very outside. The youngsters respect him as if he was the Commander-in-Chief himself; and the remarks at his end of the table are never so free as elsewhere. There must be some reason for his premature gravity. There’s a woman in the case, depend upon it,” said Captain Campbell, tossing away the end of his cigar with an emphatic gesture. “Cherchez la femme, say I.”

“I should not wonder. Probably he has been crossed in love—jilted perhaps,” suggested Mr. Harvey.

“She must be uncommonly hard to please, whoever she is, for he is one of the best-looking fellows you could see—well-born and rich.” Captain Campbell paused for a moment to reflect on these advantages, and then continued: “It is a curious thing that he never mentions a woman’s name, and is altogether very close about himself and his family. Do you remark that he takes tremendously long solitary rides, and gives his horses the most work of any man in the station, for he gallops often, he gallops far, and he gallops fast.”

“He never seems to care to ride with anyone, don’t you know.” (Mr. Harvey put in “don’t you know,” on an average, every three words.) “I offered my agreeable society at various times, but he always put me off in that quiet way of his, don’t you know; so I thought: ‘My dear fellow, saint as we think you, you have some little game up, and I’ll see what it is, don’t you know.’”

“That will do, my dear fellow; that’s the eleventh ‘don’t you know.’ Stick to Fairfax,” exclaimed his companion impatiently.

“Well, last Saturday evening, about five o’clock, I saw him going out of his compound on that new black Australian of his; and as I was just going for a ride myself, I nipped up on ‘Agag,’ and struck out after him, on the sly naturally; and a nice chase he led me—for nothing too. He went easy enough till he got well out of sight of the cantonment, and then, by Jove, didn’t he put the pace on! Oculus meus! how he took it out of the Waler. He rode slap across country as if he was mad, clean over every nullah, big or little, that came in his way. I had a hideous conviction that, if I followed him, especially on ‘Agag,’ I should come to a violent end, so I stayed in a mango tope, and kept my ‘cold gray’ on him in the distance. When he had galloped his fill, and exorcised whatever demon possessed him, he came back after a ring of seven or eight miles, with the black all in a lather, but looking as cool as a cucumber himself. I joined him—quite promiscuously of course—but I fancy that he twigged he had been followed; there was a look in those keen eyes of his that made me feel deuced uncomfortable. I’m certain that he has something on his mind. A woman for choice. Maybe he threw her over, and she went mad, or drowned herself, or something, don’t you know, and the pangs of remorse are preying on his soul, eh?” cried Mr. Harvey, having talked himself breathless.

“A lively and cheerful idea truly,” said Captain Campbell, sitting erect in his chair. “In my opinion it’s far more likely that the girl of his affections has been faithless. He never talks of a woman, never gets a letter from one; his correspondents are all of the sterner sex—vide the letter-rack—and he keeps his own concerns religiously sealed from every eye, and never talks of himself in connection with any belongings. He is a mystery, and a most interesting one. Why did he come out here? Why did he leave his old regiment, where he was so popular? What makes him so reserved and self-contained? I have watched him at mess, when all of you were listening open-mouthed to one of the doctor’s stories. I have seen Fairfax, when he thought no one was observing him, lean back in his chair, with a sombre weary look, as if he were sick and tired of life. And that time when Vaughan had fever so badly, and he nursed him, I sat up with him part of a night. Vaughan was sleeping, and he remained in the verandah. I fell asleep too, and when I woke up a couple of hours later there was Fairfax in the very same attitude as I had left him, still gazing at the stars, and still apparently thinking profoundly. I watched him for a good while before I spoke, and there was something indescribable in his face and attitude that made me feel very sorry for him, and I seemed nearer to knowing him that night than I had ever done before. Presently I said, ‘A penny for your thoughts, Fairfax,’ and he gave such a start as he turned round and said, ‘They are not worth it; they are merely about myself, and not very pleasant ones either,’ and then he got up and went back to Vaughan and stayed beside him the remainder of the night. He is one of the best fellows and most gentlemanly men I ever knew. But as to following him as you have done”—flourishing a fresh cheroot in the direction of his friend—“or ever trying to force myself into his confidence, I would as soon think of cutting my throat.”

“Did you remark him on Christmas Day?” asked Mr. Harvey eagerly, as if struck by a sudden thought. “After dinner, when we all drank ‘Sweethearts and wives,’ how taken aback he looked. I was sitting opposite him, and he turned as pale as a sheet. He set down his glass untasted at first, but I remarked that he drank it off afterwards. There is a woman in the case, that’s certain.—Chokra! bring me a brandy-and-soda.”

This conversation took place nearly a year after Sir Reginald had joined the Seventeenth, and during that year two events of importance had occurred. I will relate them as they came. He had been several months at Camelabad, and had quite settled down to Indian military life, and was beginning to look upon the short time he had spent at home as a sort of fevered vision. He never heard from Alice. His only correspondents were Mark Mayhew and Geoffrey, with an occasional note from Helen. He heard from her that his wife had shut herself up at Monkswood and declined all society, that her answers to their letters were rare and brief, and that her aunt, Miss Saville, had been laid up in Ireland with rheumatic fever, and would not be able to join her niece for some time.

This was all that he had gleaned about Alice since he had left home; consequently, when carelessly glancing through the Home News one mail-day his eye was caught by the following, “Fairfax—On the 10th inst., at Monkswood, Lady Fairfax, of a son,” he was simply thunderstruck. He took the paper over to his own bungalow adjoining the mess and read the paragraph over and over again—it had an absolute fascination for him—but read as he would, it came to the same thing. It could not be her, it was some other Lady Fairfax; but scarcely of Monkswood also, his common sense urged. He felt a conviction that it was true, and yet he could not realise it. He a father—Alice a mother! Well, at any rate, he was glad it was a boy. There was an heir to Looton now, whatever happened to him. His father would hardly have rested in his grave if the Fairfax money and acres had gone to the Serles and the good old name become extinct. Yes, he was glad that there was no chance of that now; but as for Alice, he thought worse of her than ever. That he should know of their child’s birth through the medium of a newspaper showed the contempt in which she held him. His dark cheek reddened as he angrily flung the paper from him and began to pace the room rapidly from one end to the other. He would take no notice whatever of the event, as far as Alice was concerned. No, he certainly would not write to her. This was the resolution he came to, as he proceeded hastily to dress for mess, where he was, if anything, more silent and preoccupied than usual.

As he was going to bed that night he called his servant Cox into his room—a most exceptional proceeding. Cox was an old retainer, who had followed him from the Fifth, and believed implicitly that the sun rose and set entirely and exclusively in the person of his master the major. He alone was in Sir Reginald’s confidence, and naturally a silent and taciturn man; touching his master’s private affairs, he was mute as the grave.

“Here, Cox, I thought I would show you this,” said Sir Reginald, holding out the paper and pointing to the announcement.

Cox saluted, slowly read the paragraph, and stared blankly at his master; then recovering his manners and his presence of mind, said concisely:

“I give you joy, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Reginald, pouring out a tumbler of champagne; “you are to drink his health and keep the news to yourself.”

“Health and happiness and a long life,” said Cox, quaffing off the toast as if it was spring water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. After staring expectantly at his master for some seconds, and finding him evidently buried in his own thoughts, he added gruffly: “I suppose I may go now, sir.” An eager nod of assent was his only answer, and he lost no time in backing himself out into the verandah, and hurrying off to his barrack-room in time to report himself before the bugles sounded the last post.

The following mail brought a letter from Mrs. Mayhew. She generally enclosed a little note in her husband’s epistles, but this was a long effusion for a wonder.

Helen kept her promise, and during her stay at Monkswood Reginald heard from her regularly; but neither line nor message was ever enclosed from his wife, so neither line nor message was ever sent by him. He did not even mention her name in his letters—letters which Helen could not refuse to Alice’s wistful eyes—letters which Alice read with pale face and trembling lips, and returned without a single observation.

Two months later a bad attack of jungle fever procured Sir Reginald leave of absence. For months he had been like a bird beating against the bars of his cage to get away to Cheetapore, as letters, telegrams, and inquiries of all kinds had been utterly useless in throwing any light on the mysterious certificate. But the colonel of the Seventeenth Hussars was rather short of officers, and could not spare his smart young major, who had no claim whatever to leave, having so recently arrived from England; besides, his particular motto was, “No leave,” and as an Irish sub once angrily expressed it, “No leave, and as little of that as possible.”

At last Sir Reginald reached Cheetapore, very much knocked up by the long journey, and a mere shadow of the man who had left it two years previously. The Twenty-ninth Dragoons, who had replaced his old regiment, hospitably took him in and “put him up.” For two or three days he was prostrated by a recurrence of the fever, and fit for nothing. The first evening he was able to go out he went and called on the chaplain. He was not at home. Leaving a note to make an appointment, he went on to the band with one of his entertainers. As they drove round the circle, Miss Mason—still Miss Mason—lolling back in her carriage, could scarcely believe her eyes, and Mrs. Chambers, her once firm ally and now implacable enemy, could hardly trust hers either. She said to one of the Twenty-ninth, who lounged up to her barouche: “Who is that in the dog-cart with Captain Fox? He looks frightfully ill.”

“Oh, that’s Fairfax of the Seventeenth Hussars. He has come down here on some mysterious errand or other. He would be much better on his way to Europe instead. Looks as if he was going off the hooks, doesn’t he?”

“He looks very ill indeed. What on earth brings him here?”

“Well, if you won’t repeat it, I’ll tell you,” coming closer and speaking confidentially. “Strictly private, you understand. Mum’s the word.”

“Oh, of course!”

“Well, I believe it’s about a marriage certificate which someone posted home from here, and has caused the most frightful unpleasantness in his family. He has a wife in England, so you may fancy there was rather a scrimmage. He was only just married, and to a most awfully pretty girl too, when this particular missive dropped in. She left him at once, and he came out here with the Seventeenth. He has left no stone unturned to get the affair cleared up, but he has only managed to come down and see after it himself now—leave stopped. I fancy he will make it pretty hot for the forger if he finds him! It’s ten years’ penal servitude, is it not?”

“I am sure I don’t know,” replied the fair culprit faintly, looking very white. “But oh! if she could only be the means of getting Charlotte Mason transferred to Australia at Government expense! How too delightful it would be!” ignoring her own little share in the transaction. “Did you say that his wife had left him?” she asked, looking intently at Sir Reginald, whose dog-cart was drawn up close by.

“So he told me.”

“How ill and worn he looks,” she thought, gazing at him. “Supposing he should die!—he looked as if he had death in his face. If he did, she would never know a moment’s peace—never! She would make full confession and trust to his mercy. He would not be hard upon her, it was not her fault; it was Charlotte Mason’s scheme, and Charlotte ought to be shown up, unmasked, and transported.” Being a person who almost always acted on impulse, she beckoned to Captain Fox as soon as her former cavalier had sauntered away, and asked him to tell Sir Reginald Fairfax that she wished to speak to him particularly. Much bewildered and with great reluctance he slowly followed the messenger to the carriage, where Mrs. Chambers, with a rather frightened white face, accosted him:

“I see you do not remember me, Captain Fairfax? It quite shocks me to see you looking so ill.”

He bowed and muttered inaudibly.

“Won’t you get into my carriage for a little, and we can talk over old times?” Seeing him hesitate, she bent over the side of the carriage and whispered in his ear: “It’s about the certificate.”

With an alacrity she was quite unprepared for from his languid and delicate appearance, he accepted her invitation and took a seat opposite her, and turning his clear dark eyes upon her, looked as if he would read her very soul.

Meanwhile Captain Fox sauntered off to join a promenading dandy, muttering to himself: “That Mrs. Chambers sticks at nothing; she is becoming faster and more foolish than ever! The idea of her tackling a strange fellow like that! I had no idea he was such an ass! A regular case of ‘“Walk into my parlour,” said the spider to the fly.’”

“Sir Reginald,” said the spider to the supposed fly, “I have something to tell you,” and forthwith she unfolded her tale from beginning to end. When she came to the part where she mentioned it as a joke his eyes literally blazed, and he seemed with difficulty to refrain from some exclamation; but till she concluded he was perfectly silent. When she stopped to take breath after her hurried confession, he asked, with pardonable vehemence:

“What have I ever done to Miss Mason or you that you should do me such a deadly injury? Do you know that the happiness of my life has been utterly destroyed by your ‘joke,’ as you are pleased to call it? I must say that your and Miss Mason’s reading of the word is very different to mine. The least you can do, and shall do,” he said, looking at her sternly, “will be to make out a written confession of everything, and send it up to my quarters (Captain Fox’s) to-morrow. I can hardly believe that you can have been the credulous tool you would appear. Good evening,” he said, springing out of the carriage and walking over towards that of her confederate, who had been watching the conference with the liveliest dismay.

“Miss Mason,” he exclaimed abruptly, perfectly heedless of two of Miss Mason’s satellites, who, with elbows on the carriage, and got-up with enormous care, had been regaling the fair Charlotte with scraps of the latest gossip—“Miss Mason,” he reiterated, “I know all!” There was an indignant tone in his voice and an angry light in his eyes that absolutely cowed her and astounded her companions. “You have forged an infamous lie, you have tampered with a church register, you have caused the greatest misery to a man who never wronged you, and to a girl whom you have never even seen! You are a forger,” he continued, almost choked between the two emotions which were struggling in his breast—joy and rage. “Unless by to-morrow morning you have made a full and explicit written statement of the whole affair, duly signed and witnessed, I shall submit the case to the cantonment magistrate, and you will be prepared to take the consequences. Penal servitude is what you deserve,” he added with bitter emphasis, as with a parting look of unspeakable indignation he turned and made his way through the crowd.

His face was livid, his eyes burned like two coals. Captain Fox gazed at him in undisguised astonishment. “Jove!” he thought, “what a temper the fellow must have! He looks ready to jump down the throat of all Cheetapore this instant. He is not a man I should care to trifle with. The fair Chambers has evidently put him out, to say the least of it.”

Sir Reginald hurriedly took him aside, and in as few words as possible told him the story; and then Captain Fox’s face was a study. His indignation knew no bounds. His expressions in connection with Miss Mason’s name were startlingly strong and vehement, and he laid the whip about his unlucky harness hack as if he had the fair culprit herself between the shafts.

Mrs. Chambers’ “letter” arrived the following morning, and although somewhat more pressure had to be brought to bear on Miss Mason, her confession was received in due time. Both were enclosed to Mr. Mayhew, who was to read them and forward them to Monkswood.

“Now she will, she must give in,” thought her husband. “In two months her letter will be out here, and in three, please goodness, I shall be in England.”

It is hardly necessary to state that the whole story of the practical joke was all over Cheetapore in less than two days. Captain Fox was by no means reticent on the subject, which was soon known to all the Dragoons, and from them filtered to the cantonment in general. Sir Reginald was the object of universal sympathy, and interest was considerably augmented by the rumoured youth and beauty of his wife. The whole incident had a romantic flavour about it that gratified the jaded palates of the Cheetapore monde, and it afforded them an universally interesting nine-days’ wonder. As to Miss Mason, the place was literally too hot to hold her. She and her colleague were put into “Coventry” forthwith. Finding such a position unbearable, she took the earliest opportunity of leaving the station and going on a long visit “up country.” But wherever she went the story was whispered with various additions, cela va sans dire; and to the end of her life she will have good reason to regret her practical joke.

END OF VOL. I.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.