"To let"

Tom Galway (of the Princess’s Own Pea Green Pioneers) had evidently some weighty matter on his mind, as he lounged in a long chair in his verandah, nursing a veteran fox-terrier, and puffing furiously at a “Trichy” cheroot. Perhaps Tom was endeavouring to accustom himself to his new honours? His step was in that day’s Gazette, and for the last four hours he had been entitled to write “captain” at either end of his signature. He was a broad-shouldered, well set-up young man of eight-and-twenty, with sleepy-looking grey eyes, closely-cropped black hair, and a luxuriant moustache; his countenance was more remarkable for placid contentment than for brilliant intelligence. To tell the honest truth, Tom was not particularly sharp; he had only scraped through his examinations and mastered the drill-book by what he called “the skin of his teeth,” and with extraordinary (and to him) exhaustive mental exertions. His best friend never thought Tom Galway clever, but he was sporting, good-natured, and good-tempered. He never made a joke at any one’s expense—possibly because he could not—and he never said an ill word of mortal; he was slow, his thoughts moved languidly and took some time to grasp a subject; his blunders, literary and social, were the delight of the mess; but he was a reliable officer, a keen sportsman, and “Old Tom” was one of the most popular fellows in the “Princess’s Own Pioneers.” Tom was in the unfortunate condition common to a few other subalterns—Tom was impecunious; he did not gamble, bet, or drink; he kept no stud beyond a gaunt old caster, who enjoyed the appropriate name of “Barebones;” his clothes were latterly—tell it not in Gath—manufactured in his own verandah. Where the money went to was one of the desperate problems that frequently puzzled poor Tom; not that there was so much to go—two hundred and fifty rupees a month. Innocent British reader, if you like to do a nice little mental sum, a rupee is one shilling and threepence. Alas! alas! for the good old days, when the beloved coin was worth two shillings; woe, woe to those who have to remit money home. Luckily, Tom Galway was spared this harrowing experience. Of what was Tom thinking so earnestly? Of the burning currency question? Of his debts? Of his new responsibilities? Whatever his thoughts were, they suddenly culminated in action, for he cast away his cheroot, flung down the dog, went into the interior of his bungalow, dragged out a well-preserved leather writing-case and sat himself down before it. At this moment another young man, riding a lean chestnut pony, and dressed in cricket flannels and a gaudy striped coat, galloped up under the porch, as if he was being hotly pursued by a pack of wolves. Throwing the reins to a panting syce, he shouted—

“Hullo, Tom, so there you are! I’ve just come from the mess. I’ve told them to put the champagne in ice for to-night.”

“For what?” asked Tom, with a vacant look.

“Why, man alive, you’ve got to stand it! What are you mooning about? Did you not get your company to-day?”

“Oh! of course; of course, to be sure,” assented Tom, eagerly.

“What are you about; aren’t you coming down to rackets?”

“No; it’s mail day,” protested Tom rather sheepishly.

“Bosh! Why, you know you never write a letter, you old humbug.”

“Well, any way, I’m going to write one now, so clear.”

“To our mutual tailor? Give him my kind regards, and tell him that he will be paid in the coming by-and-by, and meanwhile to send you a couple of new suits.”

“I don’t owe him a penny,” said Tom, biting the end of his pen. “I’ve cleared him off, thank goodness.”

“Wish I could say the same,” said his comrade, hitching himself up on the corner of the table. “Maybe you are thinking of another kind of suit? I see my brilliant wit is thrown away on you! but you’ve heard of a law suit, eh, and of a love suit? He’s blushing, I declare—he can’t look me in the face. By Jove, he’s in love!”

“Look here, Jack,” said Tom, who certainly had become a shade redder, “can you stop your tomfoolery for once, and listen to me rationally for five minutes? I’m—ahem—I’m—thinking—of—getting married!”

At this announcement, Jack bounded off the table, rushed to the door, and placing both hands to his mouth, gave a wild view halloa that made the neighbouring compounds ring, and threw “Topper,” the terrier, into a paroxysm of excitement.

Having thus relieved his feelings, he turned quite gravely to his friend, drew up a chair, and leaning both elbows on the table, said—

“Tell us all about it, old chappie, but break it to me very gently, if it’s one of our Blazapore spins.”

“No, no; no fear—she is at home.”

“I suppose your new-made honours have put THIS into your head?” said Jack, surveying his chum with gaping half-contemptuous amazement.

“No—it has been in my head this long time; but, you see, I could not afford to marry.”

“Has she no coin?”

“Not a penny.”

“Come! that’s bad—and mind you, a captain’s pay is not a mine of wealth.”

“She is not extravagant—neither am I—we shall do as well as our neighbours.”

“I hope so,” said the other, dubiously; “but who is she?”

“First of all, promise that you won’t go tearing round the station telling every one.”

“Am I a cackling old woman!” demanded Jack, indignantly.

“Well, you remember when we were quartered at Baymouth—you recollect the two Miss Brownes?”

“Yes, to be sure I do—aunt and niece; aunt, rather ancient, voice like a peacock, smart frocks, pots of money; niece, pretty, and of course, penniless.”

“It’s the niece,” said Tom, almost in a whisper.

“So I should hope. I am glad to find that I have cultivated your taste to some purpose. I wish she had a few thousands and I would give you my consent, and maybe, a wedding present.”

“Your consent is not going to be asked for.”

“And how long has this been going on, you sly dog? Are you engaged to her?”

“No such luck. I could not well invite her to share a subaltern’s pay. She is not married yet, I know, and I’m going to write to her this mail, and ask her to be——”

“Mrs. Galway! Hooroo, hooray! And owner of Bungalow No. 25, two cane chairs, one camp table, one fox-terrier dog, aged, ditto bay horse, deaf and blind——”

“Shut up, will you, you young idiot?” said his friend, impatiently. “I know that her aunt leads her a devil of a life, and to come out to a home of her own would be a merciful release. You see she is companion, ladies’ maid, gooseberry, and scapegoat. Poor girl, she has had hard lines.”

“I remember Miss Browne, Senior—she was at every ball and tennis-party in the place,” observed Jack Murray, thoughtfully. “The niece was always kept well in the background. I was rather interested in the niece myself, but her aunt declared she hated society and had other engagements.”

“Her other engagements were sitting at home, darning stockings or crying her eyes out,” said Captain Galway. “Her aunt is a Tartar, if ever there was one. A soured, ill-natured, hypocritical old cat.”

“All the same she is a well-gilt old cat. Has heaps of coin. I wonder if she will give her niece a dowry?”

“If she gives her her passage money I shall be agreeably surprised,” was the prompt reply.

“Well, now, I suppose you want to write the letter, and I won’t disturb you,” said Jack Murray, rising, “unless I can be of any assistance? Eh?”

“No, thank you”—very gruffly.

“Mind you say what you mean, and don’t make a mull of the whole concern. ’Pon my word, I think you had better let me draft you a copy.”

For an answer his comrade took up a volume of the Queen’s Regulations and shied it at Jack, who, ducking his head, just evaded the missile, and, with another ear-splitting screech, mounted his barrack tat, and gleefully decamped.

Jack was a merry subaltern, whose gaiety never knew a cloud, whose face was never overcast, and who found existence intensely amusing, thoroughly enjoyed life, and the pleasures, excitements, duties, and diversions that it brought him.

It was no easy matter to Tom Galway to indite any letter—much less a love-letter. (His departed friend could have knocked off a billet-doux in less than five minutes.) How he bit the end of his pen, how he tore up sheet after sheet of the best crested regimental notepaper, how he wished he had taken Jack Murray’s offer, I will not linger to relate. In the end, he contrived to concoct and finish a missive, and was so completely exhausted and done up, that he was obliged to relieve his flagging faculties with a stiff whisky and soda.

“A letter like that takes it out of a fellow frightfully!” muttered Tom, mopping his forehead. “However, it’s done, and off my mind.”

He was a person of slow mental evolution; he had been deliberating over this step for months, and he had taken it at last. He dressed, carried the letter over to the mess, saw it placed in the post-bag and started on the first stage of its long journey. He stood and looked after the letter-corporal with an unusually solemn face. Would he recall the epistle if he could? No, no; ten thousand times, no. Nevertheless, between the important invitation just despatched and the responsibility of being actually captain of F company, our hero was considerably sobered, and that night at mess his silence and abstraction, despite several beakers of his own champagne, was the subject of unlimited remark and chaff. He did not fire up at the news of a polo scurry, nor join a tug-of-war with one of the punkah ropes, nor even jump at the proposal to put a buffalo calf into Major Pratt’s bed! [N.B.—Major Pratt was dining elsewhere. He was a little, lean, hungry-looking man, with a sharp nose and red moustache, adored by his regiment, and the idol of the fair sex—according to his own account. A less partial view was taken by the world, but is not that generally the case? Men who had a good opportunity of knowing the major, said that he was as deep as a draw-well; that he shirked his work; that he funked riding, and that he was a regular little screw! The fair sex said—but no matter! it is enough for me to chronicle that they did not accept him at his own valuation.]

Weeks rolled by, and then one happy, happy day the post-office peon, with his tri-coloured turban, brought Captain Galway a telegram, that had come all the way from England! It was brief, to the point, and most satisfactory, and said—

“Yes—letter follows.—L. Browne.”

Tom showed this precious document to Jack Murray with undisguised triumph, for Jack had been dubious of the answer, and when his chum had talked, in foolishly sanguine moments, of “doing up the garden” and “buying a piano, which was going a dead bargain,” Jack had thrown cold water on these designs, and said, “I would not be so dead sure, that she will come, my Thomas! It strikes me that you are counting your chickens before they are hatched.”

Tom never argued the point, but frequently refreshed his hopes by contemplating a certain photograph and a withered bunch of forget-me-nots, that lay hidden in the recesses of his battered old desk, and said to himself, “She will come right enough.”

Undeniably men are vain creatures.

After this auspicious telegram, Jack was silenced. His friend was magnanimous, and did not say, “I told you so,” but he laboured diligently in the garden, he bought the piano, he took his colonel’s wife into his confidence, and he talked so incessantly of “her”—of “Lily”—that Jack was seriously thinking of dissolving partnership and moving into another bungalow. Of course, when it was noised abroad that Tom Galway—Tom Galway! who did not know “God save the Queen” from the “Dead March” in Saul—had purchased a piano, and that the instrument was actually on view, in his barn-like abode, there was no need for Tom to make any further announcement to his brother officers or the station. It was plain that Tom was going to be married! Naturally he was the legitimate object of any amount of chaff, which chaff he bore with his usual phlegmatic good humour and a broad grin of ridiculous complacency.

He had now received two precious letters from Lily; she announced that she was making arrangements for coming out with some friends immediately, as it was a good opportunity that might not occur again. She had taken her passage in the P. and O. Chusan, and would be in Bombay early in November.

A portion of this was imparted to Jack, but bits were skipped here and there, in a highly suspicious manner.

“I suppose she says nothing of the aunt?” inquired Mr. Murray, sarcastically.

“Not a word. The letters are short”

“Short and sweet, eh? Well, the only drawback that I see is old Miss Browne! She will be worse than a mother-in-law.”

“Not with the seas between us,” retorted Tom emphatically.

“She might come out,” suggested Jack. “By Jove! do you know that I used to think she was rather sweet on you herself, eh?”

“Bosh,” said Tom, reddening. The same idea had once occurred to his slower intelligence, only to be angrily repudiated. “She might be my mother, you young donkey.” All the same, he had vivid recollections of when he would fain have sauntered round the gardens with Lily—it was the aunt, who had held him in agreeable dalliance; it was she who picked flowers and placed them in his button-hole with her own white fingers and a girlish simper; it was she who asked for his photograph, who kept him a prisoner in close tête-à-tête at tennis-parties and dances, whilst his whole mind was on the rack to know what had become of Lily. At first he had thought Miss Browne a harmless, vain, loquacious old maid; but subsequently he overheard sharp, bitter speeches to her niece; he had seen Lily’s tears, her constant humiliations; had contrasted her dowdy old dresses with her aunt’s brilliant toilettes, and had come to the conclusion that Miss Browne was a selfish, scheming vixen, and that he could not endure the sight of her. As time went on, Bungalow 25 became quite transformed, thanks to Mrs. Cornwall, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, who gave not only sympathy and useful hints, but practical assistance: pretty furniture was picked up and covered with new cretonne, curtains were hung in doorways, new matting was laid down, pictures were disposed on the walls, a pony cart, side saddle, cook and ayah, were figuratively laid in. Miss Browne was to be received by Mrs. Cornwall, and married from her house; in the monotonous cantonment life at Blazapore, the arrival of Captain Galway’s pretty young bride was awaited with extraordinary interest.

Miss Browne, Senior (Christian name, Lavinia), had been a beauty in her day, and still possessed some remains of her former good looks; she was now upwards of forty, but, with a youthful figure, well-cut gowns, and smart little bonnets, might be taken for five-and-thirty—especially in a veil, or with her back to the light. Many people wondered that she was not married, and no one was more astonished at this omission than Miss Browne herself. Of course, she had refused scores of offers—fifty-nine altogether—and had had two heart-breaking disappointments. This she imparted to her friends, naturally in the strictest confidence. She also informed them that nothing would induce her to marry now; her affections were in the grave, and all she had to live for was her niece—a strange, eccentric, impassive girl, who detested society. Now, Miss Browne herself was ordered “cheerful surroundings” by her medical man, and to be a great deal in the open air, with lively, pleasant associates, and to take moderately active exercise; as, for instance, tennis-playing and dancing, and to indulge in change of scene, and the best and soundest Burgundy. She was rather partial to the military, and made no secret of her taste. Her solid-looking, comfortable detached house was always open to the officers (unmarried) of the garrison; not merely for miserable little afternoon teas, but good substantial luncheons and well-cooked dinners. At these Miss Browne presided in ravishing toilettes, and with the airs of a belle of twenty. She was generally supported by one or two mature matrons, but her niece was never present—to tell the honest truth, she was marshalling the dishes in the back hall, or occupied in the kitchen.

One autumn morning Miss Browne came down to breakfast, unlocked the post-bag, and took out the letters. She was not in a genial humour. It was a raw kind of day, and her dressmaker’s bill had been a disagreeable surprise. What was this thin epistle, an Indian letter?

“Miss Browne, The Grove.”

Her face became rather red; then she tore it open, and after glancing at the signature, proceeded to devour it. It ran as follows:—

This sentence seemed somewhat cold and commonplace to Tom, so he added—

Miss Browne perused this effusion with a very high colour, and equally mingled portions of emotion, astonishment, and rapture! Now and then she paused to re-read a sentence, as if she could not believe her eyes. An offer of marriage! To go to India to be Mrs. Tom Galway! Her brain was in a whirl. What an unexpected summons! What would the Robinsons say, and the Fishers, and the Smiths? What bliss! what triumph! Visions of a superb trousseau, of India, elephants, palm trees, wedding-cake, and a sea voyage, all flashed through her mind. Suddenly she looked over at her pretty, pale niece, who was pouring out the coffee, and said rather sharply—

“Lily?”

“Yes, aunt?” lifting a pair of lovely brown eyes.

“You remember an officer who was here the summer before last; he was in the Pioneers, and paid me a great deal of attention—Tom Galway?”

Lily nodded; she had now become extremely red.

“I have just had a letter from him.”

“A letter!” she echoed in a faint voice.

“Yes—containing an offer of marriage.”

“For——” began the girl, and then she stopped.

“For me, of course,” said her aunt, suddenly standing up and dusting the crumbs off her apron. “Who else do you suppose?”

Poor Lily! the colour sank quickly from her cheeks, she was now as white as the table-cloth. Miserable girl! her little love idyl had been brief, uncertain, and uncomfortable—guiltily snatched moments of conversation—secret gifts of flowers—stealthy promises—incoherent farewells. She liked Tom Galway, good-looking, good-tempered, stupid Tom—her one hope had been that he would return and claim her when he got his company. He had not said so—in so many words—but somehow it was understood, and when they parted she had given him a little bunch of forget-me-nots, and he—he had kissed her hand! but then, of course, Tom was notoriously stupid. He had certainly paid court to her aunt; he had been obliged to walk and talk with her, to gain a footing in the Grove at all, and in this Tom displayed unusual craft. Now all the time he had been in earnest, as regarded Aunt Lavinia!—for she was rich and he was poor—and he had only been amusing himself with her. Oh, faithless—faithless—mercenary Tom!

“Well, have you nothing to say?” demanded Miss Browne rather shrilly. “How different you are to other girls! Why don’t you come round and kiss me, and congratulate me, eh?”

Lily rose—certainly Lily was a stoic—and came and laid a marble cheek against her aunt’s highly artistic skin.

“I—I—I—hope you will be happy, Aunt Lavinia,” she faltered.

“I’m sure I shall. Captain Galway is good-tempered, handsome, and passionately attached to me. You may make your mind quite easy about my future. Why do you look so white and odd? Is there one drawback? Come—speak out!”

“Don’t you—don’t you—think he is rather—rather——”

“What?” she snapped explosively.

“Rather—young?”

“Young! Why he is past thirty, nearly my own age.” (Oh, come! Miss Browne.) “Young! Rubbish. The Queen was older than Prince Albert. Well, I can’t stay here talking all day. I must send off a telegram. I must run across and tell the Smiths and Joneses, and call in at Miss Tuck’s about the trousseau. You might go round and look up that woman who comes out sewing by the day. By-the-by, what’s to be done with you? Tom never thought of that—foolish fellow! he is so taken up with me. I’ll send you to board in some respectable quiet family—or a finishing school—or somewhere.”

Then Miss Browne, Senior, set about her preparations with inconceivable promptitude, and despatched the telegram and letters which threw Tom Galway into such a transport of happiness.

The Chusan arrived in Bombay two days before her time, and “Miss Browne” was among the passengers; her toilettes were Parisian, and her airs and assumption of youth were more ridiculous than ever. She displayed Tom’s photograph in dead secrecy to about fifteen different ladies, who marvelled at this handsome young man’s infatuation, and subsequently nodded, and giggled among themselves and said, “Money.”

The yearly inspection was in full swing at Blazapore, so Tom had not the smallest chance of getting leave to meet his fiancée at Bombay. She was expected to arrive in three days’ time, and all preparations for her reception were nearly completed. Tom had had a long spell at musketry on the ranges, and was resting himself in his own verandah when Jack Murray arrived at a gallop.

“I say, Tom! Look alive!” he began breathlessly. “She’s come!”

“Who? Who has come?” said Tom, jumping to his feet.

“Why, she—Lily—Miss Browne. She drove up to the Cornwalls’ just now—a strange lady, pretty figure, thick white gauze veil. So hurry up! Hurry up!”

No need to repeat this injunction; Tom was already in his own apartment, tearing off his dusty uniform, and shouting to his chokra for his boots, his best suit, and a clean shirt. It was almost dusk when he arrived at his colonel’s bungalow and was met by Mrs. Cornwall in the verandah.

“She will be in the drawing-room directly,” she whispered mysteriously. “She has had a cup of tea, and is taking off her hat; the Chusan came in before her time.”

“What do you think of her, Mrs. Cornwall?” asked Tom impulsively, colouring as he spoke. “Isn’t she the prettiest girl you ever saw?”

Mrs. Cornwall coughed nervously, and replied, “Never mind all that now. Go into the drawing-room. I shall not intrude. Mind, you are to come to dinner.”

Tom passed onward without another word. The drawing-room was darkish, but he made out a slim white figure, that rose quickly at his entrance; ere he could distinguish more she was folded in his arms.

“Oh, Tom! dear Tom!” she exclaimed rapturously.

What voice was this? He drew back instinctively, and met Miss Browne’s cold grey eyes smiling up into his face; he glanced sharply round the room and faltered out, “Where—where is she—where is Lily?”

“Why, dearest? What an odd question! She is at home, of course, at Clifton.”

“Not—not—coming?” he stammered. As the awful situation assumed a mental shape his very blood seemed turned to ice.

“No—certainly not. We shall be far happier by ourselves, dear, and you said nothing about her—never named her.”

“Never named her?” Was he going stark staring mad?

“By-and-by we will have her out, and get her married, if we can!” and she laughed as much as to say, “Easier said than done!”

It was dusk—the expression of amazement, horror, and dismay which passed over Tom’s features during this remarkable scene were completely lost on Miss Browne. Happy Miss Browne!

“Tom,” she said, “how odd you are! But you were always rather silent and undemonstrative. Are you not glad to see me? Think of the thousands of miles I have come to see you.” And as she spoke she laid her head confidingly against his shoulder.

“I—I—was out in the sun to-day, and my head feels queer,” he said, drawing back.

Poor Tom was going through the most awful moment of his life, and surely an unrivalled experience. But Tom was a gentleman, and could not bring himself to divulge the real truth.

“You must be tired,” he stammered with a desperate effort. “I’ll see you again, at dinner.” And without further remark he walked hastily out of the room.

“Hullo! What’s this?” inquired Jack Murray, as to his intense amazement he discovered his friend sitting in his bedroom, before his dressing-table. “Back already! Why are you not sunning yourself in the smiles of beauty?”

Then he caught a glimpse of his friend’s face. It was ghastly white. And, lo! on the table before him were arranged a revolver, and a case of razors!

“I’m taking my choice,” said Tom in a hoarse voice. “It must be one or the other.”

Jack Murray was justly alarmed at the expression of his eye, but did not lose his head for a second.

“What is it?” he asked coolly, reaching over and pocketing the razors. “The sun, acting on confirmed softening of the brain? or have you had a row already?”

“Row! Listen to me, Jack. I went over to see Lily, as I thought——”

“Yes, and as I thought,” echoed Jack.

“Well, she was not there; but the aunt was. There’s been some infernal mistake, and she has come out to marry me.”

When Jack Murray heard this appalling statement, he stared for a second, and then threw himself on his friend’s camp cot, and gave vent to a succession of yells of laughter.

“Yes,” said his comrade, very sternly, “play to you, and death to me.”

After another violent paroxysm, Jack sat up, dried his eyes on his coat-cuffs, and said quite seriously—

“You are in a tight place this time, and no mistake. What on earth are you to do?”

“Shoot myself!” was the brief reply.

“Rubbish! Stop a moment, I have an idea!”

“What good is an idea?” said Tom, scornfully.

“Promise to place yourself in my hands, and I’ll guarantee to get you out of this business alive!”

“Nonsense! the woman is here; cake, trousseau, and all complete. Lily, of course, is done with me. When the story is known I shall be the laughing-stock of India. If I don’t marry her she will bring an action, as sure as fate. No, no. My idea is, a touch of the sun. Grove, the doctor, is a good chap. He’ll say it was that. I’ve been on the ranges all day—a touch of the sun, and this,” taking up the revolver as he concluded.

“Put it down,” said his friend, angrily. “Listen to me. We must go over there to dinner, and to-morrow you shall go on the sick list, and stay there. All I want is time.”

Jack dared not leave his friend alone in his present condition (suicidal), and after a long and exciting altercation he prevailed on him to accompany him over to the colonel’s. Tom looked white, haggard, and miserable; anything but the impersonation of a happy lover. He sat beside his bride-elect, nobly representing “the death’s-head at the feast”—his bride, who was dressed in a marvellous French toilette of white brocade, whose ears, throat, and fingers glittered with diamonds, and who was in exuberant spirits. The company were greatly surprised at Tom Galway’s idea of “a pretty girl of nineteen,” but politely dissembled their amazement. Possibly Tom was more worldly wise than they had supposed. “The old girl”—such was their profane definition—had evidently lots of money; but Tom was a deadly failure as a lover; however, if Miss Browne was satisfied, there was no more to be said!

After dinner there was a little music. Tom sat beside his fiancée on a conspicuous sofa, and looked as if he was awaiting execution, or was thinking of all his dead relations. Jack played the banjo, and sang, “Mary had a Little Lamb,” and various other silly songs, and presently the guests went away. Mrs. Cornwall thoughtfully manœuvred so as to leave the lovers to make their adieux alone. Unhappy Tom! He walked abruptly over to “the wrong Miss Browne,” held out a limp hand, and said good night, whereupon she rose, and looked as if she was going to fall on his neck, and he turned precipitately and fled.

The next day Tom was in high fever—in real earnest. A touch of the sun on the ranges. His head was shaved, and an hospital nurse procured. Of course Miss Browne was tenderly anxious, and very much grieved and concerned, but she saw no reason to sit in sackcloth and ashes. She had seen other specimens of the officers of the Pioneers, and began to think she was rather throwing herself away upon Tom Galway! She had met Major Pratt at a dinner-party at the general’s—quite a little impromptu affair—and he had noted the new arrival with interest. Her income (trebled) had been casually imparted to him by Jack Murray as a profound secret. Three thousand a year! What luck for Tom Galway! If he had only had such a chance—and the money was undoubtedly there, for she talked intelligently of funds, shares, and mortgages. Her diamonds were valuable, her dresses costly. She was not half bad-looking either. He affected deep sympathy for her and Tom. “Lucky Tom!” he exclaimed; “what envy, hatred, and malice he had stirred up in Blazapore!” He sat close to her, and administered neat little speeches and sugared compliments, and entreated her to look out for a wife for him, and when she went away he squeezed her hand. The next day he called, and the next day he called and brought a bouquet, and the next day he called and brought a book, and the following day a tiger-skin. He damned Tom Galway with the faintest praise. “He was good-looking. Yes! but—now she must not fly at him—heavy, good-natured, but densely stupid. Rather a butt, you know, and indeed only for him (Major Pratt) would have got into one or two very nasty scrapes.” The major had made up his mind to marry Miss Browne, and was calmly confident of his ultimate success. Tom Galway was hors de combat, and all is fair in love and war, and in the end it came to pass that Major Pratt prevailed and carried off the prize! The little Miss Browne had seen of Tom had not impressed her favourably; his shaven head, long bony hands, shabby clothes, and gaunt appearance afforded a painful contrast to the spruce, agreeable little major. Moreover, he was a field officer and not a junior captain, and a far more suitable match in every respect. In an incredibly short time Jack Murray’s anticipations were realized. A few honeyed speeches, a few drives with the major in Jack’s dog-cart, a few bouquets and cheap but judicious presents, and Miss Browne had exercised her sex’s privilege and changed her mind! She wrote a long letter of apology to Tom, deploring her own cruelty and his broken heart, praying that time would alleviate his misery, and pleading, as extenuating circumstances, Major Pratt’s irresistible fascinations and her woman’s weakness. That same evening she and the major ran away together. No one gave chase,—and they were ultimately married by special licence in Madras.

Jack lost no time in bearing the great news to his friend. All Blazapore was quivering with the shock. That mercenary little wretch the major had carried off Tom Galway’s heiress. Unlucky Tom!

“It’s all right, Tom; here’s your release,” holding up the letter that cried “Peccavi.” It had been consigned to Jack as a matter of course, he being the major’s chief adviser and confidant. “She’s in the regiment. I could not help that; we had to sacrifice some one, and the major deserved it.”

“Oh, Jack,” said his friend, wringing his hand till the tears stood in Jack’s eyes, “you have saved my reason, and my life.”

“Rubbish! If you had allowed me to draft the first letter there would have been none of this bother. Served you jolly well right for addressing it to Miss Browne.”

“She might have known,” stammered Tom. “She could not have thought that I meant her.”

“There’s no saying. No fool like an old one. You wrote again last mail, did you not? Wrote to the right one! I’ll take good care to see you turned off myself this time. In a couple of months your hair will have grown, and you’ll be fit to be seen, and then you can go down to Bombay and marry the other Miss Browne.”

And he did.