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A NINE DAYS' WONDER

DIANA BARRINGTON TERENCE PEGGY OF THE BARTONS THE CAT'S-PAW ANGEL A STATE SECRET JOHANNA THE HAPPY VALLEY THE OLD CANTONMENT

A NINE DAYS' WONDER

B. M. CROKER

"IL FAUT DE PLUS GRANDE VERTU POUR SOUTENIR LA BONNE FORTUNE, QUE LA MAUVAISE."

Methuen & Co. 36 Essex Street W.C. London

First Published in 1905

A NINE DAYS' WONDER

PART I

A tall grey-haired soldier, with a professionally straight back, stood looking out of an upper window in the "Rag" one wet October afternoon. His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was clothed with an expression of almost mediaeval gloom. The worldly wise mask their emotions so that those who run may not read, but Colonel Doran had lived so many years among a primitive race that he made no effort to conceal his feelings, and all the world was welcome to see that he was bored to death. To tell the truth, he had been too long in the East to appreciate club life. Other men were undoubtedly contented, interested, occupied; it was different in his case. The palatial dignity, solemnity, luxury of the place failed to stir his pride; even its traditions left him as cold as the marble statue on the great staircase. He would have felt ten times more at home in a Bombay chair, on a brick verandah, with the old Pioneer in his hands and a "Trichy" in his mouth.

The big smoking-room below had presented a most animated scene; groups of old brother officers were discussing various burning questions, and topics ranged, from the new Hussar boot, to the North-west Frontier. Colonel Doran knew a good deal about the frontier, but made no effort to enter the lists. What were possible campaigns to him now? He wandered aimlessly up to the library, and turned over some books; he tried to read--it was no use. Ashamed to appear a sort of no man's friend, and stray, he made his way to the upper smoking-room, which he was tolerably certain to find empty at that hour. He sauntered round it, gazing indifferently at the pictures and mementoes. A sketch of two elephants in a dust-storm arrested his attention. How he wished himself on the back of one of the old beggars--dust-storm and all! At last he strolled over to the window, and as he stood looking out on a dismal vista of wet slates and an iron-grey sky he heaved an involuntary sigh. So this was the end of his career--idleness, boredom, solitude!

The career of Ulick Doran had commenced at eighteen, when as a cadet he had landed in India--that hospitable godmother of younger sons--and the kindly East had adopted and made him her own for the better part of thirty-four years. He had been gazetted as a mere boy to a crack regiment of Bengal cavalry known as "Holland's Horse," and in this corps, his home, he had lived and fought and nearly died: had seen his comrades come and go, marry, and retire. Now it was his own turn. At fifty-two his career was ended, and the curtain rung down. Good-bye to everything he cared for--to the sowars, his children, to the mess, to the horse lines, aye, to the very horses, half of which he had selected--good-bye to all that had made life worth living. Naturally he could not remain in India, that unseemly spectacle, a mere camp follower of the regiment he had so ably commanded, hovering around it like a departed spirit. He must return to England, and range himself decently on the shelf along with most of his contemporaries. Unfortunately Colonel Doran had but few resources apart from his profession; he was a fine horseman, a noted swordsman, a keen and capable officer, and here he stood, a stranded and unhappy pensioner, the very typical dragoon without his horse! What made his position still worse, he was alone in the world. His mother had died when he was a small boy--he scarcely remembered her; his father, on the other hand, had lived to a great age, a red-faced, irascible old gentleman, whose eldest son predeceased him by many years; and thus the family place had come to the Indian officer, after all.

Just at this instant the door opened and a brisk little bald man, with a fair moustache and cheery eye, entered the room. He was Major Sutton--or Johnny Sutton, as his friends called him--late of Holland's Horse, a comrade who had retired, married, and apparently lived happy ever after.

"I say, old man," he began, "what are you doing here all by yourself--eh? What's the matter? Down on your luck?"

"Not much luck to be down on, as far as I know," growled the other, turning from the window and sinking into a capacious chair.

"Of course it's just raw to you at present; you miss the old regiment, and, by George! they miss you," said Johnny Sutton, opening his cigar-case. "We all have a sort of lost, end-of-all-things feeling, when we first come home, but we get over it in time and make a fresh start."

"That's all right for the young 'uns, Johnny, but a man of fifty-two has gone over most of the course."

"Nonsense, Pat. I see you are affected by this beastly weather, and your liver--a man of fifty is in his prime! Why, I'm fifty myself, and can walk and shoot with the best."

"You were always a great shikari, Johnny."

"For that matter, so were you."

"Well, there's an end of all that now."

"Why so? Haven't you shooting on your place in Ireland?"

"Still, I suppose you will go over there and pull the place together a bit?"

"No, I could not stand it for more than a week; the loneliness and dreariness seem to penetrate to one's very bones."

"And you are not keen about living in town--eh? You are like a newly imported remount--everything is strange, and you don't know what to do with yourself?"

"Yes, Johnny, you have hit the nail right on the head; and if you can give me some sort of lead, I'm your man."

Major Sutton puffed at his cigar, removed it from his mouth, examined it carefully, and then blurted out--

"I say, why don't you marry?"

"Marry!" repeated his companion. "What an idea!"

"Yes, man alive, and a good one; people do it every day. You stare as if you had never heard of the institution. Look at me"--and he tapped his waistcoat: "I am married."

"Yes, but I--I am not a ladies' man."

"And I'm too old," objected Colonel Doran.

"Bosh!"

"No girl would have me."

"Well, what do you say to a fine young woman of five-and-thirty--or--a widow?"

"I'm not a society man, or in the way of meeting ladies."

"Because you won't go out when you are invited, except among the old married folk of the regiment. I can introduce you to one or two really suitable young women, with good looks, a little money, and no nonsense about them. There is Flora Davey! Why, her father commanded the 25th Bengal Cavalry. You remember him. She was born in Lahore?"

"Yes; and I was at her christening," he supplemented grimly. "No, no! that would never work. Thank you, old man, I believe I'll stay as I am."

"But look here, Pat, you remember when I got that crack on my head at polo and was shunted home--years ago: it nearly broke my heart, but matrimony cured me. I met Maudie on the Riviera my first winter--and she took to me and I to her. You see, I was an invalid, and she pitied me, and talked over her rich old pater. People said nasty things, and it was a lie; I married Maudie for herself only, though money is certainly a power. Now the old man is gone, she has a clear three thousand a year, and I have come into a comfortable legacy. Maudie is a confirmed match-maker, and tries her best to settle her friends."

"Yes, like the fox who lost his tail," remarked the bachelor.

"Bar jokes, come along and dine with us quietly on Friday."

Colonel Doran hesitated; he knocked the ash off his cigar reflectively and then began--

"All right, then, I'll come--thanks. Friday did you say?" and he took out a little pocket-book. "Friday, 13th, at 8 o'clock, 402 Sloane Street."

Major Sutton had been a Benedict for nearly ten years. His wife was a pretty, fashionable little woman, some months--though few suspected this--older than himself. She dressed with taste, had a capable maid, and was, in the eyes of Johnny Sutton, perennially young and beautiful. He had no secrets from her, and told her, like a good boy, where he had been, who he had seen, what they had said. The couple were on terms of delightful good fellowship, and she, for her part, shared with Johnny all the dearest secrets of her dearest friends.

"Yes, of course I do; he looks like an unhappy duke, poor old boy."

"I met him to-day, alone and evidently rather wretched. You see, he feels a bit out of it now he is retired; he is like a lost dog. The regiment was his home; now he is out of it. If he had had a clever little wife to exploit him he might have become a brigadier and goodness knows what. Now he is short of a job; he is not even on the club committee, and he has nothing to do."

"And Satan finds, etc. etc.; only he is too old to get into mischief, I should hope. What about him?"

"Well, you see, he doesn't take kindly to London, and he does not care to live in Ireland. He has a fine estate and castle over there. His family goes back to the Flood, and had their own ship."

"Yes, he looks an aristocrat all over," agreed Mrs. Sutton, who, being the daughter of a successful nobody, had a profound respect for blue blood.

"Of course," she eagerly agreed--"certainly he must marry."

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