Among those things which come by Nature and are not to be taught, may
be reckoned a pretty seat on horseback. One may be a good rider without
it, a poor one with it; but when grace and skill are combined a man
certainly shows at his best on horseback. It was so with Lewis Gordon.
He sat his lean little country-bred as if it belonged to him; not as
the usual phrase runs, as if he were part of his horse. For that is a
description which ignores the essence of the thing to be described;
which is, surely, the mastery a man has over something which is _not_
himself. Part of his horse! The very words conjure up a man paralysed
to the waist and jelly above, agonising over a cavalry seat.
If Lewis Gordon were grateful to Providence for anything, it was for
making and keeping him a light weight, and thus rendering him
independent of Australian or Arab mounts. The fourteen-hand pony which
he had picked up--a mere bag of bones--at a native fair, had to be hard
held when trotting alongside of Colonel Tweedie's big Waler, yet she
had only cost him a tenth of the price. As she forged along, quivering
with impatience, Bronzewing was a pretty sight, the sunlight shining
red through her wide nostrils, and shifting in golden curves over the
bronze muscles which were almost black in shadow. Rose Tweedie always
admired it immensely, and, illogically enough, felt inclined to be more
lenient on the rider. She told herself it was because he wore
spectacles on horseback, and they were less offensive than the
eyeglass, which permitted variations of method in his outlook. She did
not even fall foul of his indifference when he dawdled about, a picture
of aimless dejection, at the hawking party; in fact, she had a sneaking
sympathy with his feelings. It was dreary work watching unfortunate
grey partridges beaten up from one bush by coolies, only to be pounced
on by a hawk ere it could reach the shelter of the next cover. She also
shared his disgust at Dalel Beg, who, in top-boots, red coat, and
doe-skins, took a keen interest in the gorging of young hawks on the
entrails of the still struggling victims, and gave shrill 'yoicks' and
'gone a ways' at each fresh flutter. Khush-hal Beg watching the sport
from a bullock-cart on which he reclined among cushions was purely
comical; his son purely offensive.
'I think,' remarked Lewis slowly, 'he is the worst specimen of
civilisation I ever met; and I think this is the deadliest
entertainment I ever was at. And both those facts mean something.'
Rose laughed, and suggested that it would have been different had they
come across bustard. They, she had heard, were worth hawking. Her
companion shook his head.
'I've seen it on the frontier at its best. You lose the essence of
sport; that, I take it, lies in pitting your strength, or skill, or
endurance against the quarry. In hawking you ride behind the skill; and
as the country is easy, the whole thing resolves itself into the pace
of your horse; in other words, what you paid for the beast.'
'Not always! I'd back Bronzewing against the field any day,' cried Rose
impulsively.
He looked up with quite a flush of pleasure. 'Well! she should do her
best to win the gloves for you, Miss Tweedie.'
The reply came as naturally as the remark which provoked it, but it
made the girl feel suddenly shy and say hastily--
'She looks as if she wanted to be off now; how that partridge startled
her!'
'Not a bit of it. She is only longing, as I am, for a hunt.'
'A hunt?'
'Yes! a partridge-hunt. Have you never seen one?' He gave a rapid
glance round. 'There are too many bushes here, but Keene may know of
some fairly-open country, with perhaps a thorn-hedge or two for you to
jump--that is to say, if you have had enough of this festive scene.'
Five minutes after, George Keene, Dan Fitzgerald, Lewis Gordon, and she
were sweeping along in line across low sand-hills in order to dip down
into a harder plain among stretches of level, dotted sparsely with low
caper-bushes, with here and there a patch of cultivation showing
vividly green against its whitey-brown frame of desert, and here and
there a bit of plough ready for the summer crop.
There is nothing more invigorating in the world than riding in line at
a hand-gallop across such country in the freshness of early morning,
especially when the party has gay hearts and light heads. Rose felt
that it was worth all her purely feminine amusements put together, and,
with a flush of enjoyment on her face, besieged Lewis Gordon with
high-pitched questions as to what they were going to do; he calling
back his answers, so that their voices rose above the rhythmical
beating of the horses' hoofs.
'We are going without dog or coolie, gun or any lethal weapon
whatever--as the code says--to ride down and capture the grey partridge
or _Ammoperdix bonhami_! Have you seen it done, Fitzgerald?'
'Heard of it only. The pace must be good.'
'Racing speed; no less. Therein lies the fun.' He gave a quick glance
at Rose's tackle, and frowned. 'You should have a stronger bit,' he
began when she interrupted him.
'It is the same as yours.'
'Perhaps. But a lady can't ride like a man, especially in this sort of
work. If I had noticed it before, I----'
'Nonsense! I always ride with a snaffle, and Shahad is as steady as a
house.'
'That is no argument. In my opinion a lady should----'
The rest of the wrangle was spared to the company, for at that moment a
partridge buzzed out of a bush at their feet, Bronzewing's equanimity
gave way, and with a snort of eagerness she burst after it, Shahzad
following suit; both beasts heading straight as a die after the quarry,
heedless of their riders or their discussions.
'Give him his head, Miss Tweedie,' shouted Lewis, as he shot past. 'He
has done it before and knows the game! Off we are!'
Off indeed, helter-skelter, behind the grey-brown buzz of wings showing
against a blue sky.
'Ride it! Ride it! Keep an eye on it! I'll do back,' came Lewis
Gordon's voice, boyishly excited, as, with hands down, he veered the
mare a point or two by main force, until, as she caught sight of a
heavier' clump of bushes comprehension came to the game little beast,
and she headed straight for it.
'Where? Oh! Where?' cried Rose distractedly to Dan Fitzgerald, who was
now racing beside her.
'Right ahead--there--don't you see?'
Just a brown speck against the blue sky still, but skimming faster and
faster to meet the brown horizon. There still, no--yes--
_Gone!_
Rose gave a cry, which was echoed by an exclamation from Dan, as
instinctively they reined up, feeling the chase was over. George,
hurrying up from behind, where his pony had been playing the fool,
found them staring disconsolately at the bushes.
'Lost it, I suppose,' said Lewis, as he rejoined them. 'It is always
difficult to keep it in sight on the horizon. However, you have had a
good burst, Miss Tweedie. See! we started there--a good mile back. Have
you any idea how you got here?'
'None! I suppose I rode; but I saw nothing but a sort of big bumble-bee
buzzing in front of me. Shahzad did the rest.'
'As I said, not for the first time, which confirms me in saying he is
only a Gulf Arab, for partridge-hunting is a Persian sport. Only don't
tell your father, please; he would never forgive me.'
As he turned in his saddle, resting one hand on the mare's quarters in
order to speak to Rose, voice and face full of almost boyish enjoyment,
the girl felt that this was a new development of his character, and
that she liked it better than the old ones.
'Now, as we go along, I'll explain. That bird took us by surprise,' he
went on eagerly. 'Four is an ideal number, though I've had rare fun
riding partridge single-handed. Number one ought to make the pace,
keeping both eyes on the bird. Number two keeps his on the going, so as
to save Number one from coming to grief over rough country. Number
three rides cautious, landmarks the flight, and is ready to turn if the
bird breaks back--you can't when you are going full speed, unless the
bird towers. Number four rides cunning, cuts off curves, and heads for
likely covers. The whole aim being to press the partridge so hard that
it has no time to settle in shelter, but, after skimming down to a
bush, runs through it, and takes to wing again on the other side.'
'And gets away, I suppose,' muttered, George Keene, still out of
temper. 'Don't see the fun of it.'
'Wait a bit,' retorted Lewis gaily. 'Now you must remember that the
_role_ you have to play depends on how the bird breaks. There is no
time to settle. The nearest in must ride it, the rest choose their
parts as best--steady, mare, steady!'
It was only a faint '_te-tetar--te-tetar_,' in the far distance, but
Bronzewing started, and even George's pony cocked its ears; while
humanity went on breathlessly in line, the horses' feet at a walk
giving out a hollow sound on the hard soil, the yellow sunshine casting
hard shadows.
'Look out!' cautioned Lewis, in a whisper. 'There's a partridge running
on ahead; by you, I think, Fitzgerald.'
'Don't see it?'
'Farther to the left. The mare sees it. We must trot a bit, or it won't
rise fair. Steady, lass, steady!'
'I see it,' came in excited tones from George, 'by the big bush, Miss
Tweedie.'
'That's another,' cautioned Lewis again. 'Take care and don't----'
_Whirr, buzz! Whirr, buzz!_
'Ride it! Ride it!'
The cry came from two quarters; but Shahzad was already extended, and
Rose forgetful of everything save those brown wings low down against
the horizon. She was closer on them this time, for she could see their
skimming swoop as they neared a heavy clump of cover. Yet she felt she
must lose them, as she had done before, when to her relief she saw
Lewis shoot ahead.'
'All right,' he shouted, 'I'm on. Look out for yourself.'
There was a cut of his thong against thorns as he rose Bronzewing to a
hedge which Rose had not seen. But she had scarcely steadied herself in
the saddle from the half-considered leap in his wake before the
partridge was down and up again at right-angles to its first flight;
Lewis meanwhile bringing the mare round all he knew, and shouting,
'Ride it, Miss Tweedie! ride it.'
Shahzad, still steadied by the jump, was in hand, and, therefore, on
the track in a second, snorting in mad hurry and excitement, and the
bird was not quite so fast this time, or Rose was riding straighter,
for she saw the last skim of the wings change to running feet as it
touched the grey brown earth which tinted so perfectly with its
plumage.
'Not there! not there!' came that warning voice from behind. 'It's run
on. The next bush--put Shahzad over it.'
A leap, a scurry, a flutter, and the quarry was up again, heading in
its hurry for an impossible open, backed by bare plough. Bronzewing
being now alongside, Rose found leisure to glance round for the others.
'Gone after the second partridge,' said Lewis. 'I was afraid of it.
There's a hedge twenty yards ahead, Miss Tweedie, I'll mark.'
They were over it, almost in the stride, and now the bird was below the
horizon, a mere shadow of darker brown against the plough.
'I've lost it! I've lost it again!' The despairing cry came from Rose's
very heart as she tugged vainly at Shahzad. When she succeeded in
bringing him up, she saw that Lewis was slipping from the mare.
'AH right!' he cried cheerfully, dropping his white handkerchief on the
ground, 'it's somewhere about! That's the place I marked; now for sharp
eyes.'
Up and down the bare furrows he searched, followed by Bronzewing, her
reins dangling. Up and down, with such patience, that Rose, gaining
confidence, began to search also. Only, however, to lose hope, as
minute after minute brought no result.
'I don't believe it's here,' she remarked at last; and with the words
saw Lewis Gordon stoop to pick up something she had passed by, thinking
it was a clod of earth.
'Your first partridge!' he said with a kindly laugh, as he placed the
bird upon her lap. There it lay unhurt, wide-eyed and motionless as it
had lain among the furrows.
'Why doesn't it fly away?' asked Rose, with a little catch in her
breath, as she gently stroked the mottled back.
'It will, soon. At present it's winded. Give it five minutes, and we
could ride it again; but we won't. It flew game, and I needn't ask if
you enjoyed it.'
No need, certainly. The very horses panting, nose down in each other's
faces, seemed discussing past pleasure.
'It is safe from kites now,' said Lewis. 'Throw it up, Miss Tweedie.'
The next instant a skimming flight had ended in a covert of thorns and
Lewis was on his mare ready to start.
'It wouldn't head for the open again, I bet, he said, 'they get as
'cute as an old fox after a time. To your left, please, that rise
yonder is Hodinuggur.'
'But we might ride again, surely? It would give the others time to come
up, began Rose, fiercely bitten with the game.
'Best not. The ground here is bad going; all littered with bricks.
And you could barely hold Shahzad that last time. A snaffle is hard
work--for a lady.'
Rose refrained from open retort. Lewis had given her a morning's
amusement, and she owed him something; for all that, she made a mental
determination to ride partridge as often as she chose with a snaffle.
His objection was only part of that wholesale depreciation--here a
partridge buzzed out of a bush, and partly from impulse, partly from
sheer opposition, she gave Shahzad the rein. A bit of bravado in which
she reckoned without the excited horse. Ere she had gone fifty yards,
she realised it had the bit between its teeth. What was worse, she saw
that Lewis realised it also.
'Look out for bricks,' he called, spurring Bronzewing alongside for a
moment, 'and don't try to follow when the bird breaks back, as it is
sure to do, for cover.'
The words were still on his lips, when the partridge towered and
turned. Shahzad, no novice at such tricks, pulled up short, nearly
throwing Rose over his ears. Then, with a bound, he dashed off
sideways, catching Bronzewing on the flank as she swerved, and throwing
her rider's foot from the stirrup. The mare staggered, pulled herself
together smartly, set her hoof on a loose brick, and came down heavily;
while Rose, tugging vainly at her beast, went sailing away to the
horizon, with the memory of that crashing fall seeming to paralyse her
strength. When she did manage to turn, Bronzewing was on her feet; but
her rider lay where he had fallen. The girl's heart stood still an
instant in that utmost fear which will come first--was he _dead_? Yet,
as she galloped back she told herself, fiercely, that it was
impossible; people fell so often, and did not hurt themselves. But not,
surely, to lie as he lay, with eyes wide open and one arm under him as
if he had pitched head-foremost. Rose had never seen an accident
before, and at first all her helpfulness seemed lost in a senseless
desire to gather him up in her arms and hold him safe. Then the thought
of her own foolishness came to her aid. He had been right! Women were
no good!' A man would have known what to do, and as she thought these
things, she searched, comically enough, in his pockets for a flask, as
if unconsciously reverting to the first resource of the male animal;
but she could find none, and there was no water. What was to be done,
save to chafe his hands and call to him vainly, while a perfect agony
of negation clamoured against her growing fear. He could not be dead!
He was such a good rider. He must have fallen before and not been
killed. Why should he be killed this time? He could not be killed on
such a bright sunny morning--when they had been so happy--when he had
been so kind. Ridiculous, trivial little thoughts, such as make up the
sum of such scenes.
Finally she rose, resolved by her very despair. Water and help she must
have. If no nearer than the palace, then to the palace she must go.
Shahzad had taken advantage of liberty to seek a wheat field, but
Bronzewing would carry her with the stirrup over. The mare, however,
distrusting strangers, sidled off, still circling faithfully round her
master. Then the girl's hopes and fears centred themselves on the
immediate necessity for success. She coaxed, wheedled, cajoled,
forgetting all else, till all of a sudden Bronzewing paused to whinny,
and Rose, looking round instinctively, recognised the magnitude of her
past despair in the light of her great relief as she saw Lewis Gordon,
raised on one elbow, looking at her in a dazed sort of way. She was on
her knees beside him in a minute, confessing the past fear she had so
strenuously denied while it existed.
'I thought you were dead!' she cried. 'I thought you were dead.' She
was trembling and shaking all over, quite visibly, and he gave an
unsteady laugh.
'Thumped the back of my head; that's all. No!' a spasm of pain passed
over his face as he sat up. 'My collarbone's gone. Well! it might have
been worse. The ground is uncommonly hard.'
Worse indeed! Rose could not speak for a lump in her throat; but the
loquacity of escape was upon him.
'Must have pitched on my shoulder, luckily. I don't in the least
remember how it happened. We were partridging, I suppose; but my mind
is an absolute blank. No wonder! my head is just splitting; but I can
walk home all right.'
And when she proposed riding Bronzewing for help, he negatived it
firmly on the ground that the mare wasn't broken in for a lady; a man
never having such a strong hold on his individual quips and cranks as
when he realises that he has been within an ace of losing them
altogether; whence comes the proverbial captiousness of convalescents.
So she had to be content with giving him a hand up and walking beside
him, feeling a sad trembling in the knees joined to a general sensation
of having gone to pieces. He, on the contrary, talking and laughing in
magnificent, manly fashion.
'You had better tell me how it happened,' he said, as they neared the
palace. 'People make such a fuss, that it is as well to be prepared.
Did you see me come to grief?'
Rose hesitated for a moment to own up; then she did it wholesale.
'You told me not to ride because of the snaffle, but I did. I lost
control of Shahzad; he charged Bronzewing. She put her foot on a loose
brick, and--and I'm very, very sorry.'
'Stupid little beast,' he said, looking round at the mare, who was
following them like a dog. 'I expect she wants re-shoeing.'
The evasion was kindly meant; but she regretted it. It seemed somehow
to set her aside. But this was her portion in all things, for with
Lewis in his room, scientifically bandaged by Dan and nursed by his
cousin, Rose's part resolved itself into doing audience for her
father's fussing. He had a capacity for it at all times, but Fate had
provided him with special reasons for it now. Another delay! and when
it was absolutely necessary that he should hold a Canal Committee at
Delhi early in the week, how was he to manage without his personal
assistant? Then there were private reasons for annoyance which he did
not confide to Rose, but which that clear-sighted young lady fully
understood. If Lewis had to remain a few days longer at Hodinuggur, his
cousin would remain also; in which case Dan Fitzgerald would stay to
look after them. Now Dan, ever since the fire, had been in the
Colonel's black books. He had, as it were, thrust himself forward and
made himself conspicuous. Finally, any woman must feel gratitude to a
man who had saved her life. It was all of a piece--all the result of
disobedience to his superior wisdom. Why had Rose set fire to the camp?
Had he not warned her a hundred times against sitting up to read? Why
had she charged Lewis? Had he not begged her fifty times to ride in a
more reserved and ladylike fashion?
Rose could only fall back on George for comfort, and he, for reasons of
his own, was utterly unsympathetic. A broken collar-bone, he said, was
nothing--except an awful nuisance to every one else. To tell truth, the
only person in that up-stairs world who was satisfied at the new turn
affairs had taken was Gwen Boynton. It suited her admirably in more
ways than one. So she sat after lunch and talked with Colonel Tweedie
in the balcony until his ill-humour vanished in a bland flood of
conviction that this eminently charming woman really was full of
sympathy for his difficulties, and thoroughly impressed with his
responsible position. In fact, when she had apologised for returning to
duty and her patient, he came and let loose his satisfaction upon his
daughter. Nothing was more useful to a man having authority than the
companionship of a really sensible woman of the world. It enabled you
to do justice to yourself, to adopt the course you considered best
without undue hesitation. Therefore he would start for Rajpore, as he
had always intended to do, on the following day, taking Mr. Fitzgerald
with him to supply Gordon's place. He knew something of the current
work, and it would be a kindness, serving to show--er--that--er--there
was really nothing against him at headquarters.
'That was very considerate of Mrs. Boynton,' interrupted Rose quickly.
She saw the meaning of this man[oe]uvre so far that it roused her
resentment, even though, after all, it would be better for Dan than
dangling about with a sore heart while Gwen nursed the sick man. Better
for George also, since the _partie carree_ could not well consist of
three and a dummy. George should talk to her, and so be kept from
dangling also.
Thus Dan himself was the only one to look blank at the proposal, and
even he admitted its reasonableness when Mrs. Boynton pointed out the
many advantages it would have. This was during the _tete-a-tete_, in a
bell-shaped cupola, which she allowed him over their tea. To tell
truth, Gwen always behaved with the strictest and most impartial
justice to all who had claims upon her, and she would have felt herself
unkind had she allowed poor dear Dan to go away feeling aggrieved. She
was very sorry he had to go, or rather, to be strictly accurate, she
was sorry that common-sense dictated that he should go. Had all things
been consenting, there was no one in the wide world she would so gladly
have had for a husband. Now, when a woman of Mrs. Boynton's type, which
is at all times kindly disposed to lovers, has an idea of this sort
firmly fixed in her mind, she can be very kind indeed, even in her
dismissals. So Dan was perfectly happy after he had sat beside her, and
given her a second cup of tea, and handed her the bread and butter,
though he made wry faces over her lecture on the necessity for
subordinating his opinions to Colonel Tweedie's.
'And, Dan,' she said, when the _tete-a-tete_ had lasted long enough,
'as you are going to Delhi, you might take a parcel for me to Manohar
Lal, the jeweller's. It is quite small, but you might just send it
round--the shop is in the Chowk--by the bearer. I wouldn't trouble you,
but it is a chance, as you are going that way. It won't bother you,
will it?'
'Bother,' echoed Dan in the tones which men in his condition use on
such occasions.
'Then, I'll give it you now. I was going to send it by post, so it is
addressed, and all the instructions are inside; but it would be safer
if you took it--as you happen to be going.'
She repeated the phrase as if to convince herself of its truth. Yet
when, on returning with her commission, Dan seized the opportunity of
taking the parcel to kiss the fingers which held it, she felt something
of a traitor. Even though, in sending the jewels she had found to be
appraised, she told herself she had no other intention beyond, if
possible, getting enough money to repay the loan she had so unwisely
taken. That was all; and this chance of sending to Delhi by a safe hand
had decided her so far--no more.
'Good-bye, dear Dan,' she said; 'I always miss you so much when you go
away.'
That night Chandni reported progress to the Diwan. The mem's ayah had
let out that the big Huzoor, Fitzgerald sahib, was the greatest friend
the mem had. She must be a regular bad one, if all tales were true. And
the big sahib was going to Delhi, the most likely place in which jewels
would be sold. She would write to her craft, who were good clients of
the goldsmiths, and bid them keep a sharp look-out. It would at least
do no harm.
'Thy father must have been the devil,' said Zubr-ul-Zaman admiringly;
'yet will I reward thee, as thou hast asked, if all goes well.
'Does not all go well?' laughed the woman. 'The fire, and the fall?'
'And the girl?'
'Oh, naught of the girl!--the lance-player hits not the peg first time.
That part is done, that tune played, for good or evil. The bridegroom,
they say, comes next week. 'Tis well; we want no evil eye to change the
luck.'