Ten days had passed since George, after many hours of deadly
discomfort, found himself admitting that the world was not such an
intolerable place, even in India; that, when all was said and done,
there were some things in it worth looking at.
Those who have experience of these convalescent journeyings will
know at once that this must have been just about that turn of the
upward-trending road where a bridge slants the dhooli across the dry
torrent-bed, so that the traveller can see a stream of pink oleander
blossoms filling the narrow ravine. The morning sunshine lies yellow on
the red, parched hillocks, the red rocks crumble from thirst, but the
heat-hidden water proclaims its presence beneath them by that glory of
flowers. Nothing else, far or near, suggesting moisture; save, perhaps,
the candlestick-euphorbia, reminding one vaguely of the Ark of the
Covenant. Not a very welcome reminder, in this land of drought, where
even a deluge of rain would be a blessing; so, at least, thought
George, all unwitting of the times now close at hand, when a racing,
roaring demon would fill the narrow valley, the oleander flowers would
seem adrift, and the arch of the bridge would echo to the metallic
churnings of the boulders below, until, maybe, it would take a fancy to
join them, and leave travellers staring at each other across an
impassable torrent.
Another slanting turn or two, and the candlestick bush is left behind.
The red-flowered indigo hides the dry, red soil, and from it rise
strange shrubs with sparse foliage and abundant blossom--yellows and
whites and lilacs--with here and there a burnished pomegranate, vivid
green and crimson. A sweet scent fills the air from grey aromatic
herbs, among which the wild bees keep up a perpetual hum. It is the
land of honey and honey bees. Butterflies also. There goes a purple
emperor, and, by Jove! yonder is one of those swallowed-tailed whoppers
you have seen somewhere in a glass case. The head sinks back on the
pillow again, tiredly content, to watch the scarlet flash of a
sun-bird. Was that a fern hidden in the crevice of the yellowing rocks?
Yes! parched, dwarfed, but still a fern. So on and up, until the
coolies set the dhooli down on a bit of real green grass beside the
tiny trickle of the spring whence they slake their thirst, and some one
from a shingled hut hung with flowering, fruiting gourds, brings the
sahib a red-brown earthen pot. A land of milk this--somewhat smoky, no
doubt, yet still milk. Over the tops of the fragrant pine-trees
something blue climbs up and up into the sky. Can it be a hill?--the
hills '_from whence cometh your help!_' The memory of some early
morning service in the odd little station church comes over you, with
the punkahs swinging overhead, the Deputy-Commissioner reading the
psalms, and the involuntary stir northwards of the small knot of
worshippers as the words sink straight into their hearts, bringing
thoughts of dear faces looking down on the heat-sodden plains. Yes!
those are the hills; for, as the coolies slither through the slippery
pine needles, the faint blue mist blending into the clouds rises, and
the headman, pausing, points to a cluster of white dots. Those are the
sahib-logues' houses.
The path steepens; George pulls up the neglected shawl as shelter from
the growing cool; and as he is hurried along the curving road to find
old familiar friends in every flower and leaf his renewed vitality
expresses itself, oddly enough, in the inward conviction that here
at last is a place in which one could _die_ comfortably. Not that
George, or any other convalescent in his position, contemplates
the possibility of death; why should one when life has suddenly
become attractive?--when one can breathe instead of merely drawing
breath?--above all, when it is safe to go out into the garden without a
hat, and pick a carnation for your buttonhole before strolling over to
have tea with the most perfect woman in the world.
Those ten days, therefore, passed like wild-fire. George knew no more
how he had spent them than how he had spent all his money. Chiefly, it
may be said, on sweets at Peliti's, kid gloves, and new ties. It was
the first time the young fellow had ever been let loose on equal terms
in the very best of society--a society, moreover, bent on amusing
itself. That he should follow its example was a foregone conclusion;
and it must be owned that he certainly got his money's worth in solid
enjoyment. There is always one particular period in the life of every
man and woman when the sun seems to stand still in the heavens on
purpose to make pleasure perpetual. This had set in for George, and it
had its usual effect in giving a fine-drawn, eager expression to his
face. Small wonder, perhaps, seeing that, as a rule, he never went to
bed till three in the morning, and that the days passed in one
ceaseless round of amusement. It seemed incredible, even to himself,
that, not a fortnight past, he had been agonising at Hodinuggur on
beef-tea and barley-water. But then Hodinuggur itself was incredible;
almost as much so as the fact that he had proposed to wear his old
white shirts, washed by a desert-washerman at Simla! They were thrust
aside in a bottom drawer now, and their place filled by brand-new ones
from a Europe shop; for how could one dance with the most perfect woman
in the world in a shirt that had no deportment? How, in fact, could you
do anything without reference to the certainty that your unworthy self
would form a part of perfection's environment? That is what it comes
to, when a steady, honest young fellow like George falls down on his
knees to worship a pretty face and a gracious smile. No doubt it was
not a very admirable occupation, but it seemed so to him, as it seems
to that majority of mankind which does not ask itself questions; simply
because he had been taught, as we have all been taught, to look on
sentimental love between the sexes as something almost divine. Thus,
the real issues being hopelessly confused, this new feeling of
passionate worship had all the effect of a new religion upon him. So
other things besides old shirts were thrust out of sight. Among them
Azizan's picture. The idol should not see it till the depths of deceit
regarding the Ayodhya pot had been fathomed, lest in any way
perfection's ears should be sullied by a queer story. By and by, when,
on returning to Hodinuggur he had time to unravel the mystery, he might
send the portrait to her as the best piece of work he had ever turned
out; but now? Why now, as usual, it was time to ride over on the hired
pony--of whose mane and tail you were inwardly ashamed--to the pretty
little house among the pine-woods, and there, in Paradise, try to
forget that but three days' more leave lay between you and purgatory.
Certainly not an admirable occupation; but the novelty, the excitement,
the supreme pleasure had gone, like wine, to the boy's head, producing
that exalted condition of mind and body, which has been described as
leaving one in doubts whether to have another whisky and water, or to
say one's prayers and go to bed.
Lewis Gordon, standing in the back verandah, watched the young fellow
ride off with a frown.
'It's too bad of Gwen,' he murmured to himself, as he went back to
finish dressing. 'I can't think what the fun can be. But the boy is
having a good time; that's one thing. And I suppose we all have to go
through it some time or another.'
When he had done putting himself into an extremely dandified racing
kit, he passed through into the office again and began work steadily on
some files. _He_ was not on leave, and if he had to ride a steeplechase
at half-past four, that was no reason why he should waste an hour in
dawdling down to Annandale beside Gwen's _dandy_. There was no reason,
either, for his doing duty with Colonel Tweedie and his daughter, who
had ordered their horses at three. Time enough if he galloped down at
four, when the road would be pretty clear, instead of being clogged by
a perfect procession of women and coolies masquerading in ridiculous
costumes; whence it may be inferred that Lewis Gordon was in a bad
temper. As a matter of fact, he had been more or less so ever since he
arrived at Simla, despite the welcome he received from Gwen's constant
smiles, exquisite dresses, and admirable lunches. Perhaps he was
conscious that some one would have to pay for all these amenities,
and the prospect of responsibility in the future weighed on him;
not in a pecuniary point of view, but in reference to the fact that the
debtor would be his wife. For, like most men of his _genre_, he was
fastidious over the duties of women who were in any way connected
with him. Anyhow, he was distinctly dissatisfied with his world, as he
sat, buried shortsightedly up to his nose, in piles of paper; his
racing-colours, white with a crimson hoop, looking ridiculously out of
keeping with his occupation.
A clatter of hoofs told him that the Colonel and Rose were off. He
could see them from his window passing a turn of the road below the
house, their figures outlined for a moment against the dim blue of the
valley. She sat straight, certainly, and as he watched her, a smile
came to his face as he remembered the partridge-hunt; but it was
replaced immediately by a frown. For the memory of Hodinuggur conjured
up that of Dalel Beg, who had come up to Simla for these races, and
had, in Lewis's opinion, been making himself most objectionable.
There was no reason on earth, of course, why Dalel should not come; no
reason on earth why the Governor-General should not shake hands
with him, or any one else--that was part of the duty for which
Governor-Generals were paid; but that Gwen Boynton should shake hands
with him and allow him to speak to her familiarly, was different. That
was a matter of feeling, not a matter of reason. Apart from the
question of colour, Dalel was an objectionable brute--could scarcely be
otherwise, considering his up-bringings. That much of this was sheer
insular prejudice on Lewis Gordon's part may be true. If put to it, he
would have frankly confessed to many another objectionable brute with a
white face; but that the dark-skin should enter into the question is at
present inevitable in India, where it is typical of those theories and
practices which make real social intercourse between the upper classes
of the two races an impossibility--_at present_.
And, to say sooth, Dalel was not nice, outwardly or inwardly. Even the
best tailor in Simla could not make him look aught but intolerable in
his elaborate riding-gear, as he paused on his way to the racecourse
before a small shop in the bazaar; a dark hole of a place, squalidly
bare of all save a sign where, in crooked lettering, it was announced
that 'MUNAHRLALLOFDELHIJEWLERGOLDWORKS' was ready 'TOBYANDSELL.'
'No news of the pearls yet?' asked Dalel in an undertone of the man in
dirty white waist-cloth and low turban, who came out hastily to cringe
at his stirrup.
'Huzoor, no! The ayah saith they have not come. Perhaps the little
sahib----'
A measured shuffle of footsteps and a gay laugh arrested the
deprecating voice. It was Mrs. Boynton, carried by four men arrayed in
white; she herself being a vision of angelic spotlessness. Beside her,
his hand on the shafts of her _dandy_, his young face intent on hers,
came George Keene. It needs great ignorance or great experience to walk
in this fashion, without appearing either ridiculous or unseemly.
George looked neither; only supremely happy.
'Who was that?' he asked, as his companion bowed. Her little gloved
hand resting so close to his tightened nervously.
'Dalel Beg. He bowed to me.'
George gave a quick glance backwards. 'By Jove, so it is! What cheek!'
He thought so, honestly, as they passed on between the irregular rows
of shingled huts, leaving the group before the jeweller's shop, looking
after them curiously. Past the bazaar, down many a turn, till a bare
zigzag showed on the hill-side beneath them, and below that again a
green oval of valley set in trees. The eye following each angle of the
descent, could see, as it were in terraces, an almost continuous stream
of _dandies_, _rickshaws_, and ponies, all bent towards that grassy
oasis where a tent or two gleamed white, and a crowd of humanity
already swarmed like bees.
There is no gayer crowd in the universe than this of Simla out for a
holiday; though, even as it passed downward, a man with a sober face
and a telegram in his pocket passed upwards on a sorry errand. Ten
minutes before that telegram handed in to the Club tent had hushed the
laughter into silence for a while. 'Cholera, of course,' said some one
after that while. 'I heard yesterday from Galbraith it was getting
rather stiffish in those parts. Poor old Jackson! After all these
years, too.' And then the recipient had ridden off in hot haste,
because the poor widow--the widow of his best friend--was coming
down at four with his wife to see the steeplechase, and it would be
best to prevent _that_, if possible. A sorry errand indeed, past those
holiday-makers, to whom he had to give back greeting, irrespective of
that death-message in his pocket lest the news might travel too fast.
Even to the pallid, pretty-faced young wife raising herself eagerly
from her cushions as he passed to ask if Mrs. Jackson had heard from
her husband that morning. She had had no letter; but of course Mr.
Jackson would have mentioned it if there had been anything wrong with
Charlie? Doubtless, Mr. Jackson would have done so, came in answer to
the wistful eyes, ere the messenger rode on full of that wrathful,
surprised grief which such scenes bring to the average Englishman. And
it must not be forgotten that it is in such scenes as these that the
foundation of all that is best in our Indian empire is laid. Going
to the hills! Whose fault is it that the phrase conjures up to the
English ear a vision of grass-widows, flirtations, scandals,
frivolities! Surely it is the fault of those who, telling the tale of a
hill-station, leave out the tragedy of separation which makes our rule
in India such a marvel of self-sacrifice both to the woman and the man.
Yet below, in the Club tent, and round the shady ring the laughter went
on after its brief check. Mrs. O'Dowb, whose husband had held hill
appointments ever since he married a big-wig's daughter, improving the
occasion against her bitterest foe, Mrs. Larkins, by declaring that
some women had no sense of duty, and seemed to forget that they had
sworn at the altar to cherish their husbands. To which her little
enemy, using the sharp tongue which captivated mankind in general,
assented smilingly; she herself knew women who could not be brought to
understand that their absence must be a far greater comfort than their
presence. Whereat there was war.
A gay crowd indeed! with here and there a surge, accompanied by murmurs
of 'Your Excellency,' and a steady circle round some recognised leader
holding her little court. Not much interest on the whole, however, over
the races, save among a knot of men near the betting-tent, when Dalel
Beg, hand in glove with a shady lot of men from a newly-opened hotel,
went swaggering about with his jockey's colours pinned on to his coat.
'I'm not on duty to-day,' replied a handsome man to Gwen Boynton's
inquiry why he was not as usual in the tent. 'A contingent of bad lots
brought their ponies up and rushed the meeting. They do it sometimes,
and then it isn't good enough for old stagers. All we stewards can do
is to keep 'em as straight as we can, and that isn't easy. Weight for
weight, inches for inches, Mrs. Boynton, I'll back an Indian gymkhana,
where nobody has any money to pay, and all the subalterns think they
know something about a horse--especially their own--to lick creation in
sheer crookedness. And when the profession come down like a wolf on the
fold, as they have done to-day, it is crookeder still. And all about a
_pari mutual_ for the most part.' The look of disgust on the speaker's
face was almost comical.
'Poor Major Davenant!' smiled Gwen sympathetically. 'But the chase will
be good. Mr. Gordon is in it.'
'I wish he wasn't.'
A wish which was echoed by Rose Tweedie, who stood within earshot. For
the last half hour she had been trying to keep her eyes away from the
zigzag--now almost deserted--on the opposite hill-side. An ineffectual
attempt; ineffectual as her wish, for there, coming down at a rattling
pace, was an unmistakable figure. She clasped her hands tighter on her
riding-whip, impatient at her own nervousness, and went on talking to
George Keene.
'No! you are not a creditable patient. You don't look a bit better than
you did a week ago; I am not sure you don't look worse. And you have
only three more days; you should ask father for an extension.'
Mrs. Boynton turned round quickly. 'What a splendid idea! Do, Mr.
Keene! Rose will back you up, and so will I. You mustn't go before the
Club ball.'
The young fellow flushed, but shook his head, with a laugh. 'And poor
old Dan down in the wilderness? Not I. It is only excess of amusement,
Miss Tweedie. I shall soon get over that at Hodinuggur.'
His face sobered at the very thought.
'Poor fellow,' murmured Gwen in an undertone, and he brightened up
again.
'How many gloves was it to be on Bronzewing, Miss Tweedie. You promised
to back her against the field, you remember,' came a voice, making Rose
start. How nice he looked with his covert coat just showing the white
and crimson! She hated herself for thinking such things, and yet she
thought them all the same; it seemed to her, sometimes, as if she were
always thinking of him; but she had given up hating herself for
that--that had to be faced, and kept secret, like this strange feeling
of dread. She had seen dozens of men ride steeplechases before without
a flutter at her heart: but now----
'You bet? Then I lay you three to one against. You need not pay,
lady-fashion,' interrupted another voice ere she had time to reply. It
was Dalel Beg, swaggering along fresh from a Vice-Regal hand-shake to
assert his rights in society; notably with Mrs. Boynton, much to her
tall companion's horror, for he had done his best on two occasions to
get the offender kicked off a racecourse. The Mirza's flabby hand was
now thrust out at Rose, but the riding-whip seemed a fixture in both of
hers, as it would have been had the hand offered been fair instead of
dark, for there was a certain class of men with whom the girl never
shook hands. Lewis Gordon, watching her with curious impatience, as he
often did in society, had often been forced to confess unwillingly that
her instincts in this respect were generally right. This time her
refusal gave him distinct pleasure.
'I don't bet lady's-fashion,' she replied coolly; then turning to
Lewis, went on in the same tone: 'I believe I did promise, Mr. Gordon;
so perhaps Major Davenant wouldn't mind half-a-dozen pairs to one on
the mare.'
'Double the odds wrong way up,' smiled the Major, crossing over to her
side. 'You wouldn't make your fortune as a bookmaker, I'm afraid.
However, I'll take it, if you let me hedge for you.'
'You don't know Bronzewing. I do.'
'You don't know the field. I do. In fact, Gordon, if I had had any idea
we were to be inundated with down-country ruck, I should have advised
you to scratch. They don't want outsiders.'
'They will have to thole them, as we say north of the Tweed,' replied
Lewis. As a rule he was shy of admitting his Scotch birth, and the
pronoun sounded sweet in Rose's ears.
'What an arrant pirate you are, Gwen,' he said in a low tone as he took
the place beside her _dandy_ vacated by Dalel Beg, who, after returning
to her for consolation, had gone on to the tent. 'You have been betting
against me, haven't you, dear?'
'Against Bronzewing, you mean. What chance can she have with the
Confederation's Waler? If you were riding _it_--and I am so badly off
for gloves.' As she looked at her lavender-cased fingers plaintively,
she was as pretty and well-dressed a picture of gracious womanhood as
the imagination could paint. The fact was mollifying and brought
admiration to his eyes.
'Don't see it. Seems to me you want nothing. What a jolly shawl that
is! too good, surely, to be crumbled up that way.'
He was right. A white cashmere with a broad bordering in faint greys
and lavenders is hardly the thing for a dust-cloth. Perhaps she was
aware of the fact; anyhow, she coloured up.
'Not at all. I bought it for a mere song. Isn't it time you were
weighing-in or something of that sort? they have been ringing a bell.'
'Directly. You see, I'm dressed and ready.'
'Yes, I see. You look so nice.'
Rose might have made the remark with far more fervour than Gwen could
conjure into it, and yet the latter scored the points, for Lewis
strolled off feeling less dissatisfied with life than before. Men are
trivial creatures when they have to do with that trivial creature,
woman.
To a large proportion of men, a horse-race is a most uninteresting
affair; to the majority of women, it is a mere accessory to a misused
wedding-breakfast or a somewhat spoilt _fete champetre_. This one was
no exception to the rule, and the interest of the resident racers being
reduced to a minimum, there was little excitement beyond the immediate
circle by the tents.
'Game little beast that of Gordon's,' remarked Major Davenant after
Lewis had cantered past. 'Pity she hasn't a chance, but I'm afraid she
is out-classed. By George, they are off, and she--no! That's a pity.'
A short man standing close by laughed.
'For Gordon. I know that dun beast; seen him down country; warranted to
wear out the temper of any but his stable companions. Is Bronzewing
keen, Miss Tweedie?'
'Very.'
'I thought so. There--back again. Gordon looks pleasant, doesn't he?'
His face certainly showed irritation, his hand did not; and as he
turned the mare to face the starter again, he leant forward to pat the
fine bronze neck.
There was greater interest this time as the pace slackened to a walk.
'Splendid line,' commended the Major--'now then, starter! Oh! dash the
mare! No--by Jove, that was well done.'
'For the dun,' echoed the short man. 'Smart; very. Wonder how he
managed it?' For as the flag fell, Bronzewing had reared straight on
end, only to shoot forward with a bound which more than compensated for
the delay on which the others had counted.
'Didn't you hear?' cried Rose, clasping her hands. 'It was the
partridge's note did it. He--Mr. Gordon gave it. You heard, didn't you,
Mr. Keene?'
'Yes! I heard.' He was as excited as she was. 'By Jove, what a sell for
that dun brute! Look, there they are. He is in--right in to the posts;
trust Gordon for that.'
Now to be in to the posts means something when you have to go twice
round a course which follows the narrow oval of a valley. Except at the
ends of the ellipse when a less clever-footed beast than Bronzewing
might find trouble in the sharp curve.
'Oh! how badly that man rides,' cried Rose. 'He can't hold his horse.
Ah!' She felt a wild inclination to cover her eyes--to get away--not to
see; for, as the horses rose to a stone wall, a sudden swerve of his
left-hand neighbour carried Lewis Gordon's foot clear out of the
stirrup.
'All right, Miss Tweedie, over like a bird. But you are right. Green
rides badly.' And the short man looked at the Major comprehensively.
'Jimmy,' called the latter quickly, when the horses showed again at the
end curve as they came round on the winning post for their first turn,
Bronzewing fourth and ousted from her inner place by Blue-and-white,
who was making the pace over the straightest bit in the course; 'get me
all you can from them on the mare--in Simians Gad! I should like to let
those fellows in.'
'But she is behind, ever so far behind,' interrupted Rose, divided
between regret and relief that she would not have to watch a reckless
tussle at the end, with its thousand possibilities of mishap.
'There isn't a beast near her at the jumps, and if Gordon--he's saving
her now, Miss Tweedie--gets the inner lap again top and bottom; it is
as near a moral as racing ought to be. Lord! how she took that water!
Well done, little 'un, well done!'
He was almost as excited as George, who was craning forward to catch a
last glimpse of the trail of bright colours skimming round the farthest
turn behind some trees.
'By Jove! he is in again, and how Green is riding him! Stick to it,
man, stick to it! Game little lady! not an inch to spare, and waltzed
over it as if she had the floor to herself. They mean Blue-and-white to
win; that's clear. Ah! now it's on the straight! Now Green will shoot!
H'm--not much to spare in that cross. Green's in--that's an end.
Blue-and-white wins, unless he makes a mistake.' Major Davenant put
down his field-glasses with a sigh.
On they came; the Red-hoop and the Green almost neck and neck, close
in to the posts. Keeping pace half a length behind in the clear,
Blue-and-white saving breath for his awkward beast at the last hedge;
behind them, a trail of colours like a pennant streaming backwards. Now
they are at the sharpest corner, and a murmur rises as Bronzewing
shoots ahead, making the Green give way.
'Hullo, what's that?' cries the Major; 'a foul? Did any one see it?'
There was no time for an answer as yet. Green, seeing his work over,
slacks to pace, and there is nothing but an easy hedge and a couple of
hundred yards galloping between the Crimson-hoop, Blue-and-white and
the winning post. Inch by inch Bronzewing gives way before the swinging
stride of the Waler, but she presses him hard, too hard for the last
fence, easy as it is. They rise almost at the same second. It is the
mare's last chance against those longer, clumsier legs, and she gains
it. Blue-and-white sways in his saddle as his beast, touching the rail,
staggers, jumps short, and rolls over easily. Green, half a length
behind, is alongside in a second, but a second too late; for Lewis
Gordon wins by that second, and no more.
Rose, who for the last minute has been completely blinded by the
beating of her own heart, was left alone amid feminine congratulations,
the men having gone to offer theirs in person to the winner.
'Oh, Jimmy, my boy! I wish I'd said thousands, mourned Major Davenant
as he passed his pal in the outer tent.
Jimmy whistled softly. 'Just as well you didn't; they claim a foul for
Green, and it looks bad. I wish you had been on. Williams and Gray are
such duffers, and Van Souter'--a shrug of the shoulders completed his
meaning effectually.
'A foul! Well, I must own it looked like one to me. What does Gordon
say?'
'Looks black as thunder. Go inside and see. Most of the field swear to
it; but it isn't like Gordon.'
There was not much judicial serenity about the inquiry which was being
made in the steward's tent; nor much of the pomp and circumstance of
justice either. Nothing but a bare tent, a cane-bottomed chair or two,
and the weighing-machine, where Lewis still sat listening to Dalel Beg,
who was volunteering information. An Englishman in like position would
have been told to hold his tongue; but what are vaguely termed
political considerations affect the question in regard to the native
nobility, especially at headquarters.
'I beg your pardon, I'm sure,' interrupted one of the judges
diffidently; 'but if you will allow me--since the claim is
made--perhaps Mr. Crosbie--that is, I think, your name, sir?--will
kindly tell us what occurred.'
The man in green silk bowed. He was a gentlemanly-looking man, with a
suspicion of past military training in his carriage.
'I regret it excessively, and I am sure it was quite unintentional on
Mr. Gordon's part, but there can be no question about the foul. As most
of those present can bear me out in saying, I had taken and kept the
inner place fairly. Mr. Gordon was riding for it also. At the corner
post his mount was too eager, and the foul occurred. So violently that,
as you see, two buttons have been almost wrenched off my breeches. I
quite admit that I recovered an outside place without much delay; but I
beg to remind the judges that the race was lost by a second.'
'And I beg to remind the judges,' added the Blue-and-white jacket,
'that I was on a level with Mr. Crosbie and Mr. Gordon, a little
farther out, and saw the whole affair. It was not Mr. Gordon's fault;
but the foul was indubitable.'
'And what have you to say about it, Mr. Gordon?'
'I?' He rose quietly and went over to Green. 'I should advise Mr.
Crosbie to try benzine collas. It's the best thing I know for taking
paint off breeches--doesn't stain at all. By the way, Davenant, I've
often told you that is a most awkward post. It's just on the angle, and
if you haven't perfect control over your beast, it is almost sure to go
the wrong side, as Mr. Crosbie's did, and then, if the thing is newly
painted as it is to-day you--you spoil your clothes.'
He turned on his heel as he drawled out the last words and walked away.
'I utterly deny, I--I--it is impossible----' stuttered Green and Blue
together.
He looked back from the door. 'Exactly so; I leave you, gentlemen, to
settle how Mr. Crosbie got that red paint on his left knee, when,
according to you, he was hugging the post with his right. It is an
interesting question, and I shall be glad to hear the judges, decision,
when they have arrived at it.'
He was in a towering temper despite his cool words; and Mrs. Boynton
felt quite a pang of alarm as he apologised curtly for not being able
to wait for her, saying he was in a hurry to get home to some important
work. That, however--as she noticed keenly--did not prevent him from
spending five minutes beside Rose Tweedie in eager conversation. Of
course, Lewis Gordon was not such a fatuous idiot as to allow the mere
gain or loss of half a dozen pairs of kid gloves to affect his
arrangements for the future; but it certainly affected him in the
present, and Gwen was quite aware of the fact, and felt glad that the
proceedings of the _pari mutual_ were strictly confidential. As she
went home, listening gracefully to George Keene's adoring small-talk,
her mind was full of care. Now at these periods of life when the sun
stands still in the heavens, and a man acquires the art of talking
about the most trivial details in a tone which is a caress, he is apt
to pall, unless the caress means as much to the woman. So Gwen sent
George home from the turn up to her house, and went alone through the
scented pine-woods, where the long shadows lay across the path. Her
face, now there was no necessity for a smile, looked haggard and
anxious; utterly out of keeping with the luxury of her surroundings,
and the comfort of the flower-decked verandah, where the ayah stood
waiting to receive her mistress. Some one else was waiting too, in
highly starched muslin and a low-wound white pugree showing a triangle
of pale-pink folds above the forehead. A smirk was on his face, a
wooden pen-box under his arm, and an attendant was squatting beside
more boxes done up in a Manchester handkerchief.
'Mem sahiba see my thing? Gold-work, Delhi-work, Cashmir-work--all
work.'
He thrust a card into her hand--
'Manohar Lal, from Delhi.'
She turned away quickly. 'I don't want anything. Ayah! how often have I
told you never to let these people come?'
'Manohar Lal say he know Mem sahiba,' murmured the ayah sulkily, moving
off with the wraps.
'No need to buy, Huzoor,' said the crafty lips. 'I have good things to
look. Or I buy. Anything. Gold-work, silver-work, pearls. I buy three
big pearls of lady in Rajpore last months. Shall I open boxes, Huzoor?'
'Yes; you can open them,' said Gwen quickly.