MRS. LANGRISHE PUTS HERSELF OUT TO TAKE SOMEBODY IN.
The little excursion into the interior lasted ten days. Mr. Brande was
fond of thus throwing off the trammels of office and putting many miles
of mountain and valley between himself and official letters, telegrams,
and scarlet chuprassis, with their detestable tin boxes. He remained
away until the last hour of his leave, enjoying leisurely marches, _al
fresco_ tiffins and teas in inviting spots, also friendly discussions
with the sturdy Paharis or hill-folk. He returned to Shirani as much
refreshed by the change as his good lady.
Tea was ready in the verandah when they reached home. Everything
appeared in apple-pie order even to the mistress’s keen eye, from the
snowy-clad khitmatgars, the glossy dark-green ferns to the flouted pup,
newly washed and be-ribboned, who was in attendance in the ayah’s arms.
In a short time Mrs. Sladen appeared to welcome the family. She was
speedily followed by Mrs. Paul in a rickshaw and Miss Valpy on a smart
chestnut pony.
“We have come to hear all your news,” said the latter, as she helped
herself to a nice little hot cake.
“News! Pray where should _we_ get news?” demanded Mrs. Brande, whose
spirits had evidently revived.
“Come, tell us what has been going on in Shirani.”
“We are all on the _qui vive_ for the bachelors’ ball; heaps of people
are coming to it,” said Miss Valpy.
“Bachelors, _I hope_?” put in Mr. Brande, briskly.
“Yes; it is to be on the eighth.”
“I hope that our dresses have arrived,” said Honor, anxiously.
“I think I can relieve your mind,” rejoined Mrs. Sladen; “there is a
large new deal box in the back verandah that looks _very_ like dresses.
But poor Mrs. Curtice! The cart that was bringing up her boxes went
over the broken bridge into the river-bed, and all her new frocks are
in a state of pulp!”
“Who is Mrs. Curtice?” inquired Honor. “A new-comer?”
“Yes; an elderly youngerly bunchy person,” responded Miss Valpy. “She
reminds me exactly of an old Java sparrow! She would look the same, no
matter what she wore.”
Mr. Brande, the only gentleman present, put up his eye-glass and gazed
at the young lady meditatively.
“Any more news?” continued his insatiable wife.
“They say that Captain Waring is engaged to Miss Potter, up at Simla.
Does that cause you a pang, Honor?”
“Yes, a pang for Miss Potter,” she retorted. “I can’t endure Captain
Waring.”
“Oh, why not? Most people are long-suffering with respect to him!”
“I hate a man who, when he talks to me, every now and then chucks me
metaphorically under the chin.”
Mr. Brande now gravely focussed his eye-glass upon his niece.
“I see what you mean, dear. I’m sure, from what I know of you, he never
took a second liberty with you. Sir Gloster has come back.”
Here Mrs. Brande showed signs of increased attention.
“He has got snow-blindness. He went to the glacier.”
“Why, it seems only the other day that he went away,” observed Mrs.
Brande.
“Yes, just after the starvation picnic,” supplemented Honor.
“Everything will be dated from that now!” exclaimed her aunt,
irritably. “And is he laid up in Shirani?”
“Yes; Mrs. Langrishe has taken him in to nurse.”
“Mrs. Langrishe! She never did such a thing before in all her life,”
cried Mrs. Brande, “and besides, she has no room.”
“Oh, she has contrived it; she has given him Major Langrishe’s
dressing-room, and sent him to the club.”
“Well, I never!” gasped her listener.
“You see,” continued Mrs. Paul, laughing at her hostess’s face, “the
force of your good example.”
“Force of example! I call it the force of being a baronet. And have you
seen anything of Mark Jervis?”
“Yes; he and some of the Scorpions. Captain Scrope and Mr. Rawson are
laying out a paper-chase course. I am sure he will be here presently,”
added Mrs. Sladen. “He is on this ball committee, and extremely
energetic. Here he is,” as Jervis and two officers cantered up to the
verandah somewhat splashed.
“Welcome back,” he said, dismounting. “No, no, thanks; I will not come
in, at any rate further than the mat. We have been through bogs and
rivers, and are in a filthy state.”
“Never mind; it’s only the verandah! Do come in,” said Mrs. Brande,
recklessly.
“But I mind very much; and besides,” with a laugh, “nothing makes a
fellow feel so cheap as dirty boots.”
“I thought you were accustomed to feeling cheap,” said Honor, with a
playful allusion to his nickname.
“No,” throwing the reins to his syce and mounting the steps, “I much
prefer to be _dear_.”
“Dear--at any price!” exclaimed Miss Valpy, who, instead of chatting
with Captain Scrope, was giving her attention to Mr. Jervis.
“Dear at _any_ price,” emphatically. “How did you enjoy the interior?”
turning to Honor.
“It was delightful.”
“Any adventures this time? Any buffaloes, Mrs. Brande?”
“No, thank goodness, for I have the same wretches of Jampannis.”
“And you, Miss Gordon? Had you no adventures?”
Miss Gordon coloured vividly, and muttered an inaudible reply, as she
deliberately put the tea-cosy over the sugar-bowl. He recalled this
little incident long afterwards, and then read its meaning.
“Here is Scrope waiting for a cup of tea after his hard day,” he said,
suddenly turning the subject and slapping Captain Scrope on his solid
shoulder. “Scrope is wasting to a shadow with work, work, work.” He and
Captain Scrope were enthusiastic fellow-artists and racket-players.
“Yes, it’s a fact; it’s nothing but schools and classes, and drill and
drawing maps. The army is not what it was,” remarked Captain Scrope,
a round-faced, portly individual with a merry countenance. “We have
garrison classes, signalling classes, musketry classes; but the most
odious class I have ever attended is the meat class! I never bargained
for all this sort of thing when I came into the service----”
“What _did_ you bargain for? What would you like? Do pray name it?”
urged Miss Valpy.
“Well, since you ask me, a nice gentlemanly parade once a week, would,
in _my_ opinion, fulfil all requirements.”
“How moderate!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “Has any one been to see
poor Sir Gloster? It must be so dull for him sitting all day with his
eyes bandaged.”
“Yes, I looked in yesterday, he was quite cheery and chatty.”
“Nonsense! What did he talk about?”
“Well--a--chiefly himself.”
“Rather a dry topic,” muttered Jervis, _sotto-voce_.
Captain Scrope laughed.
“He is by no means so dull as you suppose,” he rejoined significantly.
“No; Miss Paske is a sympathetic little creature, and has a pleasant
voice,” observed Miss Valpy, with a satirical tightening of the lips.
“By the way, with his chubby cheeks and bandaged eyes, did Sir Gloster
not strike you as a grotesque copy of the god Cupid?”
“To quote the immortal Mrs. Gamp--I don’t believe there was ever such a
person. Do you, Jervis?”
“Mr. Jervis will not agree with you,” rejoined Miss Valpy, scrutinizing
him critically. What sincere eyes he had--eyes only for Honor
Gordon--and there was a wonderful amount of dormant force in the curve
of that well-formed chin and jaw.
“I am not a coarse heretic like Captain Scrope, but I cannot say that I
have ever made his personal acquaintance.”
“No!” exclaimed Miss Valpy, with a slightly incredulous glance. “Then
I do not think you will have _long_ to wait.”
Miss Valpy’s sharp eyes and tongue were notorious all over Shirani.
Jervis surveyed her with a look of cool polite scrutiny as he answered
with a nonchalance impossible to convey--
“Possibly not--they say every thing comes to those who wait.”
“And how is Sweet? our own choice particular Sweet?” inquired Mr.
Brande, as he laid down his cup and addressed himself to Captain
Scrope. “I am languishing for news of the little darling.”
“The pretty child still endears herself to every one! All our special
skeletons continue to be dragged out into the light of day. Her last
feat was to ask Mrs. Turner where her second face was, as Mr. Glover
said she had _two_! I wish some one would take your little darling
home! Poor as I am, I would gladly contribute to her passage.”
“Talking of sending home,” said Mrs. Paul, “our collection for that
poor widow and her children is getting on famously; we have nearly two
thousand rupees; I must say that Anglo-Indians are most liberal, they
_never_ turn a deaf ear to a deserving charity.”
“It is probably because they are shamed into it by the noble example
set them by the natives,” remarked Mr. Brande. “A man out here will
share his last chuppatty and his last pice with his kin--thanks to the
fact that the well-to-do support all their needy relations; we have no
poor rates.”
“There is one mysteriously charitable person in Shirani,” continued
Mrs. Paul, “who has repeatedly sent Herbert fifty rupees in notes
anonymously, we cannot guess who he is?”
“He? why should it not be _she_?” inquired Miss Valpy, combatively.
“The writing is in a man’s hand, and the notes are stuffed in
anyhow--they are extremely welcome, however--always come when most
wanted. It is some one who has been here since March.”
“No, no, Mrs. Paul; you need not look at _me_,” exclaimed Captain
Scrope, with a deprecating gesture; “I am an object of charity myself.”
“Have you no idea, have you formed no conjecture?” inquired Mr. Brande,
judicially.
“I was thinking that perhaps Sir Gloster,” she began.
“Oh!” broke in Miss Valpy, hastily, “I can assure you that he is quite
above suspicion: the only thing about him that is _not_ large--is his
heart. It is much more likely to be one of the present company,” and
her smiling glance roved from Mr. Brande to Honor, from Honor to Mr.
Rawson, from Mr. Rawson to Mr. Jervis.
His face was determinedly bent down, he was playing with “Jacko” (the
friend of dead-and-gone Ben, who now honoured Rookwood with much of
his society), and all she could scrutinize was a head of brown hair
and a neat parting. Presently the head was raised. She met his eyes
point-blank. Yes, he looked undeniably embarrassed, not to say guilty,
as he endeavoured to evade her searching gaze.
“The culprit is Mr. Jervis!” she proclaimed with an air of calm
conviction.
At this announcement there was a shout of ribald laughter, even Mrs.
Paul and Mrs. Sladen smiled. Jervis the impecunious, the unassuming,
the unpaid travelling companion, why, he went by the name of “the
poor relation!” Miss Valpy’s shots generally hit some portion of her
target, but this one was widely astray. And now conversation turned
upon the ensuing ball. Decorations were eagerly discussed. Was the
dancing-room to be done in pink, or would men wear mess jackets? Had
bachelors any distinctive colours, or would the colours of the Shirani
gymkana be suitable? Should they select the colours of the most popular
bachelor--this was Mr. Brande’s suggestion--or let each of the fifty
hosts do a small bit of the room to his own fancy? Above this babel of
tongues Jervis’s clear voice was heard saying--
“Take notice, Mr. Brande, that I am going to make a clean sweep of your
sofas and armchairs. I have also made a note of your new standard lamp.
We shall want a cheval glass----”
Mrs. Brande beamed. She liked people to borrow her belongings. She
would have lent her boy Mark her best pink satin dress, and feather
head-dress, if they would have been of the smallest use to him.
Presently the party broke up, the visitors going away, as usual, _en
masse_.
Miss Valpy was helped on her pony by Mr. Jervis, and as he carefully
arranged her foot in the stirrup and gave her the reins, he looked up
and their eyes met.
“Thank you very much,” was all she said to him. To herself, “Aha! my
good young man, I know _two_ of your secrets!”