"For lo! the winter is past,
and the rain is over and gone!"--_The Bible_.
"That's Lady Hickle!"
The two men turned in their saddles as Leonie went by at a canter near
the rails.
The raking great waler forging ahead like an engine of destruction was
kept in check by Leonie, exuberant with health, the knowledge of a
perfect seat and hands, and that uprush of spirits which an early ride on
the Maidan brings--to some of us.
"Not _the_ Lady Hickle?"
"The same!"
"Well, I'm damned! she's only a girl, and _what_ a seat! Chucked the
millions, too, didn't she? Having a good time?"
John Thorne frowned as he backed his horse before answering.
"We're great friends," he said shortly, and the other man tapped his
teeth with his whip.
Thorne hadn't the slightest intention of implanting a snub, as the other
man knew, knowing him and his most unfortunate manner.
Friends, yes! they were friends, two strong, super-sensitive characters
drawn in sympathy one to the other; and John Thorne would have liked to
have been a good deal more than a friend, but he had the sense to realise
that the only kind of woman he could ever ask to share his rising
fortune, bad manners, and worse temper, would be of the type designated
in the short and unromantic word _cow_.
One of those slumbrous, sleek creatures who stand knee deep and content
in a field of domestic trivialities; ruminate placidly upon the happy
little events of the past hour; and always find a hedge under which to
shelter at the first intimation of a storm.
Lucky, lucky cattle who do not know the temperamental ups and downs, the
mental lights and shadows, the physical and psychological upheavals, or
the intense joys and griefs of the more highly strung goat.
At that moment Leonie rode back slowly with some friends, and smiled at
John Thorne.
"No!" Thorne went on meditatively, "no, she's _not_ having a good time.
I can't quite make it out. You see, although she was only married for a
day, the defunct tradesman husband rather overshadows her father's
splendid career--old Bob Hetth, V.C., you remember. It _would_ in this
caste-bound country. Caste amongst _us_, ye gods! Then her clothes are
really lovely, oh! ripping! make Chowringhee confections look as though
they'd come from the _durzi_ or the Lal Bazaar. And it seems that she's
living on her capital, and that her hair curls naturally----"
The other man laughed out loud.
"Oh! you needn't laugh. Wait until you've been stationed as long as I
have in Calcutta, then you'll----"
Leonie had turned and was coming up at a gentle trot.
"Gad! isn't she beautiful?" said the newcomer.
"Yes! I think that's _really_ her trouble," replied Thorne as he moved
to meet her.
"Good morning, and don't come too near the Devil. We were out in the fog
this morning and it has made him as touchy as anything. Isn't it a
simply perfect morning!"
For a moment she sat and looked at the funnels and masts swarming the
placid Hoogli, turned her head as a far-away siren announced the arrival
of a liner, gave a little sigh as she looked up at a kite sailing
care-free overhead, and came back to earth with a smile.
"How d'you do," she smiled, upon the introduction of the other man. "And
don't come too near the Devil, he's nervy; in fact I think he will burst
with suppressed energy if I keep him standing longer. Shall we canter as
far--oh!----"
"Hell!" finished Thorne after his kind, causing the corners of Leonie's
beautiful mouth to lift as she raised a reproving finger.
The razor-tongued, most feared and detested colonel mem-sahib of the
line, in the whole of India, rode up with a seat which would not have
disgraced the sands of Margate.
Thinking that she might as well share the pig-skin, she had, upon her
husband attaining his majority, taken a dozen riding lessons somewhere
near Regent's Park; had hacked irregularly ever since, and still, when
off her equine guard, talked about a horse's ankles.
"Don't come too near the Devil, Mrs. Hudson, he's _so_ fidgety."
"Nonsense!" brusquely replied the lady as she nodded to the men. "It's
you who are fidgety; comes of all your sleep-walking, brain fag or
whatever you call it; you've--you've inoculated the poor darling," she
added, clapping her hand on the Devil's hind-quarters.
Thorne made an ineffectual grab as the Devil reared so straight that
Leonie's face was hidden in the mane, and backed his horse as the waler
came down with a terrific clatter on the hard ground, scraping the
colonel mem-sahib's foot as she wheeled about, emitting silly little
cries, whilst men tore up from all sides with desire to help.
Up again he shot, pawing the air until it seemed that he surely must fall
backwards, and men and women stared aghast until Leonie, raising her arm,
brought her whip down between the silky ears.
"Damnation!" said John Thorne as Leonie patted the Devil's neck as he
danced nervously on one spot.
"Time I took him home," she said. "The syce?--no! I daren't give him to
anyone as he is--oh! good morning----
"Saw your _haute école_ stunt, Lady Hickle," burst out a lad who rode a
fallen star in the shape of a discarded discreditable polo pony. "Simply
topping--but the Devil's a nervy demon, you _shouldn't_ ride him--he'll
get away with you one of these fine days. What happened?"
"He bumped into my horse, he's not safe to be out amongst us--indeed, he
is _not_. Lady Hickle, I have been in Cat----"
The rest was lost in precipitate flight with the colonel mem-sahib's arms
closely hugging her pony's neck, to the joy and the infinite delight of
the rest of the spectators.
Unseen, uncouth John Thorne, furious at the scant courtesy shown to the
lady of his dreams, had brought his whip down heftily, just above the
mangy tail of the colonel mem's pony.
"I think I'll ride alone, if you don't mind," said Leonie with a ripple
of suppressed laughter in her voice.
"All the way to Alipore?"
"Oh! it's not far, and I daren't trust the syce, the Devil would simply
_eat_ him."
The boy sidled in between her and Thorne, to the latter's infinite
annoyance.
"Are you still keen on the _shikar_ stunt, Lady Hickle?"
He gazed at her adoringly, and she smiled back into the honest, merry
eyes.
"_Shikar_ stunt?"
"Yes! you remember--Sunderbunds--dâk bungalows--_shikari_--wild animals
in bunches--discomfort and all the rest. Say yes! Oh! _do_!" as Leonie
slowly shook her head, "It'll be such a rag! Major and Mrs.
Talbot--she's a fine shot--you and me, and we've got to get another
fe--woman 'cos a simply top-hole fellow walked into the club last night,
who's wonderfully keen on it; we're kind of related, his father was my
mother's second cousin."
"And the higher the fewer," interposed Thorne, as Leonie laughed. "And
what's the top-hole fellow's name?"
The youngster eyed the elder man with disapproval.
"Name--coming brain specialist--setting the old fossils in Harley Street
by the ears--forgotten more than they've ever learned--name--why, Jan
Cuxson. Won't you come, Lady Hickle?"
Leonie had suddenly bent to adjust her stirrup leather.
Her face was dead white, her eyes like stars, her mouth like a gate to
heaven.
Almost a year and not a word, not a sign!
Tortured by doubt, racked with love, she had gone her way silently;
blaming herself one moment for the ease with which she had shown her
love; staking her all the next on the honesty of the man who had kissed
her hand in forgiveness in the old Devon church.
Making excuses, heaping the blame upon herself, wearying, wondering--and
now!
She lifted her face, which shone like the Taj at noon, and the worshipful
company of men looked at her, almost stunned by its incomprehensible
radiance.
"Yes," she said softly, without thought of the Devil's nerve-storm.
"Yes, I will surely come!"
As she spoke there was a terrific report as the hind tyre of a passing
car burst with due violence, a sudden convulsive bound as the Devil leapt
with all four feet off the ground, and a thunder of hoofs as, with the
bit between his teeth, he cleared for the open just as a man on a
sixteen-hand bay turned in at the race-stand opening.