A MESSAGE FROM MISS PASKE.
Although she had only caught a fleeting vision of Mrs. Brande’s niece,
Mrs. Langrishe had sharp eyes, and one glance had been sufficient to
assure her that the girl was not the least like what she had expected.
She was slim and dark, and, though covered with dust, and wearing a
frightful one rupee topee, undeniably a lady, and not at all of the
dairymaid type.
And how exultant the old woman had looked! Literally puffed out
with pride, as she was carried past, with the millionaire in close
attendance. Not that _that_ detail was of the slightest consequence.
Lalla knew him intimately, and she would get her to write him a nice,
friendly little note, and ask him to drop in to tea.
Meanwhile Honor had been presented to her uncle, who, far from being
disappointed, was agreeably surprised to find that she was the image
of his favourite sister Hester, who had died when she was eighteen.
This resemblance (which he kept to himself) ensured the new arrival
an immediate _entrée_ to her uncle’s good graces. And Mrs. Brande,
accustomed to his cool and rather cynical manner, was amazed at the
warmth of the reception he accorded to his hitherto unknown niece.
For several days the young lady was kept at home in strict seclusion,
until her complexion had recovered the journey and her boxes had
arrived from the railway. Her aunt was determined not to submit her
treasure to the fierce gaze which beats upon a newly arrived girl,
until she was altogether at her best. She, however, could not close her
doors to numerous ladies who came to call upon Miss Gordon, and thus
secure an early and private view. Honor was compelled to sit in state
in a hideous drawing-room, where every colour was shouting at another,
and listen to her aunt telling visitors how beautifully she played the
fiddle, and what long hair she had, and how she took threes in shoes,
and how useful she was in the house already. Also, she did not spare
them full particulars of the buffalo adventure, nor fail to sing loud
praises of Mr. Jervis, or to enlarge on his cousin’s agreeable escort
and particular attentions _en route_. Then Mrs. Brande discussed her
servants and the outrageous price of ghee and charcoal.
“Come, let us sit in the verandah,” whispered Mrs. Sladen, who had
read the girl’s expressive face. “You will get quite used to it,” she
continued, when they were outside; “you will do it yourself some day.
We all do; but you will have a very happy home here, in spite of the
price of potatoes! Your aunt is delighted with you, as you may see,
and you will soon have plenty of topics to discuss. She has been
lonely enough till now. She and Mr. Brande, although much attached
to one another, have few tastes in common. He is fond of literature,
and devoted to tennis and rackets; and although he is older, he is
so active that he seems years her junior. Your coming has given her
a fresh start and new pleasures. She is a dear, good woman, and as
single-hearted as a little child.”
Mrs. Sladen and Honor had taken to one another at once. Honor had
been down (after dusk) to Mrs. Sladen’s house--been presented to
Colonel Sladen, and shown the photographs of Mrs. Sladen’s little
girls--Charlotte and Mabel, and had heard their last letters--a
proof that she was in high favour with their mother. Honor was not
accustomed to sitting with her hands before her, and promptly found
occupation in various ways--she ran messages, wrote notes and orders,
arranged flowers, and ventured on respectful suggestions with regard
to the drawing-room, a fine apartment, expensively furnished in
the worst taste imaginable--a supreme contrast to Mrs. Langrishe’s
room, which was the prettiest in Shirani. People little suspected how
that leisurely lady dusted it entirely herself, shook out draperies,
arranged flowers, and washed the china ornaments with her own delicate
hands. Her room, as she understood it, made an effective background for
herself--and she spared no pains to frame Ida Langrishe in the most
becoming fashion. The floor was covered with fine old prayer-rugs, the
tables were strewn with curios, the walls hung with valuable water
colours, and scattered at suitable intervals were inviting armchairs.
Ill-natured people assured one another that the Persian rugs, carvings,
and silver bowls were all so many offerings from “men.” Even so Mrs.
Langrishe would have been the first to admit, “Presents to Granby and
myself. Colonel Greene, a dear old thing, brought us the carpet from
Peshawar; and Mr. Goldhoofe sent those silver things from Delhi. I
must say that our friends never forget us.”
Mrs. Langrishe, as we know, had fully determined to hand over the
drawing-room to her niece, it would be such good practice for the
child, and really the flowers took up an hour every morning. She would
find many ways of making Lalla useful. But that young lady steadily
objected to these plans, she immediately made her aunt aware that she
considered herself merely ornamental. “Oh dear no! she never arranged
flowers, she had no taste in that line, and besides, it would spoil
her hands. _Dust_ the drawing-room! dear Aunt Ida must be joking; why,
that was the bearer’s business. Get out the dessert! oh!” with a peal
of ringing laughter, “she was not to be trusted. She would eat every
chocolate, and all the best French sweets!”
So whilst Mrs. Langrishe laboured, as usual, over her household tasks,
her fair niece, with a locked door, lay upon her bed, reading a novel,
tried new experiments in the hairdressing line, or wrote notes. No, no;
she had not come to Shirani to be a lady-help. She had always heard
that her aunt Ida was very _clever_; but, luckily, she had her wits
about her also!
During Honor Gordon’s period of enforced retirement, she went early
every morning for a solitary walk along a pretty sandy road, that wound
among the dark aromatic pine woods--a road with sharp angles, and deep
leafy ravines, green with ferns and ivy. It was early in May, and the
ground was strewn with pine-needles, which deadened the footfall; the
firs were thin and bare, and through their dark branches she caught
glimpses of the snows, that like a great white rampart hung in mid-air,
between a brilliant blue sky and an opal-tinted mist. Honor enjoyed
these rambles immensely, though she rarely met a soul, save a syce
exercising a horse, or an ayah wheeling a perambulator. Her sole
companion was “Ben,” who luckily had “taken to her,” and with whom she
had established relations of such a friendly character, that she had
actually been installed in the unexpected position of his “aunt.”
Occasionally they made joint excursions down the khud, he in search of
the private larders of other dogs, she in quest of ferns and moss for
table decoration. Ben was a personage of such importance at Rookwood
that he demands half a chapter to himself. He was a dog with fixed
opinions, and hated Mrs. Langrishe--and one or two other people--in
the same degree that he hated cold boiled meat. Sport was his passion,
the chewing up of Suède gloves his weakness. He was a fox-terrier with
a history. As a pup, he had been presented by a man to a girl, on the
principle of “love me love my dog,” but alas, the false maiden had
loved neither the one nor the other; she heartlessly jilted the man,
and abandoned the dog to his fate. However, her ayah (prudent soul)
ere she went down the hill, sold the pup to a bheestie for the sum of
two annas (an ancient debt), he happened to be Mrs. Brande’s servant,
and was excessively vain of his purchase, but left him most of the day
tied by a strip of pink calico to a conspicuous tree in her compound,
where he suffered him to “eat the air,” and but little else. Mrs.
Brande, _en route_ to feed her well-to-do fowls, noticed the famishing
animal; and as she often threw him a crust, he naturally hailed her
advent with extravagant demonstrations of delight and feeble yelps
of joy. Her easily softened heart was touched by the raptures of the
starving puppy, and after some parley she bought him from the bheestie
for the sum he swore he had paid--to wit, ten rupees--in order to feed
him up and get him a good master. But Ben was thoroughly satisfied
with his present quarters, and soon made himself completely at home.
He displayed an easy intimacy with armchairs and cushions, he had
undoubtedly been accustomed to sweet biscuits and to good society, and
his mistress pointed out with just pride that he understood English
perfectly! Of course she eventually adopted “Ben,” he made himself
indispensable, he refused to be separated from his patroness, and
became her shadow, and soon ceased to be a shadow himself. He grew from
a dirty, starving, shivering whelp, into an extremely handsome dog,
with a fine gloss on his coat. Did he ever remember his own evil days,
as he lounged of an afternoon sunning himself at the gate of Rookwood,
and passed in scornful review, curs less happy and of low degree? Are
dogs snobs?
Whether snob or not, Ben was brave, he lowered his tail to none, and
when the big wild cat that created such havoc among the poultry,
went to ground under the messhouse, “Ben Brande,” as he was called,
was the only one of the assembled mob of terriers, who, as a looker
on expressed it, “was man enough to follow him, kill him, and drag
him out.” Ben Brande lost an eye thereby, but gained a magnificent
reputation.
Of course Ben was spoiled. His mistress talked to him incessantly;
he had his own little charpoy in her room, his morning tea in her
company, and now and then he was permitted to invite his pal “Jacko,”
a red terrier, to dine and spend the day! (Once they had elected to
spend it quietly in Mr. Brande’s dressing-room, where they devoured
several pairs of boots, a sponge-bag, and the back of “Nancy.”) Ben
escorted his mistress in her walks and drives. Many a time she went
out solely on his account, and it was an indisputable fact that he had
favourite roads, and his “grandmamma”--as the infatuated lady called
herself--always studied his wishes. On those occasions when “his
grandpapa and grandmamma” were dining abroad, he never went to bed,
but established himself at the entrance until their return (however
late), and passers-by could always tell that the Brandes were at a
“burra khana” when they saw an upright little white figure sitting by
the gatepost. Indeed it was whispered, that the reason Mrs. Brande was
always so early to depart, was simply that she did not like to keep
Ben waiting up! She never said so, but every one knew that Ben was
the real motive for her premature departure. And this was the animal
who now accompanied Honor, and who had accorded her his patronage
and friendship. One morning, as they were strolling homewards, he
with a large stone in his mouth, and she carrying an armful of ferns,
they nearly came into collision with another couple--the angles were
abrupt--walking noiselessly on pine needles. They proved to be Toby
Joy, who was also attended by a dog, and sauntering along hand-in-hand
with a young lady, a dainty, white-skinned little person, with fluffy
light hair, small keen eyes, admirably arched brows and a tip-tilted
nose.
Honor was by far the most embarrassed of the trio, and blushed a good
healthy blush--of which she was heartily ashamed. Why should not other
people enjoy the delicious morning air? As to walking hand-in-hand,
_she_ ought to be the last person to object; had she not walked
hand-in-hand herself with an absolute stranger?
“Good morning, Miss Gordon,” said Toby, slowly relinquishing Miss
Paske’s fingers, and doffing his cap. “So you have got up here all
right in spite of the buffalo! Let me introduce you to Miss Paske.”
The girls bowed, and looked at one another gravely.
“We are getting up that burlesque I told you about, and have come out
early to study our part together.”
“How praiseworthy of you,” said Honor, in simple good faith. “And what
is the piece to be?”
“_The Babes in the Wood_,” responded Miss Paske with an odd smile, and
looking Honor over with her bright little eyes. “Don’t you think it
will be suitable to the dear simple people at Shirani?”
“I really don’t know,” replied the other, with a puzzled face.
“Well, I hope you will come to see it,” and with a patronizing nod she
moved on. But Ben and Jumbo (Mrs. Langrishe’s dog) were not disposed
to part thus! The household feud had evidently extended to them. They
had been tiptoeing round one another for some time, with considerable
stiffness in their gait, emitting low and insulting growls, that now
culminated in a sort of gurgling snarl, as they flew at one another’s
throats. Miss Paske gave a little stifled shriek, and scrambled hastily
up the bank, whilst Honor and Toby made desperate attempts to separate
the combatants. They each caught hold of a dog by whatever came first,
leg or tail; but the dogs refused to be parted, and to and fro, and up
and down, they struggled and scrambled in a mutual frenzy. Meanwhile,
Lalla, who was now at a safe elevation, actually appeared delighted at
the performance, and laughed and clapped her hands ecstatically. At
last, by the expedient of pouring sand on their heads, the dogs were
choked off, and each side was bottle-holder to a furious, panting,
struggling animal.
“I think we had better separate at once,” gasped Honor, who only
restrained Ben with the greatest difficulty.
“Yes, the sooner the better,” agreed Toby, who was also wrestling with
an eager armful.
As Honor turned homewards, with Ben hanging longingly over her
shoulder, Miss Paske, who had tripped down from her coign of ’vantage,
called after her, in her sweetest, clearest tones--
“Be sure you tell Mrs. Brande, that _her_ dog got the worst of it.”
END OF VOL. I.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation errors/omissions have been fixed.
Page 21: “you have jus” changed to “you have just”
Page 246: “Grandby and myself” changed to “Granby and myself”