The Potter's Thumb Part 24

'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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 pa.s.sed on between the irregular rows of s.h.i.+ngled 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 gra.s.sy 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 pa.s.sed downward, a man with a sober face and a telegram in his pocket pa.s.sed 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 cus.h.i.+ons as he pa.s.sed 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 gra.s.s-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, a.s.sented 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 n.o.body 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, 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-fas.h.i.+on,' interrupted another voice ere she had time to reply. It was Dalel Beg, swaggering along fresh from a Vice-Regal hand-shake to a.s.sert 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 cla.s.s 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-fas.h.i.+on,' 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 p.r.o.noun 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-cla.s.sed. 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.