always glad,' continued Nevill Lloyd virtuously, when Lucre and his crew are hit! They get betting with the Nawâbs and offering 'em drinks. Shocking bad form--by the way, Miss Drummond, come to our tent and have a peach-brandy!'
Lesley, with another trait of the modern girl--her toleration of the male sex up to the age of twenty-five--laughed good-humouredly. 'It isn't bad form with a lady, apparently, for that's the fifth peach-brandy I've been offered in half an hour!'
'Well! aren't there five tents? And you haven't been to ours,' argued the lad quite gravely. 'Do come! It needn't be a peach-brandy, you know. Have tea, or a chocolate caramel, just to show there isn't any ill-feeling.'
She smiled in sisterly fashion at his kindly, clean-looking young face, and--Jerry having gone with his father--passed with it into that marvellous golden glory of Indian sunshine which still struck her Western eyes as the most noticeable factor in her Eastern environment. The rest, barring the native costumes, was hopelessly Western, she told herself, as she stood listening to the scraps of talk around, while Nevill Lloyd struggled for her cup of tea. Polo talk, polite talk, political talk; then something she could not classify as two natives drifted by with an air of aloofness.
As they did so a plaintive woman's voice rose close to her. 'I shall send baby home, as we've been transferred to Cawnpore.'
'Isn't she rather young?' said some one in answer.
'Oh! it isn't that,' replied the first voice, 'I mean that I couldn't take a child to Cawnpore. I should always be thinking of the well!'
Always thinking of the well!
The words brought home to Lesley Drummond in an instant--a never-to-be-forgotten instant--that something which so often chills the golden glory of the Eastern sunshine, that vision of the sentinel of memory which, for both races, bars the door of reconciliation that might otherwise stand open for comradeship.
She had read books on that past tragedy, she had told herself that it was past, that it should be forgotten; and now--
'Drink your tea sharp!' said Nevill Lloyd with kindly familiarity, 'or you'll be getting ague. That's the worst of this beastly hole. It's always in extremes. Hot as blazes one moment, chill as charity----' He paused, for the iron hand beneath the parti-coloured velvet and brocade glove of India was resolved to have the girl in its grip at once, and a rattling thud, followed by a dull reverberation, rose from the near distance, making more than one in the chattering crowd pause also, until the sound came again, when the pause ended cheerfully in fresh chatter.
'It's a funeral,' explained Nevill Lloyd in answer to Lesley's look. 'The cemetery is close to the course, and enteric is shocking bad in barracks just now. Young Summers of ours is down with it, too. Awful ill, poor chap--couldn't be worse, I'm afraid.'
A lady, passing, turned to listen, and, as she went on, said to her companion in a whisper, 'I do hope they won't have to put off the ball to-night--I've got such a jolly new dress from Paris for it.'
Another vision came to Lesley, the vision of a dead lad and a Paris dress.
'Come for a turn--you're positively shivering,' said Captain Lloyd concernedly.
They had barely escaped from the crush, however, when Sir George Arbuthnot appeared in the important fuss of new authority. A cipher telegram had come from England, he must return to Government House at once, if Captain Lloyd would kindly order the carriage.
'It's an orful nuisance, Miss Dwummond,' commented Jerry, tucking his hand into hers after his fashion with every one he liked, 'for dad and I was going to put five whole wupees on the blackboard thing for the Cup wace. And now he can't, of course. But I can. Can't I, dad?' he added, artfully appealing to a weak point in his parent, 'for you pwomised, didn't you?'
Now the keeping of promises had always been a prop to Sir George's somewhat irresolute mind, so he promptly gave Jerry the five rupees, and, with a suggestion that Miss Drummond would help him to get the ticket, bustled off, leaving the latter no time for remonstrance.
She stood looking resentfully at the pieces of silver which were to betray her principles, then said with chill dignity--
'We had better take the ticket at once, I suppose, if it has got to be taken. Come, Gerald!'
But Jerry's face was the face of Jerry when he forgot his hymn, and his hands, holding the five rupees, went behind his back to match his consciousness of error.
'I'm afwaid I don't know, please,' he began.
'Don't know what? Speak up, don't be stupid!'
The flaming flag which always heralded the child's confessions of ignorance flew to his face; but, after his habit, he looked his inquisitor full in the eyes.
'What, please, a wankest outsider is.'
Lesley hid her smile deftly; she had ample practice in the art with her pupil. 'And I don't know which is the rankest outsider, so we must take it on chance,' she replied tartly.
The little laddie's face fell, but he stood firm. 'Please, I'd wather take it on the--the other; for Mr. Waymond knows lots about betting and you don't know nothing.'
'I'm glad I don't!' she retorted, feeling quite nettled, for Jerry's obstinate adherence to his ideal was not to be set aside with a high hand. 'And what is more, I don't wish to; so if you're not satisfied, we needn't take the ticket at all!' So far she got almost spitefully, then something smote the womanhood and motherhood in her. 'Or,' she went on, 'suppose we take one on Kingscraft--every one says he is sure to win.'
The boy's face was a study of pitying contempt. 'Kingscwaft!' he echoed. 'Why, he's the favourite, and I'm not going to foller a lead--I'm going to collar the lot!'
A sudden mist came to the girl's eyes; and through it she seemed to see the sturdy little soul enshrined in the sturdy little body. She held out her hand and said simply, 'Come, there's Mr. Raymond--he'll know.'
'The rankest outsider?' echoed Jack Raymond quite gravely. 'Let's have a look at the card, Jerry.' Then, as he stooped over the child, he added, 'Shall I read out the names, or can you?'
The confessional scarlet flew to the little lad's very ears this time. 'Only some, I'm 'fwaid. That one's Kitten. An' I know that other one--least one end of it I do, 'cos it's Miss Dwummond's name.'
'Which? Bonnie Lesley?' asked Jack Raymond, and the scarlet flag flew to another face.
'Only the other end of it, please,' corrected Jerry; whereat one flush vanished in two laughs.
'My name doesn't matter, dear; read the next,' began Lesley, when Jack Raymond interrupted her.
'Excuse me, we gamblers believe in omens.--H'm! country-bred mare--undersized--maiden--Of course I remember! a post entry, railed down this morning--owner up--that looks good--white and green sleeves--better--the fellow knows his border ballads. Bonnie Lesley it is, my boy, for the luck'--'of the name' trembled on his tongue, but the immaculate collar and cuffs made him alter the phrase to 'the thing.'
The next instant he and Jerry were elbowing their way to the totalisator, Lesley waiting for them out of the crush, and watching fresh white strokes come as fast as they could to number two on the blackboard. That, she thought, must be the favourite's number, while poor Bonnie Lesley, tho rankest outsider, was
