Part 16 (1/2)

'India would be the happier. She needs such friends,' said Chris Davenant suddenly. He had been trying to make up his mind ever since the meeting at Hafiz Ahmad's house, to take some decided step towards organising a real party of progress. To do this in a way that would ensure confidence with both the Government and the people, it was necessary to secure some men of real influence; and the Thakoor was one. His word went far, both West and East; and fate had placed him within earshot. So Chris had spoken; his heart, to tell truth, in his mouth, as the old man turned scowling.

But something in the young one's face, perhaps a look of his dead father, perhaps its own inherent goodness, made the Thakoor, instead of ignoring the remark, say curtly--

'I see it not. What friends does India need?'

Then Chris pulled himself together for speech, and the old man listened, first contemptuously, then with tolerance.

'Thou speakest well,' he said, nodding approval. 'And as thou sayest, the people need leaders, not _baboos_. Come to my house some day, and----'

'Have you my shawl, Chris?' said a woman's voice, interrupting the invitation. 'Oh, I don't want it now, not till the fireworks, but you can bring it then, to the supper-room.' So, satisfied at having shown her husband that if _he_ were talking to pearls and brocade, _she_ had annexed a uniform and medals; satisfied also at having shown both the uniform and the brocade in what good company they were, Mrs. Chris Davenant pa.s.sed on, all white arms and back, edged perfunctorily with flames and rubies.

'Who--who is that _mem_?' asked the old Rajpoot swiftly, for one of the white arms had, incredible to say, nudged Chris's black one, to attract his attention.

Chris gave back the stare defiantly. 'That is my wife, Thakoor-_sahib_.'

The old chieftain stood bewildered for a moment; then he gave a scornful laugh.

'Men of thy sort are no friends to India, _baboo-jee_,' he said. So, with a twirl of the straight grey moustache, he strode away, leaving Chris more lonely than ever.

So absolutely alone, that the sheer physical pain of his loneliness drove him on towards the sound of laughter and voices, the popping of champagne corks, which came from the marble-screened verandah where the refreshment-tables stood.

It was full of English people only, since this part of the entertainment was left by the hosts in alien hands; but through the marble lace-work filling up the arches, the softly radiant lines of light, climbing upwards to the stars could be seen, and the hum of the mult.i.tude waiting beyond the garden to see the fireworks was audible.

'Have you all you want, Miss Drummond?' said Jack Raymond as he pa.s.sed.

He looked well, she thought, and wore his garland with a difference.

Jerry had hold of it in a second, detaining him--

'Oh! I say! please, what a whopper!' he exclaimed. 'Why did they give it you?'

'For doing my duty, of course,' he laughed. 'I say, young man, you upset the apple-cart, didn't you?'

Lesley looked her regret. 'It was awful! And so much worse not to explain. It was so rude. I don't wonder the people dislike us.'

Jack Raymond's face took a curiously obstinate look. 'Perhaps you would like to explain--there is the Thakoor of Dhurmkote; he is more like an Englishman in his mind than any native I know. Shall I introduce him, and let you get it off your conscience?'

A minute after the little group--Jack Raymond explaining, the old Rajpoot listening, Lesley waiting for the laugh to come, and Jerry watching puzzled, doubtful how far the joke would be against him--gave Grace Arbuthnot, in her solitude of honour, a pang of envy. It was dull always talking to the proper people! And Jack Raymond need not keep aloof from her so pointedly. It was so foolish. As if it were possible----

In a sort of denial, she just touched the gold lappets of Sir George's coat--the faintest, lightest finger-touch--as he stood talking to the general; but he turned at once.

'Do you want anything, dear?'

She flushed, and laughed; a pretty flush, a pretty laugh, chiefly at her own impulsiveness.

'Nothing, dear, absolutely nothing,' she said, and he smiled back at her. None the less, she still watched the group enviously.

But Lesley, for her part, was beginning to wish she had not joined it; for the discovery of her own mistakes was never a pleasant process to the young lady, and something in the old Thakoor's face warned her she was out of her depth.

'_Ap ne suchh furmaya. Ap ne be shakk suchh furmaya_,' came the courteous old voice, as Jack Raymond's ceased, and the courteous old face bent in grave approval over the child's.

'Please! what does he say?' asked Jerry, sober as a judge.