The Pool in the Desert [76]
out as the ponies galloped up to the first changing-place, and, seeing a saddled horse held by a syce, cramped herself a little into one corner to make room. The seat would just hold two.
Ram Singh salaamed, getting down to harness the fresh pair, and a man put his face in at the side of the tonga and took off his hat.
'Are you all right?' he said. His smile was as conscious as his words were casual.
'Quite right. The ayah was silly about coming--didn't want to leave her babies or something--so I had to leave her behind. Everything else is either here or in the ekkas.'
'The brute! Never mind--they're not much use in a railway journey. You can pick up another at Bombay. Then I suppose I'd better get in.'
'I suppose you better had. Unless you think of walking,' she laughed, and he took the place beside her.
Ram Singh again unquestioningly took up the reins.
'Nobody else going down?'
'Not another soul. We might just as well have started together.'
'Oh, well, we couldn't tell. Beastly awkward if there had been anybody.'
'Yes,' she said, but thrust up her under lip indifferently.
Then, with the effect of turning to the business in hand, she bent her eyes upon him understandingly and smiled in frank reference to something that had not been mentioned. 'It's goodbye Simla, isn't it?' she said. He smiled in response and put his hand upon her firm, round arm, possessively, and they began to talk.
Ram Singh, all unaware, kept his horses at their steady clanking downward gallop, and Simla, clinging to the hilltops, was brushed by the first rays of the sun.
It came a gloriously clear morning; early riders round Jakko saw the real India lying beyond the outer ranges, flat and blue and pictured with forests and rivers like a map. The plains were pretty and interesting in this aspect, but nobody found them attractive. Sensitive people liked it better when the heat mist veiled them and it was possible to look abroad without a sudden painful thought of contrasting temperatures. We may suppose that the inhabitants of Paradise sometimes grieve over their luck. Even Madeline Anderson, whose heart knew no constriction at the remembrance of brother or husband at some cruel point in the blue expanse, had come to turn her head more willingly the other way, towards the hills rolling up to the snows, being a woman who suffered by proxy, and by observation, and by Rudyard Kipling.
On this particular morning, however, she had not elected to do either. She slept late instead, and was glad to sleep. I might as well say at once that on the night before she had made up her mind, had brought herself to the point, and had written to Mrs. Innes, at 'Two Gables', all the facts, in so far as she was acquainted with them, connected with Frederick Prendergast's death. She was very much ashamed of herself, poor girl; she was aware that, through her postponement, Horace Innes would now see his problem in all its bitterness, make his choice with his eyes wide open. If it had only happened before he knew--anything about her!
She charged herself with having deliberately waited, and then spent an exhausting hour trying to believe that she had drifted unconsciously to the point of their mutual confession. Whatever the truth was, she did not hesitate to recognize a new voice in her private counsels from that hour, urging her in one way or another to bring matters to an end. It was a strong instinct; looking at the facts, she saw it was the gambler's. When she tried to think of the ethical considerations involved she saw only the chances. The air seemed to throb with them all night; she had to count them finally to get rid of them.
Brookes was up betimes, however, and sent off the letter. It went duly, by Surnoo, to Mrs. Innes at 'Two Gables'. Madeline woke at seven with a start, and asked if it had gone, then slept again contentedly. So far as she was concerned the thing was finished. The breakfast gong had sounded, and the English mail had arrived before she opened her eyes again upon the day's
Ram Singh salaamed, getting down to harness the fresh pair, and a man put his face in at the side of the tonga and took off his hat.
'Are you all right?' he said. His smile was as conscious as his words were casual.
'Quite right. The ayah was silly about coming--didn't want to leave her babies or something--so I had to leave her behind. Everything else is either here or in the ekkas.'
'The brute! Never mind--they're not much use in a railway journey. You can pick up another at Bombay. Then I suppose I'd better get in.'
'I suppose you better had. Unless you think of walking,' she laughed, and he took the place beside her.
Ram Singh again unquestioningly took up the reins.
'Nobody else going down?'
'Not another soul. We might just as well have started together.'
'Oh, well, we couldn't tell. Beastly awkward if there had been anybody.'
'Yes,' she said, but thrust up her under lip indifferently.
Then, with the effect of turning to the business in hand, she bent her eyes upon him understandingly and smiled in frank reference to something that had not been mentioned. 'It's goodbye Simla, isn't it?' she said. He smiled in response and put his hand upon her firm, round arm, possessively, and they began to talk.
Ram Singh, all unaware, kept his horses at their steady clanking downward gallop, and Simla, clinging to the hilltops, was brushed by the first rays of the sun.
It came a gloriously clear morning; early riders round Jakko saw the real India lying beyond the outer ranges, flat and blue and pictured with forests and rivers like a map. The plains were pretty and interesting in this aspect, but nobody found them attractive. Sensitive people liked it better when the heat mist veiled them and it was possible to look abroad without a sudden painful thought of contrasting temperatures. We may suppose that the inhabitants of Paradise sometimes grieve over their luck. Even Madeline Anderson, whose heart knew no constriction at the remembrance of brother or husband at some cruel point in the blue expanse, had come to turn her head more willingly the other way, towards the hills rolling up to the snows, being a woman who suffered by proxy, and by observation, and by Rudyard Kipling.
On this particular morning, however, she had not elected to do either. She slept late instead, and was glad to sleep. I might as well say at once that on the night before she had made up her mind, had brought herself to the point, and had written to Mrs. Innes, at 'Two Gables', all the facts, in so far as she was acquainted with them, connected with Frederick Prendergast's death. She was very much ashamed of herself, poor girl; she was aware that, through her postponement, Horace Innes would now see his problem in all its bitterness, make his choice with his eyes wide open. If it had only happened before he knew--anything about her!
She charged herself with having deliberately waited, and then spent an exhausting hour trying to believe that she had drifted unconsciously to the point of their mutual confession. Whatever the truth was, she did not hesitate to recognize a new voice in her private counsels from that hour, urging her in one way or another to bring matters to an end. It was a strong instinct; looking at the facts, she saw it was the gambler's. When she tried to think of the ethical considerations involved she saw only the chances. The air seemed to throb with them all night; she had to count them finally to get rid of them.
Brookes was up betimes, however, and sent off the letter. It went duly, by Surnoo, to Mrs. Innes at 'Two Gables'. Madeline woke at seven with a start, and asked if it had gone, then slept again contentedly. So far as she was concerned the thing was finished. The breakfast gong had sounded, and the English mail had arrived before she opened her eyes again upon the day's