Mr. Jervis, Vol. 2 (of 3)

“TAKE A FRIEND’S ADVICE.”

Sarabella Brande was a truly proud woman, as she concluded an inspection of her niece, ere the young lady started to make her first appearance in public. There was not a fault to be found in that fresh white dress, pretty hat, neat gloves, and parasol--except that she would have liked just a bit more colour; but what Honor lacked in this respect, her aunt made up generously in her own person, in the shape of a cobalt blue silk, heavily trimmed with gold embroidery, and a vivid blue and yellow bonnet. Two rickshaws were in attendance, a grand new one on indiarubber tires, and four gaudy jampannis, all at the “Miss Sahib’s” service. Mrs. Brande led the way, bowling down the smooth club road at the rate of seven miles an hour, lying back at an angle of forty-five degrees, her bonnet-feathers waving triumphantly over the back of her vehicle. The club was the centre, the very social heart or pulse of Shirani. It contained rooms for reading, writing, dancing, for playing cards or billiards, or for drinking tea.

Outside ran a long verandah, lined with ill-shaped wicker chairs, overlooking the tennis courts and gardens, and commanding a fine view of the snows.

The six tennis courts were full, the band of the Scorpions was playing the last new gavotte, when Mrs. Brande walked up with head in the air, closely followed by her niece and Captain Waring. She felt that every eye, and especially Mrs. Langrishe’s eye, was on her, and was fully equal to the occasion. Mrs. Langrishe, faultlessly attired in a French costume, and looking the picture of elegant fastidiousness, murmured to her companion, Sir Gloster Sandilands--

“Not a bad-looking girl, really; not at all unpresentable, but sallow,” and she smiled with deadly significance, little supposing that her faint praise attracted the baronet to Honor on the spot. Then she rose, and rustled down with much frow-frowing of silken petticoats, and accosted her rival with expressions of hypocritical delight.

“Where have you been?” she inquired. “We thought you were in quarantine; but when I look at you, I need not ask how you are? Pray introduce your niece to me. I hope she and Lalla will be immense allies.” As she spoke, she was closely scrutinizing every item of Honor’s appearance, and experiencing an unexpected pang.

The girl was a lady, she had a graceful figure, and a bright clever face; and the old woman had not been suffered to dress her! Even her captious eye could find no fault in that simple toilet.

“How do you do, Miss Gordon? Had you a good passage out?” she asked urbanely.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You came out in the Arcadia, and most likely with a number of people I know, the Greys, the Bruces, the Lockyers.”

“No doubt I did. There were three hundred passengers.”

“And no doubt you had a very good time, and enjoyed yourself immensely.”

“No, I cannot fancy any one enjoying themselves on board ship,” rejoined Honor, with a vivid recollection of fretful children to wash and dress, and keep out of harm’s way.

“Oh!” with a pitying, half-contemptuous smile, “seasick the whole way?”

Honor shook her head.

“Well, I see you won’t commit yourself,” with a playful air, “but I shall hear all about you from the Greys,” and she nodded significantly, as much as to say, “Pray do not imagine that any of your enormities will be hidden from me!”

“Lalla!” to her niece, who was the centre of a group of men, “come here, and be introduced to Miss Gordon.”

Lalla reluctantly strolled forward, with the air of a social martyr.

“I think we have met before,” said Honor, frankly extending her hand.

Miss Paske stared with a sort of blank expression, and elevating her eyebrows drawled--

“I think not.” But she also made a quick little sign.

Unfortunately for her, she had to deal with a girl who could not read such signals, who answered in a clear, far-carrying voice--

“Oh, don’t you remember? I met you the other morning before breakfast up among the pine woods; you walking with Mr. Joy--surely you recollect how desperately our dogs fought!”

Lalla felt furious with this blundering idiot, and hated her bitterly from that day forth.

Mrs. Langrishe was made aware of Lalla’s early promenades for the first time, and her lips tightened ominously. She did not approve of these morning tête-à-têtes with an impecunious feather-head, like Toby Joy.

“Ah, yes, now that you mention it I do recollect,” responded Miss Paske, with an air which implied that the fact of the meeting required a most exhaustive mental effort. “But you were in deshabille, you see” (this was a malicious and mendacious remark), “and you look so very different when you are dressed up! How do you think you will like India?”

“It is too soon to know as yet.”

“I see you have the bump of caution,” with a little sneer; “now I make up my mind to like or dislike a place or a person on the spot. I suppose you are fond of riding?”

“I have never ridden since I was a child, but I hope to learn.”

“Then that mount on Captain Waring’s pony was your first attempt. How ridiculous you did look! I’m afraid you are rather too old to learn riding now. Can you dance?”

“Yes, I am very fond of dancing.”

“How many ball dresses did you bring out?” demanded Miss Paske.

“Only three,” replied the other, apologetically.

“Oh, they will be ample. India is not what it was. Girls sit out half the night. Don’t let your aunt choose your frocks for you, my dear--indeed, we will all present you with a vote of thanks if you will choose hers. I’ve such a painful sense of colour, that a crude combination always hurts me. Just look at that chuprassi, in bright scarlet, standing against a blazing magenta background--of Bourgainvillia--the contrast is an outrage. I must really ask some one to get the man to move on. Here comes Sir Gloster. We will go and appeal to him together,” and she walked off.

“I suppose that is the latest arrival?” said Sir Gloster, a big heavy-looking young man, who wore loose-fitting clothes, a shabby soft felt hat, and rolled as he walked.

“Yes--that is Miss Gordon, Mrs. Brande’s niece. She has half a dozen, and wrote home for one, and they say she asked for the best looking; and people here, who have nick-names for every one, call her ‘the sample.’”

“Excellent!” ejaculated Sir Gloster, “and a first-class sample. She might tell them to furnish a few more on the same pattern.”

“I expect we shall find one quite enough for the present,” rejoined Miss Paske rather dryly.

“Have all the people nick-names?”

“Most of them; those who are in any way remarkable,” she answered, as they paced up and down. “That red-faced man over there is called ‘Sherry,’ and his wife--I don’t see her--‘Bitters.’ Captain Waring, who is abnormally rich, is called ‘the millionaire;’ his cousin, the fair young man in flannels, who keeps rather in the background, is ‘the poor relation;’ Miss Clegg is known as ‘the dâk bungalow fowl,’ because she is so bony, and the four Miss Abrahams, who always sit in a row, and are, as you notice, a little dark, are ‘the snowy range.’”