CHAPTER XXI.
THE GREAT STARVATION PICNIC.
The “picnic” season at Shirani set in with unexampled severity. There were tea picnics—an inexpensive form of entertainment, dear to the economically disposed, who flattered themselves that they could wipe out all social debts by a table-cloth spread on a mossy slope (within an easy ride from cantonment), and to this they bid their friends in order to partake of cheap fruit, bazaar-made cake, and smoked tea—the selected “view” supplying every deficiency. There were snug little select tea-parties, where the viands were dainty and luxurious, and to match the company—appetizing luncheons, carried off to be discussed miles away under pine trees, and facing indistinct blue valleys and brilliantly white peaks; and of all these expeditions, the “Noah’s Ark” picnic was indisputably the most popular.
In June the climate, society, scenery of Shirani all pointed to picnics, with again picnics, and more picnics. They were unceremonious, easily enjoyed, easily declined. New-comers from below, after a month among dim cool pine woods, or a critical study of a deep valley, clothed with gorgeous forest trees, blazing with red, pink, and white rhododendrons, found it difficult to believe that there was such a place far beneath them as tawny-coloured hard-baked plains, over which, instead of a delicate fragrant breeze, roared the brazen-mouthed blast of the fire-eating hot winds. The al fresco season culminated in a “married ladies’” picnic—chiefly got up by Mrs. Langrishe and Mrs. Brande. There had been a committee meeting at the ladies’ room at the club; Mrs. Langrishe was voted secretary—being very capable with her pen. The conference had been held with closed doors—solemn—and secret.
All the same, some of the motions and arrangements had leaked out. It was known that Mrs. Brande had volunteered to provide the champagne—also fowls, hams, and raised pies. Mrs. Sladen was down for afternoon tea, cups and saucers, milk, sugar, and cake. Mrs. Dashwood provided cheroots, cigarettes, and pegs.
Mrs. Loyd, the sweets, tarts, jellies, and méringues.
Mrs. Clark, the soup.
Mrs. Glover, the ices. The thing was to be done in style.
Mrs. Paul, the Padré’s wife (having a large family), was let off with coffee.
“Your own cups and spoons of course,” added the secretary imperatively.
Mrs. Langrishe—there was a long-drawn breath of expectancy, as she read out her own name, “Well, she would provide the appointments, table-cloths, and napkins, plates, knives and forks, bread, salad—and water.” There was a pause, and she continued impressively—
“It was not every one who would care to risk their nice things” (she would borrow from Manockjee, the Parsee shop); “but she would venture,” and her meek coadjutors accepted her contribution just as gratefully as Mrs. Brande’s champagne and ham. It was one of her usual master strokes, and the picnic would cost her nothing, beyond the use of some house linen and a few loaves of bread.
All the station were to be invited; the place selected was five miles from Shirani; the guests were to assemble at Mrs. Langrishe’s house. With her usual ability, she took the entire honours upon herself, and got the whole credit of the entertainment in anticipation. Of course it was to be a Noah’s Ark affair.
The company met at half-past eleven at “St. Germain’s” (Major Langrishe’s Bungalow), and Mrs. Brande, who was supplying the most expensive portion of the feast, felt it a little hard to be received as a guest by the woman who was only bringing crockery and table-cloths,—indeed all the hostesses were secretly restive and displeased. The ladies dipped their hands into a basket and each drew out a man’s name (their fate) on a slip of paper, and although Lalla believed that she had thrust him well down to the bottom—with a little twist in the paper, so that she could recognize it herself—Honor drew the prize, in the shape of Sir Gloster Sandilands, to that gentleman’s transparent delight. Subsequently Honor offered to exchange him, or draw again, when Lalla sharply assured her that “there was some mistake—that his name had been written twice, and that she had also drawn the baronet.” Finally it was arranged that Honor and Lalla should divide—Honor to ride to the picnic with Mr. Jervis, and Lalla with Sir Gloster, and to exchange cavaliers on the return journey. Thus the affair was amicably settled. Honor would have been thankful to have avoided the baronet altogether: she had more than a dim idea that he liked her, and he was always talking to her about his place at home, and his mother, and saying how much he wished that he could introduce her to both. Mrs. Brande could not complain that he did not call: on one pretext or other, he came every day, bringing a book, or a paper, or looking in to ask the name of some wild flower, or for a cup of tea, or without any excuse at all, but simply to sit and stare at Honor Gordon.
Mrs. Brande was not quite such a blind bat as some people supposed. This possible match had some advantages. It would all but be the death of Mrs. Langrishe! her niece would be Lady Sandilands; but, on the other hand, she could not bear to lose Honor! Shirani had its eyes wide open also, and Mrs. Daubeny had countermanded her daughter’s two new dresses.
At last the cortège set out for the scene of their next meal, some riding, some on foot, many ladies in dandies. The distance was five miles, through leafy dells, green glades, and steep paths cut out through the forest. Captain Waring had drawn the heiress, and was happy; Sir Gloster was with Lalla, who was radiant. There was a considerable distance between some couples, whilst others kept as close together as a girls’ school.
“I did not know that dogs were invited to picnics!” exclaimed a querulous voice from a dandy, coming up behind Miss Gordon, Mr. Jervis, and Ben.
“Ben had a special card of invitation all to himself, Mrs. Dashwood,” replied his owner.
“Well, I trust he is the only one of his species that has been thus honoured, and that it is not going to be a precedent.”
“Don’t you like dogs?” inquired Jervis.
“No, I’m desperately afraid of them, and they seem to know it. The only dog I could possibly bring myself to tolerate would be a dog without teeth! Well, I must be pushing on—I hope you are making yourself very agreeable to Miss Gordon, Mr. Jervis?” she added playfully.
“I’m afraid not. My stock of ideas is rather low; perhaps you can suggest some novel and interesting topic.”
“Your own life and adventures,” cried the lady, as she passed ahead of them; “try that.”
“What were we talking about?” said Jervis. “Shall we go back to the last remark but six?”
“Easier said than done,” rejoined his companion gaily; “we must start a fresh subject.”
“Well, I doubt if my life and adventures would be of thrilling interest,” he continued, turning to Honor, and it struck her that she had never once heard her present companion allude in any way to his home or his belongings. This was a beautiful opening, if he would but avail himself of it.
“Mrs. Dashwood has set me a stiff task—it is not every one’s fortune to have an adventurous career.” (If all tales were true, sensational events had largely punctuated the lady’s own history.) “Now, which would you rather have—interesting falsehoods, or very dull truths?”
“Neither, I think.”
“And what about your life and adventures?”
“Oh, I have spent most of my days in a quiet little village, and can scarcely recall a single incident, except that I once upset a donkey cart!”
“I can go one better, as they say, for I have upset a coach!” then he coloured and added hastily, and as if he deprecated any questions, “I too have led a common-place life. I was born out here, and was not sent home until I was six, for which reason I find my native tongue has come back to me.”
“It has indeed—I have often been amazed at your extraordinary fluency in talking Hindostani; I thought that you had a marvellous talent for languages.”
“Which I have not, nor indeed for anything.”
“Miss Paske says that you have a talent for silence,” said Honor demurely.
“Miss Paske’s sayings are being quoted all over the place, with the weight of so many proverbs! She says women do all their thinking in church. She declares that her sex lie from timidity—and nothing else. Shall I continue?”
“No; I should prefer your own original remarks, to Miss Paske at second hand,” said Honor, “though I confess that I am responsible for introducing her into the conversation. After you came from India, what did you do?”
“I went to school—from school to college—then I lived in London, off and on, till I came out here. Our joint lives and adventures don’t amount to much! I am always longing for some uncommon experience, but such things seem to fight shy of me.”
“Look! There is poor Mrs. Sladen on that horrid pulling pony,” interrupted Honor suddenly; “she is dreadfully afraid of it, but dare not say so——”
“Being between the devil and the deep sea?”
“Which is the deep sea? Colonel Sladen or the Budmash?” asked the young lady with an air of innocent inquiry.
“Whichever you please. I believe ages ago, when he was young and active, Sladen was a first-class man on a horse, and rode races. Who would think it to look at him now? he weighs about seventeen stone!”
“And completely upsets the old theory, that fat people are always good-natured!”
“He is keen enough about horses and ponies still; you may notice that he has always good animals.”
“Good to look at,” amended Miss Gordon quickly.
“Yes, and to go as well; and as he cannot ride them to sell, as he used to do once, he now thrusts poor unfortunate Mrs. Sladen into the saddle. The Noah’s Ark animals have not been so badly paired,” continued the young man. “Please look at the Dâk Bungalow fowl walking with the European ham! Do you think the combination was premeditated?”
“No, purely accidental, I should imagine. I must say that I think it is a shame, the way people are given nick-names!”
“I suppose it is an idle amusement for idle minds. I believe that I have been honoured with one or two new names myself—I don’t mind in the least—and I happen to know for a fact that Waring is extremely pleased with his!”
“Which is more than would be the case with most people. For instance, do you suppose that Miss Cook would be pleased to hear that she is known as ‘good plain Cook’?”
“Well, you know our nurses used to tell us, that it is better to be good than beautiful! And here we are!”
The rendezvous was now reached, Honor and her companion being almost the last to arrive. There was a superb and uninterrupted view of the snows, but the sight of something to eat would have been preferred by some folk. What had become of the coolies and the tiffin? The table-cloths were spread (and even decorated), but save for some bowls of salad, and a meagre allowance of rolls, nothing eatable was to be seen.
Inquiries were made, and at last the dreadful news began to circulate, at first by degrees, and was then officially confirmed. The luncheon had been lost!
Mrs. Langrishe and Mrs. Brande’s khansamahs—who were at the head of affairs—were deadly rivals. Mrs. Langrishe’s man wished to be leader (like his mistress); he laid down the law, and he ordered every one’s coolies and servants to place themselves under his directions. “Instead of being quiet and shamed, as he ought to have been, the—the nouker” (i.e. servant) “of a mem sahib who only sent empty plates.” This was the idea of Mrs. Brande’s khansamah, and to his opinion he gave loud and angry utterance. A desperate quarrel ensued. He said the lunch was to be sent to one place—Mrs. Brande’s man declared as emphatically that it was to be despatched to another. The latter was the most powerful, and carried his point, and what was worse, carried all the other servants and coolies away with him! At this moment they were carefully laying out a really excellent repast, at a favourite rendezvous, exactly seven miles on the other side of Shirani, and twelve from the present hungry company.
Mrs. Langrishe’s fare—yes, it had leaked out—was all that was to be set before them!
Some people were extremely angry. Colonel Sladen, who had valued his thirst at ten rupees—not that any one was anxious to purchase it—was really almost beside himself! Sir Gloster, though he was in love, looked desperately glum. “Ben” Brande, I must honestly confess, was visibly disappointed. Dry bread and salad were not in his line, and he had affectionate recollections of a delicious smell from his mistress’s cook house. Some people laughed—Honor and her companion were amongst the most hilarious.
Mrs. Langrishe was shown in her true colours for once, and had retired into somewhat mortified retreat under a neighbouring rock. Mrs. Brande was overwhelmed. “Where,” she asked with tears in her voice, “was her khansamah? Where were her raised pies, her Grecian salad, her iced asparagus?” But though her hospitable soul was vexed, she was not sorry that her rival’s generous share should be thus set forth before every eye.
The party, on the whole, took this unparalleled catastrophe uncommonly well. They ate dry bread (with or without salt), drank water, and wound up with lettuces. Afterwards the men smoked themselves into complete serenity. If there had only been tea, but, alas! the tea had followed the infamous example of the champagne.
Naturally such a lunch had not taken long to despatch. What was to be done? How was the next empty hour to be put in?
And here Miss Lalla Paske came forward, and threw herself into the gap. In after days, her aunt always credited Lalla with one good action.
Rising, without waiting to catch any one’s eye, she slowly sauntered off with her little swaggering air, and mounting a mossy rock, and arranging herself in a picturesque attitude, despatched a cavalier for her banjo, which she presently began to thrum, and had soon (as she desired) collected a crowd. When she had assembled a sufficiently large audience, she struck up a nigger melody, with admirable art and liveliness, and instantly every male voice was joining in the chorus. Mrs. Langrishe and Mrs. Brande arrived together upon the scene, and beheld the sprightly Lalla, the centre of attraction, mounted on an impromptu throne, surrounded by admirers. Such moments were some of her unhappy aunt’s few compensations. Oh! if one of these admirers would but come forward and ask for the delicate, wiry little hand, now so skilfully thrumming a ranche melody.
The fair songstress made a charming picture, she had the family instinct for effect,—her supple figure was thrown into delightful relief by a dense green background, and one pretty little foot dangled carelessly over a slab of rock—such a pretty little foot, in such a pretty little shoe!
And where was Mrs. Brande’s niece? Standing among the crowd, a mere spectator of her rival’s success. All at once Lalla suddenly handed her banjo to Sir Gloster, and said briskly—
“Now, who would like their fortunes told? Please don’t all speak together.”
“Lalla is really marvellous,” whispered Mrs. Langrishe to her companion. “She has made quite a study of palmistry, and is most successful.”
Mrs. Brande looked severely incredulous, but she could see that Lalla was now closely invested by a circle of outspread palms, and a clamouring crowd of would-be clients. (Some people declared that this accomplishment was merely an excuse on Miss Paske’s part for holding men’s hands, and that she knew absolutely nothing of the gipsy’s art, but was a shrewd judge of character, and made up cleverly as she went along.) Also another notable and highly suspicious fact—she invariably meted out the most alarming fortunes to those she did not like. She appeared to take a vindictive pleasure in calmly expatiating on their impending calamities, and made the most sinister announcements with a smile.
At present she was examining Mrs. Brande’s hand, with a puckered, thoughtful brow.
She had not time to do all the hands, she declared, and those she did undertake must be entirely of her own selection.
“You have had an unexpected share of this world’s goods,” she stated at last, raising her voice, so that every syllable was audible. “You will always be well-to-do, but your present hopes will be disappointed. In the course of time, your life will undergo a change. You are threatened with softening of the brain—yes! your head line runs down upon the moon—you will probably be an incurable idiot, and bed-ridden for many years.”
“Thank you,” cried Mrs. Brande, snatching away her fat hand. “That will do me for the present;” and she fell back among the crowd, muttering disjointed sentences, that sounded like “London—had up in police-court, fortune-telling against the law—six months’ hard labour.” But Mrs. Brande’s terrible fate and smothered indignation failed to dissuade others, in answer to Miss Lalla’s clear—
“The next.”
Miss Ryder, a pretty girl, with fair hair, and pathetic blue eyes, came timidly forward, and gazed pleadingly at the oracle.
“Yes—humph,” critically examining Miss Ryder’s pink palm. “Your head is entirely governed by your heart, and oh dear me! there is a dreadful cross on the heart line, a broken marriage. No,” turning the hand sideways, “I see no marriage line on your hand, but a great many small worries; truthfulness is not an attribute—no; you will live long, and enjoy fairly good health.”
Miss Ryder shrank back, with a distinctly sobered countenance, and in answer to the fortune-teller’s desire, Mark Jervis was pushed forward. He tendered his hand reluctantly, and only for the Englishman’s usual hatred of a fuss, would have withheld it altogether. Miss Paske disliked Mr. Jervis with his cool, ambiguous manner—he was a mere hanger on, scarcely worth powder and shot, but he was a friend of Honor Gordon’s, and she would make him ridiculous for her benefit!
“Oh, what a hand!” she exclaimed, with a scornful laugh. “A fair enough head line, a great capacity for holding your tongue, especially on any subject concerning yourself. You do not think it necessary to tell the whole truth on all occasions.” This was a palpable home-thrust, for in the face of half Shirani, Mark Jervis coloured visibly. “Secret, clear-headed, with great self-command. Yes; you would make a fine conspirator, and I think you are a bit of an impostor.” Again the colour deepened in the subject’s tan cheek. “Line of heart nil. Fate much broken, I see—the mark of some kind of imprisonment; a life solitary and apart,” and holding the palm nearer to her eyes, “there is a great and unexpected change of fortune in store for you, which entails trouble. And there is the mark—of a violent death, or you will be the cause of another person’s death—the lines,” dropping his hand with a hopeless gesture, “are really too faint to read anything more with success.”
“Thanks awfully; it is very good of you to let me down so easily. I know you see a halter in my hand, but have wished to spare my feelings.”
Lalla looked at him indignantly—he was laughing. How dared he laugh at her?
“Now, Sir Gloster, it is your turn”—beckoning to him graciously.
Sir Gloster thrust out a very large, soft, white hand, and said, “This is worse than the stool of repentance. If you discover anything very bad, I implore you to whisper it in my ear, my dear Miss Paske.”
“Now, this really is a hand!” she exclaimed, looking round as if she was surprised to find that it was not a foot! “You have a splendid head line.”
Sir Gloster coloured consciously, and glanced surreptitiously at Honor, as much as to say, “I hope you heard that!”
“Quite a commanding intellect—you could do almost anything you chose—and are likely to be successful in your aims. A strong will; a magnificent line of fate—yes, yes, yes, all the good things! You will marry a fair wife; you will meet her in India—in fact, you have met her already. You had some illnesses before you were ten——”
“That’s safe,” scoffed Mrs. Brande from the background; “teething and measles—I could have told that!”
“You have really a splendid hand,” pursued Lalla. “I should like to make a cast of it.”
“She would like to have it altogether,” grunted Colonel Sladen to his immediate neighbours.
“Now, Captain Waring, for you?” cried the oracle, invitingly.
Captain Waring, smiling, prosperous, perfectly ready to be amused, stepped forward with alacrity.
“A fine broad palm! A magnificent line of fate; great riches are strongly marked—rather susceptible to our sex; a wonderful power of drawing people to you; you will not marry for some years.” As he stood aside, Lalla said, “Last, but not least, Miss Gordon. Oh, come along, Miss Gordon”—beckoning with an imperious finger.
“Thank you, I would rather not be done,” she answered stiffly.
“What?” inquired young Jervis, in an undertone. “Not be butchered to make a station’s holiday?”
“Oh, nonsense!” persisted Lalla rather shrilly. “Your aunt has been ‘done,’ as you call it, and I am anxious to see what type your hand belongs to—it’s sure to be artistic.”
“There is a nice little bait for you,” whispered Jervis. “Surely you cannot refuse that.”
“Oh, Miss Gordon, we all want to hear your fortune,” cried several voices; and, in spite of her unwillingness, Honor soon found herself in Miss Paske’s clutches.
“Ahem! Artistic, yes. A dark hand; a little deceitful; not much heart; very ambitious. I see some disease, like small-pox, or a bad accident, in store for you; you will marry when you are about forty. Let me look again. No, you and your husband will not agree. You will live long, and die suddenly.”
“How I wish some one could tell Miss Paske’s fortune!” cried Captain Waring, with unusual animation. “Shall I try?” suddenly seizing it. “Great vivacity; despotic will; love of admiration; line of heart nil; and the girdle of Venus—oh—oh——”
“Oh, nonsense!”—wrenching it away impatiently. “Here is Mr. Joy, who knows something far more interesting—a new and much shorter way of going home.”
This was seemingly an important piece of intelligence. Yes, there was a decided alacrity about getting under way. Hunger is a vulgar, but a very human weakness, and soon every one set off in the wake of scatter-brained Toby and Miss Paske; and nothing but a few scraps of newspaper and cigar-ends marked the conclusion of what is known to this day in Shirani as the “Great Starvation Picnic.”