The heat, in the narrow gorge at the foot of the mountains, was stifling; the very bananas and bamboos looked wilted, and faint. As the pair rode between dense masses of acacia, babul trees, Palmyra palms, and thickets of heavy jungle, their horses were bathed in sweat, there seemed scarcely a breath of air; but by gradual degrees, as they mounted the rocky old road with its endless twists, and sudden steep ascents, the dank hot-house atmosphere fell away, and mile by mile they ascended into another, and cooler, climate. The narrow bridle-path lay through a primeval forest, carpeted in places with moss and maiden-hair; here and there, the tree-trunks were hidden by gigantic ferns, the sound of running water was never absent, crystal clear streams splashed and tumbled and made tinkling music in the dim light, as they hurried down the hill-side, through a tangle of rock, twisted roots, and creepers. Meanwhile the riders breasted a precipitous road, that carried them from the tropics to an English summer; heavily laden coolies, donkeys carrying wood, and now and then a portly native on a pony, were all they encountered as they proceeded, and fitfully discussed the recent season, and its most interesting, or remarkable events.
"Talking of events," said Mrs. Brander, "last evening, I saw Barbie Miller driving with Colonel Harris in his Stanhope phaeton; he looked as pleased as Punch, and she, as if she were on her way to execution; I fancy that match is settled, and for once, Aunt Fanny had no finger in the pie!"
"No, of course not," assented Mallender, but he said no more.—There ensued a pause, lit by the memory of a girl, leaning against a tree with a drawn, white face and dazed blue eyes, saying, "Oh, you don't know—you cannot understand!"
"You liked her, didn't you?" questioned his twenty-first cousin.
"Yes,—but I am sorry to say, Miss Miller does not like me. She has wonderful pluck in the saddle, it's a pity she can't show some of it in her own family."
"Ah, it is so easy for us to talk! You little know Mrs. Miller; a woman as hard as the nether mill-stone, as pitiless as Fate, and she has a strong backer in Mrs. Fiske. Poor Barbie has no chance against two such allies."
"I don't see where Mrs. Fiske comes in?" argued Mallender.
"As adviser. Mrs. Miller was once upon a time her bridesmaid, and although she publishes a striking and historical record of her character, declares that her bridesmaid was a bully from her youth, never would allow anyone near her to be happy, and adds, many later, and more lurid particulars, yet they are close friends!"
"I can't stand Mrs. Fiske, and she always smiles—if you can call it a smile! at me, and looks as if she knew a lot, and we had some guilty secret between us!"