It proved to be covered with labels, and she read aloud with much unction and for Honor’s benefit—
“Victoria—that’s New South Wales—Paris, Brindisi, Bombay, Poonah, Arkomon, Calcutta, Galle, Lucknow. Bless us and save us, he has been staying at Government House, Calcutta, and been half over the world! See what it is to have money!” and she made a sign to her jampannis to continue her journey. Presently they passed two more coolies, lightly loaded with a rather meagre kit; these she did not think it necessary to question.
“Those are the cousin’s things,” she explained contemptuously, “M. J., the hanger-on. Awful shabby, only a bag, and a couple of boxes. You could tell the owner was a poor man.”
Honor made no reply. She began to have an idea that she had seen this poor young man before, or were two cousins travelling together for travelling’s sake, a common feature in India. It would not surprise her much were she to find her companion of that three-mile walk awaiting his slender baggage at Nath Tal Bungalow.
As Mrs. Brande was borne upwards, her spirits seemed to rise simultaneously with her body. She was about to make the acquaintance of a millionaire, and could cultivate his friendship comfortably, undisturbed by the machinations of her crafty rival. She would invite him to be her guest for the two days they would be journeying together, and by this means steal a nice long march (in every sense of the word) on Mrs. Langrishe!
CHAPTER XIV.
STEALING A MARCH.
As the sun died down, the moon arose above the hills and lighted the travellers along a path winding by the shores of an irregular mountain lake, and overhung by a multitude of cherry trees in full blossom.
“Look!” cried Mrs. Brande, joyfully, “there in front you see the lights of the Dâk Bungalow at last. You will be glad of your dinner, and I’m sure I shall.”
Two men, who sat in the verandah of the same rest-house, would also have been most thankful for theirs. The straggling building appeared full of soldiers and their wives, and there seemed no immediate prospect of a meal. The kitchen had been taken possession of by the majestic cook of a burra mem sahib, who was shortly expected, and the appetites of a couple of insignificant strangers must therefore be restrained.
These travellers were, of course, Captain Waring and Mark Jervis, whom the former invariably alluded to as “his cousin.” It was a convenient title, and accounted for their close companionship. At first Mark had been disposed to correct this statement, and murmur, “Not cousins, but connections,” but had been silenced by Clarence petulantly exclaiming—