And her niece, of whose picture she was so proud, that she had placed it in a solid silver frame—her lovely niece was like that!
“I wonder Honor never told me,” murmured Mrs. Brande at last.
“And I do not,” was the emphatic rejoinder. “From all accounts, the mother and sisters have always spoiled the little one, who believes that she is in no way different to other people, and is too ridiculously vain. Even if she had been five foot six, I am sure that you are far happier without her,” concluded Mrs. Langrishe, rising and squeezing her hostess’s hand as she spoke. And having offered this small fragment of consolation, she rustled away.
Mrs. Brande, poor woman, had been indeed trampled upon, and crushed to the very earth. She had been asked to join in her rival’s song of triumph over Miss Paske’s superb success; she had been condoled with on her own dear girl’s misfortunes; and she had been informed that she was aunt to a dwarf!
She sat for some time in a shattered, stupefied condition; then she got up, and hastily carried off Fairy’s photograph and locked it away in a box, secure from all eyes, and from even the ayah’s inquisitive brown fingers.
Honor noticed the absence of her sister’s picture from its usual post of honour—it was nowhere to be seen—the absence of Fairy’s name in conversation, the sudden cessation of all interest in Gerty Hadfield’s movements, and guessed rightly that some one had kindly enlightened her aunt, and that she was in possession of the other reason now.
CHAPTER XL.
THE NEW WEARER OF THE CORNELIAN RING.
Six weeks had crawled by. With all his occupation Mark found time desperately hard to kill; he felt as if he had lived his present life for at least six years. The monsoon had broken, and on some days the torrents compelled him to remain indoors; and whilst sheets of rain and hurricanes of wind swept the valley, an appalling loneliness settled down upon the miserable young man. His father passed many hours in sleep, and he had not a soul with whom to exchange a word. One evening, during a welcome break, he was riding homewards down a steep and slippery path that wound through wet dark pine-woods, when his pony suddenly shied so violently as almost to lose its footing; he had taken fright at an undefined object beside the road, something which at first his rider mistook for a bear, until it emitted a groan of unmistakable human anguish.
“What is the matter?” asked Jervis, as he quickly dismounted.
“Alas, I have hurt my foot!” replied a female voice in Hindostani. “I fell down—I cannot walk.”