Against this court card, socially marked for the Effinghams’ fortune, one day turned up a couple of trumps, which might be thought to have made a certainty of the odd trick in favour of Benmohr. Charles Hamilton, coming home after a day’s ploughing, found two strangers in the sitting-room, one of whom, a quiet plainly dressed personage, shut up a book at his entrance, and begged to introduce his friend and travelling companion, Major Glendinning, ‘who (his own name Kinghart) had brought a letter from a mutual friend, he believed, Mr. Machell of Langamilli. The Major had been good enough to accompany him, being anxious to see the country.’
‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Hamilton, pocketing the letter unread. ‘I hope Mrs. Teviot gave you some refreshment. I seldom come home before dark, now the days are getting short.’
‘The old lady did the honours, I assure you,’ said the Major, ‘but we preferred awaiting dinner, as we had tiffin on the road. As for Kinghart, he found an old edition in your book-case which was meat and drink to him.’
‘In that case, if you will allow me, I will ask you to excuse me till the bell rings, as dressing is a serious business after my clay furrows.’
Hamilton had time to look at Willie Machell’s letter, in which he found Mr. Kinghart described as an out-and-out brick, though reserved at first, and unreasonably fond of books. Played a goodish game of whist, too. Henry Kinghart was brother to the famous clergyman and writer of that name, and was so deuced clever that, if there had been any material for fiction in this confounded country, which there was not, he shouldn’t be surprised if he wrote a book himself some day. As for the Major, he was invaluable. He (Machell) had met him at the Australian Club, and brought him up forcibly from Sydney. He was the best shot and horseman he ever saw, and fought no end with his regiment of Irregular Horse in India. Siffter, N.I., who denied everybody’s deeds but his own, admitted as much. Relative in Australia—cattle-station manager or something—that he wanted to look up. He (Hamilton) was not to keep them all the winter at Benmohr, as he (Machell) was deucedly dull without them.
Mr. Kinghart fully answered his warranty, inasmuch as he volunteered little in the way of remark, and fastening upon one or two rare books in the Benmohr collection, hardly looked up till Mrs. Teviot came in with the bedroom candles. The Major seemed indisposed to literature, but had seen so much, and indeed had transacted personally so large a share of modern history in Indian military service, that Hamilton, who, like most Scottish gentlemen, had a brother in the line there and several cousins in the Civil Service, was deeply interested. He had been in every battle of note since the commencement of the Mahratta war, and
A scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of ‘Moodkee’ field.
Without a shade of self-consciousness he replied to Hamilton’s eager questionings, whom he found to be (from his brother’s letters) accurately informed about the affairs of Northern India.
Unfortunately for Mr. Kinghart’s studies, Neil Barrington and Bob Ardmillan turned up next morning—two men who would neither be quiet themselves, nor suffer other mortals to enjoy repose. Part of the day was spent in shooting round the borders of the dam, when the Major topped Ardmillan’s bag, who was considered the crack shot of the neighbourhood. In the afternoon, there being many horses, colts and others, in the stables, Neil proposed an adjournment to the leaping-bar, an institution peculiar to Benmohr, for educating the inexperienced steeds to jump cleverly with the aid of a shifting bar enwrapped in brambles.