The Foot of Time: A Novel of Australia and the South Seas: (1933)

CHAPTER II.
TWO GARDEN MANAGERS.
THE following days had been cold and foggy, but
Lady Arbuthnot's fit of depression was a thing forgotten,
blown away like Broken Orange Pekoe
Fannings under the endearments and care of her
husband. It was early Autumn, the season when
Goombah manufactured her superb Autumnal
flavoured tea, and Lady Arbuthnot came in from
her verandah calling Abdul to her.
"I will take tea in here to-day, Boy," she ordered.
"Your master will be in, too. Bring me two cups
and the cake."
Abdul made an obeisance. "Bahut achcha, Mem-
Sahib," he replied, then went noiselessly out to do
her bidding.
Clare heard her husband's step. He was walking
outside with Ian Mackenzie, one of the managers
in the Arbuthnot group of tea gardens, and Lady
Arbuthnot found herself wondering whether Mackenzie
was in one of his fighting moods. She was
interested in "Mac" and his blunt candour, and yet
somehow frightened of it. Why, Clare knew not,
yet there it was. Mackenzie was responsible for
Publoo, a much larger garden than Goombah, and
about 3,000 feet below it. Publoo carried two
THE FOOT OF TIME 17
European assistants besides the manager, each
junior taking turn to be invited to tennis and dinner
at the bungalow of their chief up at Goombah.
Lady Arbuthnot could now hear the voices of
the two men. They were talking with unusual
heat, not apparently against each other, but rather
eoyfeso some occurrenceupon which they did not see
to eye.
"On no account must Ranee be allowed to leave
Publoo, Mackenzie," Clare heard Bruce say. "If I
want her I shall know where to find the girl. She
is to keep to her own garden. Definitely understand
me. I need not repeat it. Ranee remains on your
pay roll!"
Mackenzie's voice came to Lady Arbuthnot
through the rarified mountain air.
"I'll do my utmost to keep her to the garden,
Sir. You can rest assured upon that." Their voices
died away for a time as the owner showed his garden
to the Scotchman, then they came towards
the bungalow again, and Clare could hear their
conversation. Mackenzie certainly appeared to be
in one of his fighting moods. His voice shook with
passion—a passion held in leash through discipline
for his senior, safety for his post, and perhaps more
than either through the instinct of human inferiority
which the overwhelming personality of
the baronet brought to all with whom he came in
contact. There it was, however bitterly men
might at times desire otherwise. However greatly
they might wish to dispute this, or dispute that
with him. Hedged round with natural armour, it