The early dawn had given place to the golden sunlight of the Indian
morning, but there was still ample shade within certain nooks in the
compound of a pleasant-looking two-storied house in one of the leafy
roads of Madras. Under an old banyan tree, with its tent-like stems
turned downwards and its dense canopy of green overhead, stood a dainty
breakfast table. Early tea was over. One bamboo chair had already been
vacated by its occupant; in the other, sat a young English lady.
Only two months previously Hester Rayner had left home a bride. "She is
happy, I think," was always the remark, accompanied by a sigh, made by
her anxious mother, as she passed the closely written pages of the
latest letter across the rectory breakfast table to her husband.
The young wife's letters gave no untrue expression of her state of
feeling, yet there were times when the dream-like sensation which
pervaded her outlook on the new surroundings disturbed her. The spell of
the East was strong; the tropical life, the vivid colouring, the
brown-skinned multitudes, the waving palms, all seemed to belong to a
bright pageant in which she was only a passing spectator. And now, with
the simple sense of duty which had marked the only daughter of the
Pinkthorpe Rectory, she was asking herself whether it was right to yield
so entirely to the wooing of the magic present. Even her weekly journal
from home seemed to deepen the glamour; all in that dear distant home
was transfigured by its glow; never had the tender affection of father
and mother felt so precious, and who would have believed that the couple
of schoolboy brothers would prove so much more demonstrative in their
first letters than in the days when she had painted their wickets, made
sails for their boats, and was their willing helper in all school
preparations? And again the unexpected was on its way.
It came in the form of a letter which a white-robed peon now handed to
her. It was the first she had received from her brother Charlie, now at
Oxford, and so notably a poor correspondent that the sight of his
handwriting awoke keen expectation.
She was not long in finding its outstanding piece of news. The fair,
uncovered head was at once recklessly exposed to the strengthening
sun-rays as she hurried towards the house, though an instant object of
solicitude to the vigilant domestic. But the lithe figure flew birdlike
across the brown turf, and reached the safe shade of the verandah before
the white-covered umbrella was brought to the rescue.
"Alfred, where are you?" called the gleeful voice, as she hurried in at
one of the many doors which led from the verandah to the house. The room
she entered was already carefully darkened, having its heavy green
_persiennes_ closed against the solar rays, though a chink of light
served to reveal the occupant at the writing-table, who raised his eyes
from the blue papers scattered before him. There was a gravity and
placidity about his movements which suggested his being older than his
years. His figure, though slender, was firmly knit. His fine-grained
skin and whole appearance gave evidence of careful culture of the body,
though the long thin hands, which were resting on his papers, were those
of a man of the desk rather than a devotee of the polo or cricket field.
"News, Alfred, delightful news! Actually a letter from Charlie to tell
us that Mark Cheveril, his great friend, is on his way to Madras!"
"Cheveril! Why, that name is surely familiar! Yes, he was Mark too. He
was one of the smaller boys when I was at Hacket's."
Suddenly Mr. Alfred Rayner's delicately-pencilled eyebrows contracted to
a frown. "But, I say, Hester, he's a half-caste, actually used to boast
in the most shameless manner that his mother was an Indian. Little
fool!"
"Yes, his father was a lieutenant in the Indian Army, and married an
Indian princess. Wasn't it romantic? It must be from his mother he got
his good looks, he is so dark and handsome."
"But, Hester, what an arrant fool the man must be to set foot in India
again--half-caste as he is!"
"Why, it's been the dream of Mark Cheveril's life to go back to his
native land. Father always said he particularly admired that trait in
him."
"Just like one of your father's unworldly notions! Let me tell you they
don't work east of Suez. I'm afraid, for instance, that it will be
difficult for us to have anything to do with him."
Mr. Rayner tapped his papers thoughtfully with his thin hand.
"Anything to do with him," echoed Hester, her deep grey eyes dilating.
"But Mark Cheveril is Charlie's greatest friend. Listen to what he
says." She turned to the letter and read: "'I've just been thinking how
delightful it will be for you to see Cheveril out there. Tell Rayner I
took advantage of his _carte blanche_ to invite him to stay with you,
assuring him that he would be welcome, as I remembered how Rayner
expatiated on the hospitality of Anglo-Indians----'"
"Didn't think I was to be asked to extend that hospitality to
half-castes," muttered Mr. Rayner, bending over his writing table with a
sulky air.
There was a perplexed look in his wife's eyes as she glanced at him.
She had not seen that expression on her husband's face before.
"And what is this noble Eurasian going to do here does your brother say?
Is he going to look out for a job?"
"Oh, no, he's got work in a good service, though I don't suppose it's so
good as being a barrister like you," said Hester slowly, the gladness of
her news tempered by her husband's more than chilly attitude. "I'm
really awfully ignorant about Indian things, you see; I must coach
myself up or I shall remain a 'griffin,' I fear. Charlie writes----"
Again Hester turned to her letter, but this time with a little sigh.
"... 'Cheveril passed the Indian Civil a year ago, as you will remember;
he has since been at Oxford, and is now posted to Madras.'"
"The Indian Civil! Has the fellow really got into that?" exclaimed Mr.
Rayner with undisguised astonishment. "I must have missed his name in
the lists. Well, surely he will have learnt by this time to keep the
fact of his mixed blood dark. We must give him a hint to that effect. It
is silly and sentimental, to say the least of it. But seeing he's among
the 'Covenanted Ones' he'll be worth curing of this mad freak." A smile
played about Mr. Rayner's thin lips; then he added briskly, "Does your
brother say what steamer he's coming by?"
"The _Bokhara_," replied Hester, her air of joyous expectation already
exchanged for a soberer one.
"Then he's due this very day," said her husband, starting up. "Mark
Cheveril may be here at any moment, Hester. I'll see if the steamer is
in yet on my way to the High Court." He had evidently reconsidered his
decision "not to know" the new arrival. "Wonder if I shall recognise
him. He was only a little chap in Etons when I knew him at Hacket's.
What's he like now?"
"He's tall and has dark hair. He always looked such a contrast to
Charlie, who is so fair," said Hester, with a reminiscent smile,
recalling how often the two friends used to walk hatless on the emerald
lawn at home, the fair wavy hair and the dark head in close proximity.
"Yes, Charlie is too fair for a man. I love that blondeness in you,
dear, but a slightly darker hue suits the masculine gender better,"
returned Mr. Rayner, glancing at himself, with a self-conscious smile,
in a mirror hanging on the white wall near his writing table.
In his own estimation, and it must be acknowledged, in the estimation of
others also, he fulfilled all the requirements of good looks. His dark
hair framed a beautiful aquiline face, though too cameo-like perhaps in
its perfection. There was something unpleasant in his expression, an air
of hauteur, a lack of frankness, which detracted from his undeniably
handsome face.
It was, in fact, Alfred Rayner's perfectly chiselled features which,
after a very brief wooing, had been the passport to the heart of the
young daughter of Pinkthorpe Rectory. Hester and he had met at a large
house-party--the girl's first appearance in society. She had lately left
school, and was becoming pleasantly conscious that she was a free agent,
no longer told to do this and that, but tacitly challenged to exercise
personal choice. She was not exactly in love with the young barrister,
but being on the verge of her life's awakening, a word, a look, a touch,
was enough to rouse her. And when these forces were skilfully applied by
the wooer, aided by a good-natured hostess with the alleged feminine
love of match-making, the result may be supposed. Though with the girl
herself, the matter was no further advanced, even in her own account to
her mother, than was consistent with saying frankly that she admired and
liked the young stranger who had come into her simple days. Sweet home
security had wrapped her all her young life, and before her now
stretched the glamour of a happiness to come. Might it not be sweeter
than any she had ever known, whispered imaginings, indefinite but luring
as the balmy air of those June days in which she gave her "promise true"
to go with this man. That it was to go "over the hills and far away"
added only to the fascination of the prospect.
Even the haste of the wooing had its charm for the young girl; for
Alfred Rayner asked nothing less of the anxious parents than that their
precious daughter should be given to him at once. His short furlough
being almost expired, his urgent request was that they should be married
without delay and make their honeymoon on their voyage to India.
For two years Mr. Alfred Rayner had been practising as a barrister in
Madras, and was able to expatiate in glowing words on the many-sided
charm of life for the dominant race in the tropical land. His young wife
had found as yet that those descriptions were, if anything, under the
mark. During those early days she used playfully to tax her gratified
husband that he had not conveyed to her half the charm of the bright
Eastern land whose spell had hitherto been unbroken. But as she stood
now in that darkened room having told her joyful news, the shaft of
light which fell on his face revealed to her a little dark cloud in her
heaven of blue. It was the first time she had felt that she and Alfred
were not entirely in unison. Nor was the recollection quite covered when
after breakfast she watched him going down the broad, white, sunlit
flight of steps from the verandah to enter his office-bandy, though he
called to her, "I'll see if the _Bokhara_ is in and send you word."
After watching the white-covered carriage disappear along the avenue
shaded by its casuarina trees, she retraced her steps slowly to her
husband's writing room. Its darkness seemed dense after the glare of the
verandah. For a moment she stood oppressed by it, then with quick
gestures hurried to throw open the heavy green shutters and let in the
fierce sun-rays. She seated herself on her husband's chair, leaning on
his table, her cheek resting on her hand, her face shadowed by a sense
of trouble. How cold had been the frown on Alfred's face as he had sat
there! What a peevish reception he had given to her news, and what a
complete surprise to her was the source of his annoyance! That Mark
Cheveril, Charlie's best friend, who during his short visits to
Pinkthorpe Rectory had won golden opinions from all; that he, her own
good friend and comrade, should be viewed as a person of social
disabilities was a revelation to her. It seemed a breach of good
feeling, and disloyal to her home estimates, to entertain such an idea
for a moment. Nor was her husband's sudden change of front on hearing
that Charlie's friend was coming to enter the great service any more
explicable to the carefully nurtured English girl. She must think it
out!