"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