CHAPTER X
At four o'clock in the afternoon the chief event of the day, the Bombay mail, was due at Rajahpore. The railway station was crammed, not merely with passengers, but idlers and loafers, who attended this train in order to see the people who were going North, and to gather jokes, scraps of gossip, and news. Soldiers were present in considerable force, as well as the local police, and numbers of Eurasians and natives, all assembled with the harmless object of enjoying a slight break in the monotony of their existence.
It was on a platform seething with strange faces, strange costumes and a strange nationality that Verona Chandos alighted and looked about her, with a vague, bewildered stare. She glanced hurriedly around in quest of her father, mother and sisters—her own people. Surely they were somewhere among this crowd! Her heart beat in rapid jerks as she noticed a tall lady in grey and a lad, who were peering into the carriages, evidently in search of friends. Yes—and had discovered them! This soldierly man in riding kit, with erect figure and alert eye—no! A young officer in khaki had come forward and carried him off, and Verona realised with a painful sensation that no one appeared to be awaiting her. The crowd hustled, and pushed, and clamoured by—sweetmeat sellers, fruit hawkers shouted their wares, porters rattled their trucks and excited parties of newly-arrived natives chattered together like a flock of parrots.
At last the scene began to clear and her attention was attracted by one solitary figure—a tall, elderly man, standing aloof in the background. In spite of a shabby sun hat and a suit of shrivelled white drill he had the unmistakable appearance of a gentleman. His features were finely cut, he wore a grizzled moustache, but the face was marked by that indefinable expression presented by life's failures, and his air was timid, even apologetic, as if he felt that he was an intruder in the throng.
Verona had surprised him looking at her with a quick, furtive glance, instantly withdrawn. Oh no, the shabby gentleman, with the saddest eyes she had ever encountered, could not be anything to her, and strangling the thought at its birth, she turned away to claim her luggage.
Boxes and belongings, each marked "V. C.," had all been duly collected, and for this service she was thanking the guard, when, in reply to his nod of indication, she turned about and found the man from the background at her elbow.
"Pardon me," he faltered, lifting his hat, and his voice though well bred was tremulous, "is your name—Chandos?"
"Yes," she answered quickly, but the colour had left her lips, "and—and—you are my father!"
His face grew livid as he murmured "Verona," and for a second he seemed so overcome with agitation that he was unable to speak. Then he took her hand—she felt his own tremble—and brushing her cheek with his wiry moustache, murmured:
"My child, you are welcome."
As she looked up into his face she read amazement, incredulity, awe.
"Oh! am I so very different to what you expected?" she asked with a little breathless laugh.
"God knows you are!" was the startling reply. Then, pulling himself together, he added:
"I've a man here who will take charge of all your baggage," beckoning to a Peon with a large brass badge on his sash.
"The victoria only holds two—so I came alone. Let me carry your wrap and bag."
"Is it far to Manora?" she inquired.
"About four miles."
"Because I am so thirsty. May I have a glass of water?"
"Water—no!" he rejoined with unexpected decision; "But come along and have a cup of tea. I ought to have thought of it before; you must be choked with dust. I've got out of the way of—of——" The remainder of the sentence was inaudible, as he opened the door into a lofty, white-washed room, where several men were lounging at a long refreshment bar.
Verona received an impression of quantities of bananas and buns; swarms of flies and staring faces. As she stood sipping some hot weak tea, from a very thick cup, a dapper little man, with a shiny face and prominent blue eyes, approached and accosted her father in an off-hand manner.
"Hullo, Chandos! I've never seen you here before. What has brought you out of your shell?" he asked with an air of lofty condescension.
Mr. Chandos looked momentarily embarrassed, and then replied, rather formally:
"How do you do, Major Gale. I came to meet my daughter."
"Your daughter!" and in the echo there was a note of incredulity, bordering on derision, but the little officer accepted the half introduction and bowed profoundly as he said:
"Charmed to make her acquaintance."
Verona resented his air of free and easy patronage, and met the stranger's full, bold gaze, with a pair of cold, unchanging eyes.
There was a chilling pause, during which the little officer quickly summed up the new "Spin"; her grand manner, dainty linen costume, expensive travelling case and ruffled wrap.
As the result of this inspection he turned abruptly to Mr. Chandos and exclaimed:
"I say! I'd no idea you'd been married before!"
Whatever reply was forthcoming it proved unintelligible, for Mr. Chandos was searching and fumbling in his pockets, and there was a hint of colour in his worn face as he turned to the waiter and said:
"I've no money with me. I'll settle with you next time I'm in—you know who I am!"
"How much is it? I'll make it all right," volunteered Major Gale.
"One rupee, Saar," said the turbanned kritmetgar.
Here Verona interposed, authoritatively:
"Thank you very much; I will pay for my tea," and promptly produced the necessary coin.
"No one carries money in India," explained Major Gale; "we all go on tick or borrow, as you'll soon find out. Just arrived?"
"Yes," assented the lady. The "yes" was like a hailstone.
"From England?"
"Yes." Another hailstone.
"I'm afraid you'll find Manora a bit slow! Eh? We are having our sports on the twentieth. I hope you all come in. Eh——?"
Verona set down her cup and glanced interrogatively at her father. She was anxious to depart.
"Oh, no use asking him," resumed the other, with a jocular air. "He buries himself alive. Lots of people don't know of his existence; awful mistake to cut the Service and take to sugar—eh, Chandos?"
"It suits me all right," he answered in a quick, troubled voice. Then as an afterthought:
"I will give your invitation to my wife, thank you. Now, Verona, if you are ready?"
"Quite ready," and with a slight inclination of her head she took leave of her new acquaintance, and walked out of the refreshment room.
Mr. Chandos piloted his daughter into a wide space at the back of the station, where a victoria was in waiting, with a showy bay arab in the shafts and a man with a gigantic red turban and blue and red coat on the box. His feet were bare, which struck Verona as peculiar.
"We can start at once," said her father, handing her in as he spoke; "Hassan will see to the baggage," and he indicated a long, clumsy conveyance, drawn by two water buffaloes, into which primitive concern her boxes were already being hoisted.
In another moment they were whirled away from the station along a flat, white road—indeed, the whole country seemed as flat as a billiard table. They trotted through a narrow bazaar, full of customers, domestic animals and gaudy little shops; occasionally they were obliged to pull up until a recumbent cow or goat saw fit to rise and suffer them to pass. From the bazaar the road led to a steep bridge, and as they crossed it Mr. Chandos pointed out various objects.
"There is the city," he said, "this side of the river. Two hundred thousand inhabitants. Where you see the spire and trees, is the cantonment. We live farther out in this direction."
"And have you no neighbours?"
"Oh, any amount. We are a community of our own. The factory employs some hundreds of natives, and about thirty English and Eurasians."
"Eurasian!" she echoed; "Oh, what a pretty name! What is a Eurasian?"
A spasm of pain seemed to contract her father's face, but he appeared not to have heard the question. It was evidently his habit to occasionally ignore or misunderstand what was said to him.
"Had you a good passage, my dear?" he asked.
"Only pretty good. Hot in the Red Sea and rough off Aden."
Here several passing coolies salaamed to her father, and he acknowledged their greeting with a jerk of his hand.
"What a charming salutation!" she exclaimed; "I like it so much better than our nodding and scraping."
"I'm afraid it's the only thing you will like," he remarked with a sigh. "Our life will be irksome, I'm afraid. We are real Anglo-Indians, and have made our home out here."
"I shall like my home, you may be sure," she declared, "my home and my people. How long is it since you were in England, father?"
"Twenty-eight years."
"Oh! almost a lifetime. How is my mother?"
"As usual."
"And my sisters—what are their names?"
"Blanche, Dominga, and Pussy—her real name is Bellamina. Blanche is married to a young man in the telegraph department. She has a little boy."
"My nephew! How delightful."
Mr. Chandos gave a curious little laugh, and resumed:
"Pussy is nearly twenty-four; then you come; then Dominga—she is twenty, and Nicky is seventeen."
"Oh, I do hope they will all like me," said Verona, as she turned a beautiful enthusiastic face on the shattered man at her side.
He glanced at this refined English girl, with her reposeful manners and air of culture and elegance. It was like gazing through an open window on some former state of existence, when all the world seemed young and gay and he had life before him. Well, he was now a grey derelict, expiating his follies in exile. He found it impossible to realize that the lovely eager girl at his side was his very own daughter; the little Verona that twenty years ago they had, much against his will, consigned to Fernanda Gowdy.
She had come back again—as what? To curse him—or to bless?
"Your sisters are not the least like you," he remarked in a harsh, abrupt voice; "they are uneducated girls—simple and emotional. They have only seen life from a sugar factory, and their ideas are cramped and circumscribed; you must make allowances for them. Whatever they are—I believe they mean well."
"Of course they do, and you need not ask me to make allowances for my own sisters. I am only too happy and thankful to think that I shall be with them always—and my mother."
As this conversation took place, the carriage was passing along a winding road, fenced with dusty cactus and an occasional row of acacia trees, but generally running between high standing crops of dense sugar cane. The old bay Arab stepped out well, and before long a square, high tower came into view; then gradually the outline of factory and bungalows, all thrown into sharp relief by a deep crimson sky. Suddenly the victoria rolled into a wide shady avenue, lined with thick trees and bushes, which ultimately widened into a little park, bordered with a number of picturesque bungalows, each standing apart. At the far end was a fine imposing abode, with a great verandah and sloping lawns.
"That is Mr. Lepell's house," explained Mr. Chandos. "He is manager of the factory."
"Why, father, I thought you were manager?"
"I!"—in a tone of ironical scorn. "No; I'm a mere bottle-washer, a subordinate, and will never be anything else."
They now dashed by a group of people who were playing tennis with screams and shoutings; and paused abruptly in their game to stare; and drove on to a bungalow half-concealed from the road by thick bushes; the porch and verandah were entirely screened with lattice work.
As they approached Verona's heart beat fast, and she was aware of several white figures—which had hitherto been stationed like outposts—flying within to give notice of her arrival.
But when the victoria came to a standstill under the porch there was no one to be seen, and the girl was conscious of her father's long indrawn breath, as he handed her out and said:
"I think they are all a little afraid—a little shy, of their English sister. Come into the house and I will fetch them."
The drawing-room opened directly into the verandah, and on first entering it seemed dark; but Verona soon groped her way to a sofa and sat down to wait, whilst her father departed in order to summon the family.