Fascinated, Stella watched the cavalcade till it vanished in a cloud of dust; then she walked to the end of the balcony and looked over the parapet, down a drop that made her feel giddy. There was nothing below but heaps of rough stones and bricks, coarse grass, and thorn trees. Again she glanced over the waterless waste, burning drab and drear in the hot sunshine, and suddenly she thought of the Common at home, of the green turf, the gorse and the bracken, the blue distances; she wondered what grandmamma and the aunts were doing at that moment; she remembered the smooth lawn and the cedar tree, the little stream.... The unwelcome pang of home-sickness was discomforting, but it did not last long. As she turned away the realisation that she was in India, that the life she so desired had begun, came back to her forcibly; and soon she was finding pleasure in the garden, in watching the pair of small white bullocks that drew water from a well in a big leather bucket like a gigantic sponge-bag; in strolling among the shrubs that flamed with blossom, scarlet, yellow, pink. There was an orange grove, too, with real fruit on the trees gleaming golden among glossy foliage. Flights of green parrots flew screaming above her head; gay-crested little birds hopped and scuffled in the dust at her feet; small grey squirrels scampered in every direction. Was there anything at The Chestnuts to compare with it all?
Santa-Sahib was in good humour when he returned. They had a wonderful breakfast at midday: a curry of chicken, with snowy rice boiled to perfection and served separately, not as a border round some réchauffé, which was old Betty's conception of a curry. Other dishes were numerous, and fruit was in abundance—oranges, custard apples, loquats; also delicious little scones. Afterwards Robert took her into the drawing-room, and told her she could spend what she liked on it; said he had ordered a piano from Calcutta; it ought to arrive in a day or two now. He was sure she would wish to have pretty chintz, and silk cushions, and new curtains. When she asked him if it would not all cost too much money, he laughed and kissed her, called her his baby. Sher Singh was summoned, and was bidden to send for a silk merchant from the bazaar, and to engage a "durzey"—a male person whose duty it would be to sit in the veranda all day and make curtains and cushions and chair covers, and anything else the memsahib might desire. Stella felt like a princess in a fairy tale.
During the next few days the ladies of the station called on the Commissioner's bride. Mrs. Cuthell, wife of the Deputy Commissioner, came first; she was a homely human being, anxious to be kind; but her good-natured intentions were leavened by a natural resentment that her husband's superior in the service should have married anyone so junior in years to herself. She said she hoped Mrs. Crayfield would not find her position too difficult; of course, she would have much to learn.
"Hitherto," she remarked, "I have been the principal lady!" She forced a smile. "Now I shall be obliged to take a back seat! We were all so surprised when we heard that Colonel Crayfield was bringing out a wife. We had looked on him as a confirmed bachelor. Certainly we did not expect a wife as youthful as yourself!"
"It's a fault I shall grow out of, perhaps," pleaded Stella meekly; and afterwards Mrs. Cuthell told Mrs. Piggott, the police officer's wife, that she thought the new bride was rather a cheeky chit. Mrs. Piggott made haste to ascertain the truth of this opinion for herself. Stella found her a more entertaining visitor than Mrs. Cuthell, though perhaps less likeable; Mrs. Cuthell, she felt, meant to be motherly, whereas Mrs. Piggott, who also seemed quite middle-aged to Stella, assumed the attitude of a contemporary. She had sharp eyes, a sharp tongue, and endless stories to tell of the other folk in the station; how the Paynes (Post Office) brought up their children so badly, talked nothing but Hindustani to them; what a lot of money the Taylors (Canals) wasted, getting their stores from Bombay, and things out from home—if they ever paid for them at all! And had Mrs. Crayfield seen the Antonios—Dr. Antonio and his wife and daughter? Old Antonio had been an apothecary at the time of the Mutiny, and had somehow hung on to the position of Civil Surgeon ever since—he had been years and years at Rassih; the Government was only too glad to leave him there, regardless of the feelings of the rest of the station. Why, they were practically natives! And it was believed they smoked hookahs—certainly their house smelt like it. Pussy, the daughter (no chicken), had been doing her best to marry young Smithson, the Taylors' assistant; but she, Mrs. Piggott, had warned the young man, with the result that just as the Antonios were expecting him to propose every moment, he had fled into camp. If only the Antonios could know! They would never speak to her again.
"And no great loss," added Mrs. Piggott, "except that in such a small station it's a pity to have rows. Then there are the Fosters (railway people); they are inclined to give themselves airs because they have a little money of their own, which is unusual in India. But you will see them all for yourself, my dear. Of course, you will come to the Club? We all play tennis there every evening, and have tea and pegs, and look at the English papers."
"I suppose so," said Stella doubtfully; "but my husband hasn't said anything about it."
"You must cure him of his dull habits. Hitherto he has only had some of the men to play tennis with him on his own courts, which, of course, are first-rate, but it's rather unsociable of him. He must not expect you to hold yourself aloof from the rest of us. Now if he won't bring you himself to the Club just let me know, and I can always pick you up on my way."
Mrs. Piggott saw herself envied by the station as young Mrs. Crayfield's bosom friend. She took the first opportunity of telling Mrs. Cuthell, whom she detested, that Mrs. Crayfield had been perfectly sweet to her when she called, had asked her advice on all kinds of points, and had taken her into her bedroom to show her the trousseau and the jewellery, etc.—all of which, by the way, was untrue; but Mrs. Piggott considered the falsehoods worth while, since it annoyed Mrs. Cuthell and made her jealous.
Stella thought she would like to belong to the Club; but, to her surprise, when Robert came to the drawing-room for tea, and she mentioned the subject, he said he did not wish her to "make herself cheap"; he disapproved of the Club gatherings—a lot of gossiping women and silly young men. Once a week—whichever day she liked to select—she could be "At Home" to the whole station. Their own tennis courts were in excellent order, and there was no occasion to become intimate with anyone.