In half-an-hour the whole family had retired, and a profound peace fell upon the bungalow. Verona opened the glass door of her room and stole out, and once more began to pace the path by the river bank.
It was a perfect moonlight night, and oh, what a delightful change from the noise and chatter of the day! The scene was beautiful, all the landscape being outlined in silver; the everyday yellow plain across the water had now a far-away, fairy-like effect. The silence was almost death-like; the hideous cry of the hunting jackal, the scream of a night hawk, disturbed the night—elsewhere, and the only sound to be heard was the occasional flop of a belated fish. To Verona there was something extraordinarily soothing and grateful in her surroundings, although her head throbbed and ached, and she held her hands to her forehead as she paced up and down. All at once she was aware of something—a faint distant sound—what was it? The regular dip of oars coming nearer and nearer; in two or three minutes a white boat rowed by one man shot into sight. As it approached, she perceived that the oarsman, whose curly head was bare, was a sahib, for the moon shone a full dazzling light on his good-looking, determined face. When the boat was almost opposite he leant for a moment on his oars and called over to her:
"Hullo! Miss Dominga, are you not afraid of the malaria at this time of night?" As Verona made no reply he rowed a stroke nearer, stared hard at her, and then exclaimed with apologetic haste:
"Oh, I beg your pardon; I mistook you for Miss Chandos!" and without another word rowed swiftly away. Verona watched his long, sweeping strokes till he turned a bend in the river, and so was lost to sight.
No doubt this was Dominga's lover; he had a pleasant voice, a fine face, and a stalwart pair of arms.
Dominga was unaccountably fortunate.
CHAPTER XVII
Whilst this genial family party was proceeding in Mr. Chandos' house, a gathering of another description took place in the vicinity.
"The big bungalow," as it was called, was large and luxurious; the furniture modern and tasteful. Mrs. Lepell's frequent journeys to England resulted in many pretty things, such as choice water-colours, bits of quaint silver, fresh chintz covers; then there were soft draperies and screens, books and flowers in profusion.
After dinner three men sat smoking, sipping coffee in the verandah; Mrs. Lepell, in a comfortable chair, and graceful tea-gown, was the only woman present. Her husband, Tom Lepell, a hale man of sixty, had been respected in India for five-and-thirty years; he was reputed to be hard, but just; a stern master and a staunch friend, whose energies were solely devoted to sugar and crops, to goor and rab. Then there was his charming wife, bright and popular; his wife's nephew, Brian Salwey, superintendent of police in the Rajahpore district. When at headquarters, he frequently rowed up the river, and spent an evening with his Aunt Lizzie and Uncle Tom. He had his own room, his own chair, and kept a suit of evening dress-clothes at Manora, for he found favour in the eyes of his well-to-do relations.