Half-past one—no Captain Haig—a quarter to two—Nicky ran to the corner of the tennis ground; the Trotter family were all in their verandah—for it had not been concealed from them that Mrs. Chandos expected two officers to tiffin.
Two o'clock, yet still tarried the wheels of Captain Haig's chariot. A gloomy silence now descended and settled upon the Chandos family like a pall.
Half-past two! a gurrah at the factory struck "three."
"No-ah, he is not coming," announced Dominga, with a conviction that tolled the knell of her mother's hopes. Nicky and Dominga were clamouring for food, and a certain portion of the long-delayed meal was hastily served. But Mrs. Chandos was too excited to eat; her mind was dwelling on the triumph of the Trotters, and her costly useless outlay—unfortunately, she could not return the ham, for it had been boiled. Her temper, which had been gradually rising like a storm at sea, now burst, and dashed itself like a tornado upon Verona. It was not the recreant Captain Haig with whom Mrs. Chandos was furious; his unlucky friend represented the scapegoat.
Verona sat white and speechless, whilst her mother overwhelmed her with a torrent of reproaches for her airs, her uselessness, the heavy cost of her maintenance, and her most devilish pride. But when once a Eurasian loses her temper and her self-control, she hardly knows what she says. The tempest like a typhoon is soon over,—but while it lasts, it is bad, very bad.
Mrs. Chandos finally concluded with one of her celebrated screaming fits, and Mrs. Lopez—well accustomed to these hysterical outbursts—led her away sobbing and exhausted, in order to console and soothe her in her own apartment.
CHAPTER XXIX
The band had played the men back to barracks to the rousing tune of "When Johnny comes marching Home again"; it was eleven o'clock on Sunday morning, and Captain Haig, who had been to Parade Service, walked across the maidan to pay a morning call. His thoughts were still full of one subject—Verona Chandos, and he was anxiously debating whether to go to Manora or not? The question had kept him awake for hours; it had harassed him through the Book of Common Prayer, and the text of the padre's sermon had been, "To go to Manora or not?" Something in Verona's eyes magnetised him and drew him towards her, to be instantly driven away by her swarm of terrible relations, and they really were her own kindred; he had heard all about them at the mess. Malcolm Haig was on his way to see his cousin (once removed), Jimmy Fielder, and to have a friendly "bukh" with him in his own diggings. He knew all about Master Jimmy's affairs, and why he was now languishing on the plains of India. Lord Highstreet, who was a cast-iron parent of the so-called old school, had cut off the supplies, and sent his heir into banishment—sent him to the East in order to be out of harm's way, for, by all accounts, there were no widows in India. The native women were very properly burnt, and the Europeans were of the innocuous species, termed "grass," and not matrimonially dangerous. Captain Fielder was sprawling on a Bombay chair in the verandah, still clad in a smart blue silk sleeping suit and a pair of straw bath-slippers, and was engaged in reading a French novel, and smoking a Russian cigarette.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed, half rising, as he descried his cousin.
"Hullo!" repeated the visitor, "so this is what you call going to church!"