“You do not seem well this morning, Flo,” said Walter Gordon, as he assisted Miss Meredith into his buggy, with the intention of driving her to the station church.
“I am not at all well, Walter,” was her answer. “I have been restless all night, and have slept but little.”
“That is bad news, Flo. Suppose we have a drive out of Meerut, instead of going to church?”
“No, no. I prefer to attend the service this morning. I shall be better by-and-bye.”
As they drove along he noticed that she was nervous and agitated, and he questioned her as to the cause; but, though she longed to tell him all, her courage failed her, as she did not wish to give him unnecessary alarm. Besides, after all, what Jewan had said might have been but the boastful threat of a disappointed man—perhaps all would be well. She consoled herself with this thought, and determined to tell her lover at a later period.
In the European barracks and in the various bungalows there was on this particular morning a general desertion of native servants; but this circumstance, strange to say, excited no suspicions, and so the day was got through as usual.
The afternoon drew to a close. The sun declined on the opposite bank of the Goomtee, burnishing the stream with gold, and throwing into dark relief the heavy masses of native boats. The great Mall was a scene of gaiety, for the white glare of the day had departed, and the dust-laden atmosphere was tempered with a refreshing breeze. The whole European population seemed to be taking an airing. Strings of vehicles, crowds of horsemen, gaily-dressed ladies, numberless natives, together with the glowing river, the waving palms, the tall cocoa trees, and the gilded domes of the numerous mosques, which rose grandly in the background, made up a scene which for picturesqueness and beauty could scarcely have been surpassed. It was a fair and smiling scene; “white-robed peace seemed to have settled there, and spread her downy wings.”
Backwards and forwards went the natives. Hindoos and Brahmins, high-caste and low-caste, mingling now indiscriminately. Could each of the hearts that beat beneath those dusky skins have been read, could it have been known how they were burning with hatred and loathing for the Feringhees, many a white man would have shuddered, and, as he tightened his grip on revolver or sword, he would have drawn the loved ones to his breast, there to shield them with his life.
Walter Gordon and Miss Meredith sat alone in the verandah, for Flora had complained of feeling very unwell, and Walter decided that, instead of going for the usual afternoon drive, it would be better to remain quietly at home.