A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE
A TALE OF ANGLO-INDIAN LIFE
BY MRS. MILNE RAE
Author of "Bride Lorraine," "Morag: A Tale of Highland Life," etc.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
A BOTTLE IN THE SMOKE
CHAPTER I.
The early dawn had given place to the golden sunlight of the Indianmorning, but there was still ample shade within certain nooks in thecompound of a pleasant-looking two-storied house in one of the leafyroads of Madras. Under an old banyan tree, with its tent-like stemsturned downwards and its dense canopy of green overhead, stood a daintybreakfast table. Early tea was over. One bamboo chair had already beenvacated by its occupant; in the other, sat a young English lady.
Only two months previously Hester Rayner had left home a bride. "She ishappy, I think," was always the remark, accompanied by a sigh, made byher anxious mother, as she passed the closely written pages of thelatest letter across the rectory breakfast table to her husband.
The young wife's letters gave no untrue expression of her state offeeling, yet there were times when the dream-like sensation whichpervaded her outlook on the new surroundings disturbed her. The spell ofthe East was strong; the tropical life, the vivid colouring, thebrown-skinned multitudes, the waving palms, all seemed to belong to abright pageant in which she was only a passing spectator. And now, withthe simple sense of duty which had marked the only daughter of thePinkthorpe Rectory, she was asking herself whether it was right to yieldso entirely to the wooing of the magic present. Even her weekly journalfrom home seemed to deepen the glamour; all in that dear distant homewas transfigured by its glow; never had the tender affection of fatherand mother felt so precious, and who would have believed that the coupleof schoolboy brothers would prove so much more demonstrative in theirfirst letters than in the days when she had painted their wickets, madesails for their boats, and was their willing helper in all schoolpreparations? And again the unexpected was on its way.
It came in the form of a letter which a white-robed peon now handed toher. It was the first she had received from her brother Charlie, now atOxford, and so notably a poor correspondent that the sight of hishandwriting awoke keen expectation.
She was not long in finding its outstanding piece of news. The fair,uncovered head was at once recklessly exposed to the strengtheningsun-rays as she hurried towards the house, though an instant object ofsolicitude to the vigilant domestic. But the lithe figure flew birdlikeacross the brown turf, and reached the safe shade of the verandah beforethe white-covered umbrella was brought to the rescue.
"Alfred, where are you?" called the gleeful voice, as she hurried in atone of the many doors which led from the verandah to the house. The roomshe entered was already carefully darkened, having its heavy greenpersiennes closed against the solar rays, though a chink of lightserved to reveal the occupant at the writing-table, who raised his eyesfrom the blue papers scattered before him. There was a gravity andplacidity about his movements which suggested his being older than hisyears. His figure, though slender, was firmly knit. His fine-grainedskin and whole appearance gave evidence of careful culture of the body,though the long thin hands, which were resting on his papers, were thoseof a man of the desk rather than a devotee of the polo or cricket field.
"News, Alfred, delightful news! Actually a letter from