In a quarter of Madras where dwelling houses were not separated by so many acres of garden ground as in the more fashionable suburbs, there stood, at the corner of a shady road, a white wooden gate. It was a feature rare in the Belgravia of the town where peeling chunam posts with rusty iron sockets were often the only traces of the departed gate; one of the changing tenants having probably demanded that it should be dispensed with, another that it should be replaced, to be assured by the obsequious landlord that the order would be executed at once, though the gate in question was most likely broken up for firewood or eaten by white ants, the polite Mussulman not having the remotest intention of replacing it, however much he might assure successions of tenants that the gate was on its way to be fitted to the old posts.
But what mattered such traces of dilapidation to those often changing inmates? Were not pleasant homes, trim gateways, verdant lawns, awaiting them across the sea when the requisite number of rupees had been amassed, the years of service expired, and the exile only a memory?
Within the precincts of this white gate, however, no change of owners had interrupted its careful tendance for many a year. No period of rankness had intervened in the trim compound. Under the tall grey pillar-like stems of the cocoanut-tope behind the bungalow, the grass, by means of much watering, was almost as green as an English lawn. Shapely tamarinds, dark mango, and neem trees brooded over the garden where a wealth of old-fashioned flowers grew and prospered, sheltered by various ingenious contrivances from the scorching rays of the sun and the devastation of the monsoon. Green colonnades of broad-leaved plantains, with their curious spikes of fruit, made a dividing line between the flower-beds and the well-kept vegetable garden at the end of which, beside the tank, apicottawas mounted, where an agile coolie swung on the primitive pump, propelling the water from below and sending it along a labyrinth of little intersecting mud-channels percolating the thirsty earth.
The visitor, who was now opening the white gate, had sprung from his bandy at the entrance to the avenue, evidently electing to walk towards the house, a proceeding as novel as it was distasteful to the syce, who sat sulky and inanimate on his perch for some moments before he decided to seek the shelter of a shady nook on the road. In fact, he had been led to expect from Dorai Cheveril's butler—the result of crumbs of news picked up from the breakfast table—that he was to have a succession of lively doings; a call at Government House to begin with, then a round of gay compounds where there would be many of his own species to fraternize with. But this 'Morpeth house,' he knew, did not offer such possibilities.
No feature of the carefully-tended garden escaped Mark Cheveril's keen eye as he made his way to the peaceful bungalow. Its verandah looked invitingly cool even in the noontide glare, overhung as it was by graceful creepers. The visitor thought he might see his new friend seated in its green recesses, but all seemed empty and silent. He was too recent an arrival to know that bells and knockers are conspicuous by their absence from an Indian abode. All beyond the verandah was open, revealing vistas of cool darkness within, but he decided that to enter unannounced would hardly be permissible even in this land of open hospitality. Recalling that Mrs. Fellowes had told him Mr. Morpeth was a lonely bachelor, he came to the conclusion that both he and the servants must be absent, and was turning to go when he heard a sign of life. A rich baritone voice broke the silence. Mark could detect in its timbre the speaking voice of the old East Indian, who, since his arrival in Madras, had twice cast his spell upon him. The air he was singing was melodious, and the words fell with clear cadence on the still noontide:
"Light of those whose dreary dwellingBorders on the shades of death,Come and all Thy love revealing,Dissipate the clouds beneath."
"Light of those whose dreary dwellingBorders on the shades of death,Come and all Thy love revealing,Dissipate the clouds beneath."
Mark listened fascinated. It seemed to him like a solemn invocation, a passionate prayer uttered by the lonely man. The echo of those simple words was to come back to him in after years, recalling the day he stood a young hopeful civilian at the entrance of his life in the land, new and wonderful to him, listening to the cry of the old pilgrim who had borne the burden and heat of that land all his years, and whose dearest aim had been to bring light to some of those "dreary dwellings" bordering on the shadow of death.
The singing ceased, and Mark mounted one or two of the flat entrance-steps, deciding to make his way through the open doors and announce himself. But the old man's sense of hearing was quick.
"I thought I heard a step," he said, coming from the darkness within, a welcoming smile on his face. "My boys are all away at rice and siesta, no doubt."
"I hope I'm not intruding, Mr. Morpeth. I thought I should like to begin my calls by taking advantage of your kind invitation to come and have a talk with you."
"A kind and gracious thought, Mr. Cheveril. You come to cheer a lonely old man."
"But you have many interests, many solaces, Mr. Morpeth. I heard you singing like a true musician as I reached your verandah. In fact, I must plead guilty to eavesdropping. Both the air and the words were new to me and held me."
"Yes, it's a favourite of mine. But you from England must be familiar with all Charles Wesley's hymns?"
"I fear you credit me with more knowledge about many good things than I can lay claim to, Mr. Morpeth. Hymnology has not been much of a study with me."
"Ah, but you must make the acquaintance of Charles Wesley. There is real poetry in his hymns, much more than in his brother John's. They have a beautiful haunting power which the others lack. I was glad to find that pearl among English deans—Stanley—acknowledging this in one of his books lately. But what am I thinking about, Mr. Cheveril? This is not the hour to linger in the verandah! Come and seek the coolness of my homely den here."
Mr. Morpeth led the way into the drawing-room of the house which had been fitted up as a library. In the rows of teakwood dwarf-bookcases, raised from the ground by carved lionscouchantshigh enough above the matting to protect them from the ravages of white ants, were well-filled shelves of books. A case from home lay half unpacked on the floor. A roomy writing-table with well-filled pigeon-holes showed traces of manifold labours. The furnishing of the room evidently belonged to a period when it was possible to get good wood, before so many of the great forest trees were cut down. The polished chunam of the walls told of days when coolies were plentiful and lent the strength of their sinewy arms to rub the shell-lime till it gleamed like marble, even in the light of day.
"What a delightful room!" exclaimed Mark. "It looks more English than anything I've seen here, and yet you've never been——" He paused without finishing his sentence as he glanced at the brown-skinned man.
"Never been in England? No, and I fear I never shall be, though it used to be my dream in the years when I was too poor to carry it out. Yet I see now there came a time when I ought to have gone to England—but regrets are vain," he added, and a look of trouble stole into his eyes.
Habituated from his childhood to respect the English as a superior race, David Morpeth had suffered himself to be perhaps unduly crushed by that aristocracy of colour which he had so long reverenced. He had bent the knee before the prejudice against those of mixed blood, conscious of having neither the will nor the power to contend against it. His life therefore had flowed into other channels. A solitary man, he had attached himself to the domiciled community with all the fervour of a true vocation. But for occasional friendly souls like Mrs. Fellowes, he had hitherto experienced a great loneliness. He had begun life in Calcutta attached to a wealthy merchant firm, and by virtue of his high character, was eventually received as a valued partner. When he retired from active business, he elected to make his home in an old family house in Madras which had long been let, and around which was a colony of his own people.
Freyville, Vepery, soon became a centre of kindly offices for the Eurasians. David Morpeth would indeed have been welcomed in other circles, but, as Mrs. Fellowes had explained to Mark that morning, he had given himself body and soul to the despised race.
Mark Cheveril had been quick to note the chivalry of his heart, and it found an echo in his own.
"Mrs. Fellowes told me you are so immersed in work for our people that you don't even take a holiday to the hills."
"Ah, you see I have a large family to look after, but there is good cheer in the work. You must not believe all you hear about the inevitable degradation of the mixed race."
"I should be the last to believe anything of the kind. It would be a death-knell to my hopes of helping them, but I must be a learner for some time to come."
"Ah, but a sympathetic one! That makes all the difference! It is the cruel inveterate prejudice against the whole class that has led to their degradation. They have accepted the verdict passed on them by the pure races, and it has crushed them. Their tendency is to look down on manual labour, and yet in industrial callings they cannot hold their own with the inhabitants of the soil. The poor among them have sunk so low, wearing out hopeless lives in wretched crowded dens. Often only a shed with a mat as covering suffices for a home. They have neither physical nor mental energy to strike out careers for themselves. Inevitable pauperism we have, of course, as in England, and it is often encouraged by indiscriminate giving that plays into the hands of loafers, many of them pure Europeans who will not work, preferring to become beggars. It's easy enough to throw a bone to a dog and be done with it, and the well-wishers of our people are well to watch with jealous eye those trouble-hating Europeans, ay, even among the clergy, who would salve their consciences by merely giving alms."
"Yes, Mrs. Fellowes told me she used to be one of those till you enlightened her."
"And now she proves a priceless helper to a class that troubles me even more than the loafers, and for which neither you nor I can do anything," said Mr. Morpeth, with a frank smile. "Those scores of young women who live sordid, useless, aimless lives, the daughters perhaps of decent, hard-working fathers. Those girls ought to be earning a livelihood, but false notions of 'shabby gentility'—shall we call it?—impels them to lounge about all day with the proverbial idle hands which the Evil One finds so handy. From poor warrens of homes they come forth bedecked in tawdry finery that they spend their lives in sticking together. Faugh, it makes one ill to see them lolling about their pandals and ogling at passers-by," Mr. Morpeth added, with a truly British shrug of his shoulders which brought a smile to Mark Cheveril's face. "It is these eyesores," he went on, "that Mrs. Fellowes and one or two like-minded helpers have tackled. Some of them don't even know how to write or add up a sum, though they are full-grown women, and their powers of reading are so lame that many among them cannot read the simplest story with ease or pleasure, though, I understand, some are great readers and devour 'yellow backs.' Mrs. Fellowes has instituted sewing classes, and we are beginning to have higher ambitions. We mean to get them bred as printers. The compositor's trade seems specially suited for women; and Mrs. Fellowes has great plans of having them properly trained as ladies' nurses, and is already trying to enlist the Medical Staff on their behalf. Then we have a little pet scheme of getting the more deft-fingered apprenticed to watchmakers and jewellers. We think they might be in requisition for the zenanas where jewellery is so all important."
"But what about the young men? Is it only the women who have sunk to such a state of do-nothingness?"
"Ah, it is in them my hope lies! They are my sons," said Mr. Morpeth, with an eager smile. "To make them more manly, more truthful, to make their souls—that is what I live for now! You may guess then," he added slowly, fixing his eyes on Mark, "how glad an hour struck for me this morning when you made yourself known as one brave enough to come to the rescue!"
"As a humble volunteer only. But I recognise the claim, and here I am! I was going to ask you, surely there are many among the Eurasians who ought to make their way into various services? I have wondered, for instance, why they should be debarred from the army ranks?"
"And many of them have hereditary connection with the British Army too! I confess it has always seemed to me that connection should be fostered. The ranks of the Native Infantry are of course impossible. They could not live as sepoys. Some have distinguished themselves as lawyers, doctors, magistrates, and are in receipt of incomes that would astonish their forefathers. But, alas, many of these try to repudiate their connection with the despised race; from them we often get only sneering words and black looks."
"Base, I call that! But all the more honour to the chivalrous helper!"
"Well, I often think if they could only see what a short-sighted policy their attitude is, even from a selfish point of view, I should not encounter the opposition I do when I seek posts for really capable young men. Why, they often prefer natives in offices! In fact, it is the declared policy of the Imperial Government that appointments should be reserved only for pure Indians. A false policy to my mind, and one that in the end will not strengthen the British Raj! But I must not preach sedition to a Covenanted member of the Service! I am forgetting myself!"
"By no means; your point of view is valuable to me. I seek enlightenment. It does seem the irony of fate that such a state of matters should exist. I feel it is a good omen, Mr. Morpeth, that I should so early in my day have met with an inspirer like you. I shall not be able to give you the help I might had I not been going to Puranapore. But whatever I can do is at your service. You must let me help you with your various organisations. My income is much more than sufficient for my personal wants," said Mark, as he rose to go.
"Well, rupees are needed, as Mrs. Fellowes will tell you. She is an excellent beggar! But I hold now what I value more than silver and gold," said David Morpeth, as the young man laid his hand in his. "That is the clasp of a friendly hand. May it prove a hand that shall undo heavy burdens, loose the bands of wickedness, to let the oppressed go free, and break every yoke, as the prophet calls on us to do in a voice that rings through the ages!"
As Mark Cheveril looked into the face of the lonely man, he felt the spell of the beauty of holiness, and was more glad than ever that he had made his first call on one so stimulating, though his name was not on Mr. Alfred Rayner's visiting list.
As he waited at the white gate while Mr. Morpeth's butler was signalling to the drowsy syce to bring up the carriage, Mark was accosted by a young woman who had evidently been hanging about the neighbourhood of the cactus-hedge which skirted the compound. She was a weedy-looking girl, with a slender swaying figure dressed in tawdry finery, but her face was undeniably pretty.
"One of Mrs. Fellowes'protégées, no doubt," Mark decided, and was about to step into the carriage when the girl said breathlessly, keeping her eye fixed furtively on the white gate evidently in fear lest the master of the house should put in an appearance:
"I'm awfulee sorry to trouble you, sir, but I saw you in a lovelee mail-phaeton with Mr. Alf Rayner last night, and when I spied you steppin' in here I thought I should make so bold as to ask where he's livin' now—Alf, I mean?"
Mark felt distinctly surprised at this familiar mention of his friend's husband, all the more as he recalled Mr. Rayner's remarks concerning the domiciled community to which this girl evidently belonged.
Perceiving his hesitation, the girl hastened to explain:
"You see, sir, I've been away in Calcutta for months and months, so I'm a bit behind in news of my friends."
"Then Mr. Rayner is your friend?"
"He's all thatt," responded the girl, with a giggle which at once decided Mark that he was probably dealing with an impostor who might give trouble to his hostess.
"I don't feel at liberty to give you the address you ask. But if you know Mr. Morpeth, or Mrs. Fellowes, they will no doubt see you," added Mark hesitatingly.
"Ho, so you think I'm 'a case,' do you? You want to hand me over to them, I see! Don't you trouble! I'll find Mr. Rayner on my own account," said the girl, tossing her head as she went off with rapid steps.
Sometimes when Mr. Morpeth felt specially wearied with the labours of the previous evening, he varied his early morning walk by a drive in his little victoria. To-day he had allowed his syce to drive him along the winding roads of the suburbs, heedless whither he was being carried. Rousing himself at length from his reverie, he saw he had now reached the green precincts of Nungumbaukum, and decided to take a stroll. He alighted, and directed his syce to follow while he walked along the road.
As he passed one of the houses he overheard sounds of bitter weeping from the other side of the straggling hedge. A gap in the thicket—a mode of exit much favoured by the native servants—permitted him to catch a glimpse of a little native girl. Sobs painful to his kind heart fell on his ear, and pausing in his walk, he asked in Tamil;
"What ails you, little one?"
The child glanced up with startled air and, peering through the twisted tendrils, caught sight of the speaker. Encouraged by the kind voice and seeing its owner was in European dress, she replied in the best English she could muster, the words broken by sobs:
"Please, sah, Missus say I done steal gold ring. I never done no such ting. My heart done break. I not want to live one minute more. I go drown in tank!"
"Then you did not touch your Missus' ring, little girl?"
"Oh, no, no, I not once touch Missus' ring," wailed the child. "But what I do? Nobody believin' me. Ramaswamy butler hurt werry sore to make me 'fess," and again the dusky head was bent in low weeping.
"What's the matter with your hand?" asked Mr. Morpeth, observing that her right hand was rolled in a comer of her red saree. "Let me see it!"
The small brown hand was obediently held out, showing swollen and bleeding fingers. Little chips of wood, of which some fragments remained, had been pushed under the nails, lacerating the flesh.
"H'm, torture! Just as I suspected!" muttered Mr. Morpeth. "Who did this?"
"Butler done take me into godown make me 'fess. When I no 'fess, he make fingers plenty sore"; and again the child burst into convulsive sobs.
Just then the sound of voices was heard, and the girl leapt from her hiding-place with a look of terror, only to come into view of a stout matron and a young lady who were approaching the dividing hedge between their own and their neighbour's compound.
"There's the little thief, I declare!" exclaimed the young lady, catching a glimpse of the red saree. "And see this gap in the hedge, she's no doubt made it flying from justice."
"Well, it will serve our purpose, for I must go at once and tell Mrs. Rayner how disappointingly herprotégéehas turned out," said Mrs. Harbottle, crossing the dividing line.
"How could you expect anything else, mama? Mrs. Rayner has only been two months in the country," returned the young lady, with the scorn of new-comers bred of two cold weathers in India.
"Look, the creature's going to slip through our fingers after all. She's making a dart through the hedge to the road"; and Miss Harbottle, hurrying forward, pounced upon the child, and seized the maimed hand still rolled in the saree, causing her to shriek with pain.
"Be quiet, you wicked little thing! I believe you're hiding my ring there. Give it up this instant, or I shall tell Mrs. Rayner what a thief you've turned into. A nice whipping you'll get from her ayah, your old granny; and I hear you tried to bite my butler into the bargain!"
"Ai, Missus, I not done nossin' bad. I not done steal ring! I not done bite butler, he only bleeding my fingers," the child wailed. Remembering the kind face which had looked pityingly upon her from the other side of the hedge, she sprang towards the gap, but the friendly figure had disappeared and Miss Harbottle's fingers were gripping her shoulder like a vice and dragging her along the compound.
Rosie was the granddaughter of Mrs. Rayner's ayah. She was a comely little maid with great lustrous eyes. Her home had been in the godown with her grandmother, who, as all good ayahs do, considered it her function to keep watch and ward over her mistress's belongings, and it early struck Hester that the child must have a very lonely life. She had already grown fond of her ayah, who was indeed worthy of her confidence, being one of the best of her type. The bright, delicate-featured old face, with its nut-brown colouring, framed by wavy grey hair, and the ready responsive smile, had at once attracted her. The ayah, on her side, was devoted to her young mistress, and was not long in telling her of her two treasures, Jan and Rosie, the boy and girl of her dead daughter. For Jan, she had managed to find service, but she had never been able to make up her mind to part with the winning little Rosie. The child, too, was useful to her in many ways. She found her rice always prepared for her to her liking when she went for her mid-day and evening meals. Rosie did a little "titching" too, the ayah assured Mrs. Rayner, but as her clothes were merely lengths of coloured muslin draped gracefully about her little person, there were not many seams to sew. The ayah had the voluble and quaint command of English common to Madrassee servants, and in a wonderful way had been able to impart it to Rosie, though, as to reading English, that was beyond even granny ayah herself. What a joy it was to her therefore when one day her mistress called Rosie to her and gave her her first lesson! The little girl was bright and intelligent, and Hester had passed hours which might have hung heavy on her hands in teaching her to read, and in telling her the simple stories she had been wont to relate to her young brothers at home. The ayah meanwhile would pass and repass on tiptoe, stealing joyful glances at her mistress and the little maid. Thus, in so short a time, a strong link was forged between the young English lady and the ayah's granddaughter. When therefore Mrs. Harbottle chanced to find Rosie so honoured, and heard her connection with her neighbour's excellent ayah, she set her heart on having her as an assistant to her own dull, heavy-featured attendant. Hester decided that such a beginning, so near the watchful grandmother, was a favourable chance for Rosie, and the bargain was concluded.
All hitherto had gone smoothly, and great was Hester's consternation, when looking out from the verandah of her bedroom where she sat busy with her home-mail, she perceived Mrs. Harbottle and her daughter dragging Rosie across the lawn. Hurrying downstairs she was met by a voluble tale from the two ladies in chorus.
"But are you sure the ring is really lost?" she asked in an undertone. "Things often turn up again—are only mislaid."
"This is lost sure enough. Stolen by that imp from my ring-stand on my dressing-table. This very morning when I was at early tea that brat was alone in my room 'tidying up,' forsooth!" Mrs. Harbottle reiterated her accusation while Rosie lay prone on the gravel, a pathetic little bundle of heaving sobs.
The telepathic agency, ever at work among the many domestics of an Anglo-Indian household, now brought the old ayah to the spot to hear what had happened to her one ewe-lamb. The nut-brown tint of her face was replaced by a greyish hue, her features seemed suddenly sharpened as she took in the situation. Folding her lean brown arms, she stood a pathetic, statuesque figure as she listened to the denunciations of the angry Englishwoman. Her eyes turned with a gaze of anguish on the little huddled figure, and catching sight of the muffled hand she went forward and made to undo the end of the red saree.
A scream of pain from the child caused her to desist. With a groan she covered her face for a moment, then looked piteously towards her mistress, saying with quivering lips:
"They done torture my pore chil'. See, Missus, that bleeding han'?"
"Torture the child!" exclaimed Hester with dilating eyes.
"Yes, Missus, butler poking fingers with sticks making plenty blood come to make me 'fess," said Rosie, looking up with a pitiful air.
"How dreadful! This is shocking, Mrs. Harbottle! What have you to say to this?"
"A parcel of lies, of course! Nobody laid a finger on the little wretch," cried Mrs. Harbottle excitedly.
The ayah on hearing this stepped forward again, and leading Rosie near pointed silently to the mutilated hand.
"Who did this to you, Rosie?" asked Hester in gentle tones.
"Ramaswamy butler. He do this to make me 'fess—only——"
Great tears rolled down her cheeks as she glanced up to Hester's pitying face.
"You see this hand, Mrs. Harbottle. This is terrible"; and there was a flash in Hester's grey blue eyes which made Mrs. Harbottle quail. Trying to assume a defensive air, she burst forth:
"How can you believe that little liar! Most likely she fell in trying to escape and hurt her hand." All the same she was not feeling easy at the discovery, for had she not at the butler's request given Rosie to him to try to make her confess the theft? Now she began to fear she had gone too far.
"I am sorry my husband happens to be out," said Hester. "He has gone driving with a friend who is staying with us. This is a matter that will require looking into."
"Oh, if you like to take the word of that native imp in preference to mine, I've nothing more to say," wound up Mrs. Harbottle, with an air of offence. "Perhaps you'll get the creature to confess to you after we've gone," she added, as a parting shot.
"I will—I 'fess to my werry own missus only," sobbed Rosie, and sprang forward to cling to Hester's morning gown.
"Ah, there, I told you so! You'll soon find out where the ring is hidden," cried Mrs. Harbottle, with a ring of triumph in her tone. "I'll leave you now," she added, with returning smiles as she prepared to go. "I really cannot expose myself and my daughter to the sun. We've been delayed too long already over this wretched business."
Bowing stiffly, she raised her white umbrella, and the mother and daughter hurried away across the brown turf towards the gap in the hedge.
Hester felt rather nonplussed. Did Rosie not say she would confess after all? Had the child yielded to a sudden temptation and become a thief? Was that why poor old ayah had stood by with such an unutterably stricken look?
"Come, Rosie, I want to talk to you in this very place where you used to repeat your hymn and hear nice stories," said Hester in a soothing voice. "Now tell me about all this!"
The little girl, in spite of her aching fingers, seemed to have wonderfully recovered her equanimity since the departure of her accusers.
"What are you going to confess to me, Rosie?" asked Hester gravely. "Surely you did not take the lady's ring?"
"I done take ring? Oh, no, neva touchin' ring," cried the child, looking up with candid eyes.
"But, Rosie, you said you were going to confess to me," faltered Hester.
"Oh, yes, I 'fess Missus cause Missus believe me. I done 'fess, and I done 'fess butler, only he prick my hands werry sore. Ramaswamy neva believe one word."
Hester was now entirely satisfied as to the child's innocence, and felt touched by the quick confidence with which she dried her tears and even smiled. She decided to call the ayah and relieve her poor heart by assuring her of the innocence of her granddaughter. She found her in the next room making everything, as was her wont, exquisitely tidy. She listened attentively to her mistress, but the strain did not leave her face.
"Missus speakin' true," she said, nodding her head in acquiescence. "My little girl neva done touch the lady's jewel. I know that from first. But what that matter when English lady done say she did. How can pore native woman stand up against one white lady? 'Tis Rosie's bad fate, Missus. 'Tis the will of the gods—the gods make angry at my one pore chil'? What I do?"
The ayah's face wore a bitter look, though she held her head high and went about her duties in silence.
A spirit of dreariness took possession of Hester. All seemed dark and mysterious concerning the matter. Her heart ached for the old woman, though she felt unable to make any reply to her bitter words. But though she could not bind broken hearts, she could at least dress wounded fingers, she decided, and getting out lint and bandages she applied herself to that, and was rewarded by a patient smile from the little sufferer.
Mr. Rayner had not, as Hester supposed, been accompanied by his guest on his drive. Some letters had reached Mark which required immediate reply, and as he was leaving for Puranapore after breakfast, he decided he must forego the tennis-party in question, and devote himself to his correspondence. He was now seated in a room adjoining the library which his host had put at his disposal. Mr. Rayner was meanwhile on his way back from the tennis-party, not in the best of tempers, for his sworn enemy, the sun, was now high in the heavens and its rays were beating fiercely on his mail-phaeton.
He was driving himself, and as he swept into Clive's Road he perceived in the shade of the hedge a waiting figure whom he recognised with anything but satisfaction, to judge from his quick frown.
"Leila Baltus, by jove! So she's turned up again,—worse luck! Thought she'd taken herself off to Calcutta for good! She's evidently lying in wait for me too! Better interview her here than nearer the house," he muttered to himself, as he threw the reins to the syce and leapt to the ground, saying he would walk the rest of the way, and directing that the phaeton should be taken to the stables.
"She's evidently bound for No. 7, or she wouldn't be so far from Vepery. Fortunate that I've waylaid the creature; she might have tackled Hester and introduced herself as a former acquaintance of mine! What a close shave I've had! Well, I'm in for a tussle now!"
His angry frown was replaced by a studied smile as he hurried forward to meet the same girl who had accosted Mark at Mr. Morpeth's gate. She was now carefully attired in a spotless white muslin dress and a gay hat with a wealth of flowers.
Mr. Rayner lifted his sun-topee.
"Good morning, Leila! You're far from home! Didn't know you were in these parts at all—thought you had gone to Calcutta to keep house for your brother!"
The girl's face was lit up by smiles. "No," she answered. "I'm here again in that hole Vepery. Claud took a wife and don't want me. But I didn't know you were back from England, Alf, till two nights ago, when I see you and another gent in that smart mail-phaeton. Oh my, what a toff you did look! All the same, you oughtn't to turn your back on old friends. You might have looked me and mother up. She will be awfulee glad to see you. You used to enjoy a bit supper with us. You'll mind that prawn curry of mother's, don't you, now?" said the girl, with an insinuating smile.
Alfred Rayner stood hesitating. Was it possible the girl did not know that he was now a married man, and had no intention of continuing the acquaintance of his bachelor days or of eating prawn curry in Vepery again? How bitterly he repented those days of his "griffinage!" when he had been fool enough in idle hours to be fêted and flattered by the Baltus household and other undesirable associates! The memory rankled, and was indeed the chief source of his bitterness against the whole Eurasian class. And with this pretty Leila he had been unwise enough to be betrayed into a flirtation. He winced to recall it. Ever since his return with his bride he had been congratulating himself that Leila Baltus was no longer a denizen of Vepery, and would not cross his path again. Yet there she was, glancing at him with encouraging eyes and an anxious smile. What would she say when she learnt that only a few yards distant a beautiful English wife awaited him? It was an awkward dilemma. No wonder the young man felt the need of choosing his words carefully.
"The truth is," he began slowly, "I'm too busy a man now to avail myself of the pleasures of bachelorhood, Miss Baltus. Besides, the distance between Nungumbaukum and Vepery is great; so you must excuse me. Salaams to your mother, forgive my hurrying off—haven't even had my tub yet!" Lifting his sun-topee he was about to beat a dignified retreat.
"So that's where we are, Mister Rayner! You would fling off your old acquaintance like a pair of done shoes!" cried the girl, her insinuating smile changing to an angry scowl. Her companion making no reply, she seemed to decide on more conciliatory tactics.
"Well, maybe it's truth that you've grown such a grand toff and you'll want to fight shy of prawn curry and all that. And to tell the truth there ain't much supper going with us now a days, or anything else. We've got behindhand, mother and me, and Claud won't be good for a single pice now he's married, so we're real hard up. Come now, since I'm so close to your beautiful house this morning you'll not grudge me a cup o' coffee in your verandah. It's a long tramp between Vepery and this grand place of yours. Oh, my, it's grand and no mistake!"
The girl looked admiringly towards the fine two-storied house, at one of the entrances of which the mail-phaeton was now disappearing on its way to the stables.
More embarrassed than ever, a happy thought occurred to the young man.
"So sorry I can't ask you to come in to-day. I've got a visitor and must really hurry off to him. But look here, Leila, sorry to hear you're down in your luck! This will perhaps help a bit"; and taking a ten-rupee note from his pocket-book he handed it to the girl, congratulating himself that now he would effect an escape.
But he reckoned without his host.
"Well, since you're too busy for even a chat with your old sweetheart this morning, she'll just need to come again another time," said the girl, with a toss of her head, as she crumpled the note in her long brown fingers. "I'll hand your little gift to mother. She'll send you a chit to thank you awfulee for minding on her."
Miss Baltus seemed at last disposed to retreat, but a "loose end" was being discovered by Mr. Rayner. Fearing it might develop into a serious tangle, he decided to take his courage in both hands.
"Look here, Leila, perhaps you don't know that a Mrs. Rayner now reigns here. I brought a wife from England with me."
The announcement was evidently quite unexpected. The girl's amber skin grew a shade darker. Her lustrous eyes flashed fire, and violent emotion seemed to check her utterance for a moment; then she burst forth in fury:
"A Mrs. Rayner reigns—and her not me! So this is your little game? Why, it's the same joke they used to make to me when you came sweethearting—'Mrs. Rayner would reign!' You false snake! But I'll be even with you yet or my name's not Leila Baltus! You can go back to your lovelee English bride, but my word, you're not done with her you fooled," she hissed as she made a step forward, holding out her thin fingers as if to return the rupee note, but on second thoughts she crushed it in her palm again. "No, we shan't be ten rupees poorer anyhow because of the woman who has supplanted me! I'll just hand it on to my poor mother to pay for the prawn curries she wasted on an ungrateful toad!" she muttered, turning her back swiftly on the young man and hurrying away.
Alfred Rayner stood for a moment watching the slender swaying figure disappearing down the leafy road, then he turned homeward, muttering: "Don't fancy I've scotched her. That horrid vixen will give me trouble yet! What a pity I gave her that money when I can ill spare it with all my heavy expenses. Depend upon it, she'll be upon me for another note before long! I've a good mind to make a clean breast of it to Hester. She's no fool, she'll understand when I give her my side of the story that I'm simply being persecuted and blackmailed by a half-caste liar!"
Having decided on this course he walked briskly towards the house, taking the stable-entrance which happened to be nearest the part of the road where he he had been talking with his old acquaintance.
Hester, having bandaged Rosie's tortured fingers, tried to return to her letters for the English mail, but she could not put her heart into them, for she felt dispirited and ill at ease. Evil seemed triumphing, trouble falling on the innocent and helpless, and the loving God, to Whom she had tried to point Rosie in their quiet hours, appeared to be taking no notice. Mrs. Harbottle's bitter taunts still rang in her ears, and these poor mutilated fingers which she had just been binding up—were they not sufficient evidence of the malignant fate which had descended on the child's innocent head?
As she was a prey to these disquieting thoughts she heard footsteps on the gravel-sweep below. Hoping that it was her husband and friend returning, she looked out, for she was eager to consult them as to what should be done to prove Rosie's innocence, of which she was completely convinced. Great was her surprise when she saw coming up the broad white steps, not her husband, but the "elusive Mr. Morpeth," as she had dubbed him to Mrs. Fellowes. She decided that he must have called to see Mark, but presently the butler came bringing her a card on his tray and saying: "One old Dorai want to speak to Missus."
So the visit was for her after all! She hurried downstairs to find her visitor in the verandah with a bright smile on his face. No, he would not come in, he just wanted to bring her some good news. He went on to explain that he had heard the lamentation of her little maid behind the hedge as he passed the compound, and had also overheard Mrs. Harbottle stormily charging the child with the theft of her ring.
"I passed on," said Mr. Morpeth, "feeling very sorry for the child whose voice seemed to ring true when she assured me, 'I never done take that ring.' I got into my carriage again and presently I saw two kites having a duel almost above my head, then something bright fell through the air. I called my syce to stop, and keeping my eye on the spot where the kite had dropped its booty, I picked up this."
Mr. Morpeth held out the recovered ring.
"Oh, Mr. Morpeth, what a trophy! How kind and clever you are!" exclaimed Hester with joy in her eyes. "You can't think what a morning of anguish we've had over that ring. Rosie has been broken-hearted. What a joy this will be to her, and even more to her granny, my ayah, who has been feeling very bitter over the accusation which she knew to be false. She thought her gods must be angry with Rosie, and that it was all over with her. This is a beautiful clearing up! Now, since you won't come in, will it be too much to ask if you will step across with me to Mrs. Harbottle's and unfold this delightful ending of our trouble to her? She was much too hard on our poor little Rosie. I, like you, believed the child was innocent, but never did I dream we should have such a swift and fairy-like proof of it! But allow me first to call the child, Mr. Morpeth, you will like to see her joy!"
"Yes, I should like to see Rosie. It will be a pleasure to watch her face when she hears the ring has been found, though the thief is still a-flying. But please don't ask me to face Mrs. Harbottle," said Mr. Morpeth, shrugging his shoulders. "I heard her voice—it wasn't musical! I beg off! You lead Rosie to her and unfold the last chapter of the tale."
"But, Mr. Morpeth," began Hester, in a hesitating tone. "Am I very uncharitable? What if Mrs. Harbottle thinks I've invented the story to shield the child? I'm ashamed of my evil thought, but there—it's out!"
"You are right! A woman's wit always scores! After all, I am the most important witness in the case—saving the kite who was wresting the prize from the thief, and I fear we can't summon him! Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but to face the formidable lady—but alone, please. I want to have a word with her butler. Did you see the child's hand?"
"I did. I never was so shocked in my life! I've just been doing what I could for it. Surely that man ought to be punished for his cruelty. I only wish my husband had been at home. He's out driving this morning."
"I don't wonder you were horrified, Mrs. Rayner. No doubt it's your first experience of one of the iniquities of this land—systematised torture applied to wring confession from the victim. I grieve that you should have come into contact with it. It only goes on under the surface now, but like many iniquities, it dies hard. However, in this case I shall deal with the butler in a way he will feel—also with Mrs. Harbottle. I shall be able to tell them I saw the child's hand with my own eyes. Perhaps that will frighten them sufficiently, you need not trouble yourself further," Mr. Morpeth added, looking at the fair young wife in a protective fatherly manner. "I don't think I'll have time to see Rosie just now, since I must go to Mrs. Harbottle's. You can tell her that the true thief has been found and made to renounce his booty. I envy you the mission, Mrs. Rayner. It is ever gladsome work to unfold the loving kindness of our God.
"'Tis the name that whoso teachethFinds more sweet than honey's cheer."
"'Tis the name that whoso teachethFinds more sweet than honey's cheer."
he murmured, with glistening eyes that seemed to Hester like a benediction as they rested on her.
Why had she not been able to tell the stricken ayah of that Love which seemed so near and dear to this man? Never had that Love felt so near to herself.
"I pray that this morning's work may prove a helpful memory to the little Rosie in days to come," added Mr. Morpeth, holding out his hand with a sweet lingering smile.
"It will be a helpful memory to me too, Mr. Morpeth, I thank you with all my heart," was Hester's parting word as she turned away.
Before the visitor had reached the last of the broad flight of the verandah steps, the master of the house came hurrying round the corner of the walk that led from the stables. His recent encounter with his former acquaintance had left him a prey to angry feelings.
"I declare, if this isn't another of those vile half-castes! We shall have the whole population of Vepery landing at our door!" he muttered, hurrying forward and glancing with an air of insolent chilliness at the stooping figure, from whose lined face the gracious smile had hardly faded.
"What, may I ask, is the reason of your call? I don't happen to have the——" "the pleasure" he was about to say, but with a cruel smile changed it to: "I have not the need of your acquaintance!"
The old man's face became grey and stern. For a moment he seemed about to speak, then, shaking his head sadly, he walked away in silence.
"Oh, Alfred, how could you—how could you speak so to him?" cried Hester, who had turned in the hall when she heard her husband's voice. "That is Mr. Morpeth, Mrs. Fellowes' friend, and mine too now."
"Yours is he? That he shan't be! I tell you what it is, Hester. I'll not have you encouraging these half-castes—male or female—that man Morpeth or anybody else—to come and crawl about my verandah on any pretext whatever! It's sheer forwardness! The fact is I can't afford to risk my position by mixing with them in any way. That's the long and the short of it!"
They had gone forward and were now standing on the threshold of the darkened library. Mr. Rayner could not see his wife's face, or perhaps he would not have gone so far. She covered it with her hands and stood mute for some moments, then with a shudder, she said:
"Oh, Alfred, there's something very wrong about this! You cannot be in earnest! I never thought——"
Suddenly Hester's voice broke and she turned away and mounted the staircase. Her husband stood looking at her retreating figure with a half repentant air, then he shrugged his shoulders and bit his lip, and seating himself at his writing-table began to fumble among his papers.
In the open houses of India there is no privacy. Mark Cheveril, busy over his letters in the adjoining room, had not failed, though much against his will, to overhear the whole conversation. He could gather that Mr. Morpeth had evidently called on some errand, and had been insultingly dismissed. It was a painful revelation, made more so by his recollection of Alfred Rayner's attitude to the man who had been almost trampled under the hoofs of his horses. Mark had been vividly reminded of the incident when he observed Mr. Morpeth's evident agitation at the sight of Hester on Mrs. Fellowes' lawn. Possibly the old man thought Mr. Rayner was also of the party, and shrank from meeting him. In the interest of his talk with the gracious host in his own library, the recollection of the painful scene in the mail-phaeton had been overlaid for Mark. Since then he had neither opportunity nor inclination to tell Mr. Rayner of his meeting with the despised East Indian, knowing well that he would not sympathise with the intense interest and admiration which had grown up already in his heart towards David Morpeth. And now the overheard words seemed more than likely to prove an impassable barrier to any mention of the subject, unless he was prepared to fight the bitter prejudice in the open.
Even more grievous to Mark had been the note of pain in Hester's voice when she remonstrated with her husband. Surely Rayner's attitude to these people was the outcome of a shallow and vulgar mind! Were gentle Mrs. Bellairs' fears concerning this union too likely to be realised? He was at the moment engaged in writing to that anxious mother far away. What could he say now to alleviate her fears, to send assurance that all was well with her beloved daughter? Yet on many grounds it was not for him to be the sender of even a breath of evil tidings. No, he must probe the matter further, he decided.
Closing his portfolio he began to pace up and down the rattan-matting of the long room. How he desired to comfort the girl who had been such a good gay comrade in past days! These last words of hers seemed wrung as from a bleeding wound. Yet it was denied him to whisper one soothing word to her who was probably weeping in one of those white rooms up-stairs. The very thought of it roused the young man's chivalrous soul. His indignation waxed hot at the revelation of the shallowness and egotism which had occasioned the outburst of temper on Rayner's part. What mattered all his show of hospitality to himself while such feelings lurked beneath it? Might it not have been safer for the guarding of that trusty friendship which he desired should subsist between Hester and himself if he had not been Alfred Rayner's guest;—if he had not come into such close contact with the man? Yet it pained him to remember that he should have to leave Clive's Road with this impression on his mind. Looking at his watch he saw that it was time to get ready for the late breakfast. How could he meet his sweet hostess whom he had only seen for a few moments at early tea that morning? She probably thought that he had gone out with her husband, as had been first arranged. If she had not done so, she would have called him to meet Mr. Morpeth, who possibly may have come to return his call. Hester, he knew, had meant to devote her morning to her home-letters. How cruelly they had been interfered with! Perhaps she would not appear at breakfast, possibly he might not see her again before he left for Puranapore!
But Mark was mistaken. He had not probed the stern moralities of such secret care and trouble. How often in life has a smiling face to cover a broken heart? When he entered the breakfast-room, there sat the young hostess, sweet and gracious, entertaining two of her husband's merchant clients from Kurrachi. Rayner was at the head of the table smiling affably, vastly gratified at the impression his wife was evidently making upon his important guests. But Mark could not fail to notice that he cast an anxious glance towards her, as if pondering whether his words were already forgotten and forgiven; and as Mark encountered Hester's gaze he felt sure they were not, at all events, forgotten. Her eyes were weary, there was an increased pallor on her cheeks, and a certain pitiful curve of her lips when her face was in repose.
Never before had he admired her as he did now while he watched how skilfully she kept the ball of conversation rolling on harmless topics. Alfred, having heard an account of the ring from his dressing-boy, tried to make some inquiry concerning it. Hester briefly narrated the story, but from her repressed air Mark was able to gather that the restorer was none other than the man who, in return, had received such cruel treatment at her husband's hands.
He hardly knew whether he felt more relief or regret when his bandy was announced to drive him to the train for Puranapore. The other guests had departed, and Hester, after her efforts to entertain them, wore a visibly depressed air. When Mark clasped her hand and looked wistfully into her face he felt that she, too, thought it better no risk should be run of a repetition of the scene which had shamed her, for she gave no invitation for a future visit. His host, on the contrary, full of surface courtesy, was charging him not to fail to make Clive's Road his home when he chanced to be in Madras. Mark, at the same moment, happened to meet Hester's eye, and read there a look of doubt and pain which seemed to say, "How can he be so unjust as to welcome one and flout the other?" He felt strongly of the same opinion. One thing, however, seemed clear to him that he must, in spite of all his social disabilities in Alfred Rayner's eyes, continue to be a friend without fear and without reproach to the young wife whose happiness seemed in such jeopardy.
Mrs. Goldring, the Judge's wife at Puranapore, had finished her afternoon nap and was now preparing for the leading event of the day, the evening game at tennis, which on this occasion was to be held at Mrs. Samptor's, the wife of the Superintendent of the District Jail. She was therefore not a little surprised to see that lady descending from her pony-carriage at her own door when she was just about to drive to the Samptor's compound. Matters of interest in the little Mofussil society were narrow in their range, but they were none the less intense.
Mrs. Goldring snatched her last hatpin hurriedly from the deferential brown fingers of her waiting ayah.
"What can the woman want, Jane?" she said irritably, addressing her weary-looking daughter, who had just appeared on the threshold of the dressing-room. "I told her she couldn't have my silver teapot again. She almost burnt a hole in it last time, 'putting it on a lamp,' so she said! If I were at home I should say it had squatted on the kitchen range for a considerable time! I do hate that system of borrowing so much in vogue here! I suppose I must go and see what she wants. Now, Jane," she added, after a disapproving survey of her daughter, "I beg you will make yourself presentable for once. It isn't often your father gives me a piece of news, but he did tell me that the new Assistant-Collector was expected to-day. He may turn up for tennis if the Collector isn't too careless and indifferent to think of asking him to come. What a pity our meeting happens to be at Mrs. Samptor's. He might get a better impression of the station had it been elsewhere."
Jane stood unresponsive in the doorway. Her eyelids moved slightly as she listened to her mother's remarks, but she made no reply, sullenly watching her mother's portly figure clad in rustling silks as she passed downstairs.
Mrs. Goldring greeted her visitor with an interrogative "Well?" which Mrs. Samptor was keenly conscious of being more direct than polite, but she felt that the item of news which she was bursting to tell was so important that she could afford to echo "Well!" in a key which foretold possibilities.
"You will be surprised to see me here, Mrs. Goldring, instead of meeting me on my own lawn, but I saw I had a clear half-hour and thought it my duty to share my news with you. It may avoid complications later, as you will understand when you hear it."
The Judge's wife inwardly wished that her neighbour would not always be so long in coming to the point, but felt on the whole relieved that this time she did not appear in her frequent rôle of a borrower.
"Murder will out, as I often say to Samptor—very appropriate to a jailer, isn't it now? Well, the fact is I've had a letter from an acquaintance who has just got back to Madras by theBokhara. Mr. Mark Cheveril, our new Assistant-Collector, you know, was a fellow-passenger. Perfectly charming she says he is, but—oh dear, what do you think? Mrs. Pate had it from a man on board, who had it from Cheveril himself. He's a half-caste! Though one would never guess it from his appearance, she says, and the astonishing thing is that he isn't the least ashamed of the fact; but Mrs. Pate confesses he never alluded to the flaw in her hearing. Now, isn't this a great shock?"
Mrs. Samptor glanced keenly at her neighbour, divining that the coming of an eligible young man must have raised a flutter of hope in her maternal heart.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Samptor," said that lady, after a moment's pause. "We shan't have the half-caste—as you call him—among us long. The Collector will soon shake him off."
"That's the very plank I cling to as might a drowning man, but Samptor's not so sure. One can never reckon on what Mr. Worsley may do! But I still cling to the hope. Look how he got rid of young Printer! There are ways and means of doing it even in the Service, though what ailed him at Printer I never could make out—most affable, I thought him. And though the Collector never said a word against him to anybody as far as I know, I felt in my bones he couldn't abide the man, and sure enough he was transferred. And I hear there were others before we came that he couldn't hit it off with. A man of strong prejudices and weak will, the doctor says he is—in confidence, of course. But he's a bit of a 'griffin' yet is Dr. Campbell, though he's a dear, and so is his wife. However, this news doesn't matter to me personally," continued the visitor, rolling her eyes on Mrs. Goldring, who was not altogether able to conceal her annoyance, much as she desired to do so. "You see I haven't any marriageable daughter with seasons passing over her head! I declare, one sometimes is made thankful for what is often foolishly regarded as a privation," she added with a sigh.
"Now, Mrs. Goldring, what I've come to say is," she continued after a pause, bending forward in her chair, "that the Collector should be told this news at once. What does he ever hear—out in camp so much—and when at home lounging in his long chair or shooting in the paddy fields? And who is the proper person to do it but yourself—the Judge's wife—the chief lady of the station? Yes, Mrs. Goldring, we must hand over the disagreeables of your position as well as its amenities! You will have your opportunity made for you, for the Collector is actually coming to us this afternoon—told Samptor so."
Again she felt that she had scored, for the Collector was generally rather conspicuous by his absence from the social functions of the little society.
"But what am I thinking of? I should be in my place on my lawn receiving my guests instead of chattering here, and there is my humble chariot stopping the way of your landau which I see appearing"; and Mrs. Samptor, with an "au revoir," nimbly skipped away—many hot weathers, which had encumbered Mrs. Goldring with much superfluous flesh, having had the effect of robbing the little lady of all superfluity in that direction, leaving her lean and brown-complexioned, and, though "country-born," British to the core in all her prejudices.
Mrs. Goldring's heavy features were marked by an air of worry as she watched her visitor drive off. How she hated that little woman with her sharp tongue and her divining eyes! And it was only when it suited her purpose that she would acknowledge her precedence as the Judge's wife, though certainly there was something in the suggestion that she was the proper person to enlighten the Collector concerning this misfortune. But when had she ever confided to Mrs. Samptor that she reckoned on this new-comer as a possible fish for her matrimonial bait? Truly she might save herself that trouble! The girl was too trying for the accomplishment of any such design, she thought, glancing with irritation at her daughter who came slowly into the room.
She was a pale girl, blanched by two hot weathers on the plains; there were dark lines under her dull blue eyes, and her fair hair, which had been her one beauty at home, looked limp and lustreless as it escaped in untidy strands from her faded tulle hat. Her dress also had a washed-out, crumpled appearance. Yet this girl had been the pride of loving hearts at home. Notwithstanding their multifarious duties as heads of a select boarding school for young ladies, her father's sisters had mothered her so tenderly that her heart was still tenaciously with them and their daily round. The artificial life in India was hateful to her, yet it held one bright spot. The face, that had worn such a sullen air, lit up as she heard the sound of wheels.
"Here comes daddy!" she cried, with a note of glee in her voice as she sprang out to the verandah.
The Judge, who had descended from his carriage, had not by any means the impressive appearance one is wont to attach to legal dignitaries at home. He was a small, meek-looking, fair man, with mild, blinking blue eyes, and a chronically tired expression. Though still in the prime of life, only his fair hair, unmixed with grey, saved him from giving the impression of being quite an old man. A struggling youth and the over-pressure of examinations, even more than the ravages of the climate, had thus prematurely aged him. But the Service had no better or more devoted member than James Goldring. And as for his loving heart, none knew it better than his daughter Jane, who was now welcoming him.
"Look here, little Jane, why send that big landau to the Kutchery for me? You know I prefer my little bandy."
"Of course, I know, daddy, but mother said the landau was to fetch you this afternoon."
"I did, James," said Mrs. Goldring, coming forward. "You will persist in coming straight from the Kutchery to tennis in that hideous little band-box of yours and stepping out of it like a Jack-in-the-box. You've no regard for appearances—it doesn't do! And you, Jane, are just the same, you encourage your father—"
"She does," returned the Judge, with a smile and a loving glint in his blue eyes as they rested on his daughter. "Well, I suppose I must go and make myself as gay and festive as you are," he added, looking admiringly at Jane's faded toilette without the least consciousness of its defects.
"First your cup of tea, daddy," said Jane, bounding off and returning with a special brew in a lovely Sèvres cup and saucer which had been her gift to him.
"A very bad habit you're getting your father into giving him tea before he goes out. And Mrs. Samptor looks furious when he declines her cakes—not that I specially desire to save her feelings," added Mrs. Goldring, recalling the sting of the recent interview.
"Ah, but I do," said the Judge. "So not even a single biscuit with my tea, Jane, that I may do full justice to Mrs. Samptor's cakes, which are excellent, and made by her own tiny fingers."
"Oh, don't you be paying her any compliments. She's quite conceited enough already. I've had her here not five minutes ago with no end of tittle-tattle—quite upset me!"
"No end of tittle-tattle in Puranapore! She must have a lively imagination! I'm sure I've heard nothing exciting at the Kutchery to-day."
"I shall tell you her news afterwards," said Mrs. Goldring, pursing up her lips as she rose from her chair. "We'd better not keep the horses waiting longer. I hear the Collector is to be there. I want a word with him if possible."
"By the way, I did hear a bit of news to-day after all. The new Assistant has arrived! I shouldn't wonder if Worsley brings him round to the Samptors'."
"That I should think very unlikely from what I've heard this afternoon, knowing the Collector as I do," returned Mrs. Goldring with an emphatic air. "Come, Jane,—how you do loll about! Why did you not put on that new frock I took such trouble to order for you instead of that blue rag your aunts sent?"
"I was just thinking what a pretty blue it was, and how well it matches Jeannie's 'germander' eyes," said the Judge with a smile, patting his daughter on the shoulder as she followed her mother to the carriage.
Mrs. Samptor, in her rôle of hostess, welcomed Mrs. Goldring with ceremonious effusiveness, ignoring their parting a few minutes previously. Every time the afternoon entertainment revolved to her compound, Mrs. Samptor felt the delight and importance of the occasion, and certainly she spared no pains to make it pleasant. The fact of her being country born and bred, though it had not impaired her British energy, had given her a mastery over the details of domestic life never attained among the changing Anglo-Indian society. A notable housekeeper, she was well versed in all the tricks of native servants, and got better service from them than anyone else in the station, albeit she ruled them with an iron rod. In bazaar dealing, gardening, pickle-making, and all housewifery lore she was supreme. Being childless, her whole devotion was given to her husband, a big, square-shouldered man with a handsome, good-natured face, who looked like a giant beside his tiny wife as he came forward to greet the visitors.
The only other guests as yet were the young engineer and his wife, and being recent comers, were patronised by the hostess. They sat obediently under the safe shade of a spreading peepul tree on the lawn, where stood the tea-table, which was covered by a spotless linen cloth and groaning with proofs of Mrs. Samptor's skill in the manufacture of cakes.
The Judge at once linked his arm into the jailer's and began to stroll down a shady walk.
"Talking shop, of course! Mrs. Goldring, you should really keep your husband in better order! What can a humble Superintendent of the District Jail do when the Judge leads him into temptation?" said Mrs. Samptor banteringly.
"Yes, the worst of it is, daddy promised to eat a lot of your cakes," remarked Jane bluntly, while her mother groaned inwardly.
"Did he now, dear? How sweet of the Judge! You just go after him, Jane, and pull his coat-tails and remind him of his promise. As for Harry, he won't ever touch anything between tiffin and dinner. But when he eats—he eats!" said Mrs. Samptor, with pantomimic gestures.
"And yet you tempt weaker men by your nice cakes," exclaimed the doctor, who had just arrived. "Is that quite moral?"
"Strictly so, Dr. Campbell, since I happen to know that you haven't broken your fast since early breakfast!"
"How came you to know, Mrs. Samptor? Was it one of the spirits said to inhabit peepul trees that whispered it? Really you are not canny!"
Mrs. Goldring glanced more approvingly at the doctor than she generally did. He was right, this divining little woman was not "canny."
"Is my wife not here?" asked the doctor, glancing round.
"She will be presently," answered the hostess. "I happened to send her some quail Harry shot last night, and as I saw her driving townwards I know she went to share them with Noel Stenhouse, and to see how he is. No wonder he gets down with fever living among those horrid natives and slaving for the good of their souls as he does! You must have come from your hospital by the back way or you would have met her. Ah, there she is! You'll be happy now, doctor!"
Mrs. Samptor went forward to meet a sweet-faced lady who was crossing the lawn. The doctor followed, and husband and wife exchanged greetings which showed that they were still lovers after years of marriage. The sorrow which had visited them on the death of their two little children had only served to draw them closer to each other.
The little group still lingered in the vicinity of the tea-table, the literal-minded Jane having brought her father back to partake of the notable cakes. Presently Mrs. Samptor, with a pleased exclamation, sprang from her wicker chair.
"Ah, here he is—the Collector has actually kept his promise for once! But who has he got with him? Oh, of course, the new Assistant! Dear me, what a handsome young man!" she murmured, and everybody glanced with interest at the pair who came up the avenue, deep in talk.
Mr. Felix Worsley, though such a familiar figure in the station, was seldom seen to such advantage as at this moment.
"If he would oftener look like that what a blessing it would be," muttered Dr. Campbell, whose sharp eyes noted that the usually sombre face was lit up by a certain cheerful alertness; there seemed to be a new light in the dark, penetrating glance often half veiled by folds of heavy eyelids. "What a handsome, personable man the Collector might be if he always held himself like that," further soliloquised the doctor, as he glanced at the well-proportioned figure and beautifully shaped head showing a thick grizzly thatch as he bared it in response to Mrs. Samptor's greeting.
"Oh, Alan, he does look nice," whispered Mrs. Campbell; whereupon the doctor asked with a smile:
"Which? I'm so taken up with the Collector's wakened-up appearance, I've no eyes for the new-comer yet. Yes, but he does look a fine, straight young fellow," he added, glancing at Mark Cheveril with approving eyes.
Presently introductions were effected all round, and Mark found himself under the peepul tree drinking tea and looking with keen interest at the new faces which would soon become familiar to him.
Mrs. Goldring, like the doctor, did not fail to note the Collector's unusual air of accessibility, and decided to make hay when the sun shone. Afternoon tea being a beverage she knew he abhorred, she saw no reason why she should not draw him aside without delay and put him in possession of the facts necessary for his guidance at this juncture. "Duty obliges me to enlighten him! As Mrs. Samptor says, 'Who if not I?' What a mercy he happens to be in good humour! My task will be an easy one. Everybody knows that, gruff and ungracious as he often is, Mr. Worsley is a well-born English gentleman, and no doubt he will not brook this latest insult of having a half-caste thrust upon him!"
With these reflections, Mrs. Goldring, in her most sprightly manner, advanced towards the Collector.
"Since you and I both hate croquet, which seems to be the order of the afternoon here, suppose we have a stroll, Mr. Worsley?"
"Well, I don't object to a stroll. Gouty limbs don't take kindly to this sunset hour under a tree. But who said I loathed croquet?" asked the Collector sharply, his eye travelling towards the lawn where mallets were being chosen and all seemed in train for a social hour. "A mere assumption on your part, madam! On the contrary, I consider croquet an excellent game and a great adjunct to sociability."
"What a bear he is! His love of carping always comes to me like a slap on the face! But wait till he hears my piece of news. Well I know he hates natives and half-castes, and croquet into the bargain, but I'll let him off with that for the moment," thought Mrs. Goldring, as she prepared to play her trump card.
Trailing her long rustling skirts across the grass while the Collector sauntered at a safe distance, she led the way to the most sequestered walk in the compound. At first she only hazarded a few desultory remarks interspersed with faint praise of her hostess's gardening powers, for the little lady held the acknowledged palm in all floral matters throughout the station. But the Collector seemed to require some topic of keener interest to rouse him. How gratified she felt to think she held the trump card in her hand! Turning towards him, she said suddenly: "I'm really surprised to see the new Assistant such a decent-looking young man!"
"Decent! Your choice of such an adjective is hardly happy, madam," said the Collector, raising his bushy eyebrows. "Mr. Cheveril is a civilian like your husband and myself."
"Ah, but with a sad difference," cried Mrs. Goldring, clasping her hands dramatically. "I grieve to have to shock you, Mr. Worsley, but better now than later. In fact I feel it is my bounden duty to unbosom myself at once of this painful secret."
"Bless my soul, what is it?" asked the Collector, pulling himself up with a start.
"Yes, I saw from your manner to him that you had not heard. Well, the poor young man is actually a half-caste! Does not even deny it, I'm told—speaks of his shame quite openly."
"H'm, has he confided in you, madam?"
"Now you know, Mr. Worsley, that is not possible, seeing I saw him for the first time only five minutes ago. But, believe me, I have the information first hand——"
"Would you believe it, madam, so have I? Would you be surprised to learn that I heard it from the young man himself? I suppose I must accept that as 'first hand'; and I must further tell you he has rather scored in my eyes in making this avowal!"
"What! Do you mean to say you are to be satisfied with a half-caste?" cried Mrs. Goldring, retreating a step, her face purple with indignation. "You are surely not going to expose us to such a situation. I reckoned, Collector, you had only to be told the fact to see it to be your duty as head of this station to try at least and arrange a transference as soon as possible," she gasped, hoping that even if no practicable step could be taken she could at least set the Collector against the young man.
"You reckoned without your host, I fear, madam. You will require to rearrange your views as to the acceptance of this new servant of the Government for Puranapore—that's all. I also am only a servant."
"Pooh, as if you hadn't got young Printer spirited away quickly enough because he didn't hit it off with you——"
"That remark of yours, madam, implies a liberty to which I am unused," said the Collector, drawing himself up with a haughty air. After a moment's silence he lifted his hat, and was about to move away when Mrs. Samptor came hurrying up.