Mr. Rayner had promised to return from Palaveram in time for dinner, but long, solitary hours till dusk still stretched before Hester on her return from morning service. She had not as yet yielded to the habit of taking a siesta, though she was assured that when the hot weather came she would find the need of it imperative. She sought instead companionship in her piano, rehearsing some of her old favourites, and then turned to a prettily bound volume of hymns set to music, which had been a wedding present from a Wesleyan friend. She tried over some of the airs, and coming on one which attracted her began to sing the words. Her sweet voice, which was so much missed in the ivy-mantled village church, vibrated melodiously through the verandah. So absorbed was she in her solace of song that she did not hear the arrival of a carriage on the gravel-sweep. Its occupant indeed stood at her elbow, silently looking down at her as her fingers strayed along the keys, before she was aware of his presence.
"Mark Cheveril!" she exclaimed at length, looking up with joy in her face. "This is a happy surprise!"
"It is so for me, anyhow. I wanted to have come earlier in the day to wish you a merry Christmas, but the Collector seemed dull, and I couldn't leave him. But better late than never. And to be greeted by the sound of your voice was good," he added, glancing at the slender, girlish figure on the music stool on which she had wheeled round to greet him in her surprise at his presence. "This will make a delightful paragraph in the letter to your mother I mean to date 'Christmas Day, Madras.' But I must really tell you before we pass on to other things a strange coincidence about this very hymn you were singing. You remember Mr. Morpeth whom we met at Mrs. Fellowes' that morning? I felt so drawn to him that I did what I don't think I ever confessed to you—I sought him out. When I stepped into his verandah I found him alone, and singing that very hymn." Mark hummed some of the lines—
"Light of those whose dreary dwellingsBorders on the shades of death."
"Light of those whose dreary dwellingsBorders on the shades of death."
"It has haunted me ever since. I must tell him of this coincidence. I have been corresponding with him, and mean to keep up the acquaintance. I heard from him that you had found your way to Vepery too, Hester, and are doing wonders there."
"Ah, that reminds me, Mark! A little bird told me only yesterday that you were the kind donor of our lovely piano for the girls' club. You can't think what a boon it is."
"I hope it's a decent one. I fear pianos are rather a lottery out here, and it would have lost a whole season to have ordered one from home."
"It has a beautiful tone, Mrs. Fellowes just loves it. It was a good thought of yours, Mark. How pleased mother will be when she hears you were the giver of the piano I told her about! I'm so glad Mrs. Fellowes wormed the secret out of Mr. Morpeth. Do you know I've never seen him since you left? He seems to elude me still—perhaps it's no wonder." Hester lowered her eyes, for she suddenly recalled her husband's reception of him, which she feared Mark must have overheard. "But notwithstanding," she said with a smile, "I don't think he does bear me a grudge, for Mrs. Fellowes told me he seemed pleased to hear I wished to go to see him with her. She says his house is full of interesting things."
"It is," returned Mark cordially. "But the man—his personality, his talk—is the most interesting of all. Truly fate has been very good to me since I came to the East. In my first week I met two of the best men I've ever known, David Morpeth and Felix Worsley. To be sure, they are very unlike—as far as the poles asunder in almost everything. The one seemed to me a wise, patient saint, while the Collector is the most impatient of men. I fear, too, he would say I was defaming the name if I was to dub him 'a saint,' yet there is about him the beauty of real dominant goodness. For instance, people say he is proud and all that—well, I find him full of the most winning humility."
"Why, I've always pictured Mr. Worsley as a most terrifying person from the stray remarks I've heard about him. Surely you idealise him, Mark, and see in him the reflection of your own good self. I think that's how Charlie would interpret your feelings."
"Ah, I see I shan't win you over to my hero till you see him."
"With your eyes?" said Hester, with an arch smile.
"No, with your own, if I mistake not! I only wish I could bring about a meeting. But I confess my hero is somewhat incorrigible. Nothing will induce him to face a fashionable dinner-party, and that reminds me, Hester, I must tell you how sorry I was not to be with you last night and not to bring the Collector—but he simply wouldn't hear of going to a dinner-party."
"Yes, Alfred was disappointed. He said he was once introduced to Mr. Worsley, and seemed to set his heart on having him as his guest," said Hester simply.
Mark felt a sharp twinge of self-reproach, for had not the truth been that the Collector had rejected the invitation stormily, saying he "declined to dine with Zynool's partner"? As Mark recalled it he feared that some of the borrowed stigma might also attach itself to this sweet friend in Mr. Worsley's mind—until they met, at least. When that hour struck, he felt confident that all would be well. As he glanced at Hester, he perceived that there was a subtle change in his old comrade. Her beauty had strengthened and deepened. There was a new air of tender grace in all her movements; but she was paler and thinner, the plump, girlish contour had vanished. The features, more delicately pencilled than heretofore, seemed written over with a bit of life-history not free from fret and jar, even blurred by patient tears. How could it be otherwise, he asked himself, with this high-souled girl exposed to the daily companionship of a nature so vain, so shallow, and he feared, so false, as he was reluctantly discovering Alfred Rayner to be? He recalled with fresh anxiety his shifty air when he had met him at Puranapore during his mysterious visit to the unprincipled Zynool. But happy chance had thrown Hester and him together on this Day of Glad Tidings. He must do all in his power to bring some pure, healthful pleasure into those few days on which he would be near her.
"By the way," he said, as he rose to take a cup of tea from Hester's hand, "I mustn't forget that one of the chief objects of my call to-day is to ask you to ride with me one morning. Some of the roads here are capital."
"Oh, that would be delightful—just like old times," said Hester brightening. "I haven't ridden since I came here. Alfred doesn't like riding, though he is so devoted to driving. Even when he was at the Rectory after our engagement, which you know was very short, he wouldn't go out with Charlie and me. Charlie thought he was really timid, and told me not to urge him. He won't mind my riding—at least I don't think so," she added, a shadow crossing her face not unnoticed by her visitor. "But he'll be here presently, and we'll ask him. You'll stay to dinner and see him, won't you?"
"With pleasure. I'm quite free this evening and we'll arrange this one ride anyhow. I've seen a perfect horse for you at Wallers'. I shall bring it round to-morrow morning. What do you say to going to St. Thomas's Mount? It's a place I've a fancy to explore. Have you been there?"
"No, I've really seen very few places round about—beyond the range of the wide compounds. I think your touring must be delightful. But you haven't told me anything of Puranapore yet except about the Collector, and I didn't get much from Alfred even after he had visited you."
Mark was silent. Rayner then had given his wife the impression that he had been at the English station while at Puranapore, and had, no doubt, concealed the fact that he was visiting Zynool. The discovery was disturbing, and he wondered if it would be wise to enlighten Hester there and then. He felt, however, that he could not bear to bring a deeper shadow to the sweet face, and proceeded instead to give some annals of the station-life.
"Well, to begin with the ladies. There's Mrs. Samptor, wife of the Superintendent of the District Jail, a big giant of a man, and a capital fellow. She is a little country-bred person who had never been to England and has a perfect horror of Eurasians."
Hester's eyes opened wider. She was about to exclaim: "Just like Alfred!" But that topic had cut too deep for her to touch it lightly.
"You wonder perhaps how she tolerates me," said Mark with a smile, as if divining her thoughts. "Well, as it happens, we are very good friends. Her mental process regarding the matter is peculiar, I allow, but it seems to her convincing, as she is a lady who prides herself on knowing everything about everybody. She volunteers to prove from my hands, my nails, and from my toes, I expect, if she were allowed to inspect them, from every feature of my face in fact, that I do not belong to the race she detests."
"And does the Collector like this little lady?"
"He does, I think. She amuses him. I sometimes accuse him of even encouraging her gossip. In that connection I once reminded him of the old proverb: 'One man may steal a horse, another may not look over the stable door,' as a case in point. The Collector's denunciations against gossip are most scathing, for instance, where Mrs. Goldring, the Judge's wife, is in question. She is a pompous, snobbish woman, and the Collector thinks that she sits on her little husband, the Judge, of whom he is very fond. Nor can he forgive her for her treatment of her weird-looking daughter Jane. The poor girl hates station life, and wants to go home and do governessing with some beloved aunts who keep a school. Then we have a Civil Surgeon and his wife, Dr. and Mrs. Campbell, delightful Scotch people."
"I wonder Alfred did not tell me about all these people. He must have met them when he was at Puranapore," said Hester, with a thoughtful air which Mark noticed, and he at once led the conversation into other channels.
Hester narrated to him the errand which had obliged her husband to go to Palaveram on this Christmas day, and they talked with sobered hearts of the sadness of it all; of the great entanglement in the meshes of which poor young Hyde had fallen a victim; and of the ever haunting mystery of life where evil triumphs in lives which seem inclined to good rather than to evil.
Shortly before the dinner-hour a telegram arrived from Palaveram to say that Mr. Rayner to his great regret would be unable to eat his Christmas dinner with his wife. But so congenially did the talk glide on between these two old friends, the young hostess decided, as she sat at dinner, that, after all, two might be an even more ideal number than eight for the complete enjoyment of the dinner-table.
When Mark rose to go, he was rejoiced to see Hester looking more like her old self than she had done since they had met in their new surroundings. She seemed to hold to her decision that there was no obstacle to the morning ride which he had suggested, saying as they parted:
"Alfred has so often reproached me for not going further afield in my drives, I'm sure he will be pleased to hear I've been adventurous enough to scale St. Thomas's Mount. You can't think what a joy an hour on horseback will be to me! It's a delightful suggestion, Mark, and I thank you for it," she said, with happy, grateful eyes, as she bade him good-night.
The Eastern sky was still dim silvery grey when Mark Cheveril dismounted from his fine chestnut cob in front of the Rayner's verandah. Handing his horse to the syce, he turned to the other, a beautiful black Arab which he had secured for Hester, and whose girths and bridles he began carefully to inspect for the second time.
Presently Hester appeared on the verandah steps with a smiling face, wearing her riding habit for the first time since she left Worcestershire. Greeting Mark with a joyous mien, she renewed her thanks for the pleasure in prospect, sprang lightly to her saddle, and the cavalcade started; their respective syces following on foot, brandishing their long brush-like switches used to protect the horses from flies when a halt was made.
The riders trotted slowly along the wide Mount Road where at this early hour there was little traffic, only a few natives stepping about. Crossing the Adyar by the noble Marmalong Bridge, residences and their spreading compounds were soon left behind. Their route skirted the broad, winding reaches of the river, its banks fringed by peepul and casuarina trees, and here and there topes of cocoanut palms raised their graceful heads. The air was still cool and the early morning scents fragrant. Even the fumes of burnt charcoal curling upwards from the Thousand Lights Bazaar were pleasing to the riders, recalling the odour of furze fires on home moorlands.
Happy as were these two old friends to be together in such pleasant circumstances, their talk was as yet limited to spasmodic comments on the sights and sounds new to both. Mark was delighted to note the bright healthful glow on Hester's cheek, and resolved that each of the remaining mornings of his visit to Madras should be devoted to a morning ride together. He felt confident that her husband would approve when he saw how well-trained and reliable the Arab proved, and heard how greatly Hester was captivated by its paces.
They had now reached the ancient historical spot which was to be the goal of their morning's expedition. To eyes used to hills of home, St. Thomas's Mount seemed a very low eminence, though from the flat plain stretching all round it appeared to stand out like a unique personality. Possibly it was this feature which had caused it, centuries ago, to be singled out by devout pilgrims as a shrine. Fact and fiction had woven many legends round its steep grassy slopes, the most outstanding being the alleged visit of the Apostle whose name it bore. The Portuguese, the earliest European adventurers in the East, had established a mission there. Their ancient chapel which crowns the summit dates four centuries back. Instead of the zig-zag path which one expects in hill-climbing, the summit of the Mount is reached by a long, gradual ascent of granite steps which sparkled in the sun as if bestrewn by gems, and called forth the admiration of the riders as they halted at the base of the hill.
There, by Mark's arrangement, fresh syces had been posted from the stables for the return ride. They squatted on the sunny steps, their lips red with chewing betel-nut. They jumped up with salaams to take over charge of the hot steeds and to rub them down, while Mark, with liberalbacksheesh, dispatched the returning pair of runners for, doubtless, a very leisurely progress townwards.
Hester had already scaled some of the steps of the shining stair when Mark joined her.
"Here we are, Hester, another pair of pilgrims treading the steps that have been climbed for centuries by feet often weary enough, no doubt, not to speak of hearts that ached!"
"Yes, it feels good to picture it—gives one a feeling of brotherhood, doesn't it? I wonder if the pilgrims ever crawled on their knees up those many steps as they do on theSanta Scalain Rome," said Hester, recalling the sight she had seen last Easter when she went for her first visit to Italy with her father.
As she lightly trod on, her thoughts lingered over Mark's suggestion, till she felt as if she too were one of the long procession of care-encumbered men and women who had come—some with true faith and zeal—to seek the true helper in the little chapel with its sacred symbols, which was once no doubt like an oasis in the desert of surrounding heathenism. Its dedication to theExpectation of the Blessed Virgincould still be traced in rude, half-effaced letters over the doorway. The little building was very primitive both within and without. Underneath its rough stone pavement lay many dead.
Presently the visitors came to the most interesting relic within the building—a grey stone slab finely carved, a scroll running round it on which there was a curious inscription, and in the centre a beautiful Persian cross with a dove brooding over it.
"That slab must have proved a bigger effort for some old-time Christian than one of our finest monuments to the modern sculptor," said Mark, after a close inspection of the carving. "The man who carved it must have been a genius. Think of the rough tools he had, and the absence probably of all suggestion from without!"
"Yes, isn't it rather symbolic too," answered Hester with a sigh. "Don't each of us have to carve our own crosses with rough tools till sometimes our fingers bleed, and our hearts too?"
"Wouldn't it be a more comforting metaphor to say that the Master Sculptor does that for us—chip by chip—till the work stands out a thing of beauty like that old cross?"
"But the process hurts, Mark! Shall we never be finished? Will our chipping go on to the very end?" said Hester, with a sudden ring of pain in her voice.
"Yes, I think it must go on till our new beginning," returned Mark quietly. "Then we shall find—and what's better, the Great Maker will find—that no touch of His hand has been in vain, that every blow with the mallet was needed, every scrape with the sharp tool," he added, in a pitying voice, for he had detected that Hester's questioning cry had been wrung from an aching heart.
"Thank you, Mark," she murmured, after a moment's silence. "I shan't forget your parable next time the mallet or the piercing tool tries to improve me, and shall recall this grey stone—so finished, so perfect. Surely loving hands fashioned it, as you say, or it would not have withstood the ravages of centuries to tell its tale to us on this bright morning."
As the two friends wandered on among the grey relics, "praising the chapel sweet with its little porch and its rustic door," Mark was reminded of a description in a well-read page of his favourite poet. In some of its aspects, it so truly described this morning which he was spending with Hester, that he resolved to bring the brown volume in his pocket the next time they rode together and read to her the lovely description of the old chapel and all that followed.
Yes, that "screen" though slight was "sure"! He would try to prove loyal in all things to this girl, who was evidently finding life very different from the flower-strewn path she had looked forward to when that bright letter reached him in the German Gasthaus, telling him of her engagement. He was glad to think it was still given him to cherish her as a friend. "Friends—lovers that might have been," he murmured. Then, in spite of himself, as they walked silently down the steps together, more of the poet's words vibrated in his heart——
"Oh the little more and how much it is,And the little less, and what worlds awayAnd life be the proof of this."
"Oh the little more and how much it is,And the little less, and what worlds awayAnd life be the proof of this."
Though Hester did not clothe her thoughts in Browning's pathetic words, they followed much the same trend of feeling. How magnetic was the influence of this high-souled companion, who seemed to bring out of the treasure-house of his mind deep things, new and old. How was it that this friend of Charlie's never seemed so magnetic in the days when they had ridden together in green byways at home? Why was it reserved for her only to find his many-sided value and charm when she was the wife of Alfred Rayner? Ah, how different was the daily companionship which was her portion now, strewn as it was with pin-pricks that hurt, even thorns that bled! Some of these she could only cease to feel, she thought with burning cheek, if she could descend from high ideals, ignore moral standards, and sink to the level of base and sordid thoughts and actions. But Alfred must be helped to better things, she resolved with fresh hope and courage, drawn from this happy morning. She must be more patient, more inventive in throwing him in the way of every good influence, and in this, who could help her better than the comrade who now rode by her side?
She reined her horse to a walk and turned to him, saying in a pleading voice:
"Mark, I have a favour to ask of you! Will you see as much of my husband as you can? Will you try to win his confidence and be his friend as I know you are mine? We have old links, of course, which makes friendship easy, but I do feel that Alfred needs a friend like you. He has somehow contracted such shallow aims; his ambitions often seem to me so poor, though I do try to be sympathetic. He is naturally secretive, you know, but I'm sure he isn't happy just now, though he does not open his mind to me. I fear his restlessness makes him extravagant. From some chance words he dropped lately it is evident that we have been spending too much money. As a new-comer, I haven't been able to give him the help he needed. It might have been different if we had come together to face the difficulties and temptations of the new country," wound up Hester with a sigh, some of her fears and perplexities coming sharply into relief.
"I believe you are right," returned Mark, glad to ignore her pitiful request, responding only to the last remark, "though you know the general theory is that the man should come first and prospect."
"Well, in your case I believe it will work all right. Your garnered experience will prove a mine of wisdom to your bride when you bring her to these shores. I'm longing to behold that 'not impossible she,' Mark! When will she arrive?" she asked smilingly, glancing at her companion.
Mark Cheveril did not return her glance, but reflectively stroked his horse's neck. After a moment's silence, he looked at her, and said slowly:
"There is not 'a possible she' for me, Hester."
"Oh, but she's waiting for you now in some English home, though you don't know it! I feel sure you will not choose foolishly, Mark, and I shall be able to give my heart's love to your wife when she comes. You'll tell her you have a friend who will insist on being admitted to her friendship."
To this Mark made no reply except to shake his head. They were now well on their homeward way, and had been riding slowly side by side as they talked.
Several vehicles and many native pedestrians had passed them, the highway between St. Thomas's Mount and Madras being also the road to Palaveram and a busy thoroughfare. A dust-begrimed bandy sweeping by did not attract the attention of the riders, for it was the facsimile of many which had already passed and repassed. But it was otherwise with the solitary occupant of the shabby vehicle. The riders had caught his eye while they were still in advance of his carriage. He glanced with keen interest at the handsome pair and their fine horses.
"One of the artillery officers and his wife from the Mount, no doubt," he muttered.
Great, therefore, was Alfred Rayner's surprise in coming to closer quarters, to recognise in the elegant horsewoman, his own wife, and in the supposed officer, Mark Cheveril. Hot indignation soon mastered his surprise. His first impulse was to alight there and then, and confront the couple. But how could he, with becoming dignity, he reflected bitterly, step out of a shabby country-bandy, travel-stained and haggard after a late night at the Palaveram mess?
The sad offices for poor young Hyde would not have detained Mr. Rayner beyond the afternoon of Christmas Day, but he had been prevailed upon to remain and share the festivities of the mess, after which there had been an adjournment to the card-table. It was in the same dawn on which the riders had started for St. Thomas's Mount that he had risen from his night's play, a considerably poorer man than when he sat down. On the previous day, he had driven out in the carriage of one of the officers who had made an appointment to meet him at the Club, but for his return journey he had arranged nothing, and could only commandeer a country vehicle.
The fact of his humble equipage, and even more the consciousness of his haggard, ill-slept appearance, decided him to abstain from showing himself in the tell-tale morning light. Lying well back in the carriage, he covered his face with his sun-topee. He perceived with chagrin, however, that he might have spared his precautions, so engrossed were the riders in their own talk that they did not even turn their eyes towards the humble bandy.
"So this is the game of my most virtuous wife! Why, she's no better than Leila Baltus would have been under similar circumstances! No sooner do I leave her to her own devices for a single afternoon than she gallops off with a cavalier! Where do I come in, I wonder," Mr. Rayner muttered with a bitter snarl. "No doubt she'll say he's an old friend and all that, but I'll not listen to any of her excuses—nor yours either, Mister Mark. You can find a lady for yourself. You'll not steal my property! By Jove, it would be a good joke to offer him the dark beauty, Leila Baltus, since they are of the same caste! But one thing I can do—and I'll manage it if they don't quicken their pace. I'll hurry on and give them a nasty surprise at the other end—that's to say if they condescend to return to my house. Good, I know a short cut!"
He was now a little in advance of the riders and considered it safe to shout from the window, directing the driver to the shortest route.
"Look here, bandy-wallah, I'll give you double fare if you race me to Clive's Road in double quick time!"
The horse was a rough powerful animal, and by dint of frequent applications of the whip, "the fare" was landed at his destination some minutes before the arrival of the riders.
"I do believe Alfred's back from Palaveram already!" exclaimed Hester, as they turned into the compound in Clive's Road. "That must be his hired carriage. What a pity he didn't send for his own comfortable office-bandy instead of that wretched thing!" she added, glancing at the humble vehicle which the bandy-wallah was recklessly guiding on to the turf skirting the avenue to avoid coming into contact with the riders, though there was ample room for both.
"He must have come at a great pace," observed Mark, glancing at the foam-flecked horse. "That horse looks thoroughly pumped out!"
"Oh, poor Alfred, he's always in such a hurry to get back to his writing-table! You'll come and have breakfast with us, Mark? Of course, you must! You will help me to recount everything we've seen. You really owe Alfred a visit since you wouldn't come to our party. He'll be delighted," Hester was adding, while Mark helped her to dismount.
"Speak for yourself, madam," said the master of the house, suddenly emerging from behind one of the green blinds of the verandah, with an angry scowl on his face. "I decline to invite your cavalier to my house!"
Hester flushed, while her companion looked pale and startled. Was this to be the sequel to his harmless effort for Hester's enjoyment?
"Alfred, what do you mean," stammered Hester in dismay, gazing at her husband. His angry frown was intensified by his unkempt appearance, for he had not had time to visit his room.
"Mean!" he repeated. "Well, this time I mean exactly what I say! This house happens to be mine, and I shan't invite a man to breakfast who has stolen such a dirty march on me. Be off with you!"
"I fail to understand your words or your attitude, Mr. Rayner," returned Mark, looking sternly at the haggard face.
"You do? Then I'll enlighten you! What right had you in my absence to drag my wife out on horseback, when you and she know well that I entirely disapprove of such an exercise for a lady? You have insulted me! You have tampered with my reputation, I tell you." His voice rose almost to a scream as he continued: "I'll be the laughing stock of Madras—all those Artillery officers at the Mount—I expect it's there you've been! I caught sight of you on the road. Ha, you didn't think the injured husband was dogging your steps, did you? I'm only thankful you didn't come on to Palaveram and disgrace me there, Hester, but it's bad enough as it is."
"Alfred, you are not yourself," said Hester, distressfully, going up to her husband and putting her hands on his shoulders. "You don't look well! I don't think he knows what he's saying, Mark. You must excuse him," she added, turning beseeching eyes on her friend.
"If I'm not well it's you that have bowled me over. Oh, my goodness, what a pass things have come to," laughed Mr. Rayner hysterically, throwing himself down on a chair, and covering his ghastly face with his hands, he began to whimper.
"I'd better go," whispered Mark, taking Hester's trembling hand in his. "Forgive me for the trouble I have caused you."
"There's nothing to forgive—all the other way. Alfred will see that when he is well again," said Hester, glancing at her husband's cowering figure.
Mark looked at him and then at his wife with a look of ineffable sorrow and pain, then he strode quickly down the broad flight of the verandah steps, mounted his horse and rode away, the syce leading the beautiful Arab which had carried its rider to such pleasant pastures that morning.
Hardly had the sound of the horse's hoofs died away when Mr. Rayner removed his long thin fingers from his face and stole a timid glance at his wife, who stood motionless, her back turned towards him as she gazed out after the retreating rider.
"Now look here, Hester," he said, clearing his throat. "You've played me a shabby trick and no mistake, but I'm not vindictive. My maxim is, you know, to forgive and forget! I'm not sorry I got my teeth into Cheveril, but I quite see now how the whole thing happened. He asked you to ride with him and you did—that's all! Come, let's kiss and be friends!"
He seized one of Hester's hands as she was moving away and raised it to his lips, but for once his swift repentance was wholly repellent to her. She quickly perceived that he was anxious to act a part, that his calmness was only feigned, that he still nursed a bitter grudge against Mark. She could see it in his eyes, in the sinister air with which he listened to her brief restrained narration of the simple circumstances which had led to this morning's expedition.
"All is right between us, Hester! I accept your apologies," he said patronisingly, as he rose briskly from his chair and hurried to his morning bath.
When they met at breakfast it was Hester who was silent, and looked jaded and stricken, while her husband seemed eager in his efforts to be specially polite and agreeable.
It was the day of the great ball of the season. Alfred Rayner had often expatiated to Hester on the delights of this festivity at Government House at which he had been present in the previous year. He now looked forward with glee to make his entrance with his beautiful wife on his arm. Judging from his gaiety of spirit, one would have thought that the painful incident on the return of the riders from St. Thomas's Mount was entirely effaced from his mind, though only two short days had actually elapsed since it had occurred. To Hester the days had brought no mitigation of her pain, although her husband seemed to take it for granted that she shared his preoccupation concerning the ball. He could not help perceiving, however, as he looked across the table this morning that she seemed pale and strained, just when he was eager she should be looking her very best.
"I'll tell you what you need, Hester—the best recipe for looking as fresh as my English rose must do to-night. You drive to the beach this afternoon. Don't go gadding with anybody, just sit in your carriage and let the sea breeze fan your cheeks, then there's no doubt who will be the belle of the ball to-night! I wish I could have gone to the beach and kept guard over you, my dear; unfortunately I have an appointment after business hours to-day. But if my wife carries the palm to-night this her 'humble slave' will be in the third heavens!"
Hester was nothing loth to fall in with her husband's suggestion. The prospect of a quiet hour within the sound of the waves was welcome to her. She felt weary and dispirited, and had thought many times of telling her husband she did not feel able to join in the festivity of the evening. The episode, which seemed to have passed all too lightly over him, had left a deep mark on her sensitive heart. Not only did she feel wounded and shamed at the exhibition her husband had made of himself, but she mourned the loss of her faithful friend. After being so wantonly insulted, never, probably, would Mark Cheveril and she meet again. Not even his chivalrous kindness could be proof against the unjust taunts levelled against him by the man she now felt ashamed to own as her husband. She suspected indeed that his attitude that morning was assumed on purpose to put a stop to the friendship, and in losing Mark, she felt sorrowfully, she had lost her only real friend—except indeed, Mrs. Fellowes. But never, even to her, could she unfold the pass to which her husband's extraordinary behaviour had brought matters. She must go on suffering in absolute silence, she decided, with a more conscious effort at resignation to her lot than she had yet made. Truly the tools were sharp, she thought, with a long-drawn sigh, recalling Mark's parable of the rough block in the making. Much indeed was being chiselled off, but as Mark had said, they must trust to the Master Sculptor.
Only yesterday there had come to Hester what she interpreted as a farewell gift from the friend she might see no more. She knew the token must be from him, though the brown book bore no evidence as to its sender. She felt sure it was none other than Mark when she read the marked poem. That metaphor of the Potter's Wheel had already become like an inspiration to her. The book lay on her knees now as she drove to the beach, and drawing it from beneath the carriage-wrap, she turned to the poem to ponder once more its deep meaning in reference to herself.
All her life she had been brought up in a religious atmosphere, though her attitude towards that side of life had been in part more traditional than personal. It was only lately since the sore need of her heart craved a refuge that she had come to find the "very present help" for herself, and now every hour of every day she was seeking it and finding it. During the last hours she had travelled far on that eventful journey. She felt that till travelling days were done, and perhaps in the "new beginning" of which Mark had spoken, she would always connect the crisis in her life with the noble words of "Rabbi Ben Ezra."
The carriage had now drawn up on the long terraced promenade which skirts the sea shore—the then favourite meeting place of Madras residents at this evening hour. On this afternoon, however, society was evidently reserving itself for the entertainment at Government House, and was conspicuous by its absence. A regimental band usually played at the Marine Villa, but the stand was unoccupied now, silence and emptiness reigned.
Hester did not regret either the music or the company. She directed her coachman to draw up at a point where she always thought the breeze seemed to blow freshest from the sea, and sat engrossed in her book, though the light was fading. She heard the footsteps of two pedestrians on the asphalt pavement, but did not raise her eyes. Presently the pair returned from their stroll, and this time one of them halted in front of the landau, saying:
"Good evening! Like us, I see you have come for a whiff of the sea breeze!"
Great was Hester's surprise when she heard the familiar voice.
"Mark," she exclaimed, and the face which had worn such a wistful expression lit up with pleasure. Once again, at all events, she was destined to exchange greetings with her friend. But she now perceived that he was not alone. On the pavement stood an elderly man, his dark searching eyes surmounted by a pair of rather fierce eyebrows, a smooth shaven face revealing a sensitive mouth and well-formed chin. The searching eyes were fixed on her with a distinct air of interest.
"My chief wishes to make your acquaintance," pursued Mark. "Mr. Worsley—Mrs. Rayner."
"We passed you when we were proceeding on our prowl, but you were so intent on your book my young friend seemed timid about disturbing you," said the Collector, with a smile and an amused glance at Mark. "But I was not to be cheated out of an opportunity of meeting Mr. Cheveril's old friend."
There was a mixture of courtesy and kindliness in his manner which proved a ready passport to Hester's heart, and also brought a joyous smile to Mark's face; for this was not, he knew well, the tone of greeting Mr. Worsley was used to give to the ladies of the station. Underneath his manner to little Mrs. Samptor there was always a veiled though kindly contempt, while Mrs. Goldring's portion was often an unmistakable scowl. But in his manner to Hester there was a winning combination of immediate belief and liking, something fatherly too which Mark had occasionally felt in his attitude to himself. Another carriage now made its appearance and drew up alongside of Hester's landau.
"I felt sure that these were your syces' liveries, my dear," called Mrs. Fellowes, not at first perceiving that Hester was engaged in conversation. Then she observed the two gentlemen, and Mark quickly went round to shake hands, claiming her as one of his earliest friends in Madras.
Meanwhile the Collector pursued his talk with Hester, saying presently:
"Now, Mrs. Rayner, take the advice of an experienced Madrassee, descend from your chariot, and have a walk in this delightful sea-breeze. No doubt you are due to-night at Government House like Cheveril and myself. We must obey orders, I suppose, and put in an appearance for a little. I hope your friend will enjoy the ball. Puranapore is a dull place for a young man, little company except a sombre old fellow like me."
"Oh, but he told me he was so happy with you, Mr. Worsley. I think it made me feel a little jealous, as I was his only friend here at first."
"That's where we stand, is it? All the more reason we should make it up, Mrs. Rayner. Nothing is more conducive to driving away evil spirits of all kinds than a walk on the sea-shore."
Mr. Worsley smilingly offered his hand to Hester to help her to alight.
"Cheveril, we're off for a stroll," he said, looking back at the young man, who still stood by the side of Mrs. Fellowes' carriage; and he now suggested that she should imitate the example of her friend. She acquiesced, and they were soon following the other pair of walkers.
"I always know from the pose of my chief's head whether he is happy with his companion or not. Unfortunately he too often shows that he is not so," said Mark.
"You seem entirely satisfied with the result in this instance, Mr. Cheveril," returned Mrs. Fellowes, with a frank smile. "But who could be otherwise? She is so dear and sweet."
"Well, the fact is there is triumph to me as well as satisfaction. I didn't exactly have a bet with Mrs. Rayner, but I prophesied that when she met Mr. Worsley she would come under his spell; while she evidently thought the reverse would happen. I feel quite easy in my mind now. I can see the spell is mutual."
"I expect Mr. Worsley is not a man who always does himself justice by any means. The Colonel sometimes deplores that he gives so much more encouragement to the Mahomedans than to the Hindus at Puranapore. The Campbells are friends of ours, so perhaps we hear most on the other side."
"Yes, that's a vexed question," replied Mark gravely. "But the Collector is getting his eyes opened to some things that were hidden from him for a time. Events are marching. You see he is so often away on tour. The town of Puranapore is but a very small corner of his dominion. His District is immense, and he takes as much interest in it as an English squire does in his acres—very much the same kind of interest too. His pride in land reclaimed and made to blossom is delightful to see. He has often made me ride miles out of the way with him to show me such a tract with its changed face. He would have made an ideal Forest Officer if he had not been Collector of the Revenue. Lately when we were camping, he pointed to a once fever-haunted jungle he had redeemed by draining the dreaded area. He smiled and said, 'I was just thinking last night as I read Tennyson's "Northern Farmer," that I could point to this bit of land made wholesome as my only good deed, like the old farmer who pinned his hope of salvation to his "stubbing of Thornaby waste!"'"
"You speak of his reading Tennyson, Mr. Cheveril? I thought one of his peculiarities was that he never read—that there wasn't a book to be picked up in his house? I've heard his bungalow at Puranapore described as the most dismal of abodes."
"Oh, yes, the Collector does read at times, and he does what is better, he thinks. He has a more original mind than most people, I assure you," argued Mark, not willing to admit the truth of the assertion concerning the absence of anything like a library from the Collector's shelves.
"Pity he doesn't hit it off with his wife, isn't it?" remarked Mrs. Fellowes, who, Mark could see, was one of those who had imbibed a prejudice against the man he had come to love. "Perhaps you didn't know he was married, Mr. Cheveril, but he is! His wife lives in Belgravia and he here. It is said he didn't even go to see her the last time he was at home, and yet they are not legally separated, and I believe, he sends her heaps of money!"
"Well, you see, I don't know the Honourable Mrs. Worsley," said Mark shortly. In one of his rare moments of self-revelation the elder man had laid bare to the younger the history of an ill-assorted marriage and its consequences, which, Mark decided, more by inference than from details, was the source of much that had warped a life, which Felix Worsley himself described as like "a blasted jungle tree"; though Mark thought he could still trace in it the noblest characteristics of the English oak.
"Well, I must say the Collector of Puranapore has a warm partisan in you, Mr. Cheveril," returned Mrs. Fellowes warmly, "and I like you for it!"
The pair in front had now turned their steps and came towards them.
"I'm reminding Mrs. Rayner that if I walk her off her feet she won't be able to dance so lightly with you to-night as I desire to see, Cheveril," said Mr. Worsley, with a smile which his Assistant had learnt to love.
On being introduced to Mrs. Fellowes he seemed to find that he had various links with her and they paired off together, leaving the two old friends in company.
"Oh, Mark, how delightful he is," exclaimed Hester, her face all aglow. "I haven't seen anybody so nice since I parted with my father!"
"Ah, then you have capitulated, just as I hoped. But I'm not going to be hard on you for your former state of siege. I knew the victory was sure, and it has come partly because he took to you at once, I could see. My chief is sometimes rather bearish, I admit. I tremble for the offences he may give at the gathering to-night. He's a grand bit of marble, Hester—to take up our simile of St. Thomas's Mount!"
"But has the chipping process begun, Mark? Though he was so nice to me I confess he talked very hopelessly, very cynically, about some things."
"Oh, yes, the process is going on! But we must not forget in that process one day is as a thousand years with the Great Sculptor," said Mark softly, as he glanced up at the dark blue vault where the great moon was already rising, silvering the vast expanse of waters.
"But, Mark," said Hester, suddenly preparing to plunge into the topic which he fain would have avoided, "how can you meet me like this—how can you ever speak to me again after what happened that morning? Oh, the shame, the misery of it," she added, her voice faltering. "And I was so anxious that poor Alfred should come under your influence! You remember I was pleading for that on our ride home, little thinking that all was going to end as it did—that things were going to happen so soon that would make a great gulf between you. Will you try to believe that really he was not himself that morning? Something at Palaveram must have upset him dreadfully or he could never have spoken so to you. Can you ever forgive him?"
Mark felt glad that Hester should treat the episode in this light and not as a proof of her husband's utter unworthiness.
"Surely we must make allowance for others when we need so much forgiveness for ourselves," said Mark, in a moved tone. "I saw your husband was much unnerved. I hardly think our morning ride could be the cause. Try to forget it, Hester! Treat it like a bad dream—we awake and it is gone."
"Oh, thank you! You don't know how your words comfort me. I thought you would never speak to me again. Now I must tell you what it was that brought me any comfort. It was that poem—'Rabbi Ben Ezra'—in the book you sent me. That it should come from you, who I feared would not look at either of us again, seemed to me the doing of an angel!"
"A very earthly messenger, I assure you," said Mark, shaking his head. "But I'm glad you came on that poem. It has been a possession to me for long."
"It will be a possession to me always," returned Hester in a moved voice. "But what am I thinking of? I must really be off home at once. Alfred may be there and wondering what keeps me," she added, with a frightened air which went to the young man's heart.
He led her at once to her carriage, and saw the lamps duly lit; then after a hurried good-bye to Mrs. Fellowes and the Collector, she was driven swiftly away.
The Banqueting Hall, as that important adjunct of Government House, Madras, is called, scintillated with light. The lower branches of the noble trees which line the approach were hung with innumerable lamps of variegated colours, while the great white building gave forth a resplendent glow from its many windows. The colonnades of pillars at its entrance were reached by an immense flight of steps, the centre of which was covered by a broad strip of crimson cloth. Along either side were ranged rows of peons in long scarlet coats, their sashes belted crossways on their chests, ornamented by bright badges, their neatly folded turbans, their dignified and deferential mien, all contributing to the impressive effect of the scene.
Through the wide open doors one caught glimpses of more pillars in the entrance hall. The banisters and staircase landings were decorated with great pots of glossy greenery. Peons were flitting about; an aide-de-camp, gorgeous in gold lace, his nether man cased in tights and Hessian boots, was in waiting in the hall; while groups of gentlemen, both civil and military, stood talking together preparatory to making their entrance.
The fashionable unpunctuality of arrival which prevails at home functions did not at this period find favour at Government House. Most of the guests of the evening were now streaming in as quickly as the thronging of their equipages on the great gravel sweep outside would permit. The ladies cloak-rooms were vocal with a chorus of English voices as Hester Rayner entered. It seemed to her a happy babble as she smilingly returned the greetings of various acquaintances, while she was being divested of her cloak by one of the many Eurasian attendants.
Miss Clarice Glanton, robed in iridescent filmy gauze, glided dragon-fly-like towards Hester, with a gracious smile on her face.
"Got your card full up, of course, Hester? Your husband says I may call you so, and I mean henceforth to avail myself of his permission. Well, how stands your card?"
"My card! I'm afraid I haven't even thought about it yet," replied Hester simply.
"Why, I thought you were looking so happy that you must surely be in luck! I think I know somebody who will be having many favours from you to-night, but he didn't rise to my bait, though I showed him I had still one or two blanks to fill."
Hester looked so evidently uncomprehending that she added:
"After all, it's only tit-for-tat! If you are to have possession of the Puranapore Assistant, I'm going to have pity on your forsaken husband! I was actually benevolent enough to promise him not less than three dances when he came a-begging to my door this afternoon"; and Miss Glanton glanced with a malicious smile at the young wife.
Her tone and her information both jarred on Hester. She recalled that her husband had pleaded a business engagement as his reason for not accompanying her to the beach, but she held her peace; indeed there was no pause for further talk. Both ladies were swept forward to join their gentlemen in the corridor and take their places for presentation.
Alfred Rayner had been waiting all impatience. Casting a rapid glance on his wife, the result of which seemed satisfying to his vanity, he offered his arm with a gratified smile.
"Come, my English rose is bound to win the prize," he whispered.
Taking their places in the long stream of guests, they moved slowly along a side aisle under the gallery till they reached the neighbourhood of the dais, then their turn came to ascend the flat crimson steps. The A.D.C.-in-waiting stood receiving the cards of the guests and announced their names.
Hester, with a grace which few could equal, at length made her curtsey to the Queen's representative, His Excellency the Governor of Madras, a stout-built, elderly man with scanty dark hair, a bushy grey beard, a pair of keen, shrewd eyes which seemed to take in all his surroundings at a glance. His hostess-daughter stood by his side receiving the guests, while near by were two younger daughters who bowed and smiled in recognition of acquaintances and chatted with members of the house-party gathered on the dais; while the presented guests took their places among the surrounding groups who stood watching the ceremony in progress.
None did so with more pleasure than Hester, whose artistic eye was glamoured by the beautiful blending of colours throughout the stately hall which would have made a worthy setting for any pageant. Every style and colour of uniform was represented, from the brilliant scarlet and gold of the Staff to the pale blue and silver of the Madras Cavalry, the drab of some of the Native Infantry corps, and the artillery officers from the Mount whose uniform was the short, slashed jacket, which, though becoming to tall, slender figures, was by no means so to the fat old Artillery colonels stepping about, serving as foils to the slim young men.
The presentation now seemed at an end except in the case of a few late-comers. His Excellency had turned to talk with some members of the house-party. The regimental band, stationed in the front gallery, was giving forth its first strains of music with stirring effect. A distinguished soldier visitor from North India led forth the hostess-daughter of the Governor, who, etiquette demanded, should open the ball. The beautiful shiny parquet floor was presently peopled with couples, and from the band came the favourite waltz air of the period, "The Blue Danube."
Hester would have been quite contented to gaze on the picturesque scene as a spectator only, but though she had not taken time by the forelock like Miss Glanton, partners were not wanting. She was at once sought after and began to enter into the rythmical waltz movement.
She was glad to see that her husband was enjoying the favours of Miss Glanton, but as yet she had not caught sight of Mark Cheveril or his chief, and began to fear that at the last moment Mr. Worsley had devised some specious excuse for absenting himself. On being whirled, however, to the neighbourhood of the dais, she perceived the Collector descending from it, his arm linked in that of one of the Government house-party who seemed delighted to have captured him, and was now leading him off to one of the comparatively quiet side-aisles to pursue their talk unmolested by the jostling dancers. Mr. Worsley's face broke into a pleased smile as he happened to catch a glimpse in the mazes of the waltz of his late companion on the beach, and he and his soldier friend stood watching her for a moment before they retired to seek a quiet nook.
Presently Hester also caught sight of Mark dancing with the younger daughter of the Governor, a graceful girl who danced to perfection, and not a few eyes followed the handsome pair.
Mark, though courteous in his duty to his partner, seemed somewhat absent-minded. More than once she noticed his eyes following the movements of the beautiful Mrs. Rayner. He was in truth trying to divine how things had gone with her since they had parted that afternoon. He had some fear that on her return to Clive's Road she might again have had to encounter a repetition of the scene which still haunted him like a nightmare. Great, therefore, was his surprise, after he had conducted his partner to a seat, and was standing gazing at the bright scene, to be accosted by Alfred Rayner.
"Good evening, Cheveril!" he said jauntily. "Glad to see you were honoured by one of the Duke's daughters. I shouldn't have presumed—but nothing venture nothing win!"
Mark, not having any reply ready, maintained a grave silence, which the speaker evidently translated into an attitude of offence towards himself, and still assuming a conciliatory tone, he said:
"Look here, Cheveril! I want to apologise in dust and ashes for making such an ass of myself the other morning. The fact is a night at Palaveram mess makes a wreck of a fellow. You must forgive and forget my nasty fit of temper, and as a proof of this do go and ask Hester for the next dance. I see she is at this moment wasting her fragrance on what I should call 'the desert air'—talking to Mrs. Fellowes!"
"Thanks for the suggestion! I shall certainly speak to both ladies with pleasure," returned Mark.
Whereupon Mr. Rayner seemed to take for granted that his favour deserved a return. He laid his hand on Mark's sleeve, saying in a coaxing tone:
"I say, Cheveril, I'm going to ask a favour of you! Will you, like a good fellow, introduce me to Mr. Worsley?—or rather, I should put it—bring me again under his notice, for we were introduced at the Club some time after my arrival in Madras. I left my card on him, but no doubt he has now forgotten the name of the humble barrister."
Mark fervently wished that the Collector of Puranapore had forgotten it, for he feared the requested introduction would prove a thorny business; in fact he quickly decided that for Mr. Rayner's own sake it must not be ventured on. Looking at him with frank, honest eyes he said quickly:
"I'm afraid I must not, Rayner, though in other circumstances nothing would have given me greater pleasure."
He felt greatly relieved when at this moment a Club acquaintance claimed his company and led him off.
"'Other circumstances,' forsooth, just like your half-caste impudence!" muttered Mr. Rayner, as he turned on his heel and moved away. The band struck up a new waltz and he remembered that Clarice Glanton had promised him this dance. Threading his way towards her, they were soon in the vortex of the shining floor. Clarice noticed that her companion's gay mood was now replaced by an absent, gloomy air. She began at once to chaff him concerning the change, and Rayner, who was often communicative when reticence would have stood him in better stead, burst forth:
"Oh, it's that young jackanapes, Cheveril, who always rubs me up the wrong way!"
"What, green-eyed jealousy again! I can't see you've any cause for it at this moment. He hasn't once been dancing with your wife, though he has had several partners—and dances well, I observe. As for your precious Hester, she seems glued to a dark corner there, no doubt exchanging views with Mrs. Fellowes about flannels and petticoats for their 'Friendly'!"
"You're always so literal, Clarice. I don't ever harp on one string! It doesn't happen to be jealousy of Cheveril at this moment. Rayner's wife, like Caesar's, is above suspicion! I'll tell you what's bothering me. I happen, for business reasons, to want to have a word with the Collector of Puranapore, and I asked Cheveril to introduce me to him. The surly beggar shuffles out of it in the coolest manner possible. Very rude of him, isn't it? No wonder I'm a bit ruffled!" Mr. Rayner wound up peevishly.
"An introduction to old Mr. Worsley! Why, if that will make you a smiling partner there's no difficulty about it. He's an old chum of the pater's. I've known him since I was a little mite of a child, and he has always a smile for me, for all they say he's such an old bear. Wait till this dance is finished and we'll seek him out."
Miss Glanton was as good as her word. The iridescent-robed maiden looked very charming, when, with her red lips parted showing shining white teeth, she approached the Collector, holding out her hand:
"Clarice, of course," said Mr. Worsley, "transformed into a dragon-fly or something of the kind."
"So glad you happen to know me this time," said the girl airily.
"Well, I don't take credit for any special intelligence, young lady, but you haven't grown, for instance, since we last met!"
"Mercifully not! I don't admire tall women," she replied spitefully, her eye travelling to Hester's graceful willowy figure gliding past with Mark Cheveril. Then glancing at the man by her side she recalled her present mission.
"I want to introduce my friend here who wishes to know the Collector of Puranapore. Mr. Rayner—Mr. Worsley!"
The barrister made a profound bow, lowering his eyelids as he did so. When he raised them, Mr. Worsley's nod had changed to a frown. Recovering himself instantly he turned quickly to the lady, saying lightly: "I hope you are enjoying the dance, Clarice? Plenty of partners, eh?"
Alfred Rayner divined that he would fain have added, "Of a better sort than your present one."
"Well, seeing we haven't the solace of dancing like you, Sir Frederick and I were about to seek the distraction of the supper-table," pursued Mr. Worsley, glancing round for his friend. "Good evening, Clarice! Tell your father not to forget my little dinner at the Club to-morrow night!" Then he turned on his heel and walked away without even bestowing a single glance on Clarice's companion.
"The naughty old man, he didn't catch on at all," said Clarice, puckering her forehead and looking at her companion with a slightly embarrassed air. "I'm afraid you are vexed—but not with me, I hope. I tried to do my level best."
"Sure you did, Clarice," returned Mr. Rayner, scowling. "But I'll tell you what has happened. That puppy Cheveril has been slandering me to the Collector. That's what it is!"
"More than likely," murmured Clarice, feeling uncomfortable, and pondering what ailed Mr. Worsley at the young barrister. There must be something rather serious or he would never have given him such a downright snub, she decided, and was nothing loth to exchange her discomfited partner for a lively Artilleryman from the Mount, and in a few minutes had forgotten the incident.
Not so Alfred Rayner. He wandered about moodily, occasionally trying to catch a glimpse of Hester and discover what she was about; his ruffled temper being by no means soothed on perceiving that she was again dancing with Mark. On issuing from the supper-room which he had visited alone, he chanced to find himself behind Mr. Worsley and his friend. He watched them as they walked along arm-in-arm till they came to a gap in the rows of white pillars that lined the side-aisle under the gallery, which were all gaily festooned to-night, so that the pair stood in the midst of the greenery watching the giddy maze which, though the hours were flying, did not seem to lose any of its fascination for the dancers. There was at the moment a slightly cleared space on the shining floor, and along it came a couple, evidently engaged in bright talk.
"Now look there, Worsley, that young man and maiden make a pretty picture, don't they? 'Love's young dream,' I should say, and no mistake!" The bright blue eyes of the gallant soldier rested with an admiring smile on the pair advancing with slow and graceful steps, all unconscious of being observed by any.
"Now there you are again, Sir Frederick, letting your romantic spirit run away with you! Commend me to a soldier for that sort of thing!" returned Mr. Worsley, with a laugh. "'Love's young dream,' forsooth! The lady is already a wife, and the youth, who I admit is a rarely comely one, is my Assistant at Puranapore. Now you see how your romance tumbles like a house of cards!"
"Humph! Well, at all events its spirit remains. The pair do look as if they were enjoying each other's company vastly"; and the ruddy, weather-beaten face lit up with a benevolent smile as Mark and Hester passed out of their range.
"I only wish it could be as you say," said Mr. Worsley, with a shrug of his shoulders. "The girl's husband is, I fear, a thoroughlymauvais sujet, and she is as good as gold—quite charming. By the way, you must have known her people—Bellairs, a Worcestershire family. Of course you did, and she's very like her handsome uncle Charlie."
"Why she must be the daughter of Philip Bellairs, the parson."
"She is! But how her father came to allow such an unprincipled scoundrel to carry off his daughter, passes me to understand. A creature not fit to touch the hem of her garment. I have a suspicion that he is——"
Mr. Worsley lowered his voice. It no longer reached the ear of the listener who had been cowering on the other side of the festooned pillar, hiding among its greenery. But Alfred Rayner had heard more than enough. With a flame of fury in his eyes, his long fingers clenched, he staggered forth to the nearest verandah. Leaning on its white balustrade he gazed with unseeing eyes on the peaceful, dark blue, star-bespangled vault, his heart a prey to misery and wrath.
"So I'm 'an unprincipled scoundrel,' am I?—not fit to touch the hem of my own wife's garment, forsooth! Well, he's given me my character anyhow! I know now what to expect from that quarter! No more white-flag business for me—all red, red, red!" he muttered, gnashing his teeth like a beast of prey. "I'll see Zynool to-morrow and put him up to a trick or two that will perhaps make Mister Felix Worsley squirm in his lounging chair!"
He stood motionless by the balustrade for some time, his haggard face resting on his long thin hands as he hatched his evil plot.
Perhaps it was the peace of the starry night that spoke to him, for there came stealing upon him at this unexpected juncture one of those moments of self-revelation which visit even the basest and shallowest of human hearts. Its searchlight seemed suddenly to reveal to the man vistas that stretched back even to childish days. He saw himself again the peevish, greedy little boy who wanted everything for himself only, and domineered over the smaller boys, who cringed to the bully; who lied and cheated on the class-bench and in the playground, hating better boys than himself and loving to hear his doting aunt assure him that there was no one so handsome or so smart as he. Yes, to be sure, Aunt Flo was responsible for a good deal! Had not fibs rolled from her speech as hairpins from her black shiny chignon? Had she not reared him to all kinds of petty deceptions till he became proud of successfully conducted small villainies? How spiteful was her attitude to any boy who seemed likely to outstrip him in the race at school or college, and how invariably she succeeded in inoculating him with her jealousy till he had not a single friend left to whom he could turn with frank loyal friendship!
What chance had he from the beginning with such an environment, he asked himself querulously. And now, after all his efforts to secure a good social and professional footing, he saw himself a distrusted man, for in other eyes he had been able to trace something of the same scornful aloofness which he saw in Mr. Worsley's. It was bitter indeed! And Hester, what of her? Perhaps it was too true that he was unworthy to touch the hem of her garment; but she, at least, had not turned the cold shoulder on him yet! Never again would he subject her to these vile ebullitions of temper. He would try to make her forget the scene of the other morning, he vowed, as he gazed on the moon-silvered landscape and drank in some of its peace.
He recalled Hester's look of kindness as they had driven home together on that last Sunday evening from the little mission church on the Esplanade to which she had been eager to take him, and he had thought himself exceedingly complaisant in agreeing, for once, to accompany her to the "unfashionable conventicle," as he called it, where Native Christians, not to speak of Eurasians, sat side by side with the little company of English folk.
The preacher that evening was a desperately earnest-looking man with searching eyes and a penetrating voice. He had unfolded to his hearers one of the old promises from the Sacred Book, the promise that to those who turned to Him, God would give back the years the cankerworm had eaten. As the organ-like voice of the gallant pleader for God had fallen on his ear, Alfred Rayner acknowledged to himself that he was giving more heed to a "parson's words" than he had ever done in his whole life. And there had been a soft pleading light in Hester's eyes as they met his, the silent meaning of which he could not mistake. What a pretty picture she had made as she sat with reverent uplifted face, her arm round a bright little English child whose parents had brought her to this evening service! The little maid had been assiduous in offering her hymn-book to the winning visitor, and as a supreme mark of confidence had finally deposited her doll on Hester's knee, and then sat nestling her fair shining curls against her arm. The picture came back to him now, a tableau graven on his memory. Would that a little flaxen head like that were their very own! What a changed man such a pledge of love would make of him! How truly the promise would then be fulfilled on which the preacher had dwelt in eloquent words! Then surely would the years eaten by the cankerworm be given back! But no, the dream was fading. He shivered as a light breeze blew softly through the verandah, and turned his gaze from the starry heavens, muttering bitterly:
"The cankerworm has fretted through and through! Old Worsley ain't so far wrong after all. I've got the making of a scoundrel in me. Ha, ha! On the make, am I? Well, I'll give him a sample of my wares by-and-by if Zynool will stir up! I declare this silly fit of introspection has made me quite nervy, or the draughty verandah has given me a chill. I must pull myself together."
Having no mind to join the festive gathering again, Rayner crept back to the outer edges of the supper tables, and seeing a magnum of champagne, which he decided was the best recipe for steadying his nerves, he partook eagerly. He then took his stand again in the wide aisle and scanned the ballroom, which was now rapidly emptying. The Governor and his party had retired, though various guests still lingered, but the room was beginning to wear the air of "a banquet-hall deserted."
Rayner glanced round furtively for his wife, and presently descried Mark Cheveril in earnest conversation with another civilian.
"So far good," he muttered, "he at least is not taking advantage of my absence to enjoy himself with this wife of mine whom Mr. Worsley places on such a pedestal!"
But after he had gazed out from his corner a little longer, he perceived a combination which aroused his anger.
On one of the sofas placed about for tired guests not far from where Mark stood, sat Hester, and by her side, his own now declared enemy, the Collector of Puranapore. Mr. Worsley was smiling as he talked, and his conversation was evidently pleasing, judging from Hester's look of interest and animation. The topic was, in fact, reminiscences of her uncle, who had been Felix Worsley's particular friend at Oxford.
Striding rapidly across the room, Rayner laid his hand on his wife's arm, saying sharply:
"Come along, Mrs. Rayner, our carriage stops the way."
Hardly allowing her time even to bow a good-night to her companion, and himself ignoring his presence, he hurried her away, keeping his hold on her arm till she reached the door of the cloak-room.
"Alfred, why were you so rude?" asked Hester in dismay. "Do you know it was Mr. Worsley, whom you wanted so much to meet, that I was talking to?"
"I knew it only too well, madam! Therefore it was I chivied you off as I did. Sorry I interrupted what seemed, judging from your appearance, a fascinatingtête-à-tête, but a man must use his discretion where his own wife is concerned! Don't be in any hurry, I've got to summon the carriage yet," he called, as Hester, dumb with shame and vexation, was disappearing into the cloak-room. "I'll send and let you know when Mrs. Rayner's carriage stops the way!" Then he added to himself: "Meanwhile I want a little more champagne to steady my nerves after all this worry."