If we had followed Mr. Rayner to the High Court on the morning of the day when his wife waited for him in vain in the verandah at Clive's Road, his failure to return home might have been explained. Yet, when it is told that it was only the sudden sight of a face which had scared him and upset all his plans, and that, the familiar face of Zynool Sahib, some further explanation of the circumstances seems needful.
For this we have to go back to his last meeting with the Mahomedan at Waller's Stables, when Zynool had handed him a cheque for a further loan, having taken over the mail-phaeton as part payment of the previous transaction. In his haste, for he was anxious to catch the train for Puranapore, Zynool had given Mr. Rayner the signed cheque still attached to the cover of his cheque-book, believing it to be the last in the book, and being careless as to retaining the counter-foils. Not till Zynool had gone did Alfred Rayner observe that there was still an unused cheque in the book. Smiling at his client's carelessness, he placed the signed cheque in his pocket-book, and thrust the pink cover with the remaining one into the pocket of his jacket, meaning to hand it to Zynool with some chaffing remark when next they met.
Zynool's loan was much needed and was quickly spent. The absence of the hitherto unfailing allowance from Truelove Brothers was making itself felt. His financial outlook seemed at his darkest when, one morning, he came on something in the pocket of his coat which suggested a solution of his pressing difficulties. It was the crumpled remains of the pink cover with the blank cheque still affixed to it which he had fully meant to restore to its owner. But a good many hours had struck in Alfred Rayner's moral life since then, and each had been dragging him steadily downward. His determined repudiation of his father, his unbridled fury at the thought of having any connection with Eurasians, the lies and subterfuges which a false position entails, all had undermined a character which had never been sterling. When, therefore, as his fortunes were at their lowest, he came upon the blank cheque it presented an overmastering temptation. He quickly formed the plan of using it, saying to himself that, of course, he would replace the money presently, and encouraging himself with the knowledge that Zynool, though shrewd, had no business habits, and it might be long before he discovered the little transaction—theft, he would not call it, for he might be able to replace every pie in a few days. Having decided that he might with impunity risk the fraud, it was quite easy for him to forge his client's familiar signature, his sprawling handwriting lending itself with facility to the deception, nor would there be any difficulty in his cashing the cheque; it being well known at the bank that he was Zynool's man of business and had frequent money transactions with him. In fact, the deed was done with such ease that a more sensitive man might have been startled at the ready complicity of fate in his crime. He walked jauntily out of the Bank after having counted his notes and exchanged a few pleasant words with the cashier. Then he resolved that this new "loan," as he preferred to call it, should be devoted to carrying his wife from the hot plains to a hill sanatorium, and had eagerly hurried home to divulge his plans.
Nemesis, however, began to dog his steps with appalling swiftness. The very next afternoon at the High Court, when he was engaged in conducting a case on the success of which he was eagerly reckoning, it came with rapid strides. Adorned with his wig and gown, he was holding forth, unusually pungent and successful in his arguments, when who should he see standing by the door watching him with a sardonic smile but Zynool Sahib! The beady eyes flashed fire, and the amber face had the look of a beast of prey. From the moment that Alfred Rayner's eye lighted on the man whom he had wronged, he had not a shadow of doubt that the Mahomedan was aware of the fraud so lightly perpetrated on him; and he knew also that he could expect no mercy at his hands. There was a malignant triumph in Zynool's eyes which told that he had trapped his victim. "Trapped"—the word echoed in the barrister's head as he made a violent effort to continue his speech; but he, who had been so glib in his arguments a moment before, now stammered and looked so faint that even the Judge did not fail to notice his threatening collapse, and more than one pair of eyes were fixed on him with a questioning stare. Nor did the torture of his spirit lessen when he observed that a Mussulman attendant had crept up to Zynool and whispered something which caused the Mahomedan to leave the court-room quickly.
"There's a warrant waiting for me outside," he groaned inwardly.
When the Court broke up Rayner quite expected to find his declared foe waiting at the door, surrounded by emissaries of the law, but he was nowhere to be seen. Presently, however, he was approached by a peon from the Bank, who politely handed him a letter from the manager.
"Ha, the fat's in the fire, sure enough! I'm as good as hauled off to prison," he muttered. Then an inspiration seized him. Glancing at the phlegmatic peon he told him to wait for his reply. He went in search of the Mahomedan official whom he had observed talking to Zynool before he left the Court. The man being of a lower rank, Rayner decided that Zynool would probably have made no communication to him concerning the forgery.
"Is Zynool still in town?" he asked.
"He is not," was the reply. "He intended to remain in town, for he said he had important business, but his son-in-law came with news—veree grave news from Puranapore."
There was a threatening of a riot in Puranapore, it seemed, and it was feared that Zynool's house might be attacked, so he had hastened back by the earliest train.
"Just as I supposed," said Rayner to himself, having recognised the youth who brought the news, and thought it must be some urgent message. "So the fat's in the fire there too! Well, it's an ill wind that blows no one good," he muttered, going into the writing-room where he set himself to write to the manager of the Bank, acknowledging his letter and explaining that he was detained by important legal business till after the closing hour of the Bank, but that he would call early next morning, and added:
"... If your note refers to the misunderstanding about my friend Zynool Sahib's cheque, I have just seen him and it is completely cleared up. I need hardly say it was his own blunder."
Handing his letter to the waiting peon with an easy air, he turned away with a very different expression on his face. After standing hesitating for a moment what his next move should be, he hurried out at a side-door which opened on a back street. He saw a little country carriage, like a box on wheels, which the natives call ajatka, standing near. Hailing it, he jumped in with alacrity, telling the driver to go out the Mount Road. He found no difficulty in concealing himself in the windowless little box, though he cowered in a corner with a throbbing heart as the pony ambled along. He was indifferent as to where he went, but on he must go till darkness should throw its concealing mantle over him. At length he reached the Thousand Lights Bazaar, and calling on the jatka-wallah to stop, he alighted and paid his fare. After wandering about among the stalls he explained to a bazaar-vendor in Tamil, which he spoke with ease, that he wished to purchase a turban. Buying the number of yards of muslin which the merchant assured him were indispensable, he asked that it should be twisted into shape. The request seemed to astonish the dealer not a little, that process being generally accomplished by the customer himself on his head. However, with a good-natured laugh he deftly adjusted the folds and handed it to him. After paying for his purchase and the additional sum demanded for the making up of the headpiece, Rayner hurried away, walking rapidly on till he came to a patch of jungle which skirted the road. Plunging into it, he caught sight of a small tank in its centre which reflected the yellow moon. He dropped his sun-topee into the water, watching the ripples that appeared on the smooth surface as it sank, for he had attached a stone to it.
"Probably a needless precaution," he muttered, "but one can't be too careful."
He adjusted the turban on his head, and divesting himself of his coat, he turned it inside out, its lining being of a pale-coloured silk.
"In the dark I'll pass for some nondescript, at least. Nobody will recognise the smart 'La'yer Rayner' in this guise," he said with a grim smile, as he caught his reflection in the moon-silvered water. "Bother this bright moonlight, but for it I might have no fear of recognition!"
Prudence seemed to dictate that he should remain for a time concealed in the jungle plot. At length, after consulting his watch under the clear light of the moon, he decided that it was safe to emerge and make his way townwards. Consecutive thought was in abeyance, but his one idea was somehow to reach his wife and throw himself on her mercy in his desperate plight; for he was well aware he had only retarded his possible capture by some hours. An unpleasant surprise in the shape of a waiting police-official might even be in store for him when he reached Clive's Road, but he thought he could reckon himself safe till next morning, only he would take careful observation before he trusted himself within the precincts of his own compound, and would not venture near till the night was well advanced.
Steadily he trod townwards, his footfalls echoing on the empty road. There was no need to divest himself of his boots and walk in his silk socks as he had thought of doing, there being not a single soul to take note of him.
When he reached the streets he congratulated himself there would only be loafers and waifs about, who would take no account of such a hybrid as he looked in his motley dress.
He did not follow a direct route to Clive's Road, but thinking he had made sure that his direction was towards it, he was surprised to find that he had, all unwittingly, stumbled into Vepery. Never had he set foot in that quarter since his return to Madras. He glanced at the silent rows of shabby houses, with feeble lights still flickering from some of their windows in spite of the lateness of the hour. As he passed a corner house which was in darkness, he saw a figure leaning against one of the chunam posts where a gate should have swung. It had so lately received a fresh coat of white that the female figure stood out in relief. Rayner glanced towards the woman involuntarily and started. The girl also gave a start. In spite of his disguise, Leila Baltus had no difficulty in recognising him. A quick hope seized her, "Alfred's repented! He's come here in that comic make-up to make it up with his old love! Alf, I'm here—waiting for you," she said in a loud whisper.
"Here's a pretty mess—of all people to stumble onher!" he muttered to himself, quickening his steps.
But Leila Baltus would not allow him to escape. Running after him, she laid her hand on his arm.
"Don't be shy, Alf! You know you've come to kiss and be friends! La, but whatt a guy you do look!" she exclaimed with a giggle, getting in front of him. "I say, didsheturn you out like thatt after hearin' the news from Aunt Tilly and me this veree afternoon thatt your pa was a half-caste? I swore I'd be even with her and I've got my wish. Ha, ha!" And she danced in front of him, obstructing his efforts to pass her.
"You fiend! What are you saying?" cried Rayner in a desperate voice. "You didn't dare to do that! Get out of my way, I'm in no mind for your jokes!"
"Ho, ho, thatt's how it is—your fine wife's done with you, and yet you won't be in with me! Come, Alf," she said in a persuasive tone. "I'll get you a nice prawn curry for the sake of old times, late though it is. What a good thing I was taking a gasp of air past midnight!"
"Out of my way, girl! Do you wish to drive me mad?" cried Rayner, as he forcibly detached the girl's hand from his arm and pushed her against the wall, while he took to his heels and ran till at length, hearing no footsteps behind him, he concluded that he had got rid of his tormentor, and slackened his pace.
"I wonder if the spiteful minx did really go and pour out her venom on Hester? Well, I feared it might come, and now that everything is tumbling about my ears it doesn't much matter. There's no future for us in Madras, that's clear, but I've sharp wits, I'll make a living at home—and the Bellairs have influence. Hester will never forsake me," he murmured with an encouraged air. "We'll set sail at once for England."
He was now passing a riotous haunt, which even at this hour echoed with boisterous voices and laughter, and flaring lights streamed from the verandah where loungers drank and smoked, but he turned away his eyes in disgust and sped on his way. As he walked along one of the more secluded roads of Vepery, his eye lighted on a white gate on which was written, in letters that he could trace in the clear moonlight—Freyville.
"Why, that's the name ofhishouse," he muttered, staring with fascinated eyes on the abode of his father. "Strange that I should have stumbled on it to-night of all nights!"
It had a placid, winning air; two of the wide windows which gave on the verandah stood open and a light burned within. He could see a grey head bending over a big book which lay on a table.
For a brief moment a sudden impulse came to the fugitive in his desperate plight. Should he walk in and present himself to the old man? A swift intuition whispered that even after all that had come and gone a hand would be held out at the eleventh hour to save him. The threatening hoofs of the Australians, the insulting words spoken in his verandah, and the repudiation at the beach—all would be blotted out by that one word "father"; ay, and more, the means to extricate him from the pit which he had digged for himself and into which he had fallen, would most surely be forthcoming. Even now it was not too late to compromise with Zynool and the Bank. The man seated there could doubtless do it for him. Would he say that needful word, he asked himself, as he laid his hand on the latch of the white gate. Just at that moment, the silent reader in the silent room raised his head. The searching eyes looked out as if stirred by some consciousness that something untoward was afoot.
"No, I shan't play the returned prodigal—not in my line," muttered Rayner, suddenly dropping the latch. "I'll rather cut the whole concern—work my way to Karrachi, arrange to meet Hester when safer, hurry home to England, and turn over a new leaf there."
Striding rapidly on his way, he never halted till he reached the precincts of Clive's Road, where he began to tread more cautiously. He removed his boots, pulled his turban down over his eyes, and kept close to the hedge which skirted the compound, starting even at his own shadow, and listening intently to every sound that broke the silence of the Indian night.
Hester was still sitting in the verandah waiting her husband's return. Her own preparations for the projected journey to the hills were well advanced, but there was still a good deal to settle before their departure, and she had expected Alfred to hurry home earlier than usual to complete all arrangements. Not realising how late it was, she reckoned that he must have been detained by some important interview with a client. As she sat with folded hands wearily waiting, her thoughts suddenly reverted to the disagreeable visitors of the afternoon and their extraordinary communication. It seemed to take shape in her mind for the first time and she sighed softly.
"I only wish Mr. Morpeth had been Alfred's father! How differently he would have brought him up from that silly aunt whose memory he despises!"
But the story was so evidently the outcome of malice that it was hardly worthy of consideration. Perhaps this Leila Baltus had been a former acquaintance of Alfred's. The thought had occurred to her before, and now she felt certain of it, and yet it seemed strange in the light of his bitter prejudice against the Eurasian community. But evidently the girl did owe him a grudge, and it was not pleasant to think of; so Hester tried to dismiss the incident from her mind.
She rose from her lounging chair and began to pace up and down the verandah, looking out on the moon-silvered lawn and drinking in the peace of the midnight landscape. A slight movement of one of the side blinds of the verandah which had not, like the others, been raised at sunset, now arrested her attention. She drew some steps nearer. Through one of the chinks of the rattan, which was being gently pushed up, she caught sight of a pair of eyes. For a moment she stood riveted to the spot with terror, then she turned with the intention of rousing the "maty," whom she knew to be stretched in deep slumber in the verandah at the back of the house, but a voice whispered through the chinks—"Hester."
The tone that fell on her ear was not familiar. Was it a ghostly presence that had crept near her? Those eyes had looked so terrible. They were withdrawn now, and she heard a light footfall on the steps which froze her blood within her. Suddenly her husband stood before her in his strange garb and with so wild and distraught a bearing that her terror was hardly lessened.
"Alfred," she gasped. "What is the matter? Why have you come like this?"
"Hush, Hester, don't speak so loud. Nobody must hear. Are you quite alone? Nobody about—all the servants gone?" whispered her husband, glancing round furtively.
"Alfred, what has—How awful you look—and that dress. What has happened?"
"Yes, I must look an awful guy! I'm sorry I've scared you! I might at least have taken off the turban before I showed myself—seeing I'm not a native, anyhow," he added, with a bitter laugh. Then springing forward he took hold of his wife's trembling hands and wailed in a piteous tone: "Oh, Hester, you won't desert me? Whatever happens, whatever you may hear about me. There will be many lies afloat. Hester, I'm in mortal trouble, everything has tumbled to bits——"
"Alfred, is it—is it that you've just found out—since you left this morning—that Mr. Morpeth is your father?" she asked, holding his hands and looking into his eyes.
"So you've heard that!" he gasped. "It's true what that fiend told me——"
"But why trouble about that?" said Hester gently. "I have just been thinking how good it would be if it were true! I know you have hated Eurasians, but—but if your father is one, surely that prejudice will snap like a gossamer thread. Think how noble he is—and Mark Cheveril too."
As she spoke that name, a picture, like a benediction, sprang into her troubled mind—those frank, honest eyes, that chivalrous protective presence—what would she not give to have Mark Cheveril with her at this difficult juncture to aid her in her persuasions, for she had not yet fathomed the abyss of trouble which seethed about her. "Why, Alfred, a parentage like that will be our pride," she went on, and her tone rang with conviction.
Her husband stared at her for an instant with a strange wistful expression in his eyes, then he shook his head and pulled his hand from her grasp.
"It's a lie," he shrieked. "A vile lie! I wouldn't touch the man with the tongs! He's not my father. You're on the wrong track altogether, Hester, it's not that. Listen and I'll whisper," he added, turning with terrified eyes to stare at the long shadows thrown by the moonlight from the shrubs encircling the gravel sweep. "I'm a hunted man. They're after me already—the police, I mean! I'm a criminal, Hester! In a mad moment I yielded to a vile temptation. The long and the short of it is that I've made myself liable to conviction for forgery. I'm ruined."
Then he narrated incoherently all that had led up to his using the Mahomedan's name.
Hester listened silently with strained eyes and a face of deadly pallor. Indeed she seemed unable to find utterance.
"Speak, Hester," wailed her husband, when he had told her all. "Don't stand staring at me like a ghost. I've come to say good-bye, Hester! I couldn't resist that. Mind, I did it for you—to get money to go to the hills, and now I'll have to flee an outcast and alone!"
"But how—where?" asked Hester in bewildered tones, as if she was only beginning to have a glimmering of the dreadful import of the revelation which she had just heard.
"Well, listen—I might dodge the police if I can get off to-night. I've got some hours in front of them still. I can't for the life of me steady my thoughts to make any plan. Hester, help me!" he wailed feebly. "I can't, I won't see the inside of an Indian jail!"
Hester's eyes dilated with horror, but she seemed unable to utter a word.
"Look here, wife, if I could only get hold of some disguise I might get off by the early train to Beypore, and go on to Karrachi and ship there. I've got a pal there who will help me, and see me through this scrape if I could only reach Beypore without being caught. Ah, but I shouldn't have told you—I should have kept that dark! Never mind now, you're my wife and you can keep a secret. Can't you plan out any make-up that would serve my turn—male or female?"
Hester's mind was already at work. She had so far grasped the desperate situation. Pain and shame gnawed at her spirit, and the unspoken wail rang in her heart, "Oh, how could he commit such a dreadful crime?" Even the query rose in her mind, "Was it right to help him?" If she did not, the issue was certain according to his own showing. When morning dawned he would be dragged off to prison. That slender body, those high strung nerves would not stand that even for a day! "O God, help me," she murmured, looking on the cowering figure of her husband. "The issues are with Thee, but surely it is for me, his wife, to help him at this terrible hour—all I can!"
"Oh, save me, Hester, save me!" implored her husband. "The morning will be on us, and they'll drag me off as sure as fate."
"Listen to me, Alfred," began Hester, in a quiet firm voice. "Will you wait here for a moment? I think I have a plan, but I must go up-stairs and see ayah about it. You need not fear her, she'll be quite faithful——"
"Anyhow we must risk it," he interrupted, with a ring of hope in his voice. "I'll wait, Hester, but be quick, there's not a moment to lose."
Left alone Mr. Rayner threw himself on one of the lounging chairs, then, feeling faint, he remembered that he had not tasted food for many hours.
"Shan't whisper that to her, or she'd be insisting on a good square meal, and that might cost me dear."
He made his way to the dining-room and lit one of the candles in the candelabra which stood on the table. He went to the sideboard and poured himself out a glass of brandy and drank it eagerly. The stimulant nerved him for a little, but he began to grow impatient for his wife's return.
Meanwhile Hester's brain was at work up-stairs. In a whisper she had confided to her ayah that her husband must hurry off at once because he had done something bad which had been found out.
"Something veree bad," repeated the ayah, shaking her head. "Poor gentleman, what a pity it is done find out!"
"When we do wrong it is always found out by God, ayah," replied Hester. "His punishment must come unless we repent and make amends. But I feel we must give him some help. I want to dress my husband in some clothes as unlike his own as possible. Where is that saree and jacket you used to wear in the cold weather. Will you sell it to me, ayah?"
"Sell, missus? I giving, not selling. I go fetch this veree minute."
Hester then hurried downstairs quickly, divulging the plan to her husband.
"First-rate idea!" he said, springing up from his chair. "You're a genius, Hester!"
"Come then," she answered, drawing his arm through hers and leading him up-stairs.
The ayah stood in readiness, holding the required garments.
"Awfully good of you, ayah," said Mr. Rayner almost lightly. "I'll send your saree back again, or better still, your missus will buy you a new one!"
The red saree was soon deftly arranged by the ayah, but when she drew back to regard her work, she shook her head.
"Ai, ai, thattferinghiwhite face will spoil all!"
"She's right, Hester," said Rayner, fixing hopeless eyes on his wife.
Hester silently went to heralmirah, remembering a little box of colouring powders which had been given her by a visitor to the Rectory when some charades were on foot, and her brothers had to be hastily transformed into Red Indians. She had returned the box next morning, but her friend had said, "Keep it, my dear, you may find it useful yet!" She recalled the words with a sad smile. Yes, she thought, she would find it useful now to help the flight of her husband, to whom she had not been a year married, and to save him, if possible, from being convicted as a forger!
She set about her work, executing it as skilfully as on that happy evening when she had won golden opinions for her clever imitation of the colouring of Red Indians. The old ayah forgot her misery, and fairly clapped her hands when she saw the result. Even Mr. Rayner, when he surveyed himself in the mirror after having the saree draped round his head, said with a relieved air:
"Hester, you're an angel! I declare I'll pass for an old ayah going to visit my granddaughter. Of course my lovely nut brown hue will soon wear off but it may last till I reach—ah, I mustn't mention the place, though! But I'm afraid those bare feet, though brown enough, will take badly to the road, and yet my shoes would give me away."
"But master must have ring on his toe," cried the ayah, and the kindly old woman transferred her own ring from her toe to his.
"You'll need to hurry, Alfred," said Hester. "The dawn is beginning to steal in."
When her husband caught sight of her grief-stricken face, the brief courage which his successful disguise had imparted began to give way.
"Oh, I can't do it, Hester," he moaned. "I'm not fit to go through with it. I'll rather stay and be caught, like a rat in a trap," and he threw himself down on a sofa.
Hester's brave spirit rose with the desperate crisis.
"You must carry out your plan, Alfred. It's too late to draw back now—unless it is any sense that it is wrong to go that makes you shrink? You must not let your faint heart get the upper hand," she said firmly, almost dragging him from the sofa. "Alfred, I want to say something to you," she whispered, as they went downstairs to the verandah. "Will you try to think of what you've done? It's so terrible! Will you cry to God to make you feel the shame and the sin of it all? It is never too late to seek His forgiveness. Nothing else really matters but that in the end," she said softly, and her eyes pleaded more than her words.
"You're a saint," murmured her husband, looking into her face with an awed air. "God bless you, my sweet wife! I was never worthy of you. Old Worsley was right there."
Even in her woe Hester felt surprise at these words. "He's dreaming," she thought, but the time for words was past. Not one moment longer could she allow him to linger. She urged him to go, but he threw himself into a chair.
"It's you who are sending me away," he groaned. "I never thought it would end so. I won't be hoofed out by you like this! No, don't lay a finger on me," he cried, pushing her away as she stooped over him caressingly, as a mother might over a rebellious child. "You'll spoil my make-up if you touch me and then my only chance of escape will be gone!" After a moment he recovered himself and started up. "Look here, Hester, how could I forget? You must share in my gold—I've got plenty here," he said, pulling out one of the bags he had stowed away in the remnants of English clothing which he had retained beneath the thickly pleated folds of the red saree. "See, I'll give you half——"
"Of the money you stole!" cried his wife, with a ring of scorn in her voice. "Not a penny of it! Come what may, it must all be returned to the Mahomedan, whoever he is," she added with decision. The incident seemed to brace her thoughts, though she was conscious that the fact of her husband offering her a share of his theft emphasised the gulf between them. Something of this seemed to strike him also. He stood staring at her with misery in his eyes.
"Oh, Hester, what a hideous mess I've brought you into!" he burst forth. "But you'll not forsake me, will you? This horrid hunt for me will not last long. I'll get off scot free, never fear. We may be able to meet soon and go to England together. I'll send you word. If not together, I'll hurry there, and you'll meet me, won't you, dear?" he asked, clinging to her.
Hester started back on seeing the growing light of the sky.
"Alfred, you're forgetting the risk you run by lingering like this. You must go as long as it is possible. See, it will be day soon. Oh, do go, I implore you," she cried in terror, thinking she heard sounds in the back verandah, and almost pushing him down the steps. "I cannot let you perish! Go, go, oh, do go!"
"I fear I can't risk my make-up by an embrace," he said lightly, looking back as he began to go down the steps. But when he reached the gravel, he darted up again and threw his arms round her trembling figure, kissing her passionately; then he fled, just as the silver dawn was chasing the last shadows of night from the sky.
Hester stood a silent statuesque figure, watching her husband as he disappeared along the avenue of casuarina trees. Then her dauntless spirit gave way and she fell down in a faint.
Alfred Rayner in disguise, limping over the hard road with his bare brown-stained feet, and trammelled by his unwonted garb, made slow progress. At length he reached the railway station. It was empty save for a few stray passengers who had stepped out of a train which had just steamed in. He hurried to the ticket-office, and adapting his "munshi" acquired Tamil as closely as possible to the servants' patois, asked for a third-class ticket for Beypore, the clerk volunteering the information that a train was just starting.
Rayner hurried to the platform and saw some passengers, all natives, scrambling into the carriages of the waiting train with many bundles and much vociferation. He reckoned himself fortunate to secure an empty one, and seated himself on the hard bench with a relieved air.
"Off at last, and not a single pair of eyes to pry on me—or worse, thank goodness!" he muttered. "There might have been a force of police lying in wait. But who would recognise the defaulting barrister in this old hag of an ayah? I mustn't forget for one instant that I am an old ayah, or else woe betide me!"
The fugitive tried to make himself as comfortable as his circumstances would admit, resolving to secure a period of sleep and at the first break in the journey to fortify himself by a good breakfast. This, however, he feared might not be for some time seeing the train, for an express, was going at an unaccountably slow pace. Sheer exhaustion came to his aid, and he fell into a deep sleep, only to awake when the train pulled up at a station.
"Now for some breakfast, I'm desperately hungry!" he said, yawning and stretching himself with an air of satisfaction, which soon changed to bewilderment when he observed that the few passengers were all tumbling out of their respective carriages, and that the train had evidently reached its terminus.
Rubbing his eyes he peered out, perceiving to his dismay the familiar station of Puranapore. Mistaking this train for the express for Beypore, he had been carried to the place which of all others he would have wished to avoid.
"Good heavens!" he muttered, throwing himself back on the carnage bench. "And the very first person I see may be Zynool himself!" Then to his relief he remembered that, after all, he appeared as an old Hindu ayah, on whom the haughty Mussulman would not deign to look.
He slipped out of the carriage, saying to himself: "I must feign rheumatics and limp a bit!"
In spite of his confidence in his disguise, he could not help glancing furtively round. Nobody, however, seemed to be taking any account of the harmless looking old woman. In fact, there seemed to be some absorbing preoccupation filling the minds of all the bystanders. The new arrivals hung about with an air of trouble on their faces, their bundles deposited by their sides, as they listened open-mouthed to the native porters, who were expatiating volubly on some matter which was evidently of general interest. The Eurasian station-master had a worried air, and, in coming in contact with the supposed ayah, bustled her unceremoniously aside.
The question with Rayner, meanwhile, was not to discover the topic of interest, but how he could proceed to Beypore. This involved some inquiries, and he was timid in his first attempts at personating his fictitious character.
"After all, I'm not an ancient crone but a man of the world," he assured himself, as he limped towards the little shelf behind which a Eurasian boy sold dog-eared, dust-begrimed books and newspapers. He laid his hands on a time-table, and threw down the required anna in payment, then without uttering a word he withdrew to a quiet corner to study it. He found to his disappointment that only by returning to Madras could he entrain for Beypore. To the Central station he must go, that was inevitable, but at what a risk! Ever and anon during his cogitations he had to remind himself that owing to his disguise the chance of discovery was slight. Still, in the familiar precincts of the Madras station, the risk in daylight would be too great to run, besides he had not nerve for it, he decided. He must then perforce linger at Puranapore till after dark, and then take a return train which would fit in with the express for Beypore in the early morning.
To be a whole day in Puranapore was a dismal prospect, but it had to be faced. As an old ayah he could sleep away most of it in the women's third-class waiting-room. He resolved now to secure breakfast, but there were no possibilities for this in the little station. He therefore prepared to make his way out, not without some trepidation, as it was his first real experience of testing his disguise. Addressing the ticket collector who stood at the gate, he explained that he had stepped into the wrong train at Madras, being bound for Beypore, not Puranapore, and was therefore minus a ticket, but had the fare ready in his hand.
The porter replied in a kindly tone in his native tongue.
"What matters the ticket, old mother, on this day—an unlucky day for you to come to our town. We need more the soldiers than an old woman."
Rayner, in a humble voice, asked the reason of this.
"What, you don't know there's fighting and rioting between Hindus and Mahomedans afoot here since last night? It is said they are to be at it again to-night only worse. This is the Mohurrum; but like me, not being caste Hindu, you don't bother about their squabbles."
Rayner assented with a nod.
"All the same, old mother, guard your venerable bones when you get into the streets," he added.
Rayner remembered hisrôleso well that he salaamed profoundly as he passed out, and the ticket-collector looked after him, shaking his head.
"It's a far cry from Puranapore to Beypore, poor old amah! She'd have been safer there to-day than here!"
Rayner could see from the changed appearance of the passers-by in the streets that the town was roused. There seemed also to be a large addition to the usual population. Haughty, stalwart groups of Mussulmans, evidently from the Mofussil, strode about, casting looks of hatred on the Hindus, many of whom were hurrying to close their shops and stalls, whispering ominously to each other. Even the boldest beggars rattled their gourds with less confidence than usual; and from the windows of the houses which gave on the streets he could catch glimpses of female forms looking down like startled birds. Everywhere extreme tension was visible.
"I expect they're only bottling up till nightfall," muttered Rayner. "My programme, sketched to Zynool, has evidently been adopted. Clever dog—an apt pupil, in fact! He should forgive this little blunder of mine, seeing I've proved such an excellent teacher! All the same, I little thought I was to be in at the death!"
He crept cautiously along the narrow streets in search of a bazaar where he might pick up a native repast.
"An English breakfast might give the show away," he sighed, remembering the dainty breakfast table at Clive's Road at which Hester would now be seated, but from which he was banished. Finding a stall where eatables were displayed, and cooking in progress, he crept up, asking in a humble tone for a cup of coffee, and some rice cakes. An excellent meal was provided, but after partaking of it he had to withdraw to a corner to extricate the payment from his pocket beneath the folds of his saree, so he decided to purchase one of the gay little cotton bags which he had noticed was an invariable part of the ayah's dress, and to keep some small change in it for emergencies. The bag also suggested a supply of betel-nut; for he remembered the stained lips and teeth would all go to enhance the needful "make-up." Having made his small purchases successfully, he wandered about the streets for a time, but the sun was now beating mercilessly down on his head, which was uncovered save for the muslin wrap, and his feet were beginning to be scorched and blistered by the burning pavements till he felt obliged to seek some cooler retreat.
He now made his way to the outlying portion of the town. He glanced up at the mosque as he passed it, recalling how Zynool and he had plotted that this bone of contention should be planted in close proximity to the burning-ghaut of the Hindus. Then he strolled down to the river-side, and took a closer survey of the spot than he had ever done before. Some oleanders threw out graceful branches which suggested a possibility of shade, but they afforded no shelter from the fierceness of the sun. He began to fear sunstroke if he lingered longer without cover, but to seek shelter in any house might have evil consequences.
Limping slowly along the road, he came at length to a palm-tope and threw himself on the burnt-up grass in the best shaded corner he could find. A spell of sleep soon granted him some relief. When he awoke he glanced at his watch, and was thankful to see that afternoon was approaching. Soon he could take his way to the station, but being unwilling to enter the town again he was desirous of postponing his arrival there till close on the hour of the train's departure for Madras. He decided to stray further into the jungly scrub which stretched beyond the palm-tope, and would fain have rested in the cool-looking rank grass which abounded; but Indian jungles were treacherous, teeming with insect life, not to speak of the possible lurking presence of snakes, and he did not dare to sit at ease. The shade, however, was refreshing, and he would while away the hours till the darkness fell.
For the first time since he was faced by the fear of detection he felt inclined to review his plans for escape. Self-pity entered largely into his thoughts. He regretted he had not made definite arrangements with Hester to have some needful belongings forwarded to him, and resolved to send her an unsigned memo, directing her to dispatch his dressing-boy, whom he regarded as specially faithful, with a portion of his wardrobe to Beypore. He felt a certain interest and excitement in making a list of his needs on the leaf of a scribbling book which he discovered in his pocket, though he had got rid of his pocket-book when he visited the river, fearing lest it might become a witness against him. He began to write minute directions to his wife about various matters.
"All this will need cash, of course," he muttered, "but since she was too proud to share mine, she must manage as best she can. There's still the landau and the horses and a good many assets. She may even be able to assist me with some money. As for me, I'll ship at Kurrachi as a humble ayah—a steerage passenger; then I'll watch my chance, and come off at Aden, then with the help of my bundle—I only wish I could risk my own portmanteau—I'll be able to appear as an English gentleman, and, as such, continued my journey home under an assumed name. What a blessing it will be to get out of this vile petticoat!" he wound up, impatiently extricating the end of the saree which had become involved in some straggling tendrils.
He was delighted to find how quickly the time had passed since he got his mind into working order, and decided that he might now venture to emerge from his retreat. As he stepped out to the road, a bandy passed him, but he failed to catch sight of the passenger. Presently a man on horseback intercepted the bandy, and its occupant jumped out. Rayner had no difficulty in recognising Dr. Campbell, the rider being Mark Cheveril. After a moment's parley both gentlemen continued their journey townwards, which finally decided the fugitive to turn in the opposite direction.
He had not gone far when the big Jailer, mounted on a strong brown horse, appeared, also making for the town.
"They're all agog, seemingly! Zynool hasn't been able to keep his plan of attack so secret as he ought," muttered Rayner. "But it will give them a bit of a scare anyhow!" he chuckled.
Presently two Eurasian clerks passed him on foot. In their haste one of them knocked up against him.
"Out of the way, old amah, if you don't want to be shoved down," he said, brushing past; then remarked to his companion, "I daresay the poor soul thinks she's safer on the road to-night than in the town."
Rayner followed them closely, and in the stillness of the evening air could catch fragments of their shrill conversation.
"Oh, my gracious, what a lark this is! I wonder if the Collector will come in? The Doctor thought he should, but I could see the 'Sub.' didn't want it."
"That's because he wants to protect the Collector from the row. Mr. Cheveril adores him and looks after him as if he were a babee ever since his poison illness."
"Mr. Cheveril is an awfulee good sort—and to think he is one of us! I say, Mike, don't it give a fellow more heart to have him taking up our cause like thatt? Though to my eyes, he looks more an Anglo-Saxon than a Eurasian."
"Just what I told the young fool," muttered Rayner. "If only he hadn't mixed himself up with that lot, he might have passed anywhere for a pucka Englishman."
The clerks had now disappeared round a bend of the road, and the silence remained unbroken till the noise of horse's hoofs sounded behind. It was the Collector himself, riding a beautiful black mare. Rayner shrank into the shadow as much as possible, but he could see that Mr. Worsley's face looked grave, though his eyes were bright, and he managed his mettlesome steed with elegant ease.
"Why, the wholesahib-loghas turned out," thought Rayner. "I'll give the town as wide a berth as possible, and slink up by the back streets to the station."
He walked on, congratulating himself that at least there was no risk of meeting any of the English contingent, seeing they had all gone townwards. Soon he came to the little English cantonment, as it was still called, though the military element had been withdrawn. It was not unknown to him. He had visited it and left cards on some of the residents in earlier days, before he began to intrigue with Zynool and became conscious that he was a suspected person. He liked to dwell on these days now.
"I was a fool ever to have leagued myself with a native," he sighed. "It's only brought me bad luck in the end."
He remembered, too, a pleasant afternoon he had passed as the recipient of little Mrs. Samptor's hospitality. He was trying to identify her bungalow when he heard voices. Two ladies stood talking at a gate. He was startled to recognise Mrs. Samptor's voice, but decided his best policy was to creep quietly past, sustaining hisrôleas an old ayah in every particular.
"Don't you fear, Mrs. Campbell, Samptor will make them scuttle like sheep!" remarked one of the ladies, and Rayner had no difficulty in recognising Mrs. Samptor's sharp tones. "I say, whose ayah's that? Can't be Mrs. Goldring's—too tall! Is she yours, Mrs. Campbell?"
"No, mine went to eat rice; besides, she's quite short in comparison to that one."
"She's not the Meakin's either. I know their one. Yes, she is tall—she doesn't look the right muster for an ayah somehow. I say, what if she's a Mahomedan in disguise come to murder us all when our men are away!"
Rayner had heard too much for his peace of mind. These were no safe quarters for him. He wheeled right about and began to walk hastily towards the town again.
Driven from the precincts of the English quarter by Mrs. Samptor's remarks, Mr. Rayner resolved to lurk about the jungly scrub till his train was due; but finding this retreat increasingly dreary in the gathering darkness, he felt possessed with a desire to see a little of the possible happenings in the crowded streets of the native town.
"No danger of a respectable old amah like me being molested," he assured himself. Besides, he was again feeling very hungry, and decided that he must try to secure an evening meal.
On emerging from the wood, he noticed with surprise that the darkening sky was becoming suffused by a reddish glow, and suddenly a tongue of flame shot up from the town.
"They're firing something! Surely it's not the mosque? The Mahomedans will be beside themselves with fury. By Jove! I only hope it's Zynool's house—and him in it!" muttered Rayner with a chuckle.
A wild chorus of shouts and shrieks was now borne on the still evening air, and more flames leapt up into the sky.
"I declare I'm tempted to creep a little nearer and see the fun! Not a soul will heed an old woman in the scrimmage!"
Rayner began to walk on steadily as fast as his unshod feet would carry him. When he reached the narrow streets of the old town, he found that all were literally packed with human beings. It was a weird though picturesque scene, the rich variegated colours of the Eastern robes and turbans making a seething mass, lit up by many waving torches, jostling and pressing on one another in a state of wild ferment. One of the Mahomedan processions had come in contact with a company of Hindus who, with much tom-toming and blowing of conchs, were trying to make their way to the river-side to perform the burning ceremonies of a dead dhobie woman, and were using the occasion to incite their rivals by every means in their power. Some conspirators had fired the mosque, which was not long in bursting into flame. The rage of the Mahomedans knew no bounds when they saw their holy place being ruthlessly destroyed by the devouring flames. The lurid light from the blaze was shed upon the combatants in their fierce conflict.
Rayner crept on to the outskirts of the struggling mass. Through the smoke and glare he presently caught sight of some figures on horseback, who seemed to be trying to stem the onset of the foes. The Jailer's square shoulders were visible as he moved hither and thither, seeking to inspire the craven native police with some zeal and courage in the performance of their duty. Then he obtained a glimpse of Mark Cheveril, on foot, in grips with an evil-looking Hindu, whom he had caught in the act of throwing a Mussulman child into the burning mosque, not the only one permitted to perish on that fearful night. This Hindu would commit no more murders that evening, for the Jailer was now superintending his being manacled and led off to custody. Then Rayner perceived the Collector in the thick of the fight. He was still on horseback, and at the moment was trying to stem the advance of a party of desperate Mahomedans, who were advancing with weapons of destruction on a surging mass of Hindus.
The Mahomedans came on with yells of "Deen! Deen! They have defiled our holy house! They have burned our mosque! Our children have been flung to the flames! Deen! Deen!"
"Ha, Worsley's going to catch it at last!" muttered Rayner, in growing excitement. "His Mussulman lambs will prove too much for him!"
The Collector was alternately addressing the crowd in fluent Hindustani and Tamil, his face transfigured by intense emotion, the whole spirit of the British Raj flashing in his eyes. With one hand he restrained his restive mare, the other was raised as he called now in Tamil to the Hindus:
"Back, men, back! To your homes, every man of you!"
Then, turning to the assaulting mob again, he called in their own tongue: "Mussulmans, your wrongs will be righted. Rely on the sword of justice. Take not vengeance into your own hands. If one of you advance a step it will be through my body!"
A murmur of something like admiration and assent ran through the serried mass. The fierce, dark faces in the foremost ranks softened as they watched the intrepid figure, and listened to his ringing words; but others behind still pressed forward with cries of "Deen! Deen!"
Rayner was surprised that at this critical juncture, when the surging crowd threatened to overpower him, the Collector found the presence of mind to look at his watch. He soon understood the reason. A great shout suddenly arose from the Hindus, who were swarming up from the river to the railway station, some having fled there in the hope of finding a refuge from the Mahomedan fury; and through the parting crowd he now descried "the thin red line." Yes, it was a detachment of British soldiers from Fort St. George that had been requisitioned by the Collector, mainly at Mark Cheveril's urgent representations. He was relieved now that he had permitted the telegraphic request to summon them, and had been consulting his watch to see if they were due.
On swept the gallant red-coats, greeted by cheers both from Mahomedans and Hindus, each claiming that they had come to be their defenders. Jubilant shouts rent the air, though by some they were undistinguishable from the resounding yells of the rioters. One of these with his party was now making his way up the street at the corner of which Alfred Rayner happened to be standing.
"Ha!" he laughed. "Here comes Zynool. He's not going to be cowed by the Collector. Now we shall have some fun!"
The Mahomedan was mounted on a huge horse, which Rayner at once recognised as one of his own Australians. It was a powerful animal and stood higher than the Collector's Arab, and was evidently too fresh from want of exercise. It champed at its foam-bespattered bit, and tossed its head, seeming to resent Zynool's tight rein.
"Didn't think a native could have managed Abdul so well!" thought Rayner, as he looked with admiration on the portentous rider, who was made more colossal in size by reason of the padded green coat he had donned in spite of the heat.
He was flanked by a following of his own people. Someone behind him rode the other Australian, and it was evident that neither Zynool nor his party were in a mood to receive any check from the Collector.
Owing to the pressure in front, the riders were forced back, so that quite unexpectedly Rayner found himself in closer proximity to his enemy than he quite relished. He began to push back, trying to disappear round the corner into the street at right angles to the one in which he stood, when a terrified Hindu, seeking to clear a passage for himself, all at once thrust him forward, till he almost fell against the Australian horse and its rider.
"Out of my way, you old Hindu sow," growled Zynool, kicking the supposed ayah.
"Have a care, sahib," said a more kindly bystander, "she's only an old ayah. Go home, old woman, this is no place for you!"
Zynool cast a glance on the cowering form, thinking he had done it more injury than he had meant. The light from one of the oil-lamps fell sheer on Rayner's face. In a moment the plethoric voice of the Mahomedan changed to a low, hissing sound.
"Thou! Thou! Trapped, by Allah! This is a prize better than any Hindu!"
For an instant, Rayner gazed on the man he had wronged with terror-stricken eyes, then he made a desperate plunge to strike away. Zynool saw the movement, and determining his prey should not escape, he urged his horse forward and deliberately set it to trample down his enemy, who fell before the onset and made no attempt to rise.
"Seize him! Seize him!" cried Zynool to the men on foot behind him, though indeed he had already made sure his enemy could not escape. "It's no ayah, 'tis mine enemy, La'yer Rayner!"
In spite of his disguise, the face of the fugitive was not difficult to recognise, for the heat of the day had partially erased the stain which Hester's fingers had so cleverly applied.
There was, however, one witness of the scene unsuspected by Zynool. The Assistant-Collector's eye had been upon the Mahomedan ever since he appeared in the fray, knowing him to be one of the most dangerous of the agitators, and fearing lest he should approach the Collector. His attention had been attracted some minutes previously by the old ayah in the red saree standing at the street corner; he wondered what she did there at such a time. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw the Mahomedan on his great horse deliberately charge her, knock her down, and ruthlessly trample on her prostrate form.
He did not hesitate a moment. Forcing his way through, he seized the horse's bridle.
"Zynool Sahib, dismount," he commanded, with flashing eyes. "I am witness to your felling down that old woman. I put you under arrest. Dismount, I say."
To his surprise, Zynool meekly prepared to obey, and with the assistance of one of his party reached the ground. The man who had been ordered to drag away the unconscious form of the ayah stood riveted to the spot on the appearance of the English sahib.
"I would speak one word," said Zynool, coming close to Mark Cheveril's ear. "'Tis no ayah, 'tis La'yer Rayner, a forger, flying from justice in a woman's petticoats. See, sahib, if I speak not the truth!"
Mark felt impelled to draw a step nearer the prostrate form while Zynool stood watching his every movement with a sardonic expression. He bent over the huddled heap in the red saree, and recognised the face of Hester's husband. Almost at the same moment, one of the natives caught sight of the white knees under the disordered draperies and burst into a loud laugh.
"Aferinghi, by the holy Prophet! Not an ayah at all!"
A dozen voices around echoed in amazement, "Aferinghi?" Zynool looked on with silent contempt.
It was a terrible moment for Mark Cheveril, but his presence of mind did not forsake him. He felt the call to be paramount even when so much else was at stake. He raised his voice and shouted: "Samptor!"
The Jailer heard the call above the discordant yells around him. Fearing that the Assistant was in danger, he forced his way to him, his stalwart limbs standing him in good stead.
"I give this man in charge," said Cheveril sternly, pointing to Zynool, whose countenance became black with rage and fear. "Saw him with my own eyes trample down this—this victim," he added, pointing to the motionless form at his feet.
Leaving Zynool in the strong grip of the representative of authority, Mark turned his attention to the injured man. A stretcher was hastily improvised from the remains of an outside shutter that dangled from a window hard by. Two Hindus who recognised the Assistant-Collector volunteered their help. Lifting the prostrate form, they carried it to the Dispensary, which, fortunately, was at the end of the street, and more fortunately still, the cavalcade was met by Dr. Campbell. The place was already full of the wounded brought in from the fray. A brief explanation sufficed, and Rayner's helpless form was carried to a mattress in a corner of the large room.
"This is horrible, Cheveril!" said Dr. Campbell, bending over his patient. "Every bit of him is mangled except his head. Poor chap, it seems like the work of a beast of prey."
"So it was, Campbell, a human beast of prey! I actually saw Zynool force his horse on him, knock him down, and make it trample on his fallen body," whispered Mark, his eyes still full of the horror of the scene.
"But how in the world did Rayner come to be in the guise of a native woman, I should like to know? Did he come to assist the Mussulmans, do you think? I know he's been intriguing with that villain Zynool. Perhaps he wanted to see the fruits of his handiwork,incognito."
"No, I fear it was more than that. Zynool muttered something I only half understood," returned Mark with a troubled air. "They had quarrelled, evidently, and Zynool indicated that Rayner was a fugitive from justice. I only hope it's not true!"
"Well, in a way it don't matter now—not to him, at least, poor fellow. Every organ is smashed. He's living still, though,—his heart's flickering. Brandy, Tobias," called the doctor to his Eurasian dresser.
A few drops of the stimulant diluted with water were passed between the blanched lips. "We'll cut away those red rags," said the doctor, and adroitly set to work. Presently Rayner was divested of his disguise. Finding his watch and one or two papers in his pocket, and his store of gold, the doctor handed them to Mark; and after having arranged as best he could for the comfort of the patient, he was called away to other urgent cases.
Mark, on his knees beside the low pallet, continued to watch the stricken man in the dim light. The dresser had brought a sponge and carefully washed the stained face, and the ashen features gleamed like those of a marble profile.
"What a perfectly beautiful face it is!" murmured Mark to himself. "Yet it lacks strength of character." All at once he recalled the pictured face of Mr. Morpeth's wife which Hester and he had examined that happy afternoon, in which she had seen a likeness to her husband. "A wonderful resemblance! I can see it now, and just that same something lacking." His thoughts now strayed to Hester, and the trouble hovering over her in this terrible disaster. Trying and unstable as this man had proved, the shock and horror of this event would mark a terrible crisis in her young life. He recalled her query, evidently wrung from a sore heart that morning at St. Thomas' Mount. Would the Master's shaping process be always sharp and painful and inscrutable—the tools He used sometimes making the poor quivering heart bleed? A sore answer was coming to that question.
Mark's reverie was now disturbed by the approach of the doctor. He was showing signs of excitement, and he stooped down and lilted low: "The Campbells are coming, hurrah, hurrah! The Campbells are coming, hurrah!"
"I know," nodded Mark quietly. "I saw the first of them appearing just at the moment this happened. Otherwise I doubt if even the claim of this poor fellow should have brought me from my post. The Collector's all right, is he?"
"As right as a trivet, and in great spirits. Rioters on both sides scuttling like rabbits. The police-peons are now, at last, busy making arrests and Samptor's striding about like an avenging fate! They've got Zynool—not without a struggle. However, he is nabbed, and the warrant out to search his house at once. Mootuswamy Moodliar has seen to that. It will be the Andamans for him, without doubt. The streets will soon be empty. The soldiers are to camp here for the night, but the danger's over. Here, alas, we have the worst result of the riot," said the doctor, glancing round on the rows of wounded men, many of them crying out in pain, others beyond any expression of their misery.
"Look, Campbell," said Mark, his eyes eagerly fixed on Rayner's face. "Isn't there some sign of returning consciousness here?"
A slight tremor passed through the mangled frame, the eyelids quivered and opened, and Rayner fixed his eyes on Mark's face for a moment, then closed them again. Presently, however, Mark found his large, lustreless eyes resting steadily upon him. The broken man made an effort to speak, but the voice was so low and faint it was difficult to catch the words.
"Cheveril!—It is you—thought I was dreaming—where am I? In Zynool's house—I remember. He spotted me—drove his horse on me—my own Australian too. He's done for me, Cheveril—every limb—game's up—nothing matters now——"
His voice died away, but after a moment he roused himself and fixed his eyes on the pitying face bending over him. "Kind, by Jove! I saw you—before Zynool—went for me."
"Don't be afraid, Rayner, this is not Zynool's house. It's the hospital, you're all right here," said Mark, taking his limp hand.
"You brought me here—kind—I'll tell Hester." His lips parted in a feeble smile, then his face became convulsed. "Never see Hester again," he moaned. "It's all up, Cheveril—I'm hunted—you'll not let them take me—you'll not give me up——?"
"Don't trouble, Rayner. You're quite safe here," said Mark soothingly. "The doctor's bringing something to ease you." He laid his hand on the long, thin fingers, and stroked them gently.
"Now, my dear fellow," said the doctor cheerfully, "this ought to help you a bit." He administered an opiate. Soon the eyelids drooped, and sleep visited the dying man.
Mark kept unremitting vigil beside the low mattress through the long hours of the night. At length there was a slight movement; he could see by the light of the flickering oil-lamp overhead that the eyes of the sufferer were open and turned to him. Hoping he might fall asleep again he made no response. Then a hand was feebly stretched out to him.
"Yes, I'm here, Rayner! Mark Cheveril—close beside you."
"I know—I know—good—kind—Hester's friend." After a pause he seemed to wish to speak again, though the effort was painful.
"One night I stood by her cot—in her dreams she murmured—'the false and the true.' It seemed a home thrust—I felt furious at the time. Cheveril—I've been the false—I see it now. You are the true—you'll understand better—when you know." His face again became convulsed with emotion, and Mark bent over him with pity in his eyes, unable to utter a word.
The first streak of the dawn began to steal through the open windows.
"Ha, the daylight will be upon us, Hester," cried Rayner, with strange clearness of tone. He tried to move. A terrible spasm seized him. Mark called for the doctor, but before he came the sufferer was quiet again and seemed to be sleeping. The doctor stooped over him.
"He's gone, Cheveril," he said quietly. "Your watch is ended. It was only a question of hours. Death has been merciful in releasing him so speedily."
The silver dawn was brightening into day when Mark Cheveril and the weary doctor stood together at the door of the dispensary—Dr. Campbell to snatch a few moments rest at home after the labours of the night; Mark Cheveril to set out with a heavy heart to Madras.
"You'll look in on the Collector after breakfast, Campbell, and see that he's all right, after last night. I say, didn't he do splendidly?" asked Mark, with a light coming into his tired eyes.
"Oh, for the matter of that, some other people did splendidly too! I saw your tussle over that child with that brute of a Hindu. It was refreshing, Cheveril; only, I felt sorry he was a Hindu, and not a Mahomedan. Anyhow, I'm bound to say, the Collector held the balance even when put on his mettle. I expect all this will act as a thunderstorm and clear the atmosphere. We'll be well rid of Zynool and some of his crew. Yes, I'll look in for a moment and see Worsley. Any message? I forget if he knew Rayner? Of course I'll tell him of the tragedy, and of your share in it."
Mark, on thinking of it, felt relieved that he would not be the bearer of the tidings of the terrible fate of the man he knew the Collector had good reason to dislike. He was conscious that in Mr. Worsley's feelings there would be a sense of relief when he heard of the swift release which this tragedy would bring to the young wife whom he had liked and pitied. For his own part, the knowledge of that release brought no lightening as yet to his sad thoughts. Through the long hours of the past night he had come face to face with a great experience. He had watched "a human soul take wing," and the sense of it being a "fearful thing" to see was very present with him. So heavily did it lie on his heart, he had no thought for aught else; and to Hester, he knew the awful news must bring unutterable pain. To know that the man with whom she had embarked on life's voyage—though he had proved not "one to ride the water with," as the saying is—had been tragically engulfed, would indeed prove a crushing blow. How could he, just because he was so full of comprehending sympathy, be the one to carry the news to the wife that their bark had foundered in dark, treacherous waters, and that he who should have been the mainstay was lost in the whirlpool?
More and more did he shrink from the task before him as the train carried him to Madras.