CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

Mr. Morpeth returned to Clive's Road in the evening as he had promised, to tell Hester all he thought needful for her to hear, withholding much which might have added to her pain. He had already secured a pa.s.sage for her on the first homeward bound steamer, and for her ayah, who he insisted should accompany her. He had also arranged his own sad journey to Calcutta for the same morning.

On the following days, Mrs. Fellowes proved invaluable in all preparations for the departure from Clive's Road. She observed with much concern that Hester seemed in a sort of stupor and forbore to obtrude her sympathy. She had as yet exchanged but few words with her friend, and when she had occasion to ask some needful question Hester would reply mechanically.

She sat now at the evening hour by her friend's side in the verandah, glancing anxiously at the listless, folded hands, the wan face, and the dry, despairing eyes gazing up at the dark blue star-strewn sky as if seeing strange visions. Happening to meet Mrs. Fellowes' inquiring glance, Hester stretched out her hand to clasp hers.

"How good you have been to me!" she murmured, "and so patient!" Then she added, as if in explanation. "I can't speak of it yet. I don't seem able even to feel. My heart seems shrivelled up. I am like something ayah showed me this morning. She was asking me which of her possessions she must take across the black water, and I could only think of one at the moment--a gay-coloured new leathern bottle she had once showed to me with pride. She went and fetched it from her G.o.down and said: 'See, missus, what that bottle done come to!' and she held up a black, shrunken thing that had been hanging in the smoke of her G.o.down since I came to Madras. I think that bottle and my heart have had the same history these last months. Both have been shrivelled in the smoke of scorching fires!"

"Why, there's a verse in the Psalms like that," said Mrs. Fellowes briskly, glad that the silence had been broken. She took her little old Bible from her bag. "Here it is, in the longest Psalm, and a very graphic description the Psalmist gives of himself. 'I am become like a bottle in the smoke.' He must have felt like that too, dear child, but if we read further we'll find how he turned to the Healer--the Restorer, till he was able to say, 'It is good for me that I have been afflicted.'"

Hester did not speak at once. "Thank you, dear friend," she said at length, and Mrs. Fellowes could see that the torpid air had pa.s.sed, that life and thought had come back. "You have done me good! I think I see a little through the smoke now. I shall go and give Rosie a last lesson after all," she added, rising. "It is so good of you to promise to take care of the little maid till ayah comes back again. No more Mrs.

Harbottles," she added, with something of her old bright smile.

"Yes, the smoke will rub off by degrees," thought Mrs. Fellowes, as she looked after Hester's retreating figure. "This terrible experience must leave its mark. 'A bottle in the smoke' she has been truly all her days here! Thank G.o.d the process has not been soiling! What life must have been with such a husband it pa.s.ses me to understand! He hadn't a single redeeming point--except his good looks; and the Colonel even questions them. But poor Rayner had a beautiful face there is no doubt."

In the early dawn next morning Hester took farewell of her wedded home, bestowing a kindly smile on the sad-faced company of servants who were grouped round the verandah to make their last salaams to the sweet English lady whose husband had come by such an evil fate.

Many kindly notes of condolence had reached her those last days from her numerous acquaintances of varying degrees of intimacy, for Mrs. Rayner had been an esteemed member of the little Anglo-Indian society of the past season--even by some who were inclined to look askance on her husband. Now the place that had known her those short months of her wedded life would know her no more. Her memory would pa.s.s in the changing society of the Indian town like the pa.s.sage of a swift flying bird through a lighted chamber. Even as she gazed at the familiar scene, the stately buildings, the towering Fort of St. George that skirted the sh.o.r.e while she was being carried over the waves by the stalwart brown rowers of the Ma.s.sulah boat, she felt as if her life on that strand was already beginning to recede dream-like from her vision.

The surf was crossed now, and Hester and her little party, consisting of Colonel and Mrs. Fellowes, were safely landed on the deck of the _El Dorado_. Mr. Morpeth had been inventive in all kindly arrangements for the young widow, and their parting was memorable to both. His grey eyes had gazed with unutterable sorrow and tenderness into her face as he held her hands.

"This land of ours will call you again, I feel sure, my daughter; whether I am here to see it or not. One day you will return to work for our people once more."

Hester had pleaded for a promise that he should come on a visit to Pinkthorpe, knowing well that her father and mother would honour the n.o.ble Eurasian gentleman; but Mr. Morpeth shook his head, smiling sadly.

"No, my child, my visit to England would be thirty years too late now."

But still Hester would not hear of being robbed of all hope that it might still be one of the happy events which the future had in store for her. Colonel and Mrs. Fellowes were to be home for good the following year, so that the strong link forged with these friends was not long to be severed.

There was one true friend whose hand Hester would fain have grasped, one pair of frank eyes into which she would have wished to look once more before she finally left this place of mingled memories; but Mark Cheveril had made no sign. He evidently did not desire to meet Alfred Rayner's wife again after all that had come and gone. She did not wonder that he felt so, but the knowledge of his kind offices to her dead husband would always be graven on her heart, and she had wished just once to put her hand in his and whisper her thanks.

A few minutes before the last bell rang her wish was realised, for she caught sight of her trusty comrade coming up the ladder. He came forward to greet her with grave earnest courtesy. There was not time for many words. The last bell was about to ring, and all, except intending pa.s.sengers, were ordered to leave the ship. Colonel and Mrs. Fellowes made their farewells with looks of encompa.s.sing affection. Then Hester turned to Mark, who stood pale and repressed, a sad smile on his lips.

"I only wish I were going to Pinkthorpe too," he said. "But we shall meet there some day, I hope," he added, gazing at her wan face.

"So you will come, even after all?" she murmured. "Till then, Mark, I will keep my thanks for all your kindness, and for all your loving care of him--I have heard--Mr. Morpeth told me," she whispered, laying her hand in his.

In another moment he was gone, and was hurrying down the ladder to join the Ma.s.sulah boat.

Hester stood watching the rocking craft which carried her friends across the surf. The newly risen sun was shedding its golden light on the great rolling waters of the Bay of Bengal, and on the n.o.ble buildings skirting the sh.o.r.e which were glittering like fabled marble palaces under its bright rays. Beyond stretched vistas of stately trees all tinged by the glow, intersected by many a winding road and leafy compound where the scattered denizens of Madras camped during their exile. Many spots were dear and familiar to Hester. Now the vision of the desolate house in Clive's Road rose before her; the early days which seemed to promise as bright and fair as the golden dawn. Then the shattered hopes, the wrecked life, all pa.s.sed in procession before her dimmed eyes as the familiar sh.o.r.es receded from her view, like the vanishing wake of the great steamer's track as it ploughed its way through the glistening waters.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

Two years after the eventful morning of her departure from Madras, Hester was seated one afternoon in her favourite nook in the Rectory garden. The painful past had not failed to leave its traces on the deep-hearted girl. The gaiety, the "laughing light" of youth was changed to soberer hues. But the unnatural reserve which at first seemed to paralyze her had been replaced by a quiet shining peace of heart, a rare power of sympathy for others, and an inventiveness in ministering to those in sorrow. This spiritual beauty seemed reflected in face and form. There was a perfection of unconscious grace about every movement, and though the English roses on her cheeks, of which her husband had been so proud, had faded, the tender bloom of health was not lacking in her soft colouring and clear, earnest eyes. The black clinging dress which she still wore suited well her fair wavy hair she sat bending over her book.

After the first year of mourning, to her parents' satisfaction, Hester was not unwilling to take part in the social life round her. Visitors had come and gone who had been dearly welcome to her in a way that none can understand who have not been part of "an alien land on a foreign strand," knit together by many common memories. The coming of Colonel and Mrs. Fellowes had been a great joy to her; while, to her mother, it had proved an opportunity of hearing some pages from that short year of wedded life which had hitherto been folded away even from the eyes of those nearest to the young widow.

Hester had taken up all her daughterly duties with quiet faithfulness, proving a cheerful companion to her younger brothers in their holidays, though Charlie was conscious of a change. More than once, for instance, when he had tried to elicit some news of his friend, Mark Cheveril, Hester seemed to grow dreamy and preoccupied, changing the topic as soon as possible. He decided that there must have been a coldness between these two friends.

"I don't wonder," he remarked to his mother. "If Rayner was half what old Colonel Fellowes told me of him, Cheveril couldn't have stood him; so naturally there was a rift between Hester and him."

Mrs. Bellairs, whatever her thoughts were, proved almost as reticent as her daughter. More than one suitor had sought the hand of the young widow, but Hester's quick, firm decision had always been adverse to their hopes. "She will never marry again," acquaintances agreed. Only her mother, though she gave no opinion, thought she knew some one who might one day be able to persuade her daughter to allow him to replace the house of sand which had crumbled away, by a fair house founded on a rock of true love. But she kept her own counsel.

As the days went on nothing transpired which gave any clue to what the future might bring. No letter from Mark Cheveril ever reached the Rectory now; but Hester had still one link with her short wedded life which she clung to. Many a thin blue page crossed the sea, dated from an address unknown to the fashionable residents in Madras. And these letters were responded to by gracious, loving words which gladdened the heart of the lonely man, and not only his, they were often shared with one whom long since Mr. Morpeth had come to regard as a son.

"Mr. Cheveril is the most be-fathered man I know," declared little Mrs.

Samptor. "He is the well-beloved boy of our surly Collector and the precious son of David Morpeth, and Samptor has a softer side to him than he has ever showed to any other young man."

Mr. Morpeth had often paid visits to Mark in his bungalow, and there was no more honoured guest at the Collector's table than the old Eurasian, and no more popular man in the little station of Puranapore. Through him, Mark was kept much more in touch with Hester than from Charlie's brief epistles from his London chambers. Often indeed all mention of his sister's name was purposely omitted. So when on Mark's first furlough home he desired to reach her, it was not to Charlie he turned, but decided on more direct methods.

When Hester heard footsteps approaching the walnut tree under which she sat, reading the brown volume of poems which had reached her one afternoon at Clive's Road, when she sorely needed its ministry, she took them to be her brother's.

"Come here, young man," she called, "sit at my feet and learn wisdom from Browning!"

"Nothing will please me better, Hester," answered a familiar voice that was not Charlie's.

"Mark--you! I never even knew you had left Madras," exclaimed Hester.

"Why ever did Mr. Morpeth not give me that bit of news? Have you just arrived?"

"I went to Shropshire first to see my old uncle who has been ailing. He lives--or rather vegetates--in an ancient black-timbered mansion all his lone; but he is a very independent old fellow. I was kept there longer than I reckoned on, owing to something unexpected turning up. Then I had to go to London about some business. I looked up Charlie at his chambers, but he wasn't to be found----"

"Oh, Charlie will be overjoyed to see you! He and Cecil are out shooting rabbits just now. I do hope he'll be back soon."

Mark did not re-echo that hope. In fact he prayed it might be some time before the walnut grove was invaded by any. His eyes were resting eagerly on Hester. He perceived with joy that the healing process had been at work, binding up the old wounds and restoring serenity to the once sorely troubled life.

"I must tell you, Hester," he said with a frank smile, "that I don't feel a stranger to any of your doings. Dear old Morpeth preserves your letters in lavender and gives me a share of them."

For a moment Hester was startled, remembering that she had shared many of her most intimate thoughts with the wise saint with whom she felt a close bond; then she answered with a smile as frank as his own.

"No, I don't mind. You know so much of those past days, Mark. You could understand much that was only meant for the dear old man."

There was something natural and spontaneous in Hester's tone which had the effect of banishing Mark's fears concerning this first meeting with one who, every day since they parted, had become more enshrined in his thoughts.

"But how can I have been so many minutes without asking for your beloved Collector?" she said; and though the topic was congenial, Mark grudged the digression from more personal matters. "Mr. Worsley is quite a family friend here now, you know. He spent a week of his furlough with us and took everybody by storm. Father and mother were so happy with him, and he with them. He seemed like a delightful balm; and yet I remember when I wouldn't listen to your praise of him and felt sure he must be the surly bear people said he was! But, Mark, I must tell you, he made some rather sceptical remarks about your being a Eurasian. I think father was rather shocked at his levity. He said it was only a hallucination of yours--though an excellent one--seeing the Eurasians needed friends so much."

"Then I suspect the Collector will have a crow over me now!" said Mark, with a laugh. "What do you think, Hester? I discovered a box of papers in a lumber room at Cheveril. It had never been opened seemingly since it was sent home from the East after my father's death. He was Uncle Mark's younger brother, you know, a lieutenant in the Indian Army; and I find that my mother who was always believed to be an Indian--and a princess to boot--was after all an English girl, lost at the time of the Mutiny, though she had a happier fate than some, for she was adopted by a good Ranee. She was only seventeen when my father married her, and she died at my birth. My father died soon after, and I was sent home to my grandparents at Cheveril; very likely the old cedar-wood box was part of my baggage! I've always understood from Uncle Mark that owing to my father's hasty marriage there was a coldness between my grandparents and him, and that letters ceased between them, though his early death was said to be a great blow. Probably they heard misleading rumours of the choice of a girl from the Ranee's palace. It was a romantic affair, of course, and would be sure to set tongues wagging. Anyhow, the truth has been disclosed at last by this old chest which looks so Indian that I expect it was part of my mother's providing by the Ranee. My mother, by the way, was a daughter of a General Worsley. I can't help thinking and hoping that she must have been of the same family as the Collector; but that will all be cleared up by and by."

"And are you glad or sorry, Mark?" asked Hester, with a wistful look in her eyes.

"Well, to know the truth is always best, don't you think?" said Mark simply. "But I'll tell you who is jolly glad--my uncle! He says he rejoices there has been no 'blot on the scutcheon' after all! He is in great excitement, and has had his lawyer down to examine the old papers which he might have discovered long ago."

"But then you mightn't have been the cordial succourer of so many Eurasians. Indeed, I feel sure you will prove no less their friend in days to come, though there is no blood-tie; but I must say, Mark, for many reasons, I'm grateful to the old cedar-wood box for holding its secret so long! Even Alfred, in his heart of hearts, admired your courage, and it was all on the side of good for him," said Hester, wondering why it was so much more easy to speak that name to this friend than to any of her home people.