A Bottle in the Smoke: A Tale of Anglo-Indian Life

by Janet Milne Rae

  CHAPTER XXII.

  It was the day of the great ball of the season. Alfred Rayner had oftenexpatiated to Hester on the delights of this festivity at GovernmentHouse at which he had been present in the previous year. He now lookedforward with glee to make his entrance with his beautiful wife on hisarm. Judging from his gaiety of spirit, one would have thought that thepainful incident on the return of the riders from St. Thomas's Mount wasentirely effaced from his mind, though only two short days had actuallyelapsed since it had occurred. To Hester the days had brought nomitigation of her pain, although her husband seemed to take it forgranted that she shared his preoccupation concerning the ball. He couldnot help perceiving, however, as he looked across the table this morningthat she seemed pale and strained, just when he was eager she should belooking her very best.

  "I'll tell you what you need, Hester--the best recipe for looking asfresh as my English rose must do to-night. You drive to the beach thisafternoon. Don't go gadding with anybody, just sit in your carriage andlet the sea breeze fan your cheeks, then there's no doubt who will bethe belle of the ball to-night! I wish I could have gone to the beachand kept guard over you, my dear; unfortunately I have an appointmentafter business hours to-day. But if my wife carries the palm to-nightthis her 'humble slave' will be in the third heavens!"

  Hester was nothing loth to fall in with her husband's suggestion. Theprospect of a quiet hour within the sound of the waves was welcome toher. She felt weary and dispirited, and had thought many times oftelling her husband she did not feel able to join in the festivity ofthe evening. The episode, which seemed to have passed all too lightlyover him, had left a deep mark on her sensitive heart. Not only did shefeel wounded and shamed at the exhibition her husband had made ofhimself, but she mourned the loss of her faithful friend. After being sowantonly insulted, never, probably, would Mark Cheveril and she meetagain. Not even his chivalrous kindness could be proof against theunjust taunts levelled against him by the man she now felt ashamed toown as her husband. She suspected indeed that his attitude that morningwas assumed on purpose to put a stop to the friendship, and in losingMark, she felt sorrowfully, she had lost her only real friend--exceptindeed, Mrs. Fellowes. But never, even to her, could she unfold the passto which her husband's extraordinary behaviour had brought matters. Shemust go on suffering in absolute silence, she decided, with a moreconscious effort at resignation to her lot than she had yet made. Trulythe tools were sharp, she thought, with a long-drawn sigh, recallingMark's parable of the rough block in the making. Much indeed was beingchiselled off, but as Mark had said, they must trust to the MasterSculptor.

  Only yesterday there had come to Hester what she interpreted as afarewell gift from the friend she might see no more. She knew the tokenmust be from him, though the brown book bore no evidence as to itssender. She felt sure it was none other than Mark when she read themarked poem. That metaphor of the Potter's Wheel had already become likean inspiration to her. The book lay on her knees now as she drove to thebeach, and drawing it from beneath the carriage-wrap, she turned to thepoem to ponder once more its deep meaning in reference to herself.

  All her life she had been brought up in a religious atmosphere, thoughher attitude towards that side of life had been in part more traditionalthan personal. It was only lately since the sore need of her heartcraved a refuge that she had come to find the "very present help" forherself, and now every hour of every day she was seeking it and findingit. During the last hours she had travelled far on that eventfuljourney. She felt that till travelling days were done, and perhaps inthe "new beginning" of which Mark had spoken, she would always connectthe crisis in her life with the noble words of "Rabbi Ben Ezra."

  The carriage had now drawn up on the long terraced promenade whichskirts the sea shore--the then favourite meeting place of Madrasresidents at this evening hour. On this afternoon, however, society wasevidently reserving itself for the entertainment at Government House,and was conspicuous by its absence. A regimental band usually played atthe Marine Villa, but the stand was unoccupied now, silence andemptiness reigned.

  Hester did not regret either the music or the company. She directed hercoachman to draw up at a point where she always thought the breezeseemed to blow freshest from the sea, and sat engrossed in her book,though the light was fading. She heard the footsteps of two pedestrianson the asphalt pavement, but did not raise her eyes. Presently the pairreturned from their stroll, and this time one of them halted in front ofthe landau, saying:

  "Good evening! Like us, I see you have come for a whiff of the seabreeze!"

  Great was Hester's surprise when she heard the familiar voice.

  "Mark," she exclaimed, and the face which had worn such a wistfulexpression lit up with pleasure. Once again, at all events, she wasdestined to exchange greetings with her friend. But she now perceivedthat he was not alone. On the pavement stood an elderly man, his darksearching eyes surmounted by a pair of rather fierce eyebrows, a smoothshaven face revealing a sensitive mouth and well-formed chin. Thesearching 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 sointent on your book my young friend seemed timid about disturbing you,"said the Collector, with a smile and an amused glance at Mark. "But Iwas not to be cheated out of an opportunity of meeting Mr. Cheveril'sold friend."

  There was a mixture of courtesy and kindliness in his manner whichproved a ready passport to Hester's heart, and also brought a joyoussmile to Mark's face; for this was not, he knew well, the tone ofgreeting Mr. Worsley was used to give to the ladies of the station.Underneath his manner to little Mrs. Samptor there was always a veiledthough kindly contempt, while Mrs. Goldring's portion was often anunmistakable scowl. But in his manner to Hester there was a winningcombination of immediate belief and liking, something fatherly too whichMark had occasionally felt in his attitude to himself. Another carriagenow 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 inconversation. Then she observed the two gentlemen, and Mark quickly wentround to shake hands, claiming her as one of his earliest friends inMadras.

  Meanwhile the Collector pursued his talk with Hester, saying presently:

  "Now, Mrs. Rayner, take the advice of an experienced Madrassee, descendfrom your chariot, and have a walk in this delightful sea-breeze. Nodoubt 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. Ihope your friend will enjoy the ball. Puranapore is a dull place for ayoung 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 itmade 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 ofall 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 youngman, who still stood by the side of Mrs. Fellowes' carriage; and he nowsuggested that she should imitate the example of her friend. Sheacquiesced, 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 withhis companion or not. Unfortunately he too often shows that he is notso," said Mark.

  "You seem entirely satisfied with the result in this instance, Mr.Cheveril," returned Mrs. Fellowes, with a frank smile. "But who could beotherwise? She is so dear and sweet."

  "Well, the fact is there is triumph to me as well as satisfaction. Ididn't exactly have a bet with Mrs. Rayner, but I prophesied that whenshe met Mr. Worsley she would come under his spell; while she evidentlytho
ught the reverse would happen. I feel quite easy in my mind now. Ican see the spell is mutual."

  "I expect Mr. Worsley is not a man who always does himself justice byany means. The Colonel sometimes deplores that he gives so much moreencouragement to the Mahomedans than to the Hindus at Puranapore. TheCampbells are friends of ours, so perhaps we hear most on the otherside."

  "Yes, that's a vexed question," replied Mark gravely. "But the Collectoris getting his eyes opened to some things that were hidden from him fora time. Events are marching. You see he is so often away on tour. Thetown of Puranapore is but a very small corner of his dominion. HisDistrict is immense, and he takes as much interest in it as an Englishsquire does in his acres--very much the same kind of interest too. Hispride in land reclaimed and made to blossom is delightful to see. He hasoften made me ride miles out of the way with him to show me such a tractwith its changed face. He would have made an ideal Forest Officer if hehad not been Collector of the Revenue. Lately when we were camping, hepointed to a once fever-haunted jungle he had redeemed by draining thedreaded area. He smiled and said, 'I was just thinking last night as Iread Tennyson's "Northern Farmer," that I could point to this bit ofland made wholesome as my only good deed, like the old farmer who pinnedhis hope of salvation to his "stubbing of Thornaby waste!"'"

  "You speak of his reading Tennyson, Mr. Cheveril? I thought one of hispeculiarities was that he never read--that there wasn't a book to bepicked up in his house? I've heard his bungalow at Puranapore describedas 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 concerningthe 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 aprejudice against the man he had come to love. "Perhaps you didn't knowhe was married, Mr. Cheveril, but he is! His wife lives in Belgravia andhe here. It is said he didn't even go to see her the last time he was athome, and yet they are not legally separated, and I believe, he sendsher heaps of money!"

  "Well, you see, I don't know the Honourable Mrs. Worsley," said Markshortly. In one of his rare moments of self-revelation the elder man hadlaid bare to the younger the history of an ill-assorted marriage andits consequences, which, Mark decided, more by inference than fromdetails, was the source of much that had warped a life, which FelixWorsley himself described as like "a blasted jungle tree"; though Markthought he could still trace in it the noblest characteristics of theEnglish oak.

  "Well, I must say the Collector of Puranapore has a warm partisan inyou, Mr. Cheveril," returned Mrs. Fellowes warmly, "and I like you forit!"

  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 beable to dance so lightly with you to-night as I desire to see,Cheveril," said Mr. Worsley, with a smile which his Assistant had learntto love.

  On being introduced to Mrs. Fellowes he seemed to find that he hadvarious links with her and they paired off together, leaving the two oldfriends 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 behard 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. Mychief is sometimes rather bearish, I admit. I tremble for the offenceshe 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 Iconfess he talked very hopelessly, very cynically, about some things."

  "Oh, yes, the process is going on! But we must not forget in thatprocess one day is as a thousand years with the Great Sculptor," saidMark softly, as he glanced up at the dark blue vault where the greatmoon was already rising, silvering the vast expanse of waters.

  "But, Mark," said Hester, suddenly preparing to plunge into the topicwhich he fain would have avoided, "how can you meet me like this--howcan you ever speak to me again after what happened that morning? Oh, theshame, the misery of it," she added, her voice faltering. "And I was soanxious that poor Alfred should come under your influence! You rememberI was pleading for that on our ride home, little thinking that all wasgoing to end as it did--that things were going to happen so soon thatwould make a great gulf between you. Will you try to believe that reallyhe was not himself that morning? Something at Palaveram must have upsethim dreadfully or he could never have spoken so to you. Can you everforgive him?"

  Mark felt glad that Hester should treat the episode in this light andnot as a proof of her husband's utter unworthiness.

  "Surely we must make allowance for others when we need so muchforgiveness for ourselves," said Mark, in a moved tone. "I saw yourhusband was much unnerved. I hardly think our morning ride could be thecause. Try to forget it, Hester! Treat it like a bad dream--we awake andit is gone."

  "Oh, thank you! You don't know how your words comfort me. I thought youwould never speak to me again. Now I must tell you what it was thatbrought me any comfort. It was that poem--'Rabbi Ben Ezra'--in the bookyou sent me. That it should come from you, who I feared would not lookat 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 forlong."

  "It will be a possession to me always," returned Hester in a movedvoice. "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 afrightened air which went to the young man's heart.

  He led her at once to her carriage, and saw the lamps duly lit; thenafter a hurried good-bye to Mrs. Fellowes and the Collector, she wasdriven swiftly away.