A Bottle in the Smoke Part 20

Thomas's Mount? It's a place I've a fancy to explore. Have you been there?"

"No, I've really seen very few places round about--beyond the range of the wide compounds. I think your touring must be delightful. But you haven't told me anything of Puranapore yet except about the Collector, and I didn't get much from Alfred even after he had visited you."

Mark was silent. Rayner then had given his wife the impression that he had been at the English station while at Puranapore, and had, no doubt, concealed the fact that he was visiting Zynool. The discovery was disturbing, and he wondered if it would be wise to enlighten Hester there and then. He felt, however, that he could not bear to bring a deeper shadow to the sweet face, and proceeded instead to give some annals of the station-life.

"Well, to begin with the ladies. There's Mrs. Samptor, wife of the Superintendent of the District Jail, a big giant of a man, and a capital fellow. She is a little country-bred person who had never been to England and has a perfect horror of Eurasians."

Hester's eyes opened wider. She was about to exclaim: "Just like Alfred!" But that topic had cut too deep for her to touch it lightly.

"You wonder perhaps how she tolerates me," said Mark with a smile, as if divining her thoughts. "Well, as it happens, we are very good friends.

Her mental process regarding the matter is peculiar, I allow, but it seems to her convincing, as she is a lady who prides herself on knowing everything about everybody. She volunteers to prove from my hands, my nails, and from my toes, I expect, if she were allowed to inspect them, from every feature of my face in fact, that I do not belong to the race she detests."

"And does the Collector like this little lady?"

"He does, I think. She amuses him. I sometimes accuse him of even encouraging her gossip. In that connection I once reminded him of the old proverb: 'One man may steal a horse, another may not look over the stable door,' as a case in point. The Collector's denunciations against gossip are most scathing, for instance, where Mrs. Goldring, the Judge's wife, is in question. She is a pompous, sn.o.bbish woman, and the Collector thinks that she sits on her little husband, the Judge, of whom he is very fond. Nor can he forgive her for her treatment of her weird-looking daughter Jane. The poor girl hates station life, and wants to go home and do governessing with some beloved aunts who keep a school. Then we have a Civil Surgeon and his wife, Dr. and Mrs.

Campbell, delightful Scotch people."

"I wonder Alfred did not tell me about all these people. He must have met them when he was at Puranapore," said Hester, with a thoughtful air which Mark noticed, and he at once led the conversation into other channels.

Hester narrated to him the errand which had obliged her husband to go to Palaveram on this Christmas day, and they talked with sobered hearts of the sadness of it all; of the great entanglement in the meshes of which poor young Hyde had fallen a victim; and of the ever haunting mystery of life where evil triumphs in lives which seem inclined to good rather than to evil.

Shortly before the dinner-hour a telegram arrived from Palaveram to say that Mr. Rayner to his great regret would be unable to eat his Christmas dinner with his wife. But so congenially did the talk glide on between these two old friends, the young hostess decided, as she sat at dinner, that, after all, two might be an even more ideal number than eight for the complete enjoyment of the dinner-table.

When Mark rose to go, he was rejoiced to see Hester looking more like her old self than she had done since they had met in their new surroundings. She seemed to hold to her decision that there was no obstacle to the morning ride which he had suggested, saying as they parted:

"Alfred has so often reproached me for not going further afield in my drives, I'm sure he will be pleased to hear I've been adventurous enough to scale St. Thomas's Mount. You can't think what a joy an hour on horseback will be to me! It's a delightful suggestion, Mark, and I thank you for it," she said, with happy, grateful eyes, as she bade him good-night.

CHAPTER XXI.

The Eastern sky was still dim silvery grey when Mark Cheveril dismounted from his fine chestnut cob in front of the Rayner's verandah. Handing his horse to the syce, he turned to the other, a beautiful black Arab which he had secured for Hester, and whose girths and bridles he began carefully to inspect for the second time.

Presently Hester appeared on the verandah steps with a smiling face, wearing her riding habit for the first time since she left Worcesters.h.i.+re. Greeting Mark with a joyous mien, she renewed her thanks for the pleasure in prospect, sprang lightly to her saddle, and the cavalcade started; their respective syces following on foot, brandis.h.i.+ng their long brush-like switches used to protect the horses from flies when a halt was made.

The riders trotted slowly along the wide Mount Road where at this early hour there was little traffic, only a few natives stepping about.

Crossing the Adyar by the n.o.ble Marmalong Bridge, residences and their spreading compounds were soon left behind. Their route skirted the broad, winding reaches of the river, its banks fringed by peepul and casuarina trees, and here and there topes of cocoanut palms raised their graceful heads. The air was still cool and the early morning scents fragrant. Even the fumes of burnt charcoal curling upwards from the Thousand Lights Bazaar were pleasing to the riders, recalling the odour of furze fires on home moorlands.

Happy as were these two old friends to be together in such pleasant circ.u.mstances, their talk was as yet limited to spasmodic comments on the sights and sounds new to both. Mark was delighted to note the bright healthful glow on Hester's cheek, and resolved that each of the remaining mornings of his visit to Madras should be devoted to a morning ride together. He felt confident that her husband would approve when he saw how well-trained and reliable the Arab proved, and heard how greatly Hester was captivated by its paces.

They had now reached the ancient historical spot which was to be the goal of their morning's expedition. To eyes used to hills of home, St.

Thomas's Mount seemed a very low eminence, though from the flat plain stretching all round it appeared to stand out like a unique personality.

Possibly it was this feature which had caused it, centuries ago, to be singled out by devout pilgrims as a shrine. Fact and fiction had woven many legends round its steep gra.s.sy slopes, the most outstanding being the alleged visit of the Apostle whose name it bore. The Portuguese, the earliest European adventurers in the East, had established a mission there. Their ancient chapel which crowns the summit dates four centuries back. Instead of the zig-zag path which one expects in hill-climbing, the summit of the Mount is reached by a long, gradual ascent of granite steps which sparkled in the sun as if bestrewn by gems, and called forth the admiration of the riders as they halted at the base of the hill.

There, by Mark's arrangement, fresh syces had been posted from the stables for the return ride. They squatted on the sunny steps, their lips red with chewing betel-nut. They jumped up with salaams to take over charge of the hot steeds and to rub them down, while Mark, with liberal _backsheesh_, dispatched the returning pair of runners for, doubtless, a very leisurely progress townwards.

Hester had already scaled some of the steps of the s.h.i.+ning stair when Mark joined her.

"Here we are, Hester, another pair of pilgrims treading the steps that have been climbed for centuries by feet often weary enough, no doubt, not to speak of hearts that ached!"

"Yes, it feels good to picture it--gives one a feeling of brotherhood, doesn't it? I wonder if the pilgrims ever crawled on their knees up those many steps as they do on the _Santa Scala_ in Rome," said Hester, recalling the sight she had seen last Easter when she went for her first visit to Italy with her father.

As she lightly trod on, her thoughts lingered over Mark's suggestion, till she felt as if she too were one of the long procession of care-enc.u.mbered men and women who had come--some with true faith and zeal--to seek the true helper in the little chapel with its sacred symbols, which was once no doubt like an oasis in the desert of surrounding heathenism. Its dedication to the _Expectation of the Blessed Virgin_ could still be traced in rude, half-effaced letters over the doorway. The little building was very primitive both within and without. Underneath its rough stone pavement lay many dead.

Presently the visitors came to the most interesting relic within the building--a grey stone slab finely carved, a scroll running round it on which there was a curious inscription, and in the centre a beautiful Persian cross with a dove brooding over it.

"That slab must have proved a bigger effort for some old-time Christian than one of our finest monuments to the modern sculptor," said Mark, after a close inspection of the carving. "The man who carved it must have been a genius. Think of the rough tools he had, and the absence probably of all suggestion from without!"

"Yes, isn't it rather symbolic too," answered Hester with a sigh. "Don't each of us have to carve our own crosses with rough tools till sometimes our fingers bleed, and our hearts too?"

"Wouldn't it be a more comforting metaphor to say that the Master Sculptor does that for us--chip by chip--till the work stands out a thing of beauty like that old cross?"

"But the process hurts, Mark! Shall we never be finished? Will our chipping go on to the very end?" said Hester, with a sudden ring of pain in her voice.

"Yes, I think it must go on till our new beginning," returned Mark quietly. "Then we shall find--and what's better, the Great Maker will find--that no touch of His hand has been in vain, that every blow with the mallet was needed, every sc.r.a.pe with the sharp tool," he added, in a pitying voice, for he had detected that Hester's questioning cry had been wrung from an aching heart.

"Thank you, Mark," she murmured, after a moment's silence. "I shan't forget your parable next time the mallet or the piercing tool tries to improve me, and shall recall this grey stone--so finished, so perfect.

Surely loving hands fas.h.i.+oned it, as you say, or it would not have withstood the ravages of centuries to tell its tale to us on this bright morning."

As the two friends wandered on among the grey relics, "praising the chapel sweet with its little porch and its rustic door," Mark was reminded of a description in a well-read page of his favourite poet. In some of its aspects, it so truly described this morning which he was spending with Hester, that he resolved to bring the brown volume in his pocket the next time they rode together and read to her the lovely description of the old chapel and all that followed.

Yes, that "screen" though slight was "sure"! He would try to prove loyal in all things to this girl, who was evidently finding life very different from the flower-strewn path she had looked forward to when that bright letter reached him in the German Gasthaus, telling him of her engagement. He was glad to think it was still given him to cherish her as a friend. "Friends--lovers that might have been," he murmured.

Then, in spite of himself, as they walked silently down the steps together, more of the poet's words vibrated in his heart----

"Oh the little more and how much it is, And the little less, and what worlds away And life be the proof of this."

Though Hester did not clothe her thoughts in Browning's pathetic words, they followed much the same trend of feeling. How magnetic was the influence of this high-souled companion, who seemed to bring out of the treasure-house of his mind deep things, new and old. How was it that this friend of Charlie's never seemed so magnetic in the days when they had ridden together in green byways at home? Why was it reserved for her only to find his many-sided value and charm when she was the wife of Alfred Rayner? Ah, how different was the daily companions.h.i.+p which was her portion now, strewn as it was with pin-p.r.i.c.ks that hurt, even thorns that bled! Some of these she could only cease to feel, she thought with burning cheek, if she could descend from high ideals, ignore moral standards, and sink to the level of base and sordid thoughts and actions. But Alfred must be helped to better things, she resolved with fresh hope and courage, drawn from this happy morning. She must be more patient, more inventive in throwing him in the way of every good influence, and in this, who could help her better than the comrade who now rode by her side?

She reined her horse to a walk and turned to him, saying in a pleading voice:

"Mark, I have a favour to ask of you! Will you see as much of my husband as you can? Will you try to win his confidence and be his friend as I know you are mine? We have old links, of course, which makes friends.h.i.+p easy, but I do feel that Alfred needs a friend like you. He has somehow contracted such shallow aims; his ambitions often seem to me so poor, though I do try to be sympathetic. He is naturally secretive, you know, but I'm sure he isn't happy just now, though he does not open his mind to me. I fear his restlessness makes him extravagant. From some chance words he dropped lately it is evident that we have been spending too much money. As a new-comer, I haven't been able to give him the help he needed. It might have been different if we had come together to face the difficulties and temptations of the new country," wound up Hester with a sigh, some of her fears and perplexities coming sharply into relief.

"I believe you are right," returned Mark, glad to ignore her pitiful request, responding only to the last remark, "though you know the general theory is that the man should come first and prospect."

"Well, in your case I believe it will work all right. Your garnered experience will prove a mine of wisdom to your bride when you bring her to these sh.o.r.es. I'm longing to behold that 'not impossible she,' Mark!

When will she arrive?" she asked smilingly, glancing at her companion.

Mark Cheveril did not return her glance, but reflectively stroked his horse's neck. After a moment's silence, he looked at her, and said slowly:

"There is not 'a possible she' for me, Hester."

"Oh, but she's waiting for you now in some English home, though you don't know it! I feel sure you will not choose foolishly, Mark, and I shall be able to give my heart's love to your wife when she comes.

You'll tell her you have a friend who will insist on being admitted to her friends.h.i.+p."

To this Mark made no reply except to shake his head. They were now well on their homeward way, and had been riding slowly side by side as they talked.

Several vehicles and many native pedestrians had pa.s.sed them, the highway between St. Thomas's Mount and Madras being also the road to Palaveram and a busy thoroughfare. A dust-begrimed bandy sweeping by did not attract the attention of the riders, for it was the facsimile of many which had already pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed. But it was otherwise with the solitary occupant of the shabby vehicle. The riders had caught his eye while they were still in advance of his carriage. He glanced with keen interest at the handsome pair and their fine horses.