A Bottle in the Smoke Part 27

"Oh, what a pity, he has company to-day! I should have preferred a nice talk with him all by ourselves," whispered Mrs. Fellowes.

"Only one company, Missus," said Mootoo, smiling, having overheard her remark as he prepared to announce them.

Mr. Morpeth, of whom they first caught sight, was bending forward in his easy-chair with an air of interest listening to the conversation of his visitor, Mark Cheveril.

"Ah, good! A meeting of friends!" exclaimed the old man in a gleeful tone. "This is what Mootoo would call a lucky day for me!"

"For me too," said Mark, as he shook hands with the ladies, a happy light coming into his frank eyes. "And it follows on a disappointment, too. I've just been to Clive's Road on my way from the station to find its mistress absent."

"Now, Mr. Cheveril," broke in Mrs. Fellowes, "if you had only had the intuition to drive on to Royapooram you would have found the absent bird there."

"I did think of it, for the boy volunteered the information that Mr.

Rayner was in Calcutta and 'Missus done gone to Royapooram,'" returned Mark. He glanced now at Hester with keen eyes, and was satisfied to note that she was looking better and happier than when he had last seen her.

"But if he had made that round, Mrs. Fellowes, where should I have come in?" asked Mr. Morpeth. "The fact is I look upon him as my peculiar property for the day, seeing I lured him all the way from Puranapore to open our new Reading-room for our young men. Wasn't that a good move, Mrs. Fellowes?"

"Excellent--I am glad! And if I didn't know that you eschewed females on these occasions, I should suggest that we should come to hear Mr.

Cheveril's speech, shouldn't you, Hester?"

"Indeed I should! But mayn't we, Mr. Morpeth?" asked Hester, her winning smile evoking a return one from the old man. "You are master of ceremonies, are you not?"

"It wouldn't do, believe me," replied Mr. Morpeth, shaking his head.

"Our masculine efforts would have no chance. The lads would be too much fascinated by the unwonted presence of English ladies."

"Singular number, please, Mr. Morpeth," said Mrs. Fellowes promptly. "I don't think an old body like me would distract them. But I suppose he knows best, Hester, we must give in. He is very impartial, you see, he won't come to our Girls' Friendly. We must accept the scruples of an expert."

Mootoo was now bringing in tea, which was daintily served on a richly carved old silver tray. The cups and saucers being of old Chelsea china, while the lovely Cutch work silver service belonged to the more artistic period of that style.

"Every time I come here I ask the same question like a regular Mrs.

Gamp," laughed Mrs. Fellowes. "Where do you get this delicious blend of tea? It's the most refres.h.i.+ng cup I ever get anywhere," and she sipped the fragrant beverage from the delicate Chelsea cup. "And those scones, aren't they perfect, Mr. Cheveril? Never did I taste their like except in the Highlands of Scotland!"

Mootoo, who was serving, showed his keen gratification by a quiver of his eyelids, these scones being his special triumph, for Mootoo could cook excellently as well as do "butler" work, and with juggler-like rapidity had turned out the scones and cakes which Mrs. Fellowes declared would bring down reproaches upon her from her husband when he observed she had no appet.i.te left for dinner.

Tea being over, the older lady suggested that their host should allow them to see some of the interesting things with which his house abounded, and declared she would lead the prowl. Mark had already made the acquaintance of some of these treasures.

"I was just saying to Mr. Morpeth," he remarked, "that in this Indian house he had carried out the chief function of an old country mansion at home--that of being the receptacle for storing things one cannot carry about with one in a roving life."

"Yes, that's what the Colonel's always lamenting," broke in Mrs.

Fellowes. "There can be no relic-gathering in the Anglo-Indian's lot.

And after all, these possessions are the making of a family--collections of old letters, heirloom portraits, mementos of persons and events--why, one can't keep anything of the kind in India! I once had a lock of Prince Charlie's yellow hair--purported to be so, anyhow--among my treasures. The _poochees_ ate it in one week! No, all that sacred storing of precious things is denied to us poor wanderers over the great restless ocean," wound up Mrs. Fellowes sadly.

The delightful shelves of books seemed to be calling Hester's attention, and Mark Cheveril was in his element introducing her to some of his old favourites of which she had only heard from him. Presently Mr. Morpeth was called to the verandah to see two young men who had come in to consult him about some final arrangements for the coming meeting, and Mrs. Fellowes went to converse with the parrot, who always claimed her attention on her visits to Freyville.

Mark and Hester, continuing their explorations, came upon a shelf among the rows of books which seemed to be given up to miniatures and daguerrotypes. One of these was the portrait of a young man with a rarely beautiful face which caught Hester's eye.

"I feel sure this is a portrait of Mr. Morpeth when he was young," she remarked, after scanning it.

"If so he has sadly changed," returned Mark, as he looked at the young spirited face with bright, dauntless-looking eyes, and compared them with the sad, meditative grey orbs into which he had been looking before the ladies joined them.

"And this, I suppose, must be his sister! She looks too young for his mother. Pretty face, isn't it?" said Hester, handing Mark another old daguerrotype in its leathern case.

"Superficially pretty, perhaps," returned Mark. "No, I don't admire the face," he added, and was about to replace it on the shelf without further comment, when Hester said:

"Let me see it again! It reminds me curiously of some girl--I think--I've seen either here or at home. Those eyes look familiar and the shape of that nose--I know who it's like. It has a look of my husband! How odd! I'm sure he isn't girlish-looking," she added with a laugh.

Mark took the portrait into his hand again and examined it attentively.

"Yes, perhaps there is a likeness--about the eyes especially."

He was still looking at it when they were joined by Mrs. Fellowes and Mr. Morpeth.

"Ah, you are looking at my little gallery of old portraits," he said. "I fear they are not very artistic But I've got some portfolios of old engravings that are worth looking at. I have them carefully stowed away, one can't leave such things about. The monsoon makes such havoc on all pictures--even under gla.s.s, not to speak of the insects."

"Is this a relative of yours, Morpeth?" asked Mark, holding out the old daguerrotype. "Your sister, perhaps!"

"No, not my sister, alas, I never had one! That is my late wife."

"Your wife!" exclaimed Mrs. Fellowes, coming forward to look at the picture. "Forgive my accent of surprise, dear friend, but do you know neither the Colonel nor I ever knew you were married. We have always set you down as a bachelor!"

"Well, I have been so for many a long day. My wife died a year after we were married," he added, a pained look crossing his face.

Mrs. Fellowes, after a close survey of the portrait, replaced it on the shelf, saying to herself as she did so:

"Wouldn't have been much of a companion to the dear man if she had lived, if I can read faces!"

Hester, seeing the look of sadness in Mr. Morpeth's eyes, hastened to make some digression, and turned to admire an exquisitely carved ivory box which stood on the same shelf as the portraits.

"This is beautiful workmans.h.i.+p, Mr. Morpeth. I am specially interested because I have a box rather like it which I greatly admired, and still do, though I can see now the great superiority of yours. My husband presented me with mine when we were engaged to be married. Of course, he believed it to be the finest ivory, so his disappointment was great when an expert, to whom he was showing it lately, p.r.o.nounced it to be only bone! I a.s.sured Alfred I thought it was just as beautiful as before, but he's never been able to look on it with favour since. I confess I can see, on examining yours, the difference between the true and the false."

"Yes, I can vouch for this one," replied Mr. Morpeth, "that it is at least genuine, for I gave the man the bit of ivory out of which it is carved. It's years ago now. The man was a poor worker who had lost both his legs, but his hands stood him in good stead. He was the most perfect ivory-carver I've ever seen. He was a bit of a genius in other ways too.

His designs were often original. If you examine this box closely you will see there is a whole history carved on its top and sides. He became a Christian and loved gospel themes, and these are some scenes from the life of Our Lord. See, here He sits with Mary at His feet listening to His words, and there He is walking on the sea. Aren't those billows wonderful--carved out of such a hard material as ivory?"

But now Mrs. Fellowes remarked that though they had only made a beginning in their examination of his treasures, they must really set out for home, or the Colonel would begin to get anxious about them. She turned to Mark to try to persuade him to give them some hours before he left for Puranapore on the following day, but he said he must return in the early morning as some matters were requiring his attention at the Revenue Office, and that the Collector and he were to start on tour the day following.

Mrs. Fellowes and her guest said good-bye, and were already seated in the victoria when Mr. Morpeth came round to the side of the carriage at which Hester sat, and laid a little parcel in her hand.

"It's only the ivory box! Will you accept it as a little memento of your first visit to a lonely old man? Let this replace the false one. Use it freely--keep your mother's letters in it. I got the secret of restoring stained ivory from the carver, and I'll share it with you when the little box needs a cleaning."

"Oh, but really I cannot deprive you of this priceless treasure," cried Hester, with a genuinely troubled air. "No, it must not go from your keeping!"

"If it goes to yours it will please me more than you can guess,"

returned Mr. Morpeth, his pathetic grey eyes pleading more than his words.

"Then I shall keep the little box with its beautiful carved histories as my best treasure as long as I live," said Hester, her eyes glistening with tears as she clasped the packet in both hands and looked into the donor's face.

The two gentlemen stood bareheaded in the sunset glow to watch them drive off, the turbaned Mootoo behind them, framed by the graceful festooning creepers of the verandah, while the parrot called from its perch: "Come back soon, master lonely!"

"Very pat for once, Polly," said Mr. Morpeth with a smile, as he scratched the bird's neck; while Mark stood with folded arms and earnest eyes watching the disappearing carriage.