As Mark Cheveril was stepping out of the railway carriage in the Madras
station, a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
"The very man I was anxious to meet this morning," said Mr. Morpeth,
fixing his deep grey eyes on his young friend. "In fact, it was my
anxiety about all of you at Puranapore that brought me here at this
hour. I heard rumours yesterday of an impending riot in the town. Then I
had a bad dream! I haven't actually visited the place for years, but I
saw you all with a furious mob round you, and big champing horses riding
over you. I feared you and Mr. Worsley might be in trouble. But I'm glad
to see you're all safe, anyhow, Cheveril. But you do look a bit jaded.
Has the rioting been serious? Come and tell me all about it."
The old man put his arm through Mark's, and walked down the platform
with him.
"Serious enough," answered Mark. "But a company of soldiers from the
Fort soon settled the rioters. It's an unexpected event connected with
the riot that has brought me here this morning. You'll be sorry to hear,
Morpeth, that our friend, Mrs. Rayner's husband, has been
killed--literally trampled to death by a savage Mahomedan on horseback."
"Alfred dead!" gasped Mr. Morpeth, with a look of grief and terror in
his eyes. He stumbled in his walk, and but for Mark's strong arm would
have fallen forward.
His companion regarded him with astonishment.
"Yes, Rayner's gone, poor fellow! It's very sad! This sudden bad news
will be terrible for his wife. I didn't think you knew him though?"
added Mark interrogatively. "I'm just on my way to break the news to her
if I can muster up courage. I've been watching by him all night--he
passed away at dawn."
"God bless you for that," murmured Mr. Morpeth, his face quivering.
"Cheveril, there's no need to keep the secret any longer. I was wrong to
keep it at all. It was the ruin of him. He was my only son--Alfred."
Then in reply to Mark's silent start, he added, "Yes, that was his
mother's portrait you and his wife came on that afternoon. The incident
struck me at the time. I would I had spoken even then."
"Rayner--your son? It's hardly believable," stammered Mark, suddenly
recalling the incident of his first evening in Madras, when Rayner in
the mail-phaeton had, it seemed to him, almost deliberately set himself
to trample down the old man on whose cheek the tears were now running
down in sorrow for his loss. "He did not know this, of course--he never
knew it?" burst forth Mark, in an almost pleading tone.
"Yes, Alfred did know he was my son--but not in time--not till lately,"
the father acknowledged in a faltering voice. "I should like to tell you
all about it, Cheveril. And from you, who have stood by his dying bed,
there is much I want to hear."
Mark assented, and tightening his arm on Mr. Morpeth's, he led him to a
quiet comer of the big station, where they could carry on a conversation
without interruption. He would fain have suggested that he should take
the old man to the peace of his own library, but he felt his first duty
was to her who had been the beloved and sheltered one of Pinkthorpe
Rectory, and who was now alone and forlorn in this alien land.
In broken words David Morpeth told his tale of many-sided pain. Mark
Cheveril's sympathetic heart read its import even more completely than
the speaker guessed, though his words were few. After a little silence,
he glanced at the clock, saying:
"I was on my way to Clive's Road to tell her. Do you think----"
"Ah, yes, it is for me to take that duty," said Mr. Morpeth, starting up
from the bench where they were sitting. "I've shirked my
responsibilities too long. I see it now when it is too late. I shall go
to that sweet child whom I have loved for her own sake as my daughter."
The proposal was eagerly hailed by Mark, who now began to consider
whether he would share Zynool's communication with the stricken father,
but decided that before doing so he would seek fuller information, and
arranged to meet Mr. Morpeth at his house an hour or two later. He was
desirous of returning to Puranapore as soon as possible, not only on
account of his arrears of work, but also that he might through Zynool
even in prison ascertain the charge that was brought against Rayner,
which, on his own acknowledgment, had made him a fugitive in disguise.
After seeing Mr. Morpeth into his little victoria, Mark drove to the
Club, having much food for thought as he pondered over the tragical
story to which he had listened; and which, as he linked on certain
incidents which sprang to his memory with painful vividness, obliged him
to acknowledge the utter baseness of Hester's husband.
When Mr. Morpeth alighted from his carriage at Clive's Road and walked
up the broad steps, he caught sight of Hester seated in the verandah,
looking like a ghost of her former self.
"The poor child must have heard already," he said to himself, as he went
forward. Even the sound of the carriage wheels seemed to have struck
terror into Hester's heart. She clung to the arms of her chair as she
essayed to rise, and looked at her visitor with scared, questioning
eyes.
"You know already, then?" murmured Mr. Morpeth, taking her hand and
gazing pitifully into her face.
"Oh, have they caught him? Is he in prison?" she cried, the blood
rushing into her pale cheeks. "Oh, I can't bear it!"
"In prison, my dear? What do you mean?" asked Mr. Morpeth in a
bewildered tone. "No, Hester, death is not prison! Pray that in spite of
all it may be the Gate of Life."
"'Death'! Have you come to tell me that my husband is dead?" she asked
with startled air.
Mr. Morpeth briefly narrated to her the events of which Mark Cheveril
had put him in possession at the station. Hester listened, dry-eyed, as
one spell-bound.
"And Hester," he added slowly, "I prayed that I might bring this news to
you because I am Alfred's father----"
"You are? Then it _was_ true!" cried Hester, as if awakening from a
dream. "But oh, why did not poor Alfred have all the good a father like
you might have been to him? I thought these women who told me were only
gossiping, but I even wished that it _were_ true. Why did you ever lose
hold of your son?" asked Hester, looking reproachfully on the worn, grey
face.
So it happened, that for the second time that morning, David Morpeth,
with aching heart, had to take up the tangled skein of the past. And
Hester, as she listened, with her quick perception easily filled up the
gaps in the narration.
"Oh, the loss to him!" she murmured. "If he had been brought up by one
good and true like you he might have been different, instead of being
embittered, reckless, mad."
In her turn, she had to unfold to the father the story of his son's
crime and the fear of its consequences, which had driven him from his
home, a fugitive from justice.
The father's grey head was bowed in grief. He sat in silence for some
time, then looking up with a sob he said:
"If he had only come to me--even that night. I was his father--but he
would have none of me."
"But how could he go to you--he did not know," faltered Hester.
"Ah, child, that is the worst sorrow of all--Alfred did know," said the
truth-loving man, looking at Hester with his earnest eyes.
"Not that evening on the beach when he was so rude--so cruel? Oh, say he
did not know then?"
Hester's eyes as well as her tone pleaded for an assurance that at least
she could exonerate her husband from the terrible stain such knowledge
must shed on his conduct that evening.
"How can I tell her," he thought. "Listen, my child! When Alfred was in
Calcutta he learnt that David Morpeth, the old East Indian, was his
father. He disowned me and scornfully refused my allowance to him from
that day forward. As I have explained to you, it was my own fault for
weakly consenting to a foolish promise--for allowing my child to pass
from me as I did. The fact is my own will inclined to it. I had always
been too sensitively conscious of the disabilities of Eurasians--perhaps
unduly dominated by the aristocracy of colour in the white man. Mr.
Cheveril, now, has turned those very disabilities which were my weakness
into strength, but I bent my head before the prejudice, having suffered
in many-sided ways from my youth up. To shield my son against it seemed
in my mistaken judgment worthy of the sacrifice I had to make. I desired
to save him from the cup that had been so bitter to my taste, forgetting
that the cup Our Father offers is the only safe one for us. I dreamt too
of his having a very different training in England, idealising
everything there, as I did in those days. I thought no sacrifice too
great to bring about this end; but my wife's sister thwarted my purposes
and even deceived me for long. Ignorant as I was of English ways save
through literature, I shrank from going there to arrange matters for my
son until it was too late. I have long known, however, that it was not
only my foolish promise to the dead mother that bound me--it was my own
pride and self-will. Long ago, of course, I saw the fatal mistake I had
made. But we have to reap as we sow. My reaping time is sore indeed. Oh,
the bitterness to think of his being a forger and a felon."
With a groan the old man bent his head and covered his face with his
hands. Hester's pity, even at this her own dark hour, was stirred for
the forlorn man. She rose and laid her hand on his grey head.
"Try to forgive him," she murmured. "It is terrible to think of, but
Alfred is dead. We must try not to judge him hardly any more."
The pathetic ring in her voice caused the old man to look up at her.
"You have suffered too, my child," he said, taking her hand. "Have I not
been a silent witness of your trials--haunted by the thought of them
even when I went about my daily work? How I longed to spare you, to
protect you. Now, at last, in that matter I can have my wish," he added,
with a touch of his old energy coming into his face. "As Alfred's
father, it is my right to do all I can to help and protect you at this
terrible time. The responsibility will be my greatest comfort now.
First, may I go and ask your good friend Mrs. Fellowes to come and be
with you?"
"No, no, just for to-day let me be alone. There is such a thing as
getting acquainted with grief, you know," returned Hester, with a sad
smile.
"As you will, my dear! Then, I should like to tell you that all the
offices for the dead will be my care. You will let me have my son just
once in his father's house?" he asked, in a pleading tone. "It is my
purpose to take him to Calcutta and lay him beside his young mother. And
you, Hester, will want to return to your happy home? You have youth and
hope still with you. It is no doubt your wish to go back to England?"
"Oh, yes, I shall go home. He needs me no more. I did try to help
him--but----" She broke off with a sob.
"Didn't I see you did? Ah, how my heart yearned for you as well as for
my poor wayward son! But I was powerless to help either the one or the
other. That was my punishment. But now you must allow me to atone for it
by giving you all the help I can."
"When he is with you on the sea, I shall go on my voyage too. I cannot
stay in this house longer--or anywhere else in this place."
"Nor need you. All can be arranged. Can you be ready to start in a
couple of days?"
"Easily. Everything here must be left to pay the debts we owe--that
money he took too. I can only give up everything I have. It's not much,
I fear, but it's all I can do just now. When I get home, my father----"
"Not a word about that matter," interrupted Mr. Morpeth, rising. "These
burdens are all my right now. I must go, but I shall look in again this
evening, since you prefer to be alone to-day. Go and lie down, my child,
you are overwrought," he added, glancing at Hester's worn face.
Beckoning to the butler, he briefly told him of his master's death, and
charged him to see well to his mistress, who would soon have to cross
"the black water" again. Then, with his habitual calm taking possession
of him once more, Mr. Morpeth hurried away to face a more difficult and
trying day than Hester had any idea of.
She too had her hours of storm and stress as the long, hot hours wore
on. The terrible tension arising from the suspense was now at an end.
Her weak, erring husband had gone to another Bar than the earthly one
she had so dreaded for him. Her brief married life lay in ruins, and
though love was dead, its spectre haunted her at every turn. Now it was
the beautiful face, the impassioned eyes of the almost unknown suitor in
the Woodglade arbour that rose before her. Again, it was one incident
after another disclosing his disordered heart; scenes before which she
had learnt to quail in fear--not for herself, she soon learnt to outlive
that--but for the restless, unhappy one to whom she had pledged her
wedded troth. Sometimes it was the recollection of that morning on which
he had spoken such insulting words to his own father that sprang into
her mind. And as she vividly recalled the scene, she began to wonder if,
all along, Alfred could have had some subconscious glimmering of the
close relationship between him and the noble-hearted man he was spurning
which goaded him to a sense of desperation. Then the memory of her happy
morning ride with Mark Cheveril came to her mind. How kind, how
comforting, how high-toned and self-restrained he had ever proved, and
yet, for her sake, he had to endure taunts which, had they been flung at
him by any other than her husband, she felt sure would have been dealt
with very differently. Yet it had been that friend who had smoothed the
dying pillow of her disgraced husband!
Deeply grateful as she was to Mark Cheveril for all that he had been to
her, she felt no desire to meet him on this dark day, and was thankful
that Mr. Morpeth, and not he, had been the messenger of the evil
tidings. Perhaps Mark and she would never meet again in this world; yet
between them she felt there would ever be the bond forged during these
eventful months when faith and honour and fealty had called her to turn
from the true man to him whom she had too late awakened to find deeply
false, although he was the husband of her youth.
Even the thought of the home-going--that thought so thrilling to the
hearts of Anglo-Indians--brought no lightening to Hester's load of pain
that day, nor for many a succeeding one.