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paralyze her had been replaced by a quiet shining peace of heart, a rare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.
Mark went on to tell her that his return to India would no longer be to
the familiar Puranapore. Since the Collector was about to retire, he
acknowledged, he was nothing loth to have a change, especially since an
attractive post had been offered to him in the North, though it would
necessitate a speedy return to the East.
He now bent forward suddenly, saying:
"Hester, would you risk the black water again and go with me? You have
all my love and my worship--will you be my wife? I once banished my love
as a forbidden thing and tried to be your loyal friend----"
"You did, Mark," murmured Hester, with bowed head. "Right loyally you
did----"
"But now--the present is ours, Hester, the present and the future. You
will make it golden for me if you will grant me this. Hester, didn't you
invite me to come and learn wisdom at your feet as I came under this
tree?" asked Mark, with a glowing mien, flinging himself on the ground
and looking up into her drooping face.
"No, it was Charlie I invited."
"My answer, Hester! I have waited long," he pleaded, looking at her with
all his soul in his eyes. "I know now too well that I loved you
before--before that other ever saw you."
Hester felt as if she knew it too. And she also knew that as the first
man who had wooed and won her was false, this one was wholly true.
Stretching out both her hands to him, she said:
"Yes, Mark, I will venture the black water again with you! Where you go
I will go. My love and trust are wholly yours--and have been
since--since that morning we stood together on the deck of the _El
Dorado_."
* * * * *
_Jarrold & Sons, Ltd., Printers, The Empire Press, Norwich._