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THE WOMAN IN THE BAZAAR
* * * * * *
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
The Happy Hunting Ground
The Anglo-Indians
The Charm
Idolatry
A Free Solitude
The Waters of Destruction
Red Records
East of Suez
Late in Life
The Spell of the Jungle
* * * * * *
[Illustration: "Coventry guessed that this was
'the woman in the bazaar'"
(_see page_ 194).]
THE WOMAN IN THE BAZAAR
by
ALICE PERRIN
With a Frontispiece by J. Dewar Mills
Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
First Published in 1914
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
1. THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER . . . . . . . . 1
2. IN THE GARDEN . . . . . . . . . . 15
3. SUCCESS . . . . . . . . . . . 24
4. MRS. GREAVES . . . . . . . . . . 36
5. THE LIE . . . . . . . . . . . 55
6. THE BACHELORS' BALL . . . . . . . . 76
7. TRIXIE . . . . . . . . . . . 95
8. INDIA . . . . . . . . . . . 116
9. DOUBT . . . . . . . . . . . 129
10. THE RIVER . . . . . . . . . . 143
11. THE JUNGLE . . . . . . . . . . 163
12. IN THE BAZAAR . . . . . . . . . 183
13. THE OUTCOME . . . . . . . . . . 202
THE
WOMAN IN THE BAZAAR
CHAPTER I
THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER
Summer-time at Under-edge compensated, in a measure, for the trials and
severities of winter--for winter could be grim and cruel in the isolated
little Cotswold village approached by roads that were almost
perpendicular. Why such a spot should ever have been fixed upon for
human habitation seemed difficult to comprehend, save that in old and
dangerous days its very inaccessibility may have been its chief
attraction; most of the villagers were descendants of gypsies, outlaws,
and highwaymen. Now, at the close of the nineteenth century, no one,
unless held by custom and tradition, or by lack of means, remained
permanently at Under-edge; for communication with the world in the
valley below was still conducted by carrier, postal arrangements were
awkward and uncertain, water very often scarce, and existence during
winter-time a long-drawn period of bleak and hard monotony.
But when the vast fields, bounded by rough stone walls, grew green and
luscious, and the oaks put forth new foliage the colour of a young
pea-pod, and the elm trunks sprouted feathery sprays that likened the
trees to gigantic Houdan fowls, life in Under-edge became at least
endurable. Even the dilapidated vicarage looked charming, wistaria
draping the old walls in mauve cascades, and white montana creeper
heaped above the porch; roses and passion flower climbed and clung to
broken trellis-work, and outside the dining-room window the magnolia
tree, planted by a former vicar many years ago, filled the air with
lemon scent from waxen cups. Though the garden was unkempt, the grass so
seldom mown, and the path unweeded, hardy perennials brightened the
neglected flower-beds, and lilac, syringa, laburnum, flourished in sweet
luxuriance. It was a paradise for birds, whose trilling echoed clear
from dawn to sunset in this safe retreat.
Rafella Forte, the vicar's daughter, came out of the house this summer
morning in a blue cotton frock that matched her eyes, wearing no hat on
her yellow head. A coarse market basket was slung on her arm, and she
carried a light pronged fork, since her object was not to cut flowers
for the drawing-room vases, as would seem natural for a young lady, but
to dig potatoes for the midday meal. The potato patch was perhaps the
most useful portion of the vicarage garden, and it meant real disaster
if the crop was scanty, since the living of Under-edge, though not quite
so miserable as some, was yet poor enough to render the garden produce
of infinite value, in support of one joint a week, an occasional hen
that had ceased laying, and sometimes a rabbit presented by a farmer.
Ella Forte was barely twenty-one, yet for years had she worked, and
scraped, and saved, so that the little household--herself, her father,
and a single-handed servant--might subsist in tolerable comfort; that
there might be something still in hand for parish claims, for possible
emergencies, for, at least, a passably respectable appearance. She
gloried in her management, she knew no discontent, she was proud to fill
the post surrendered by her mother, who lay beneath a shrinking mound in
the churchyard just beyond the vicarage domain. She was complacently
convinced of her father's dependence upon her, and of her influence in
the village, where she had no rival, for the squire's house stood empty,
closed, falling into disrepair, its owner dwelling out of England,
crippled by a dwindling rent-roll and heavy charges on the property.
This morning she sang blithely as she crossed the lawn that more nearly
resembled a hay-field--sang one of the hymns she had selected for
to-morrow's service, to be led by herself to her own strenuous
accompaniment on the aged harmonium and the raucous voices of the
village congregation. The sun shone on her hair, that glinted golden,
crinkling over her little head, gathered into a then unfashionable knob
at the nape of her slim, white neck. And Captain Coventry, riding along
the road, looked over the privet hedge and thought he had never beheld
anything on this earth to compare with its glory. Why, the girl's hair
was like "kincob," like the border of a nautch woman's veil, like the
work on a rajah's robe!
Captain Coventry had just returned from India, and the glamour of the
East was still upon him--the East that is so very different to look back
upon when a man's whole service need not be spent in exile. Just now he
was on short leave, and his regiment--an English line regiment--would be
returning home in two years' time. India, to him, was yet a pleasant
quarter of the globe that meant sport (his passion) well within his
means, cheaper comfort, cheaper living, amusements that were welcome to
his outdoor tastes, not to speak of soldiering experiences of the finest
next to active service. He was on a visit to his widowed mother and his
spinster sister, who lived in the little country town lying at the base
of the hills that jutted out like monstrous knuckles over the Severn
Valley; and feeling slightly bored, in need of exercise, of movement, he
had hired a horse and was exploring Cotswold villages on morning rides.
So it came about that on this perfect summer day he had passed through
Under-edge, and was arrested now by the vision of a girl with golden
head and bright blue gown in the garden of a wayside vicarage.
Involuntarily he checked his mount, and from behind the hedge he watched
the slim blue figure move across the grass and stand for a moment
outlined against a door in an ivy-covered garden wall. She was singing
as she wrestled with a rusty latch:
"Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me."
How he wished he could see her face; he felt he _must_ see it! And when
she had opened the door and vanished from his view, he rode on slowly,
reluctantly, scheming how he might return with some specious reason that
would enable him to speak with her.
George Coventry was not susceptible. Save for a youthful and hopeless
love affair that left no lasting impress on his heart, his life had been
exceptionally free from sexual distractions; he was more on his guard
against women than actually indifferent to them. Without conceit, he was
not wholly unaware that he found favour, generally, with females of his
class, the very austereness of his nature provoked and attracted them;
but illicit love repelled him, and, so far, since he had been in a
position to support a wife, no girl or woman in particular had caught
his fancy, though in the abstract he was not averse to the notion of
marriage.
His ideal of womanhood was modelled on the type represented by his
mother and his aunts and his spinster sister, ladies whose sole charm
lay in their personal virtue, the keynote of whose lives was duty and
devotion to the home. Coventry was an only son, and on the death of his
father his mother's whole existence became centred on himself, while
Miss Coventry sacrificed youth and pleasure and all outside interests in
order that she might minister undividedly to her bereaved parent; and
both women remained serenely unconscious of the waste of life and energy
and happiness that the sacrifice entailed. The daughter refused a
proposal from a worthy gentleman because, she said, she could not leave
Mama; and her mother and her brother accepted this decision as only
right and proper. The suitor failing to suggest that Mama should also
become an inmate of his house, the matter went no further. Such
immolation of female youth to age is common and unending, and in the
majority of cases the victim lays down her natural rights on the altar
of duty with but little conception of the magnitude of the offering, and
receives small credit for her martyrdom.
There had been something chaste and exquisite about this maiden in the
garden that had touched a tender chord in George Coventry's breast. He
felt an inward certainty that the girl was gentle, simple, sweet--a
little saint, with her aureole of hair, and her artless singing of the
old familiar hymn. The impression lured him so irresistibly that he was
several times on the point of turning his horse's head, but each excuse
that presented itself struck him as too thin. He had lost his way--where
to? He had been suddenly taken ill, felt faint; the very idea caused him
to smile--he had never felt faint in his life and did not know how to
enact the symptoms, and no one would for a moment believe him to be ill,
judging by his appearance of hopelessly robust health! Perhaps a
cigarette would stimulate his imagination; he put his hand in his pocket
and encountered a knife given him only yesterday by his sister for his
birthday--the kind of gift "for a man" above which certain feminine
minds seem unable to rise when cigarette-cases, sleeve-links, tie-pins
and pocket-books have been exhausted. The knife was a cumbersome plated
article, comprising, in addition to blades of all sizes, a corkscrew,
folding scissors, a button-hook, and an instrument intended for the
extraction of stones from horses' hoofs. For once he blessed Nellie's
limited notions of masculine needs, because her present suggested a
plausible plea.
He dismounted and searched about the ground for a pebble that might suit
his purpose. Anyone passing would have supposed that the big, bronzed
young man scraping in the dust of the country road must have dropped
some treasured possession.
Presently he passed his hand with practised touch down the horse's
fetlock, and the animal raised its hoof in docile response. Coventry
wedged a little stone between the hoof and the shoe, then turned in the
direction of the vicarage, the bridle over his arm, the horse limping,
ever so slightly, behind him.
At the wooden entrance gate he paused. The vicarage front door stood
open, and across the rough gravel sweep he could see into the hall--see
a stone-paved floor and an oak chest, with hats and coats hanging from
hooks above it. A rose-scented peace enveloped the house and garden; he
heard no sound save the high, clear calling of birds.
A sudden reluctance assailed him, kept him standing at the gate, his
hand on the latch, his heart beating fast; a fateful feeling that if he
disturbed this somnolent calm his whole life, his whole future, would be
affected, whether for evil or for good. The horse nuzzled his shoulder
gently, a yellow butterfly skimmed past. He thought of the girl's golden
hair in the sunshine, and he swung open the gate.
Ivy hid the door-bell, but he found it and pulled boldly. The result was
disconcerting; never had he known a house-bell create such a clamour; it
clanged and re-echoed, and continued till he felt it must surely rouse
not only the vicarage but the entire village. Long before its pealing
ceased a door was opened within, and an elderly cleric, with a grey
beard and a benevolent expression, appeared in the porch.
Coventry raised his hat, apologised for his intrusion, and explained.
"My horse," he said, "has got a stone in his hoof, and I'm a long way
from home. Have you anything you could lend me to get it out?"
That was the beginning. The vicar was cordially sympathetic, and at once
went in search of some instrument, returning with a pruning knife, a
skewer, and a chisel.
"Perhaps one of these?" he said, and then stood by, remarking upon the
weather and the prospects of the fruit crop and the hay, and the unusual
heat, while with much apparent effort the stone was extracted and cast
aside.
Then Coventry stood up and mopped his forehead.
"Yes, the heat is extraordinary, I suppose, for England, though of
course it's nothing compared with India."
"Ah! So you have had some experience of the tropics?"
"I'm home on leave from my regiment in India."
The vicar was interested. "Then, no doubt," he said, "you can tell me
what headway conversion to Christianity is making among the heathen? I
once contemplated joining an Indian mission myself, but there were
difficulties in the way--my dear wife's health, the birth of my little
daughter, and so forth. But it is a subject that has always attracted me
strongly."
Coventry strove to recollect if he had ever conversed with a missionary
in India. "I believe," he uttered profoundly, "that it is a very
intricate question."
"Quite so; and at such a distance it is difficult for stay-at-homes to
understand the obstacles that our brave workers have to encounter and
overcome. Idolatry, from all accounts, is a very formidable foe. My
daughter is just now organising a little sale of work, to be held here
next week, in aid of foreign missions; we like to feel that, humble
parish as we are, we do our small share to help. But I must not keep you
standing in the sun. Will you not take your horse round to the stables
and let us offer you a rest and some refreshment before you go on your
way?"
Coventry displayed becoming hesitation. He could not think of giving so
much trouble, of taking up the vicar's valuable time, though he admitted
that a short halt would not be altogether unwelcome in view of the
distance he had come and the distance he had still to go. He permitted
himself to be persuaded, and his host conducted him to the back of the
house, to where a couple of empty stalls and a coach-house almost in
ruins faced a weed-choked yard appropriated now by poultry and some
pigs.
They re-entered the house by the kitchen, that had a red-brick floor, an
open range, and black beams across the low ceiling; they traversed a
long flagged passage, passed through a swing-door that must once have
been covered with green baize, and thence across the hall to the vicar's
study. It was a cool and restful room despite its shabby furniture and
musty odour.
"I always half expect to see my predecessor sitting in my chair," the
vicar told him whimsically. "He was here for nearly half a century.
These old vicarages are steeped in memories. I have been here myself for
over twenty years, and I still feel as if I was a kind of interloper!
Everything is practically just the same as when I took the living over.
We move very slowly in these benighted mountain villages."
Someone passed the open window.
"Rafella!" called the vicar.
Coventry held his breath. What a charming name! Next moment he was
gazing at a girl's face framed in passion-flower and roses; and the face
was even fairer and more angelic than he had imagined. Delicate,
clear-cut features, eyes of heavenly blue, a skin so pink and white that
it might almost have been painted, and the hair--the glorious golden
hair!
Afterwards he could never very clearly recall what followed. He knew he
was introduced to "Rafella" as she stood at the window, that she came in
and apologised prettily for the mould that stained her little hands--she
said with engaging simplicity that she had been digging potatoes. He
knew he was regaled with lemonade and water biscuits, and that she sat
and smiled, and looked like a Madonna, while her father talked of
missions and asked innumerable questions concerning India. Was the heat
out there actually so severe? Was there constant danger from snakes and
wild beasts? Was it true that the social life was demoralising to the
European? And how about the question of drink, and the example set in
that respect, and others, by the English? Also, was it a fact that the
Oriental was possessed of strange faculties that could not be explained,
and had Captain Coventry himself ever seen a man climb up a rope and
vanish into space?
All of which Captain Coventry answered to the best of his capability,
the whole while cogitating how he might contrive his next meeting with
the vicar's daughter. At last a casual reference to the coming sale of
work presented an excellent opportunity.
"I wonder if I might bring my mother and my sister to the show?" he
asked with diffidence. "They take such a keen interest in things of that
description." And he explained how easy it would be to manage if he
chartered a conveyance for the afternoon.
Naturally the idea met with cordial encouragement, and led to further
interchange of personal information. By the time Captain Coventry had
begun to feel that he could, with decency, remain no longer, he was on
most friendly terms with the Reverend Mr. Forte and Rafella, the
clergyman's only child.