The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Woman in the Bazaar, by Alice Perrin, Illustrated by J. Dewar Mills

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

"Coventry guessed that this was 'the woman in the bazaar'" (see page 194).

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.

CHAPTER II

IN THE GARDEN

Until the day of the sale of work at Under-edge Vicarage Coventry lived through the hours as one in a dream, dominated by the mental vision of a gentle girl, by his ardent longing for the moment when he should see her face again. He realised that he had actually fallen in love at first sight, admitted the fact to himself with grudging reluctance, seeing that hitherto he had scoffed at belief in such a possibility--like a person who suddenly sees a ghost after contemptuous denial of the supernatural.

He intended to make the girl his wife. She might not be accomplished or clever; her education must necessarily have been limited, reared, as she had been, so apart from the world. Yet if she were ignorant in the accepted sense of the word, she must also be innocent, guileless, unacquainted with evil--white and unsullied in thought and experience. He had no desire for an intellectual wife; in his opinion the more women knew the more objectionable they became. George Coventry was the kind of man who could contemplate matrimony only under conditions of supreme possession, mental as well as physical. What his wife learnt of life he must be the one to teach her; there must be no knowledge, no memory in her heart of which he might have reason to feel jealous in the most remote degree. There was something of the Sultan in his nature.

Perhaps he was not actively conscious of the stringency of his attitude towards the female sex; now, at least, he merely felt that he had "struck" the very kind of girl he should care to marry, and he harboured no manner of doubt in his mind but that Rafella Forte was all she appeared and all he conceived her to be--a sweet and simple creature, his ideal of a bride.

His instinct was not wrong. The vicar's daughter was a sweet and simple creature, oblivious, if not wholly ignorant, of evil--and of much besides. She made her own clothes, frequently she cleaned her own and her father's boots; she had driven in no vehicle more exalted than the village fly, had ridden nothing better than a donkey or a bicycle, had attended no entertainment more exciting than a local tea party or a penny reading. It was sinful, she thought, to powder one's nose, or to wear shoes with high heels, or to cut one's hair in a fringe--then a fashion that still was in favour. Her hats were kept on with elastic, and she seldom looked long at herself in the glass.

On the day of her sale, however, she looked at her reflection in the mirror rather more attentively than usual, just to make certain that her hair was as tidy as troublesome curls and waves would permit, that primrose soap and hot water had effectively cleaned her face after her busy morning, that her plain straw hat, bound by a white ribbon, and her linen collar were straight. She felt a trifle guilty because she desired to look her best, an ambition that was somehow entangled, quite unaccountably, with the prospect of meeting Captain Coventry again. She had never met anyone quite like Captain Coventry; he was so handsome and he seemed to be so nice. She looked forward with an odd and unwonted agitation to his arrival. She hoped, though she was teased by a slight suspicion to the contrary, that he was a good man, that he was a teetotaller, and did not smoke or play cards.

Then she went down into the garden, and became too deeply engrossed in the arrangement of her stall, and in consultations with early arrivals--the doctor's wife and the wives of one or two prominent farmers--as to the prices of their contributions, and at what time tea ought to be ready, and so forth, to concern herself further over his possible vices. She also forgot to consider his character when he drove up in a hired wagonette with his mother, a gracious old lady in black silk and a shawl, and his sister, a colourless person in a dust cloak, who might have been equally thirty or forty years of age. Rafella could think of nothing at the moment but the disturbing expression in Captain Coventry's eyes as he grasped her hand in greeting, his strong, brown face, his crisp moustache.

Further arrivals confused her, the schoolmaster and his family, parties of villagers, contingents from neighbouring parishes; she mixed up their names, could not confine her attention to their polite remarks; her usual calm self-assurance had fled, everything seemed curiously changed and unreal.

Coventry at once assumed the office of her chief assistant, and proved himself a valuable salesman. The women were attracted by his friendly manners and his good looks, the men were interested in his being a real soldier, in his having come from India. They called him "the Captain," and competed to have converse with him, even if it should entail the purchase of some useless article. His high spirits infected the company, and his marked attentions to the vicar's daughter caused general comment.

Rafella herself felt happy, extraordinarily elated; his open admiration gave her an unaccustomed sense of importance, and she was conscious of the notice it aroused. Animated, flushed, she looked a picture of exquisite maidenhood, in spite of her plain and homely toilet. In Coventry's eyes the virtuous simplicity of her attire only enhanced her charm. He felt he should hate to behold her in smart, up-to-date clothes.

The stall was soon cleared, and tea tickets sold well--sixpence a head for the affluent in the vicarage dining-room, twopence for the more humble out in the garden at a long trestle table in charge of the schoolmaster's wife. It was not until most of the throng had departed that Coventry found a chance of speaking with Rafella alone. He ignored the timid remarks of his sister concerning the time, her fears that "mother might feel fatigued or take cold if they remained too late"; and he calmly requested Miss Forte to show him the kitchen garden.

"There is not much to see, I'm afraid," Rafella said shyly, yet willing enough to take him.

"The very sight of an English kitchen garden is refreshing to anyone from India," he informed her; and they wandered off together, leaving Mr. Forte to entertain Mrs. Coventry and her daughter and one or two lingering visitors in the faded, old-fashioned drawing-room.

Truly there was little to see, beyond cabbages and gooseberry bushes, and the cherished potato patch, in the kitchen garden; the box borders had grown high and thick, and sadly needed trimming. There was an empty greenhouse, frequented by toads, and in one corner stood a shaky summer-house, suggestive of earwigs and spiders, dust and cobwebs.

But to Coventry it was a garden of glamour and dreams. For him a delicious enchantment hung in the air, an infinite pleasure pervaded his being; he wondered how long it must be before he might dare to proclaim his passion, before he might hold this dear girl in his arms as his promised wife.

"How would you like to go to India?" he asked her, dallying with the prospect of taking her there, visualising her bright presence in his bungalow.

"India! Oh, I don't know," she said, surprised. "I have never thought of going anywhere."

"But--but you will marry some day," he suggested tentatively, "and then you will have to go away."

She blushed and laughed a little nervously.

"Oh, that is not at all likely; and even if it were, how could I leave my father? He has become so dependent on me since my darling mother's death."

His spirits sank. He had forgotten all about her father, and the filial sense of duty that would, of course, prevail with such a dear, good girl. He resigned himself to the prospect of struggle, opposition; nevertheless, he meant to win, though in the end the marriage might have to be delayed for a reasonable period.

"But your father would never stand in the way of your happiness, surely?" he argued.

"I shouldn't be happy," she maintained, "if I thought I was behaving selfishly."

"Of course, to a certain extent you are right," he agreed; "but, after all, there are limits to unselfishness. Every woman has a just claim to her own existence." (In the case of his sister this view had not occurred to him.)

"Do you think so?" she asked doubtfully, in deference to his superior masculine wisdom.

"Yes, I do. And if you look a little farther, ought she to sacrifice the happiness of the man who loves her, in addition to her own?"

She blushed again, more deeply, and glanced away from him over the ragged garden steeped in the languorous peace of a summer sunset. "You see"--she hesitated--"I know nothing about--love." The word was spoken timidly, with modest reluctance.

"Sooner or later you are bound to learn its meaning," he said, controlling his impulse to declare that he would teach her. He recognised the risk of precipitancy; she must not be alarmed. As it was, she turned uneasily aside avoiding his gaze; said they ought to go back, it was getting late, Mrs. Coventry would be waiting for him; nervously polite little sentences.

In silence he followed her along the path that led to the door in the garden wall, noting the grace of her slender form, the glint of the curls that lay on her neck, the cream of the skin beneath the curls.

When they arrived at the door he said abruptly:

"I watched you go through here that morning. You had no hat on, and you were singing a hymn."

He was trying to close the door that was warped and stiff, so he missed the puzzled astonishment in her eyes.

"But how could you have seen me? It was ever so long before you came to the house."

"It was why I came to the house." He banged the door impatiently and faced her. "It was why I came back," he added with emphasis. Colour flooded Rafella's face; he thought how adorably she blushed.

"Oh," she gasped; "but I thought it was because of a stone in your horse's shoe. Didn't you tell the truth?" she questioned severely.

He laughed, delighting in her naive sense of honesty. "There was a stone all right, I can assure you, and I blessed the excuse. All the same, I should have come back on some pretext or another. I could hardly have rung the front door bell and said I had observed a young lady with golden hair go through this door, and that I wanted to see her again. Now, could I?"

She turned away, confused, agitated, utterly unable to confront the tender banter in his eyes. But he had not quite done. As they went into the vicarage he asked boldly: "Can I come again, very soon, and talk to you in the garden?"

Though she made no answer he did not feel rebuffed.

CHAPTER III

SUCCESS

Some three weeks later George Coventry proposed to Rafella Forte, but not among the roses in the sunshine, as he had so often pictured, for rain was coming down with inconsiderate persistence. The proposal took place in the church porch, where they lingered after choir practice, hoping it might clear.

His visits had been frequent since the day of the sale; and once he had persuaded the vicar and his daughter to spend an afternoon at his mother's house, conveying them to and fro at his own expense in the ever-available wagonette supplied by the country town inn.

To-day he had arrived just as Rafella was about to start for the church, enveloped in a macintosh, holding a monstrous cotton umbrella over her head; and for the last hour he had sat patiently in a pew while school children droned out hymns around Rafella and the harmonium, staring at him throughout the performance with unblinking curiosity. Now the children had clattered away, Rafella had closed the harmonium and put everything straight, and they were alone in the porch; the church door, covered with notices, was closed behind them, and in front the rain streamed down on the huddled graves, the sunken, lichen-stained headstones, and the old-fashioned, coffin-shaped tombs.

The supreme moment had come when, in spite of the place and the weather, George Coventry felt he could be silent no longer. There was little doubt in his mind as to Rafella's feelings towards himself, there could be no doubt in hers as to his intentions; he had made them plain enough almost from the first.

It was very soon over. He had spoken, he had kissed her with passion yet reverence; she had trembled, shed a few tears, confessed that she cared for him. And then, as he had all along apprehended, came the protest, when he urged a short engagement, that she could not leave her father.

"It would be wicked of me to leave him by himself," she cried in tearful distress. "He could never get on without me. I think it would kill him, and I should never forgive myself."

"It would be wicked of him to want to keep you always," said Coventry firmly. He was prepared, within reason, to compromise, but he was also determined not to be beaten. "The moment we get back to the vicarage I'll interview him in his den. That was where you saw me first. Do you remember, little angel saint? You looked through the window, and I fell in love with your darling face, as I had already fallen in love with your hair and your voice. I say, couldn't we have that hymn at our wedding?

"Other refuge have I none; Hangs my helpless soul on Thee."

He sang the words joyfully, quite out of tune, for he was no musician.

"Oh, no. It wouldn't be suitable at all," she said, rebuke in her voice.

"I should say it was most appropriate, for I am going to comfort and protect you as long as I live."

"But it's not meant that way," she explained, shocked. "And, oh," she went on miserably, "you mustn't count on our being married. I feel dreadful about it all. I don't know what father would do without me. I can't think of going so far away and leaving him alone. Don't ask him; don't say anything about it."

Then, still standing in the porch, they went over it all again. He argued, entreated, cajoled, but her distress was so genuine, the conflict between her love and her duty so acute, that at last Coventry found himself willing, almost, to agree to an indefinite engagement, to the question of marriage being deferred till his next return from India. Finally he promised that if she would only give him permission to speak to her father he would press for no more than the vicar's consent to a wedding perhaps two years hence.

They returned to the house through the rain, Coventry rueful, depressed, yet alive to the virtue of Rafella's decision--it was only in accordance with the pure perfection of her character. He had little hope of Mr. Forte being equally unselfish, of his refusing to accept his daughter's temporary sacrifice; two years to a man of his age would seem a trifling period, and, of course, apart from personal inconvenience, he would be all in favour of discreet delay, and the wisdom of waiting, the test of time on the affections, and so forth. Coventry was conscious that were he in the vicar's place, with a young and guileless daughter to consider, his own sentiments would be identical; therefore he ultimately sought his future father-in-law's presence in a meek and dutifully acquiescent spirit, not altogether free from nervousness.

The vicar's mouldy sanctum was not quite the pleasant spot this afternoon that it had been on the occasion of Coventry's first visit; now the room was darkened by the rain, and the creepers, limp with moisture, clinging to the window. Mr. Forte himself looked dismal and depressed; he complained that the damp affected his throat and caused discomfort in his joints. He indicated with a weary gesture of his hand a pile of documents and ledgers connected with parish affairs, and some blank sheets of paper on which, owing to pressure of other business, his sermon for to-morrow had not yet been inscribed. He said he wished he could afford a curate, though to Coventry's consternation he affirmed that Rafella was as valuable to him as any curate could be, save in the matter of accounts and sermons.

"A good girl, Captain Coventry, a very good girl!" He shook his head as though he were saddened rather than cheered by the fact of Rafella's worth; but it was merely, as Coventry understood, the vicar's manner of emphasising his appreciation.

"Indeed, sir, she has no equal!" the younger man agreed with fervour.

It seemed a rather inauspicious moment for declaring his request, but delay could make no difference, and he spoke out boldly, though with quickened pulses, confessing that he had already approached Rafella and had not been rejected. To his amazed relief Mr. Forte listened to him with benign attention. "I cannot pretend," he said, "that I have been altogether blind to your object in coming here, but before we go any farther there are one or two matters that must be discussed between us."

Coventry's heart went out to Rafella's father. He felt sure that the vicar was suppressing his own feelings in consideration of his cherished daughter's happiness.

"Dear old chap!" he thought warmly. Readily he said: "Of course--my prospects and my financial position, and my past? I hope I shall be able to satisfy you on every point." And he proceeded to explain that he possessed a fair income of his own apart from his pay, an income that must be materially increased on the death of his mother. Therefore he could make adequate provision for a wife and a possible family. There were no secrets in his past or his present; he had led a steady life, he was sound in health and, he hoped, in morals. As for religion, he was a member of the Church of England.

Then came a pause. Mr. Forte sat still, his elbow on the table, his head resting on his hand. He looked old and sad and tired, and George, with compunction, remembered his promise to Rafella.

"If you will give your consent to an engagement," he said impulsively, "I would undertake not to urge Rafella to marry me till I come back next time from India. I know she does not want to leave you yet, and it would be wrong and selfish of me to expect it."

The vicar placed his hand before his mouth and coughed. To Coventry his self-possession seemed extraordinary. The notion that worldly inducements might weigh with this simple old parson never came into his head.

"Well, well," said Mr. Forte magnanimously, "I must think it over. In the meantime, my dear lad"--with a smile of resignation he held out his hand and Coventry grasped it emotionally--"go and talk to Rafella."

He went, and a few minutes later the vicar resumed his spectacles, drew the blank sheets of sermon paper towards him, and opened his Bible. He happened to light upon the text:

"Discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee."

And he began to write rapidly.

Mr. Forte had made up his mind that Rafella should marry Captain Coventry in the autumn and go back with him to India. He would miss his daughter sadly, the wrench of parting would be cruel, but such things had to be; God would give him grace to bear the trial.... Otherwise, translated into the vulgar tongue--here was a young man of good character and safe position, with private means and clear prospects, who would make an excellent husband; it was a chance in a thousand, and if the fellow were ready and anxious to marry the penniless daughter of a poverty-stricken country clergyman, the vicar did not intend to discourage him nor to take the hazard of sentimental and unnecessary delays.

His decision was imparted (in the more dignified form) a couple of hours later to the expectant pair, whom he discovered seated close together on the springless sofa in the drawing-room, and there followed an affecting little scene. Tears, embraces, hand-shakes, blessings, assurances, general happy excitement, tinged for father and daughter with natural and touching melancholy.

When it was all over and the vicar had returned to his study, Coventry drew a long breath. The day for him had been one of unaccustomed emotional strain, and he felt a wholesome craving for refreshment.

Almost involuntarily he said: "I'd give anything for a peg!"

"A peg?" echoed Rafella, mystified.

"Meaning a whisky and soda."

"Oh, George!" She held primitive principles with regard to strong drink, though already she was reconciled to the fact that he smoked innumerable cigarettes. "Is it so shocking?" he asked, with an indulgent smile.

"Well," she said uneasily, "you see, we think temperance so important. Beer I can understand, in strict moderation, though I don't approve of it; we always keep a small cask in the cupboard under the stairs in case it should be wanted, and, of course, there is a little brandy in my medicine chest; we use it, too, for moistening the jam papers. But we haven't any whisky!"

He perceived that the imbibing of spirits as an ordinary drink might appear to his fiancée as little less than wicked. Concealing his amusement, he explained, as a personal precaution, that though, of course, it was revolting to see a lady consume alcohol, unless by the doctor's orders, it was, taken judiciously, harmless, if not beneficial, to men, particularly to men accustomed to a hot climate; thus allaying her scruples and fears on his own behalf. He accepted a large cup of tea in preference to beer from the cupboard under the stairs, or brandy from the medicine chest, both of which Rafella proffered hospitably after his reassurance.

The wedding took place a fortnight before Coventry was to sail for India. One or two trivial disputes arose between the affianced pair, and on each occasion George's will prevailed. For example over the trousseau. It appeared that Rafella was entitled, on her twenty-first birthday, or on her marriage, to the legacy of a hundred pounds bequeathed to her by her godmother. She maintained that the half of this sum would be ample for her outfit, and she was on the point of engaging the village dressmaker to work daily at the vicarage, when George interfered. Though he did not wish Rafella to be anything but simply dressed, he had a suspicion that Under-edge fashions might be regarded as somewhat peculiar in an Indian military station. Therefore he insisted that her "costumes," as she called them, should at least be ordered in the little country town, under the guidance of his mother and sister, in whose taste he had implicit confidence. The result enchanted all concerned, though certainly it might have evoked contempt on the part of the more fastidious.

At any rate, in Coventry's eyes, and in the opinion of all present at the wedding, Rafella looked lovely as a bride; and, indeed, it was a very pretty ceremony, altogether, in its idyllic simplicity. The autumn day was radiant with sunshine, the kind of day when spiders' webs hang sparkling and perfect, as though spun with tiny crystal beads, and the air is still and humid; when the foliage, all red and gold, strikes wonder, and the blackberries are ripe and round and purple. The little church was decked with brilliant leaves and berries, and the pews were as well filled as if it had been Christmas Day. Not that any formal invitations had been issued; the only wedding guests from any distance were the bridegroom's near relations (he had few besides), and the bride's only aunt, who had consented to come and live at the vicarage and to join her small income to that of her brother. But the entire village was present in Sunday garments, save those who were bedridden and had been left without compunction to take care of themselves for the time. Rafella's only aunt did successful battle with the unwilling harmonium, and with much solemn emotion the vicar married his daughter to Captain Coventry.

It may be added that the bridegroom also had his way, after all, about the hymn, and it was sung by the congregation with a raucous fervour that stirred George Coventry to the depths of his being, for he could not help investing the words with a personal application, in spite of Rafella's previous protests to the contrary.

So the newly married pair sailed a fortnight later for India; and the unsophisticated daughter of an obscure country parson found herself launched without preparation into a world that to her was completely bewildering. From the stagnation of English village existence, and from relative hardship, she went straight into the activities, contradictions, and comparative luxuries of life in a large Indian station, a life that, perhaps, has no actual parallel anywhere else on earth.

CHAPTER IV

MRS. GREAVES

Mrs. Greaves stood on the platform of one of the largest railway stations in Upper India. The lights flashed down upon a pushing, shouting throng of dark-faced, turbaned humanity, for it was eight o'clock at night, and the mail train for Bombay was due to start in another few minutes. The chill, cold-weather mist of evening, creeping into the vast echoing station, seemed to compress the curious odours inseparable from an Eastern crowd--the sour exhalations, the commingling of spices and perfumes and garlic--and to prevent them from dispersing.

A little group of English people stood outside the door of a first-class compartment, a saloon-shaped compartment that to those unaccustomed to travel in the East would perhaps have seemed luxurious; but in a country where journeys may last for days and nights on end a certain degree of comfort becomes a necessity. Mrs. Greaves had come to the station to see Mrs. Munro, her friend, and little Trixie Munro, her godchild, off to England; also, incidentally, to take the bereft husband back to her bungalow for dinner with herself and Captain Greaves. It would be cruel, she felt, to permit the poor man to return to a lonely meal in the house that would still breathe of the presence of wife and child.

Within the compartment bedding had been laid out along the seats, luggage was heaped at one end--the loose, miscellaneous luggage of the Anglo-Indian traveller, brown canvas hold-alls, and clothes bags, sun hats, a tiffin basket, a water-bottle in a leather-case, and a lidless packing-case filled with odds and ends that might be needed on the journey down country. An ayah, enveloped in a scarlet shawl, was endeavouring to pacify the child, who, beside herself with excitement, was jumping up and down, and ordering her parents in shrill Hindustani to make haste and come inside the carriage, else they would assuredly be left behind. She had not understood as yet that Dadda must be left behind in any case.

At three years old little Trixie Munro was a beautiful baby, perfectly shaped, with masses of bright, curling hair, and luminous eyes; she was full of vitality, restless and gay as a sprite. Mrs. Greaves had always declared that Trixie looked as though she ought to be riding, naked, on a butterfly, with a little red cap on her head. She formed a striking contrast to her mother who, pale and tearful, almost in a condition of collapse, was nerving herself with trembling effort for her first parting from her husband, though she hoped he was to follow her on leave in six months' time. It is a very common scene in India, such partings on platforms or on steamer decks. Domestic separation is only a part of the price that is paid for service in the country, but it is a part that is by no means easy to bear, even when faced with submission and courage.

Mrs. Greaves's pleasant, freckled face was sad. She had been through such family partings herself, her own two robust little boys were at home, dedicated in the future to the Army and the Navy, and she sympathised with the husband and wife, neither of whom was very stout-hearted. Ellen Munro was her most intimate friend; it was a curious kind of friendship, based chiefly upon the fact that the two were old schoolfellows, and also distant connections. This had drawn them more closely together when they found themselves in the same station. But in character, as well as in looks, they were different--Marion Greaves being a sound and sensible little English memsahib, full of energy and common sense, with curling chestnut hair and a freckled skin that had earned her the good-natured nickname in the station of "The Plover's Egg." She loved riding and tennis and dancing, was fearless and direct. Whereas Ellen Munro was one of those helpless, incapable beings who seem to invite misfortune, and to accept it without a struggle. Her appearance was limp, her nature humble, affectionate, apologetic, and she clung with pathetic devotion to Marion Greaves, the staunchest of friends, who felt for her that species of protective fondness so often accorded to the weak by the strong. As for Mr. Munro, he was a delicate, clever young man, who would have been better at home in a Government office than leading the strenuous life of an Indian civilian. He could not handle a gun, he was never happy in the saddle, physically he soon tired, though his office work could not be beaten.

Mrs. Greaves frequently marvelled in secret how such a child as Trixie had ever been born of such parents--Trixie so vigorous, daring, self-willed, giving promise of a passionate, generous nature. She admired and loved her small goddaughter, and her affection for Ellen Munro, though tinged with contempt, was warm and sincere. Therefore she felt this good-bye acutely.

A sudden calm came over the hitherto noisy platform; passengers had at last been safely packed into the train, and arrivals had finally pushed and yelled themselves out of the station. One or two fruit and sweetmeat sellers, and a water-carrier, still wandered up and down with droning cries; and now the Munros got into the compartment together for a last embrace. Mrs. Greaves attracted Trixie to the window by holding up a toy she had brought with her for the purpose--that the child should not interrupt the parting. And while Trixie was laughing and chattering, and grabbing at her godmother's gift, her father kissed her swiftly; then, stepping white and silent from the carriage, he shut the door, and the train moved out of the station.

It was very soon after Mrs. Munro had sailed for England that Rafella Coventry arrived in the station as a bride.

Mrs. Greaves saw her for the first time one afternoon seated a little apart, looking rather forlorn, watching her husband play tennis in the public gardens. The turf was emerald green, the blue, far-away sky was just flecked with some little white clouds that foretold the showers of winter; the air was crisp and exhilarating, and everyone save Mrs. Coventry was either playing a game, or awaiting their turns for tennis and badminton courts.

Rafella was suffering from a cold in her head, and her nose and eyes were inflamed. Deluded by the perpetual sunshine she had worn summer garments to start with, ignoring her husband's advice to the contrary; but now she sat wrapped in a cape that, though useful and warm, was unbecoming both in colour and style. She felt shy and depressed, and antagonistic towards this concourse of people, who all seemed to know one another so well--who belonged to a world that was completely outside her experience.

Mrs. Greaves asked who she was; and a malapert subaltern told her.

"That's the bride, Captain Coventry's new acquisition. Just the sort of raw rustic he would have chosen, with his peculiar ideas of what a woman should be. They say he discovered her in some prehistoric hamlet at home, and that she'd never seen a man till she met him, or a train till she started on her honeymoon. She looks like it. No fear of her kicking over the traces."

"You never know," laughed Mrs. Greaves. "And if you can forget her cape and her hat, and her obvious cold, you will observe that she is remarkably pretty, so you'd better reserve your judgment."

She had noted the beauty of the girl's eyes and complexion despite their present afflicted condition, and she guessed at the wealth of hair concealed by the unfashionable hat. "An angel in asses' clothing--no, that's not quite right. What is the text exactly?"

"Oh! go and miss balls at tennis, and don't talk nonsense," advised Mrs. Greaves.

The woebegone appearance of the little bride had aroused her kind-hearted compassion. She approached Rafella, though they had not been introduced, and seated herself in a basket-chair at her side.

She began the acquaintance with the usual remarks and queries that greet all the newly arrived in India. Mrs. Coventry had never been out here before? What did she think of the country, of an Indian station? How did she like the life? What an extraordinary contrast it seemed at first, and so on.

"I remember so well," Mrs. Greaves chattered on in tactful sympathy, "how strange I found everything when I came out as a bride, though I was born in India and didn't go home until I was five. I made the most awful mistakes, and I thought I should never pick up Hindustani! I always said exactly the opposite to what I intended--like 'Come here' when I meant 'Go away'--which was so awkward if I happened to be in my bath!--and all that kind of thing."

Rafella's suspicions and shyness succumbed to these friendly advances. She confided to Mrs. Greaves that she was afraid she should find housekeeping dreadfully difficult--she had not been accustomed at home to an army of servants, nor to a lady's maid (as she called her ayah), nor to a carriage, nor to more than two courses at meals. It all seemed to her to savour of wicked display and extravagance; and as far as she could judge at present, people in India appeared to live for nothing but amusement and self-indulgence.

"But you must remember," admonished Mrs. Greaves, "that we are living under totally different conditions out here. The servants won't do each other's work, on account of their caste. We have to keep such a lot, not for our own convenience but for theirs. And you must have an ayah, unless you don't mind the menservants attending to your bedroom."

Rafella flushed uncomfortably. This last remark struck her as rather indelicate.

"Then as to the food," went on Mrs. Greaves, ignorant of having offended the taste of her hearer. "Materials are a good deal cheaper out here than they are at home, and not nearly so nourishing, so that extra courses in a climate like this are not so extravagant as they might seem. It is better to give the servants plenty to do, and to keep them up to a certain standard, since we have to respect their prejudices; and there is also custom and prestige to be considered, which are not to be slighted in this country. That you will soon find out! If you were to reduce your establishment and your meals, and your general manner of living in your position, you'd never get a respectable servant to stay with you, and your name would be a byword in the bazaar!"

There was a pause. Rafella said nothing, and Mrs. Greaves felt she had come up against a narrow and obstinate nature. Nevertheless, she continued her well-meant harangue.

"As to amusements, what else have we to fall back upon but each other's society? We are all cut off from home and our relations and intellectual advantages; and wholesome exercise, whether tennis, riding, dancing, or sport, cannot be classed as self-indulgence when it is well within our reach financially. The men work hard for the greater part of the day--perhaps you have not yet realised how much your husband gets through before he is free to follow the recreations that suit him best? You mustn't judge Indian life too quickly from the surface, or from your own standpoint."

"I wish to do good," said Rafella priggishly, "and it seems to me that I have no one to be kind to but the ayah."

"Don't worry about that!" advised Mrs. Greaves, suppressing a smile. "There's plenty of time. You'll find you'll have as much as you can do for the next few months getting used to India, and, if I may make a suggestion, don't be too kind to the ayah, or she'll think you're afraid of her and take every advantage. What native servants appreciate is justice and patience, not indulgence, which they always mistake for weakness."

"She certainly has asked for a great many things," Rafella confessed, "but she seems so poor, and says she has such a large family, that I gave her more wages and some clothes, and a very nice lantern and a couple of warm blankets, and I have promised her an allowance of sugar and tea and the money to buy a goat."

"Well, I hope you won't regret it," remarked Mrs. Greaves.

"Have you ever regretted doing what you could for other people?" There was lofty reproach in Mrs. Coventry's voice.

"Often!" replied Mrs. Greaves, unashamed. Despite this admission, she did all she could for Mrs. Coventry during the next few weeks, having regard to the bride's youth and inexperience, for the colonel of Captain Coventry's regiment was a bachelor, and just then, as it happened, there were no other ladies with the battalion. She was rather missing Ellen Munro, and was glad to transfer her support and counsel to Rafella Coventry, imparting to her all she knew herself concerning household management in India and Anglo-Indian rules and customs. All about calling and precedence, and dusters and charcoal, and stores and prices, including the error of supposing that a memsahib need never go near her kitchen, or bother about the milk and the water, and pots and pans, "for," she cautioned her pupil, "that way typhoid lies!"

Thus she came to know Mrs. Coventry rather well, though at the bottom of her heart she was reluctantly aware that she would never grow really attached to this Madonna-faced young woman who so prided herself on her conscience, and was so severe on the failings of others. She was called "sweet little Mrs. Coventry" by the station when her cold had subsided, for her beauty, combined with her puritanical notions, formed a novel attraction. As time went on she learnt to ride, and play tennis after a fashion, also to dance quite nicely, in order, as she carefully explained, to please her husband; but as George Coventry did not dance, and openly preferred racquets to tennis, and pig-sticking and polo to aimless rides, the excuse seemed a trifle superfluous. At the same time, everyone agreed that however indifferently she might ride or play tennis, her husband ought more often to share with her both forms of exercise.

These active accomplishments were taught her for the most part by admiring subalterns, who raved of her hair and her eyes and her seraphic disposition. Later, Mrs. Greaves was amused to observe that Rafella was making efforts to arrange her hair in the latest fashion. Her hair, she told Mrs. Greaves, was coming out in handfuls, and she thought a change for a time might prove beneficial. Then the mud-coloured dresses and high evening gowns were gradually discarded, to be replaced by white linens and serges, and simple though elegant frocks for dinners and dances. Also, there came a gradual moderation in Mrs. Coventry's opinions, a setting aside of small scruples, significant signs of a self-confident conceit that was fostered by the opportunities and circumstances inseparable from a mode of life in direct opposition to the one in which she had been reared. The ayah found herself neglected; Rafella had discovered a pleasanter method of doing good to others, that of bestowing good advice on erring young men, inviting their confidences, using her pure and virtuous influence--deluding herself and the susceptible youths with the notion that she was their mother-confessor and friend, their safeguard against the wicked temptations and wiles of the world. In short, though with the most innocent motives, "sweet little Mrs. Coventry" got herself talked about, for these secrets entailed prolonged consultations, seclusion in corners apart from the crowd, notes, and mysterious appointments.

At first Captain Coventry laughed and paid little attention. Rafella kept nothing from him. He heard the whole history of Mr. Ricardo's engagement, that was such a mistake, to a girl he had ceased to care for at home. He knew all about Dickie Macpherson's dreadful entanglement, that he now so bitterly repented, with an unscrupulous woman; and he pretended to listen to all that Rafella had preached to young Grey so successfully on the subject of cards and champagne.

Mrs. Greaves wondered how long it would be before he awoke to the fact that his wife was indulging in pious flirtations that were regarded by the station with good-natured amusement.

One afternoon she was astonished to meet Rafella riding demurely along the Mall with Mr. Kennard. The man was a barrister, handsome, successful, in the prime of his maturity, but his moral reputation was anything but good. If Rafella had schemes for reforming this gentleman, serious trouble would certainly follow. George Coventry was hardly the man to look on and laugh at a dangerous friendship; Rafella's little team of harmless young men was a different matter altogether.

Mrs. Greaves's expression as she returned their salutations must have betrayed her surprised apprehension, for Rafella flushed as she nodded, and Mr. Kennard smiled with sardonic understanding.

"Evidently that woman thinks I'm not a fit companion for you," he said to Rafella as they rode on beneath the trees. "She's always had her knife into me, though she poses as a model of charity and soft-heartedness. What a pity it is when lemon juice is blended with the milk of human kindness! I don't know why she should try to do me harm, unless it's because I have never gone out of my way to propitiate her; but, then," he added with flattering emphasis, "there are very few women I care to make friends with."

Rafella felt that this was not what she should have expected of Mrs. Greaves. It only showed how mistaken one might be in one's estimate of other people's natures. She answered sympathetically:

"How narrow-minded of her. I shouldn't pay any attention to what she thought or said."

"I don't," he assured her; "and may I say that I hope you won't either?"

He reined his horse a little closer to Rafella's and looked into her eyes with subtle appeal. "Of course I shouldn't," she said, returning his gaze with innocent encouragement. "I always take people as I find them, and I never listen to gossip."

He just touched her arm with his own in grateful appreciation. "That's a relief to my mind," he told her. "You don't know how hard it is to live down indiscretions, even when they may not have been all one's own fault. Some day, if you will let me, I should like to tell you a lot about myself, though there is no reason why I should bother you with my affairs."

Rafella's heart went out to him. All the little confidences of her boy admirers seemed trivial in comparison with the unfortunate experiences of this man of the world. She was well aware that he was ill-spoken of by the more scrupulous members of the community; but she felt convinced he was misjudged, and even if there should be truth in such reports as she had heard, surely sympathy and kindness from a woman who was good was all he needed to enable him to make amends for everything, however regrettable, that might have happened in the past.

It was only during the last ten days that Mr. Kennard had sought Mrs. Coventry's company. As a rule he consorted chiefly with the "smarter" portion of society in the station, the English cavalry regiment, and a few pretentious people with private incomes, who affected to order their households on lines that were more or less English, and to despise what they called "country ways." Sometimes the result of such pretension was ludicrous, but, on the whole, the humble outsider was deeply impressed, while the envious raged and scorned. Such a clique concerned themselves little with anyone's morals, provided their guests were as exclusive as themselves and could afford to return their festivities. It was a feeble reflection of a second-rate section of London society.

Mr. Kennard began his campaign by calling on Mrs. Coventry, without, however, the smallest apology for never having done so before, though the Coventrys lived in the bungalow next to his own. It must be confessed that Rafella, instead of receiving him coldly, or not receiving him at all, felt gratified rather than ruffled by this belated attention, though she condemned the circle in which he moved.

She told George of the visit with ill-concealed triumph. She knew there were several women who were anxious for Mr. Kennard to call on them, who even had lowered themselves so far as to send him invitations to dinner, which for the most part he did not trouble to answer. Rafella felt she had scored. But George did not share her elation.

"That fellow!" he said contemptuously. "What infernal cheek. Don't let him hang about this house, that's all."

"But, surely," argued Rafella in gentle reproach, "it would be better for him to come here if it takes him away from the frivolous people he mixes with now?"

"Birds of a feather," said George. "He's a beast, and I hate him."

George seemed in such a bad temper to-day that she considered it wiser at present to withhold the information that she had told Mr. Kennard he might come in and see her whenever he liked. Sometimes George was so hard and intolerant. She wished he was rather more Christian in his ideas. She made up her mind that if Mr. Kennard could be weaned from his bad companions it was her duty to undertake such a good work, and George would be wrong to hinder her efforts.

Mr. Kennard very soon came again, and she felt rather relieved that he should have chosen a time when George was absent on duty. They strolled round the garden and talked of things in the abstract. Rafella was gracious and kind, and looked sweet in her soft white gown and flower-trimmed hat. Mr. Kennard was delightful, she thought. His manner was so courteous and charming, and he listened with such deferential respect to anything she had to say. Evidently he felt it a privilege to be in her company. Once or twice he just touched on his loneliness as a bachelor, which drove him, he hinted, to seek undesirable distractions--distractions of which, in his heart, he was weary and sometimes ashamed. It was all very subtly conveyed, and Rafella felt more than ever convinced that he needed most sorely the friendship and help of a high-minded woman, and that she was the woman to provide what was wanted. He must have been "guided" to come to her, and she prayed for him hard that night.

The visits continued. Sometimes she mentioned to George that Mr. Kennard had looked in to lend her a book, or to leave her a bunch of his violets--he was famous for his violets, that bloomed in pots three deep in his veranda. More often she held her tongue; not that she had any feeling of guilt in the matter, but because George was unreasonable about Mr. Kennard. He had taken to sulking whenever he saw the man at her side in the club or in the gardens, and was cross if she danced with him more often than once, or if he joined her out riding.

She was perfectly aware that George did not suspect her of anything wrong; it was Mr. Kennard he suspected; and on one occasion, when he had been almost violent because Mr. Kennard had given her a dog, she spoke her mind, calmly, persuasively, pointing out that Mr. Kennard always behaved like a gentleman, that George was not treating her fairly by making such scenes, and that he could not know how deeply her feelings were hurt.

Then she broke down and cried like a child that is punished unjustly; and George took her in his arms and kissed her, trying to feel that he had been a brute, knowing all the time that his instinct was correct, that Kennard was not the right man for his wife to befriend.

CHAPTER V

THE LIE

Rafella took rather unfair advantage of George's repentance, undoubtedly half-hearted though it was. She asked him, as she forgave him, if he would not try to be generous, and allow her to invite Mr. Kennard to dinner, only to show that he realised the unreasonableness of his attitude? And with her golden head on his shoulder, and her soft lips close to his own, Coventry consented.

As might have been expected the experiment was not a success. Even before dinner was over Rafella perceived her mistake. She had hoped so much from the evening--hoped that her husband and Mr. Kennard would make friends, that in future all would be pleasant and smooth.

Instead of which George broke his promise, and behaved like a bear. He was a man who could not conceal his aversions, and seldom attempted to do so; and the mere sight of Mr. Kennard at his table, sleek and urbane, and indifferent to his dislike, incensed him and rendered him glum and ungracious. He talked, when he talked at all, only to Mrs. Greaves, who, with her husband and Mr. Munro, made up the party of six. Mrs. Greaves saw with foreboding the look in George Coventry's eyes as he watched his wife and Mr. Kennard conversing with intimate ease, and she felt as if they were eating their dinner with an explosive beneath the table. How she wished Rafella were not such a self-confident fool! Since the day on which she had met the pair riding together Rafella had carefully avoided being alone with her; she hoped when they repaired to the drawing-room that she might have a chance of introducing a word of advice, but whether by intention or otherwise the tête-à-tête was evaded; coffee was served in the dining-room, and later they all left the table together.

Mrs. Coventry preserved a semblance of good spirits during the uncomfortable hour that followed. She warbled a few English ballads while her husband scowled in a corner and Mr. Kennard turned over the songs for his hostess. He alone of the company appeared quite unaffected by the strain in the atmosphere.

Mrs. Greaves rose early to go, and Mr. Munro escaped simultaneously. As they drove out of the compound, Mrs. Greaves said to her husband:

"What an appalling evening! I can't think how Rafella persuaded her husband to let her invite that odious man. Evidently he did it under protest. I only hope he didn't look back into the drawing-room when he was seeing us off."

Mrs. Greaves, looking back, had observed Mr. Kennard bending over Rafella at the piano, obviously uttering words that caused her to lower her head in self-conscious confusion.

"I'm certain," Mrs. Greaves added, "he was taking the opportunity when our backs were turned of saying something he shouldn't."

"Well, it's no business of ours," said Captain Greaves, with masculine unconcern. "Kennard's a rascal, and the woman's an ass, as I've always told you; and if Coventry can't manage his wife it's his own fault. Anyway, you can do nothing to stop it, so you'd better not interfere."

"But I shall interfere," said his wife. "I can't see Rafella wrecking her happiness, and not say a word."

Captain Greaves only shrugged his shoulders and urged the pony along.

What Mr. Kennard had been saying to Rafella, when her husband had left the room, was this:

"I'm afraid I did wrong to come. I hope it won't mean a bad time for you afterwards?"

"I--I hoped it would have been all right," Rafella faltered, gazing down at the keys of the piano. He sighed. "Give a dog a bad name," he quoted despairingly. "In future I suppose I'd better keep away. It would be wiser for your sake. I'd do anything to save you bother and prevent misunderstandings. I should be the only one to suffer, and I dare say I deserve it."

"Oh, I am so sorry! I can't tell you how sorry and ashamed I feel." Her eyes were full of tears as she raised them to his for a moment.

"You know you've only to tell me what you want me to do, and I'll do it, Rafella."

"Hush!" she said tremulously. "If you talk like that, I shall be obliged to tell you to keep away."

"Would you miss me--would you mind if you never saw me again?" Before she could answer, he raised his voice. "And so you see there was nothing else to be done," he said cheerfully, for Coventry had re-entered the room.

Mr. Kennard accepted a drink offered with curtness by his host, and then he went back to his bungalow.

Rafella tidied her music in offended silence. She felt very angry with George. He had behaved so rudely and spoilt the evening, and she meant him to feel her displeasure. George also was silent, provokingly silent; he smoked a cigarette and drank a whisky and soda, and did not appear to be conscious of her annoyance. At last she threw down a volume of songs with a bang on the piano, and burst into tears. To her astonished resentment George took no notice. It was the first time since their marriage that her tears had not melted his heart. In a passion of mortification she rushed from the room. With her usual self-righteous consideration she never exacted her ayah's attendance the last thing at night, so there was no need to check her distress in her bedroom. Still crying she quickly undressed and got into bed, and then she lay waiting for George to come in and say he was sorry, to own himself in the wrong.

She could hear him moving about in his dressing-room. Several times she was tempted to call him, but pride held her dumb, so convinced did she feel that he owed her amends for his conduct, that the first advances should come from him. But she waited in vain. George remained in his room; and Rafella, exhausted with tears and emotion, finally fell asleep.

When she awoke in the morning, later than usual, she was told that the sahib had gone forth at daybreak to shoot, and had left her a message to say that he should not return till the evening. Often when George had arranged to take a day's shooting, he slept in his dressing-room so that he should not disturb Rafella by rising at dawn, and it was rather a relief to feel that the present occasion would give rise to no comment among the servants. She remembered that to-night he was dining at mess, and she determined rancorously that she would not be in to receive him when he came home to dress.

Before she was out of her room a note and a book and a posy of violets came from Mr. Kennard. She replied to the note with a smile of bitter complacency curving her lips.

That evening Mrs. Greaves turned over the pages of a fashion paper in a corner of the club. It was previous to the days when "going to the club" had ceased to be a popular proceeding; it was not yet considered more civilised to go home with a few particular friends for the interval before dinner. The ladies' room was filled with groups of people refreshing themselves with tea after healthy exercise afoot or on horseback, or on the river, and the lofty building resounded with voices and laughter. The hot weather was within measurable distance, but the days were still pleasant, and the general exodus to the hills had not begun. The tennis courts in the public gardens were crowded every evening, the bandstand well surrounded, the Mall lively with riders and drivers; and the last ball of the season had yet to take place.

Mrs. Greaves had played four sets of tennis, and now she was waiting for her husband to join her from the polo ground.

Two women seated themselves at a tea-table just in front of her, and though she was absorbed in making up her mind whether to send home for one of the seductive blouses sketched on the advertisement page of the paper, she heard, unavoidably, scraps of their talk. First they discussed the ball that the bachelors of the station were giving next night in return for hospitality extended to them throughout the cold weather by the married members of the community. It was, they believed, to be an exceptionally brilliant affair; the supper was to include pomfrets from Bombay, and confections from Peliti's--the Buszard of India. From this they went on to the subject of their gowns for the ball.

Then one of them said: "Look! There's Mrs. Coventry, and, needless to say, Mr. Kennard."

The other looked up sharply; so did Mrs. Greaves, and this was the conversation that reached her unwilling ears.

"Did you ever see such a change in anyone? You weren't here when she came out as a bride? No, of course, I remember, you were at home. I assure you she looked like a Salvation Army lass, or a charity school girl, her hair dragged back in a knob like a door-handle, and hideous clothes. She would hardly speak to a man, and was horrified at everything and everybody. And now behold her, with a fringe, and dressed as well as anyone in the place, and, of all men, the irresistible Mr. Kennard in attendance. The boys' brigade appears to have been disbanded in his favour. He likes the field to himself."

"What will be the end of it, do you think?"

The other shrugged her shoulders. "What has been the end of all his affairs with women? Scandal and unpleasantness for them, and certainly, in one instance at least, disgrace and divorce, while he has gone scot free. He was notorious before he came here from the Punjaub, and yet he goes on as if nothing had happened. Some people run after him because he's a rich barrister and can entertain, and gives himself airs. Look at that little idiot over there, hanging on his every word. Her husband would be furious. I dare say he'll be here in a minute, and then we shall see."

Mrs. Greaves left her seat. She intended that these "tattle-snakes," as she dubbed all scandalmongers, should suffer disappointment. If she could help it there should be no thrilling little scene for them to witness with malevolent enjoyment. Deliberately she made her way across the room towards the couple under observation.

Mr. Kennard rose at once and gave her his chair, drawing another one forward for himself. He looked very handsome, very self-contained; even Mrs. Greaves was grudgingly conscious of his attraction, much as she distrusted and disliked him.

"Rafella," she began in plausible entreaty, "could you possibly give me a lift home? My old man has evidently forgotten that he was to pick me up on his way back from polo, and we've people coming to dinner. I shall hardly have time to make the salad and put out the dessert!"

Mrs. Coventry hesitated perceptibly. She looked at Mr. Kennard, who did not return her glance. His face was blandly impassive.

"Are you waiting for your husband?" inquired Mrs. Greaves. "If so, perhaps Mr. Kennard would drive me home." She hoped with fervour that her own husband would not arrive inconveniently, before she could complete her manœuvre.

Mrs. Greaves, remembering that Mr. Kennard's bungalow was next door to that of the Coventrys, felt more than ever determined to lure Rafella away, and to take the opportunity of speaking her mind. She, of course, could not know that Mrs. Coventry had intended to remain at the club till her husband must have started for the mess. She was only aware that Rafella was reluctant to leave.

"Oh, then," she said cheerfully, "that's all right. Would you mind if we started at once?" She turned to Mr. Kennard. "If my husband should turn up after all, would you tell him I've gone? It will serve him right for being so late."

Presently the two women were driving swiftly along the broad road that led from the club to the native cavalry lines. Mrs. Greaves kept up a desultory flow of small talk until they arrived at the steps of the veranda. Then she said urgently: "Rafella, I want you to come in for a moment."

"But you'll be busy."

"No, I shan't. Look here, Rafella, we haven't anybody dining with us, and Jim hadn't forgotten to call for me. He's probably at the club now, and when he finds I've gone home, he'll stay and play billiards, or something, for a bit. I perjured myself on your account, and I want you to come in and hear why I did it."

Unwillingly, and with an air of offended mystification, Mrs. Coventry complied.

"What on earth do you mean?" she inquired once they were inside the comfortable drawing-room. "How could you tell me such dreadful untruths?" She stood, looking disturbed and suspicious, in the yellow lamplight, while Mrs. Greaves shook up the fat cushions on the sofa and pushed her gently in among them. Then she explained. She repeated part of the conversation she had overheard at the club, she expressed her own opinion of Mr. Kennard, and she told Mrs. Coventry in plain words that she was making a fool of herself.

Flushed and indignant, Rafella sprang up from the nest of cushions.

"It's intolerable!" she cried. "I won't listen. You are every bit as bad as those two poisonous women you overheard talking. Your mind must be as evil as theirs. I tell you there is no harm in my friendship with Mr. Kennard; he has been awfully kind to me, sending me flowers and lending me books, and I hope I have been of some help to him; he is grateful, that is all."

"His gratitude will be mistaken by other people for something not quite so harmless," warned Mrs. Greaves; and Rafella did feel a little disturbed in her conscience as she remembered the tone of his voice and his use of her Christian name on the previous night. But she assured herself George was to blame, indirectly, for that; Mr. Kennard had forgotten himself at the moment only because he felt so indignant with George for his conduct towards her. It was simply an outburst of chivalrous sympathy, though, of course, she would never permit it to happen again.

Marion Greaves was still talking. "As long as you only played about with a lot of nice, harmless boys, I knew you were safe enough; but the moment this man began to single you out----"

"I have never 'played about,' as you vulgarly put it," interrupted Rafella furiously. "The boys are just like brothers to me. They miss their women relations at home, and I can give them advice, and listen to their troubles, and often help them very much. They know I don't want them to make love to me, and that I wouldn't allow such a thing!"

"If you were old and plain, they wouldn't ask for your help and advice. But that is beside the point. We are talking now about Mr. Kennard."

"And I tell you again there is no harm in our friendship, and as long as my conscience is clear the friendship will continue."

"You know your husband hates him," said Mrs. Greaves bluntly, "so your conscience can't be completely clear."

The flush died away from Rafella's cheeks; she twisted her fingers together, and her voice shook as she answered defiantly: "He should be the last person to misjudge me, or to put a wrong construction on my friendships." Mrs. Greaves wished to goodness the girl would break down and cry, then she might be more easy to manage. But there she stood, pale and pig-headed, so silly, and the other woman longed to shake her. Of course the little fool was flattered by the man's attentions, fatally attracted by his arts and wiles, and with a husband like Coventry, who had always been hard on the frailties of women, intolerant even of harmless flirtation, there was bound to be serious trouble sooner or later. What was to be done!

Mrs. Greaves struggled to keep her temper. "Well, my dear," she urged gently, "all I can say is that you'd better be careful. Mr. Kennard's friendships with other men's wives have never yet been regarded as blameless! And I ask you--is it worth the risk of a row with your husband? Wouldn't it be wiser to quarrel with Mr. Kennard than with the man you must live with for the rest of your life?"

Even Rafella could hardly deny the plain common sense of this pleading. She evaded the question, repeated that she had done nothing unworthy, and said that if George could not trust her----

"Oh, good heavens!" Mrs. Greaves broke in wearily. "Of course George trusts you. But he can't bear you to be talked about, and you ought to consider his feelings. Anyone can see you are making him jealous. Those women in the club this evening were thirsting for him to come in and find you sitting alone with Mr. Kennard."

"India is a wicked place!" cried Rafella; "full of gossips and scandalmongers and evil-minded people. Why can't they leave one alone?"

"My good girl, India is no worse than any other part of the globe that is inhabited by human beings," argued Mrs. Greaves; "but out here we are all necessarily thrown a great deal together, and women of our class associate with men much more than is usual or possible for us to do at home. If we are sensible it does us and the men no manner of harm, rather the reverse. If we are fools it may turn our heads, and then, of course, the men will amuse themselves accordingly."

"My head is not turned," said Rafella, like a child; and with an effort Mrs. Greaves forbore to contradict her. It was clear that nothing further could be said at present without endangering their friendship, which for Rafella's sake was not to be desired.

"Well, don't let us argue about it any more. We'll drop the subject. And do stay and dine with us, as your husband is out to-night and you're alone." "No, thank you," refused Rafella with stiff politeness; and she went to the door.

Persuasion failed to move her, and with a kindly, regretful "good-night" Mrs. Greaves watched her climb into her trap and drive away. She had an uneasy suspicion that Rafella's determined refusal was due not so much to her outraged feelings as to either the hope, or the certainty, that Mr. Kennard would come over to see her during the evening.

Rafella wept when she got home. She felt like a persecuted Christian, and she could not touch her solitary meal. It was true that her conscience was clear of wrongdoing and of any attempt to deceive. The differences between herself and her husband regarding her innocent "friendship" had, of course, been very distressing, but George was to blame; he was entirely in the wrong. She considered that instead of being cross and disagreeable, George ought to encourage her to exercise her influence for good, especially with a man like Mr. Kennard, if all that was said of him was true--which she did not believe. George's hostility towards Mr. Kennard had aroused all the obstinacy in her nature. Her self-esteem was wounded. It was positively insulting of George to question her conduct. She might as well suspect him of gambling because he played cards, or of drinking because he was not a teetotaller. Whatever George, or Mrs. Greaves, or anyone else might say, she was not going to treat Mr. Kennard as though he were a scoundrel, nor to behave as if she had done wrong herself. Why should she forgo the pleasure of his society, and why should she deprive him of her sympathy and her friendship, which she knew was of comfort and help to him, merely because a few spiteful people chose to see evil where no evil existed?

After pretending to eat her dinner, she lay on the sofa and tried to read one of the books Mr. Kennard had lent her. It was called "Degeneration," and she found it very difficult to follow; still, he had told her that she ought to take an interest in every phase of human nature, and she plodded through the first few pages. She soon found that she could not fix her attention. As a matter of fact, the subject of the book was beyond her simple understanding; and, in addition, she was listening, subconsciously, for footsteps in the veranda.

At last she rose and wandered out into the garden, feeling very lonely, very much aggrieved. Self-pity overwhelmed her. Looking back upon the period that had passed since her arrival as a bride in India, so eager, so happy, so filled with faith in the future, it all seemed to her like a long and exhausting dream; and now she was conscious of nothing but doubt, disillusion, and righteous indignation.

And, indeed, the whole machinery of Rafella's mental outlook was deranged and dislocated. Her perceptions had been weakened by the effort to adjust her mind to unaccustomed circumstances, and she mistook her own failure to resist deterioration for a sort of jealous plot on the part of other people to undermine her judgment and her purity of purpose.

She paced the patch of drive that showed ghostly and grey in the starlight. Through the thin screen of oleander trees that, with a low mud barrier, divided the Coventrys' compound from the compound of their neighbour Mr. Kennard, she could see the lights of his bungalow. She thought of him with tenderness as one who, like herself, was a victim of the little-minded. The voluptuous warmth and peace of the night soothed her over-excited nerves.... She wished that Mr. Kennard would come over and talk to her. She had felt so confident that he would come, if only for just a few minutes, knowing that she was alone. A little breeze caressed her face in soft, warm waves; as she paused beneath the trees they seemed to lean towards her in the darkness with whispers of support and consolation. The furtive noises of the Indian night did not alarm her--a rustle in the undergrowth, the sudden flapping of a flying fox, the flitter of a bat, the distant squealing of some helpless little creature in the agonies of capture by a foe. She went on, as in a dream, until she reached the gateless entrance of the compound, where she paused, standing in the loose white dust that still retained the heat of the day. An ekka passed, with jingling bells, along the road outside, then a creaking cart close-packed with pilgrims on their journey to some sacred shrine, chanting sleepily a song of prayer and praise. Silent-footed travellers, enshrouded in their cotton sheets, slipped by and disappeared like wraiths.

"Mrs. Coventry--is that you?"

Involuntarily she started, though she knew she did not feel surprised. Kennard had come out of his gate, and was standing at her side; she had not heard his footsteps in the dust. His figure, in the starlight, looked black and indistinct, save for his white shirt-front and the burning end of his cigar. It suddenly struck Rafella that, since she had known Mr. Kennard, the odour of strong cigars was no longer repugnant to her--she who had always detested the smell of tobacco, who had never grown really accustomed to George's innumerable cigarettes! Vaguely she wondered why this should be, as he stood talking--talking, she noticed, as superficially as if they had been in a room full of listening people--about the warmth of the night and the approaching hot weather, and how difficult it was to settle down to a book or anything else in a stuffy bungalow after dinner, with mosquitoes biting one's ankles, etc. Rafella appreciated the delicacy of his attitude; she thought it exceedingly nice of him not to attempt to take any advantage of the situation. And yet if George were to see them together now, he would straightway assume that Mr. Kennard was making love to her, and that she was allowing him to do so!

The thought of her husband gave her a feeling of uneasiness. She did not know how long it was since she had left the house; it might have been equally hours or minutes ago as far as she was concerned; George might return any moment and discover her here by the road in the darkness with Mr. Kennard, and of course he would never believe----

She said: "I think I had better go back." Yet still she lingered, captive to the magic of the night, and the heavy scent of blossoms mingling with the fumes of his cheroot; held, also, by the lurement of his presence, and a novel sense of high adventure.

"You know you ought not to come out at night without a lantern," he told her. "It's just the time of year when snakes begin to lie about in the dust and are still half-torpid from the winter."

"Then why did you come out without a lantern?" she asked, picking up her skirts a little anxiously.

At first he did not answer. Then he said: "Perhaps I'd better not explain." He paused. "After all," he added, "I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. The truth is I just felt I must come and stand at your gate, and I forgot all about lanterns and snakes."

"Why couldn't you have come over, lantern and all, after dinner for a chat?"

She would not recognise his meaning, thrilled though she was by his homage.

"I knew you were alone. Would it have been wise?"

"Well, perhaps not," she agreed, "and it's also not wise for us to stay talking here in the dark with snakes all over the place; I must go in. Good-night, Mr. Kennard."

He held her hand. "You'll keep me some dances to-morrow night, won't you? I'm one of your hosts, remember. Promise you won't disappoint me?"

"Of course not," she promised him gently, withdrawing her hand. He hesitated. "I think I'll just see you as far as the steps of the veranda. I should feel more comfortable. I can go back by the gap in the boundary--where it's broken, you know."

She knew. He had often come over that way in the daytime.