The Daughter of Brahma, I. A. R. Wylie [carter reed txt] 📗

plunged into matters political. He himself, besides being a Justice of the Peace, was a leading light in the Conservative Union of the division, and he looked upon the affairs of his country as his own personal concern which fact did not prevent him from regarding them as quite beyond feminine understanding, and Mrs. Morell, after one or two earnest but fruitless attempts to follow his interests, had resigned herself to the position of an intellectual kitten, whose harmless gamblings with Serious Affairs caused her husband a kindly if condescending pleasure.

"I don't suppose Daisy has gone that far," he now said, as he rose from the breakfast-table. "That reminds me I expect Sir David will be asked to stand for us at the next election. We have always had a Hurst to represent us."

"Of course," Mrs. Morell agreed thoughtfully. "I wonder if he is married, or engaged, or anything of that sort. Really, one knows nothing whatever about him."

"It will be amusing if he turns out to be a Radical," her daughter observed. "Cripples and these sort of people usually are."

The squire chuckled.

"Even if he was as you quite rightly said, titles alter opinions," he retorted, and went out of the room before any one had time to cap his answer. He felt that, for once in a way, he had got the better of his daughter, and he set off for Hurst Court in a state of unusual complacency, which increased as he drove his dog-cart through the village. Although he had reigned in Steeple Hampton since his father's death fifteen years before, he had never lost the feeling of satisfaction and pride caused by the hat-touching and respectful grins of the yokels, whose welfare depended to no small extent on his good-will. True, the Hursts were the titular rulers of the district, but, although popular, they had always held themselves aloof from the daily life of the villagers, and gradually the squire, acting as intermediary, rose to the position of king de facto. He accepted the position with the quiet conviction that he deserved it, but, being very English, he had, besides the knowledge of his own superiority, an inborn reverence for a title, and consequently, though he was inclined to patronise the Hursts as liege lords by the will of William Morell, J.P., he would never have dreamed of disputing their authority. On this particular morning his mind was very full with the part he was to play in the affairs of the new owner of Hurst Court. He remembered, with regret, that he had ignored David Hurst on the latter's visit to his uncle. In those days it had been impossible to foretell that, by a cruel blow of fate, the way to a great place should have been cleared for the moody, unsociable boy, and the squire trusted to future endeavours to remove the first bad impression that he might have made on the present baronet. He was considering ways and means when, as he turned his horse's head up the long drive which led to the Court, he overtook the vicar, the Rev. James Anderson, and, being in a friendly mood, and perhaps desirous of some moral support, he pulled up.

"You'U be late, Vicar," he said; "get in, there's plenty of room."

The vicar accepted gladly. He was an old man, worn out by a life-long toil in a parish where piety and immorality, subserviency and ingratitude lived side by side, and his kindly, if not very intellectual face, bore the strong impress of bitter disappointment and discouragement.

"I believe the villagers have already arrived," he said; "the train is bound to be late. We shall have plenty of time to arrange things."

The squire shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't know you can never trust them. I suppose you heard that Joe Saunders was drunk again last night."

"Yes, his wife came to me with a black eye. But I believe he is sober enough this morning."

"H'm, that sort of thing won't do. I shall speak to Sir David about it. It is most necessary that, being a comparative stranger, he should have a reliable bailiff."

"Of course," the vicar agreed.

"Still, Saunders is popular with the villagers," the squire went on, as though struck by a sudden thought. "He has a lot of influence. I fancy it would be wiser to leave him alone for the present; at any rate, until after the elections. Sir David can't afford to make enemies."

"He may not want to stand," objected the vicar.

"Oh, nonsense; all the Hursts have stood. He'll probably marry one of the county girls, and she'll hustle him into it all right."

"Excuse me," said the vicar, "but Sir David is married already."

The squire's hold on the reins relaxed. He turned and looked at his companion with a face of blank consternation.

"Damn it all, you don't say so? Who the devil to?"

"I don't know," the vicar answered with a touch of dignity in his tone, which seemed to protest resignedly against the sudden outburst of bad language. "Sir David wrote to the housekeeper that she was to prepare for his wife and himself. That's all any one knows."

The squire gave vent to a grunt of extreme disapproval.

"Never heard of such a thing," he muttered. "I hope to heaven it isn't a chorus-girl or anything of that sort."

"I met Sir David's mother some years ago," the vicar returned. "I do not think she is the sort of person to countenance a mesalliance."

"No, that's true still, it would have been better if he had married one of the county."

The squire's discontent was such that he did not speak again until they passed out of the avenue into the great square before the building which, for generations, had been the home of the Hurst family. It was an immense, grey-faced erection, free from all architectural beauties, but imposing, like the Hursts themselves, by reason of its grand indifference to the poetry of things and its appearance of utmost solidity. That alone which might have reconciled the artistic eye the stretch of velvet lawn surrounding the gravel square was at present marred by an unbroken barrier of school-children and estate-hands, attired in all the atrocious tastelessness of their Sunday garments. There was a general lifting of hats as the squire drove up to the stone steps, and the village schoolmaster, a meek, emaciated-looking individual in a frock coat of ancient cut, came forward to welcome the new arrival.

"Everything is quite ready, Mr. Morell," he said, in answer to the squire's inquiry. "I have heard the children sing their song, and it went very nicely. You see, I have had a little greeting nailed over the doorway."

The squire glanced up and perceived a long white linen strip, stretched over the arch, which bore the inscription, "Welcome," in large, red letters. "I would have added, ' To Sir David and Lady Hurst,'" the schoolmaster went on apologetically, "but the news that Sir David was bringing a wife came too late. I hope it will do."

** Very nicely, very nicely," the squire answered, referring to his watch. "Dear me, close on eleven. They should be here any minute. Vicar, will you stand at my right Mr. Harris at my left. Thank you. Ah, here they are."

A low murmur of excitement had preluded the carriage-and-pair, which passed at a sharp trot out of the shadow of the avenue. A ragged cheer followed; the schoolmaster signalled wildly with his arms and the school-children broke into a high-pitched, wailing noise, which had some faint resemblance to a hymn. Squire Morell descended a step, consciously bringing his fine figure into the foreground. He knew that he had a fine figure. Ever since his late Majesty had picked him out at Yeomanry inspection he had known it, and, in spite of increasing years and bulk, he was still sufficiently convinced of his physical advantages to be entirely absorbed in his own appearance and the role he was to play in the coming reception, and consequently equally oblivious of the fact that 13 the schoolmaster was giving signals of distress. Undoubtedly something untoward had happened to upset that gentleman's calculations. In spite of his desperate gesticulations Squire Morell hastened officiously down the steps and then suddenly, as though struck by an electric current, he stopped short, and the smile of welcome changed slowly to an expression of incredulous bewilderment.

Sir David Hurst descended from the carriage, but the three men who stood blankly staring scarcely noticed him. They saw only the woman to whom he held out his hand, a woman whose face and dress were alike utterly, repugnantly foreign to them. She wore a dark red sevi wound about her, and the face which she turned towards them in wondering expectation was a pale olive and delicately but unmistakably Oriental. For a full minute the full significance of her presence did not dawn on the paralysed spectators. Then David Hurst offered the alien woman his arm, and they understood. Squire Morell shook himself as a man does who tries to throw off a bad dream.

"Good God!" he said aloud.

Hurst heard the exclamation and came to a standstill on the third step. He was a little in advance of his companion, and his attitude was at once protecting and sternly resolute.

"Squire Morell, if lam not mistaken?" he said calmly.

Squire Morell tried to recover his self-possession and failed. He was not accustomed to thinking quickly, and his speech, with its discreet mingling of welcome with regret, was entirely forgotten. He held out an uncertain hand.

"Delighted ah that you should remember me, Sir David," he stammered. "I that is, we came here to-day to welcome you and your--eh--" He broke off, quite aware that his silence was far from being tactful, but in his opinion the situation was beyond or rather beneath tact. Indeed, out of his frozen horror there was rising an angry conviction that he and the whole community had been insulted.

Hurst turned a little.

"Sarasvati, this is our neighbour, Squire Morell," he said. "May I introduce you? Squire Morell my wife."

The blow fell finally and irrevocably. The three men saw a pair of dark, profound eyes raised to theirs; a delicate hand, loaded with rings whose magnificent but barbaric design was as unlike the commonplace and ostentatious jewels to which they were accustomed as she was unlike their conception of womanhood, was hesitatingly outstretched, then dropped. The squire had ignored the movement, but the vicar had seen it, and, for once forgetful of the self-effacement to which he had been forced to accustom himself, came quickly forward. In truth, his fagged brain had not grasped the full extent of the disaster which had overtaken them, but his heart had heard an unspoken appeal and had answered.

"Lady Hurst, you and your husband are both very welcome," he said in his timid, kindly way. "I hope you will be happy amongst us."

"I thank you all," she answered. Her voice and accent were sweet and foreign, and the smile which dawned about the finely cut mouth was eloquent of a shy yet frank gratitude.

Touched by he knew not quite what the vicar turned nervously to the schoolmaster, who stood behind him in an attitude of utter distraction.

"Won't you ask the children to sing again?" he said. "Lady Hurst might like to hear them." "I beg of you not to trouble," David Hurst interposed firmly. "My wife and I are both tired after the long journey. It was most kind of you to bring us this welcome, which is as unexpected as it is--"

He broke off as though conscious that he was on the verge of discourtesy. "Please convey our thanks to all concerned," he went on. "We shall hope to have the pleasure of meeting you again soon for the present I am sure you will excuse us both."

He bowed without offering his hand and passed on. They saw that his arm was placed protectingly about his wife's shoulders then the door clanged to in their faces. They