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.