"He likes you so much, you have been such a great interest to him, and made him so proud and happy, for you have always been an honourable gentleman. We heard of you up in Coorg, my country, and in beautiful Mysore. I am your Aunt Alida."
Mallender bowed assent, then as he looked into her face, stirred by an inexplicable impulse, he stooped, and lifted her hand to his lips. Why not? She was his Uncle's wife, and she held herself like royalty. For a moment, she surveyed him earnestly with her burning black eyes, noting as she did so, that the young man was woefully thin; his cheeks were sunken, his clothes worn, and almost shabby. Undoubtedly, he had tasted both sickness and poverty.
"You have had a hard time," she murmured gently, "but if one leaves the beaten road,—one has to pay!"
As Geoffrey gazed into her worn but beautiful face, he realised with a pang, that this low-voiced Aunt, who had abandoned a beaten road,—had paid, heavily.
"You will come again," she urged, "we will arrange with Brown and Brown; they forward letters; the motor waits to take you wherever you please. Good-bye!" and turning towards the drawing-room, she waved him farewell.
CHAPTER XXXII
His Aunt's offer of the splendid Panhard was not accepted by Geoffrey; he preferred to depart on foot, realising that after his recent experience, he must get away alone, into some quiet retreat, there to steady his mind, and nerves. As he descended the steps, even in the dim ill-lighted premises, he received the impression of an atmosphere of wealth, extravagance, and a certain amount of slackness, secrecy, and state; moreover an establishment crowded with retainers. The servants' liveries were gorgeous, the massive ill-trimmed hanging lamps, of beaten silver, splendid Persian rugs were carelessly strewn on the flagged portico, and that curious smell, beyond analysis, that belongs to the East hung in the air. From the rear, came the bitter pungent odour of wood fires, cooking the evening meal, the cries of children, the shrill whinny of horses. What, Mallender asked himself, was he doing in this native milieu? He seemed to be under some spell of unreality! Still walking as in a dream, he passed through a group of salaaming peons, into the dark overgrown avenue. There he encountered many vague stealthy figures, going or coming, and was presently overtaken by three men; mounted Sowars, on fine horses, who clattered by, in haste,—evidently bound on some important errand. Arrived once more at the shabby entrance he halted, and looked about, standing out of the traffic, under the shade of a great tamarind tree. As yet, he could not bring himself to face his next door relatives, or enter their well-ordered, well-illuminated English home; the contrast was so sharp between the household of his Uncle, and his cousin—that even to think of it made him flinch.
For nearly an hour, he slowly paced the dusty road; enclosed within high walls which lay between two entrances; where one, his nearest relative lived, cut off from his own people, surrounded by mystery and natives; whilst the other, great garden house, was no doubt as usual, overflowing with gay, appreciative guests, the cream of Madras society.
As he strolled along, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ground, he was haunted by the face of his Uncle; that awful mutilated countenance, with its jagged mouth, and wild bare eyeballs; he shuddered more than once, that warm still evening, and tried to thrust the hideous memory from his mental vision. Had such a fate overtaken him, how would he have borne it? He could not, would not, survive—no, even Barbie should not prevail. He endeavoured to put himself into his Uncle's place,—as a young man of his own age and profession, full of life, energy and expectation, suddenly shut out from his kindred, friends, and nation. Left alone, to struggle as best he might, with an absolutely hopeless future; abandoned to an existence of isolation and pretence. Why, why, should fate exact through years of misery, such remorseless punishment, for one folly?