Alderbury came and went at his own convenience, never announcing his proposed visit by more than a day or two, and never prolonging it beyond the two or three nights, which gave him at least one complete day's rest, so essential sometimes to the worker for whom Sunday is the busiest day of the week. How intensely the man enjoyed that day his hosts had little suspicion. Whether he discussed the latest theory in science or religion with Wenaston, or the latest novel with Eola, it was all pure happiness unclouded by a single anxiety.
Mrs. Hulver was the only person who was disturbed. The laughter of the happy trio awoke no sympathetic joy in her. She was relieved when she heard only the low tone of the masculine voices, indicating that Miss Wenaston was taking no part in the conversation. It was fortunate for her peace of mind that she could not see Eola's eyes dwelling on the long figure extended in the cane lounge placed between her own easy chair and her brother's; nor how she watched him when, carried away by excitement, he pulled himself forward and even sprang to his feet the better to emphasise what he had to say. As he stood before them, speaking to the Doctor, but often turning his deepset eyes upon Eola, the girl thought of St. Paul. By what mysterious force was he driven? What fire was it that kindled in his eyes as he talked and made him look different from any other man she had known? The Indian world as she knew it was very peaceful; the people of the native State of Chirakul were notorious for their content and for the absence of all sedition and unrest. Yet to hear him talk one might be brought to the belief that it was not a peaceful model native state, but an enemy's land, a field for a deadly battle with a worthy foe.
Alderbury passed out of their little world as suddenly as he came in, leaving them slumberous and quiescent. Eola missed him, but Mrs. Hulver indulged in a sigh of relief. Much as she desired to see Eola married she drew a rigid line at missionaries. Not that missionaries should be debarred from marriage. On the contrary, a wife was more needful in the mission house than anywhere else. But the missionary's wife belonged, in her opinion, to quite another class. She did not know where the wives were bred. They were endowed with many admirable virtues, and were eminently suited to be helpers to their worthy husbands in proselytising among the heathen; but of one thing she was sure; there was a wide difference between them and Miss Wenaston. Their rambling bungalows had a certain amount of plain solid comfort about them; and they made the best of the country fare that their limited salaries obliged them to buy, but there was nothing dainty in either dress or food or furniture.
The large compounds in which their dwellings were placed contained outbuildings where the natives gathered for instruction; both bungalow and compound were haunted with mild-looking converts in white muslin; their happy faces an indication that Christianity and the pastoral supervision of the missionary agreed with them.
On the other hand who ever heard of a missionary's wife being invited to the Presidency town to take a share in social festivities? Who ever saw, asked Mrs. Hulver, with raised eyebrows, "a missionary's lady" at a race meet or at a Government House ball? Miss Wenaston belonged to the class that welcomed Viceroys and figured at races and balls. Thus it happened that after some of these flying visits Mrs. Hulver had remarks to make.
"Missionaries are very good sort of people in their way. I often wonder how they can keep it up."
"Keep what up?" asked Eola, mystified.
"Their spirits and their belief that they are doing these natives good."
"Of course they are doing good, Mrs. Hulver," said Eola, as if she were slightly shocked. The half-formed doubt occasionally slipped unbidden into her own mind but she had never put it into words.
"I didn't say that they were not doing good. I left it open. As William—that was my first—used to say when the native overseers had too big a grasp on the profits: 'You can't wash a crow white nor expect anything of him but a croak.' It's the thought of the millions and millions of heathen in India that is apt to stagger one. It's like trying to empty a tank with a teaspoon. However, as William—that was my second—used to say when I was down-hearted about the way anything was going: 'You lay your brick and lay it sound and leave the rest to others. No man ever built a church steeple all by himself and yet old England is full of churches and steeples.' Anyway, I shouldn't like to be a missionary's wife. I could dress up to it; I could feed up to it; but I couldn't stand the converts trapesing through the compound and hanging about the verandahs. I shouldn't feel as if the house belonged to me."