How long Alfred Rayner stood in the shadow of Kali's Shrine he never could have told, nor would he have wished to recall. Waves of misery seemed to roll over him. For long he could not steady his thoughts, and when he partially succeeded, his fury only grew apace. He saw it all now, he said to himself. From his very birth he had been the cruel sport of an evil fate! How he recognised his Aunt Flo in the touches the clerk had given! Yes, she was dark, and used to delight in recounting how she had been a beautiful brunette in her day, though she always dwelt with complacency on his being a fair-skinned boy! He recalled that more than once since his return to India he had been haunted by a subconscious feeling that there might be a strain of the hated half-caste blood in his veins. It was that fear which he had hardly allowed to cross his mind which had proved the origin of his attitude towards the whole class, while to David Morpeth his hatred had amounted to an obsession. Never could he behold the man without a sense of bitter annoyance which he knew full well, had found vent on more than one occasion. He recalled that evening when he had almost trampled on him as he was driving home in his mail-phaeton—and Cheveril's remonstrance. The whole scene sprang vividly into his memory. In his impotent rage he wished the hoofs of his Australians had trampled the life out of him that night. And again when he had crossed his path on the steps of his own house—ah, he remembered it well. It had been the occasion of his first quarrel with Hester.
"Oh, Hester, I had forgotten you!" he groaned. "She's bound to hear this awful disclosure. The secret seems common property. Perhaps she'll turn from me, or worse still, she will take sides with that half-caste, Cheveril. But after all this vile secret may be long in filtering through. My rôle is to put a bold front on it, and hold up my head and pose as heretofore as a pure-bred Englishman. If any rumour reaches my wife's ear I can squash it by persuading her that the whole thing is a slander trumped up by my enemies. But the allowance? I can't, I shan't continue to finger a penny of the money that comes from that man! I'll throw it back in his face, hard up as I am, at least I'll command Truelove Brothers to do so. I'll have no dealings with him. I'll pass him as before. I'll let the hoofs of my horses trample on him if they will. No mawkish sentiment for me! I'm not going to risk my reputation by having it known my father is a half-caste—even if it's true! The whole story may be a lie. I may only be some ward of his, and he swindling me with but a slice of my fortune."
A prey to seething thoughts, almost without knowing it he had started on his homeward walk. At the moment when he clung to the hope that after all he was the victim of some conspiracy and that there was no blood-tie between him and the hated community, he happened to glance up at a bungalow which was now brightly lit by oil lamps. Its circular verandah was ornamented with trellis-work eaves, among which tendrils of a dark glossy creeper intertwined. Suddenly there sprang to his mind the conviction that he had seen that spot long ago. Yes, those trellis-work eaves had looked down upon him when he was a little boy! One day he had gleefully rolled a new bright painted wheelbarrow along that verandah, and the giver of that wheelbarrow, a grave, silent big man with grey eyes, stood by watching him as he played, with a smile on his face—the smile of David Morpeth! Then the little boy had pushed his wheelbarrow down those red steps and run full tilt at the gardener's baby, a little, naked, brown urchin, who stood gazing open-mouthed, and knocked him down, while the air rent with his shrill cries. Then the smile vanished from the face of the big man, and with a stern air he brought his fingers down sharply on the owner of the new wheelbarrow, who in his turn gave an angry yell which brought a half-dressed woman with long black locks falling about her to the verandah. She had folded the boy in her arms, saying shrilly: "What are you doing to my chota sahib? You shall not touch my precious one with your big hands."
"I punished him for knocking down the gardener's boy, Flora," answered a grave voice.
"A native brat! What matter of thatt?"
And the grave voice replied: "If you bring the boy up like this, Flora Rayner, he'll turn out a scoundrel." Then the big man turned away with sad, stern eyes—the eyes of David Morpeth!
It was Alfred Rayner's only memory of the past, but it leapt out now, a clear-cut picture, as he stood gazing on the once familiar spot.
"Bah! What have I, an English gentleman bred, to do with such a nightmare," he muttered, shrugging his shoulders, as he walked off with quickened steps. "I'll bury the whole thing fathoms deep."
He did not slacken his pace till the feebly-lit road merged into the bright streets of the city. Seeing the doors of a hotel standing invitingly open, he paused.
"I'm hopelessly late for the Melford's dinner now, I'd better fortify my inner man here," he said to himself, and hurried up the steps. "This mad meeting at the Shrine of Kali has robbed me of my usual appetite. I'll just toss down a glass of brandy to strengthen my nerves before I face that estimable couple."