Two years after the eventful morning of her departure from Madras, Hester was seated one afternoon in her favourite nook in the Rectory garden. The painful past had not failed to leave its traces on the deep-hearted girl. The gaiety, the "laughing light" of youth was changed to soberer hues. But the unnatural reserve which at first seemed to paralyze her had been replaced by a quiet shining peace of heart, a rare power of sympathy for others, and an inventiveness in ministering to those in sorrow. This spiritual beauty seemed reflected in face and form. There was a perfection of unconscious grace about every movement, and though the English roses on her cheeks, of which her husband had been so proud, had faded, the tender bloom of health was not lacking in her soft colouring and clear, earnest eyes. The black clinging dress which she still wore suited well her fair wavy hair she sat bending over her book.
After the first year of mourning, to her parents' satisfaction, Hester was not unwilling to take part in the social life round her. Visitors had come and gone who had been dearly welcome to her in a way that none can understand who have not been part of "an alien land on a foreign strand," knit together by many common memories. The coming of Colonel and Mrs. Fellowes had been a great joy to her; while, to her mother, it had proved an opportunity of hearing some pages from that short year of wedded life which had hitherto been folded away even from the eyes of those nearest to the young widow.
Hester had taken up all her daughterly duties with quiet faithfulness, proving a cheerful companion to her younger brothers in their holidays, though Charlie was conscious of a change. More than once, for instance, when he had tried to elicit some news of his friend, Mark Cheveril, Hester seemed to grow dreamy and preoccupied, changing the topic as soon as possible. He decided that there must have been a coldness between these two friends.
"I don't wonder," he remarked to his mother. "If Rayner was half what old Colonel Fellowes told me of him, Cheveril couldn't have stood him; so naturally there was a rift between Hester and him."
Mrs. Bellairs, whatever her thoughts were, proved almost as reticent as her daughter. More than one suitor had sought the hand of the young widow, but Hester's quick, firm decision had always been adverse to their hopes. "She will never marry again," acquaintances agreed. Only her mother, though she gave no opinion, thought she knew some one who might one day be able to persuade her daughter to allow him to replace the house of sand which had crumbled away, by a fair house founded on a rock of true love. But she kept her own counsel.
As the days went on nothing transpired which gave any clue to what the future might bring. No letter from Mark Cheveril ever reached the Rectory now; but Hester had still one link with her short wedded life which she clung to. Many a thin blue page crossed the sea, dated from an address unknown to the fashionable residents in Madras. And these letters were responded to by gracious, loving words which gladdened the heart of the lonely man, and not only his, they were often shared with one whom long since Mr. Morpeth had come to regard as a son.
"Mr. Cheveril is the most be-fathered man I know," declared little Mrs. Samptor. "He is the well-beloved boy of our surly Collector and the precious son of David Morpeth, and Samptor has a softer side to him than he has ever showed to any other young man."
Mr. Morpeth had often paid visits to Mark in his bungalow, and there was no more honoured guest at the Collector's table than the old Eurasian, and no more popular man in the little station of Puranapore. Through him, Mark was kept much more in touch with Hester than from Charlie's brief epistles from his London chambers. Often indeed all mention of his sister's name was purposely omitted. So when on Mark's first furlough home he desired to reach her, it was not to Charlie he turned, but decided on more direct methods.
When Hester heard footsteps approaching the walnut tree under which she sat, reading the brown volume of poems which had reached her one afternoon at Clive's Road, when she sorely needed its ministry, she took them to be her brother's.
"Come here, young man," she called, "sit at my feet and learn wisdom from Browning!"