"Small dinner parties can be delightful. You remember when we dined at Mrs. Fellowes' there were only eight of us in all. And how bright the talk was, and how prettily Mrs. Fellowes had decorated the table with those simple tendrils from her own hedge, and how beautifully those silver tankards shone—the Colonel's sporting trophies, his own and his father's, who had been in the same regiment. He told me so many interesting things about the Native Infantry that evening. And then those pretty old English ballads Mrs. Fellowes sang were delightful."
"Well, Hester, I'm sure you might have given us a song to-night! It would have made a variety. Why didn't you?"
"Because you said last time we had a dinner-party that nobody was to be asked to sing—that music seemed a disturbing element to the lords of creation over their wine—so I forbore. Or, rather, I should say, it was never suggested. I shouldn't think Mrs. Grace cared for music. But I'll give you a Christmas carol now before we go to bed if you like. It will chase away the gaudy note of our last big dinner-party. Oh, I'm so glad, Alfred, you've made up your mind not to have any more of those 'meetings of debtors and creditors,' as someone calls them," said Hester more cheerfully, as she went to the piano and pondered which of the old carols she would choose for this Christmas Eve, deciding that nothing could be more welcome than the hymn which calls us to "lay aside our crushing load and hear the angels sing."
Hester lingered for some time at the piano singing old favourites. When she rose from it, the little cloud which had been resting on her seemed overlaid by the spirit of peace. She felt vexed as she drew near her husband's chair that there was no response to the gladsome words. He sat staring gloomily into the darkness, and she did not venture to disturb him.
Next morning Hester was astir even earlier than usual. She had prepared little Christmas presents for each of the numerous servants, and enjoyed their evident gratified reception of them. Her ayah and Rosie were soon resplendent in her gift of new sarees. Even the malis were not forgotten, and deposited their big red watering-chattees in front of the house while they made salaams to the Dosani in return for their new turbans.
Mr. Rayner had been employing his early Christmas morning by making a big bonfire of old papers outside the verandah of his writing-room, coaxing the flames in the still air with a palm leaf. While so engaged a telegram was handed to him.
"Horrid news from Palaveram, Hester," he called to his wife. "Young Hyde shot himself last night after mess—just as I was trying to extricate him from his troubles. They've asked me to go out to arrange matters. Great nuisance! I meant to spend the day peacefully lounging about the verandah and smoking cheroots."
"Young Hyde dead by his own hand! Oh, poor boy, how dreadfully sad!" exclaimed Hester in horror, mourning another "rashly importunate gone to his death" in that long sad procession of broken lives.
Mr. Rayner left after breakfast, and Hester felt glad she could respond to the chimes of the Cathedral, which were ringing for worship on this Christmas morning. They seemed to have a special note for her saddened heart, telling of the wideness of God's mercy—like that fair, illimitable ocean in its shining peace which swept round these shores, and of which she could catch glimpses as she took her solitary drive to church to find strength and hope in the all-embracing symbols of Infinite Love.
She returned home soothed and helped by the familiar service which seemed to forge a link between the little village church at home and the noble Cathedral beneath the waving Indian palms.