When Mark rose to go, he was rejoiced to see Hester looking more like her old self than she had done since they had met in their new surroundings. She seemed to hold to her decision that there was no obstacle to the morning ride which he had suggested, saying as they parted:
"Alfred has so often reproached me for not going further afield in my drives, I'm sure he will be pleased to hear I've been adventurous enough to scale St. Thomas's Mount. You can't think what a joy an hour on horseback will be to me! It's a delightful suggestion, Mark, and I thank you for it," she said, with happy, grateful eyes, as she bade him good-night.
CHAPTER XXI.
The Eastern sky was still dim silvery grey when Mark Cheveril dismounted from his fine chestnut cob in front of the Rayner's verandah. Handing his horse to the syce, he turned to the other, a beautiful black Arab which he had secured for Hester, and whose girths and bridles he began carefully to inspect for the second time.
Presently Hester appeared on the verandah steps with a smiling face, wearing her riding habit for the first time since she left Worcestershire. Greeting Mark with a joyous mien, she renewed her thanks for the pleasure in prospect, sprang lightly to her saddle, and the cavalcade started; their respective syces following on foot, brandishing their long brush-like switches used to protect the horses from flies when a halt was made.
The riders trotted slowly along the wide Mount Road where at this early hour there was little traffic, only a few natives stepping about. Crossing the Adyar by the noble Marmalong Bridge, residences and their spreading compounds were soon left behind. Their route skirted the broad, winding reaches of the river, its banks fringed by peepul and casuarina trees, and here and there topes of cocoanut palms raised their graceful heads. The air was still cool and the early morning scents fragrant. Even the fumes of burnt charcoal curling upwards from the Thousand Lights Bazaar were pleasing to the riders, recalling the odour of furze fires on home moorlands.
Happy as were these two old friends to be together in such pleasant circumstances, their talk was as yet limited to spasmodic comments on the sights and sounds new to both. Mark was delighted to note the bright healthful glow on Hester's cheek, and resolved that each of the remaining mornings of his visit to Madras should be devoted to a morning ride together. He felt confident that her husband would approve when he saw how well-trained and reliable the Arab proved, and heard how greatly Hester was captivated by its paces.
They had now reached the ancient historical spot which was to be the goal of their morning's expedition. To eyes used to hills of home, St. Thomas's Mount seemed a very low eminence, though from the flat plain stretching all round it appeared to stand out like a unique personality. Possibly it was this feature which had caused it, centuries ago, to be singled out by devout pilgrims as a shrine. Fact and fiction had woven many legends round its steep grassy slopes, the most outstanding being the alleged visit of the Apostle whose name it bore. The Portuguese, the earliest European adventurers in the East, had established a mission there. Their ancient chapel which crowns the summit dates four centuries back. Instead of the zig-zag path which one expects in hill-climbing, the summit of the Mount is reached by a long, gradual ascent of granite steps which sparkled in the sun as if bestrewn by gems, and called forth the admiration of the riders as they halted at the base of the hill.
There, by Mark's arrangement, fresh syces had been posted from the stables for the return ride. They squatted on the sunny steps, their lips red with chewing betel-nut. They jumped up with salaams to take over charge of the hot steeds and to rub them down, while Mark, with liberal backsheesh, dispatched the returning pair of runners for, doubtless, a very leisurely progress townwards.