A Bottle in the Smoke Part 38

"I give this man in charge," said Cheveril sternly, pointing to Zynool, whose countenance became black with rage and fear. "Saw him with my own eyes trample down this--this victim," he added, pointing to the motionless form at his feet.

Leaving Zynool in the strong grip of the representative of authority, Mark turned his attention to the injured man. A stretcher was hastily improvised from the remains of an outside shutter that dangled from a window hard by. Two Hindus who recognised the a.s.sistant-Collector volunteered their help. Lifting the prostrate form, they carried it to the Dispensary, which, fortunately, was at the end of the street, and more fortunately still, the cavalcade was met by Dr. Campbell. The place was already full of the wounded brought in from the fray. A brief explanation sufficed, and Rayner's helpless form was carried to a mattress in a corner of the large room.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

"This is horrible, Cheveril!" said Dr. Campbell, bending over his patient. "Every bit of him is mangled except his head. Poor chap, it seems like the work of a beast of prey."

"So it was, Campbell, a human beast of prey! I actually saw Zynool force his horse on him, knock him down, and make it trample on his fallen body," whispered Mark, his eyes still full of the horror of the scene.

"But how in the world did Rayner come to be in the guise of a native woman, I should like to know? Did he come to a.s.sist the Mussulmans, do you think? I know he's been intriguing with that villain Zynool. Perhaps he wanted to see the fruits of his handiwork, _incognito_."

"No, I fear it was more than that. Zynool muttered something I only half understood," returned Mark with a troubled air. "They had quarrelled, evidently, and Zynool indicated that Rayner was a fugitive from justice.

I only hope it's not true!"

"Well, in a way it don't matter now--not to him, at least, poor fellow.

Every organ is smashed. He's living still, though,--his heart's flickering. Brandy, Tobias," called the doctor to his Eurasian dresser.

A few drops of the stimulant diluted with water were pa.s.sed between the blanched lips. "We'll cut away those red rags," said the doctor, and adroitly set to work. Presently Rayner was divested of his disguise.

Finding his watch and one or two papers in his pocket, and his store of gold, the doctor handed them to Mark; and after having arranged as best he could for the comfort of the patient, he was called away to other urgent cases.

Mark, on his knees beside the low pallet, continued to watch the stricken man in the dim light. The dresser had brought a sponge and carefully washed the stained face, and the ashen features gleamed like those of a marble profile.

"What a perfectly beautiful face it is!" murmured Mark to himself. "Yet it lacks strength of character." All at once he recalled the pictured face of Mr. Morpeth's wife which Hester and he had examined that happy afternoon, in which she had seen a likeness to her husband. "A wonderful resemblance! I can see it now, and just that same something lacking."

His thoughts now strayed to Hester, and the trouble hovering over her in this terrible disaster. Trying and unstable as this man had proved, the shock and horror of this event would mark a terrible crisis in her young life. He recalled her query, evidently wrung from a sore heart that morning at St. Thomas' Mount. Would the Master's shaping process be always sharp and painful and inscrutable--the tools He used sometimes making the poor quivering heart bleed? A sore answer was coming to that question.

Mark's reverie was now disturbed by the approach of the doctor. He was showing signs of excitement, and he stooped down and lilted low: "The Campbells are coming, hurrah, hurrah! The Campbells are coming, hurrah!"

"I know," nodded Mark quietly. "I saw the first of them appearing just at the moment this happened. Otherwise I doubt if even the claim of this poor fellow should have brought me from my post. The Collector's all right, is he?"

"As right as a trivet, and in great spirits. Rioters on both sides scuttling like rabbits. The police-peons are now, at last, busy making arrests and Samptor's striding about like an avenging fate! They've got Zynool--not without a struggle. However, he is nabbed, and the warrant out to search his house at once. Mootuswamy Moodliar has seen to that.

It will be the Andamans for him, without doubt. The streets will soon be empty. The soldiers are to camp here for the night, but the danger's over. Here, alas, we have the worst result of the riot," said the doctor, glancing round on the rows of wounded men, many of them crying out in pain, others beyond any expression of their misery.

"Look, Campbell," said Mark, his eyes eagerly fixed on Rayner's face.

"Isn't there some sign of returning consciousness here?"

A slight tremor pa.s.sed through the mangled frame, the eyelids quivered and opened, and Rayner fixed his eyes on Mark's face for a moment, then closed them again. Presently, however, Mark found his large, l.u.s.treless eyes resting steadily upon him. The broken man made an effort to speak, but the voice was so low and faint it was difficult to catch the words.

"Cheveril!--It is you--thought I was dreaming--where am I? In Zynool's house--I remember. He spotted me--drove his horse on me--my own Australian too. He's done for me, Cheveril--every limb--game's up--nothing matters now----"

His voice died away, but after a moment he roused himself and fixed his eyes on the pitying face bending over him. "Kind, by Jove! I saw you--before Zynool--went for me."

"Don't be afraid, Rayner, this is not Zynool's house. It's the hospital, you're all right here," said Mark, taking his limp hand.

"You brought me here--kind--I'll tell Hester." His lips parted in a feeble smile, then his face became convulsed. "Never see Hester again,"

he moaned. "It's all up, Cheveril--I'm hunted--you'll not let them take me--you'll not give me up----?"

"Don't trouble, Rayner. You're quite safe here," said Mark soothingly.

"The doctor's bringing something to ease you." He laid his hand on the long, thin fingers, and stroked them gently.

"Now, my dear fellow," said the doctor cheerfully, "this ought to help you a bit." He administered an opiate. Soon the eyelids drooped, and sleep visited the dying man.

Mark kept unremitting vigil beside the low mattress through the long hours of the night. At length there was a slight movement; he could see by the light of the flickering oil-lamp overhead that the eyes of the sufferer were open and turned to him. Hoping he might fall asleep again he made no response. Then a hand was feebly stretched out to him.

"Yes, I'm here, Rayner! Mark Cheveril--close beside you."

"I know--I know--good--kind--Hester's friend." After a pause he seemed to wish to speak again, though the effort was painful.

"One night I stood by her cot--in her dreams she murmured--'the false and the true.' It seemed a home thrust--I felt furious at the time.

Cheveril--I've been the false--I see it now. You are the true--you'll understand better--when you know." His face again became convulsed with emotion, and Mark bent over him with pity in his eyes, unable to utter a word.

The first streak of the dawn began to steal through the open windows.

"Ha, the daylight will be upon us, Hester," cried Rayner, with strange clearness of tone. He tried to move. A terrible spasm seized him. Mark called for the doctor, but before he came the sufferer was quiet again and seemed to be sleeping. The doctor stooped over him.

"He's gone, Cheveril," he said quietly. "Your watch is ended. It was only a question of hours. Death has been merciful in releasing him so speedily."

The silver dawn was brightening into day when Mark Cheveril and the weary doctor stood together at the door of the dispensary--Dr. Campbell to s.n.a.t.c.h a few moments rest at home after the labours of the night; Mark Cheveril to set out with a heavy heart to Madras.

"You'll look in on the Collector after breakfast, Campbell, and see that he's all right, after last night. I say, didn't he do splendidly?" asked Mark, with a light coming into his tired eyes.

"Oh, for the matter of that, some other people did splendidly too! I saw your tussle over that child with that brute of a Hindu. It was refres.h.i.+ng, Cheveril; only, I felt sorry he was a Hindu, and not a Mahomedan. Anyhow, I'm bound to say, the Collector held the balance even when put on his mettle. I expect all this will act as a thunderstorm and clear the atmosphere. We'll be well rid of Zynool and some of his crew.

Yes, I'll look in for a moment and see Worsley. Any message? I forget if he knew Rayner? Of course I'll tell him of the tragedy, and of your share in it."

Mark, on thinking of it, felt relieved that he would not be the bearer of the tidings of the terrible fate of the man he knew the Collector had good reason to dislike. He was conscious that in Mr. Worsley's feelings there would be a sense of relief when he heard of the swift release which this tragedy would bring to the young wife whom he had liked and pitied. For his own part, the knowledge of that release brought no lightening as yet to his sad thoughts. Through the long hours of the past night he had come face to face with a great experience. He had watched "a human soul take wing," and the sense of it being a "fearful thing" to see was very present with him. So heavily did it lie on his heart, he had no thought for aught else; and to Hester, he knew the awful news must bring unutterable pain. To know that the man with whom she had embarked on life's voyage--though he had proved not "one to ride the water with," as the saying is--had been tragically engulfed, would indeed prove a crus.h.i.+ng blow. How could he, just because he was so full of comprehending sympathy, be the one to carry the news to the wife that their bark had foundered in dark, treacherous waters, and that he who should have been the mainstay was lost in the whirlpool?

More and more did he shrink from the task before him as the train carried him to Madras.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

As Mark Cheveril was stepping out of the railway carriage in the Madras station, a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

"The very man I was anxious to meet this morning," said Mr. Morpeth, fixing his deep grey eyes on his young friend. "In fact, it was my anxiety about all of you at Puranapore that brought me here at this hour. I heard rumours yesterday of an impending riot in the town. Then I had a bad dream! I haven't actually visited the place for years, but I saw you all with a furious mob round you, and big champing horses riding over you. I feared you and Mr. Worsley might be in trouble. But I'm glad to see you're all safe, anyhow, Cheveril. But you do look a bit jaded.

Has the rioting been serious? Come and tell me all about it."

The old man put his arm through Mark's, and walked down the platform with him.

"Serious enough," answered Mark. "But a company of soldiers from the Fort soon settled the rioters. It's an unexpected event connected with the riot that has brought me here this morning. You'll be sorry to hear, Morpeth, that our friend, Mrs. Rayner's husband, has been killed--literally trampled to death by a savage Mahomedan on horseback."

"Alfred dead!" gasped Mr. Morpeth, with a look of grief and terror in his eyes. He stumbled in his walk, and but for Mark's strong arm would have fallen forward.