The Woman in the Bazaar

								

closed, falling into disrepair, its owner dwelling out of England,
crippled by a dwindling rent-roll and heavy charges on the property.
This morning she sang blithely as she crossed the lawn that more nearly
resembled a hay-field--sang one of the hymns she had selected for
to-morrow's service, to be led by herself to her own strenuous
accompaniment on the aged harmonium and the raucous voices of the
village congregation. The sun shone on her hair, that glinted golden,
crinkling over her little head, gathered into a then unfashionable knob
at the nape of her slim, white neck. And Captain Coventry, riding along
the road, looked over the privet hedge and thought he had never beheld
anything on this earth to compare with its glory. Why, the girl's hair
was like "kincob," like the border of a nautch woman's veil, like the
work on a rajah's robe!
Captain Coventry had just returned from India, and the glamour of the
East was still upon him--the East that is so very different to look back
upon when a man's whole service need not be spent in exile. Just now he
was on short leave, and his regiment--an English line regiment--would be
returning home in two years' time. India, to him, was yet a pleasant
quarter of the globe that meant sport (his passion) well within his
means, cheaper comfort, cheaper living, amusements that were welcome to
his outdoor tastes, not to speak of soldiering experiences of the finest
next to active service. He was on a visit to his widowed mother and his
spinster sister, who lived in the little country town lying at the base
of the hills that jutted out like monstrous knuckles over the Severn
Valley; and feeling slightly bored, in need of exercise, of movement, he
had hired a horse and was exploring Cotswold villages on morning rides.
So it came about that on this perfect summer day he had passed through
Under-edge, and was arrested now by the vision of a girl with golden
head and bright blue gown in the garden of a wayside vicarage.
Involuntarily he checked his mount, and from behind the hedge he watched
the slim blue figure move across the grass and stand for a moment
outlined against a door in an ivy-covered garden wall. She was singing
as she wrestled with a rusty latch:



    "Other refuge have I none;

    Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;

    Leave, ah! leave me not alone,

    Still support and comfort me."
How he wished he could see her face; he felt he must see it! And when
she had opened the door and vanished from his view, he rode on slowly,
reluctantly, scheming how he might return with some specious reason that
would enable him to speak with her.
George Coventry was not susceptible. Save for a youthful and hopeless
love affair that left no lasting impress on his heart, his life had been
exceptionally free from sexual distractions; he was more on his guard
against women than actually indifferent to them. Without conceit, he was