The Cuthells' successor was reported to be a bachelor. Of course, Mrs. Piggott professed to have knowledge of his history even before he arrived in the station. She told Mrs. Crayfield he was a very rising civilian who was considered far too brilliant to be wasted on ordinary district administration, and therefore it was intended that he should merely mark time at Rassih pending his elevation to some important appointment.
"And one can just fancy," she added spitefully, "what a conceited prig he must be, what airs he will give himself, and how he will despise us all! I haven't a doubt he's about five foot high, with short sight and a head too big for his body, can't ride or shoot, and is probably the son of a shopkeeper at Tooting or some equally refined locality. The sort of creature who gets into the Civil Service by cramming to the last ounce. They'll be the ruin of India, because the right kind of natives know they aren't 'sahibs' and hate them accordingly, while the wrong sort take advantage of their weak points. I hope you'll sit on him well, Mrs. Crayfield."
Stella felt a faint curiosity to view a sample of the competitive system so condemned by Mrs. Piggott. She had also heard her husband deplore the modern measures that permitted Messrs. Brown,Jones and Robinson to help govern the most aristocratic country in the world. But one morning, within the orthodox and inconvenient hours decreed for first calls in the East (one of the few relics of old John Company customs), when the visiting card of Mr. Philip Ferguson Flint was brought to her, it was followed by no under-sized, top-heavy specimen such as Mrs. Piggott had described, but by a good-looking fellow not much over thirty, with friendly blue eyes, and no trace of "airs" in his bearing, unless a certain well-bred self-confidence could be imputed to conceit.
Philip Flint was taken aback in his turn. If he had thought about his chief's wife at all, save as a personage to be called upon without delay as in duty bound, he had certainly foreseen an amiable, middle-aged memsahib who would perhaps rescue him good-naturedly from the discomforts of the Government rest house until he could find suitable quarters for himself. Here, instead, was one of the prettiest girls he had ever beheld, incredibly young, unless indeed she was the daughter, not the wife, of the Commissioner.
As he entered she was standing in the centre of the big room, a slim, white-gowned figure beneath the slow-swaying punkah, and its movement stirred gently the bright little curls on her forehead—adorable curls. And what eyes, with thick, feathery lashes upcurved at the tips. Great Cæsar! what luck, after all, that Rassih should have been his portion. And to think how he had grumbled at the prospect of such exile even for a few months!
"Miss Crayfield?" he said tentatively, and at the same moment he caught sight of her wedding ring, the only ring she was wearing. "I mean"—correcting himself hastily, with a sense of acute disappointment—"Mrs. Crayfield." Solemnly they shook hands. Then their eyes met and they both laughed. That mutual, spontaneous laughter sealed an instinctive friendship. Stella waved him to a chair and took one herself. Previous to his arrival she had been feeling so languid, so dull; now everything was different; the very atmosphere became cheerful, the heat less oppressive.
"You must forgive my mistake," he said, and his blue eyes twinkled, "but it was your fault. You don't look quite like a Mrs. Commissioner, at least, not the kind I am accustomed to."
"Oh, you're not the first person to reproach me for being young," Stella told him, thinking of Mrs. Cuthell. "I really shall have to do something if the hot weather refuses to turn my hair grey."
"What did the other people say?" he inquired lightly, though in truth he felt curious to know if these same other people had been men who, like himself, were nonplussed by the sight of her beauty and youth.
"Nothing at all nice, so perhaps we'd better talk about something else. Tell me, what do you think of Rassih?"
"Until this morning I thought it a God-forsaken hole!"
She blushed, divining the bold insinuation. Hewatched the bright colour creep into her cheeks, delighting in her moment of embarrassment. Then he came to her aid with commonplace remarks as to the climate, the surroundings, the new railway line.
"It doesn't strike a new-comer as a tempting spot, but it must be interesting for anyone with a weakness for Indian history."
"Oh,don'tbegin about the mutiny and this dreadful old house!" protested Stella.
He glanced at her, puzzled. "But I wasn't thinking so much of the mutiny. Did you never hear of George Thomas?"
"George Thomas! Who was he?"
"One of the old military adventurers who paved the way for the British occupation of India. He very nearly conquered the Punjab, and established himself in this district, coining his own rupees, and manufacturing his own arms and ammunition, and he was always for his King and country. But he failed, beaten by the French under Perron, and through treachery among his native followers; also partly, I'm afraid, because at critical moments he was generally drunk!"
"Oh, poor dear!" Stella's eyes shone with interest. "And what happened to him?"
"He died on his way down country with his wife and family, broken-hearted, more or less a fugitive, but still, it is said, having certain possessions in the shape of money and jewels and shawls. His tomb has never been found, nor is it known what became of his descendants. I often wonder if any of themare living to-day. There is a story that on one occasion, when he was looking at a map of India, in which British territory was then, as now, coloured red, he ran his hand over the whole of the map and said, 'All this ought to be red.' That was the real spirit of his ambitions. I'll lend you a book about him if you like."
"Like!Please let me have it to-day—to-morrow."
He laughed at her enthusiasm. "Very well, directly my things are unpacked. His career would make a fine subject for a romance."
"Why don't you write it?"
He paused reflectively.
"Areyou writing it? Do tell me," urged Stella.
"No, but I should like to try. Will you help me?"
"How on earth couldIhelp you?"
"By allowing me to read you my efforts as they go along. There is nothing so stimulating to a would-be author as a long-suffering listener."
Wily Philip Ferguson Flint! Mentally he congratulated himself on having hit on a subtle device whereby he might secure a delightful intimacy with this captivating young person. He pictured long hours alone in her company countenanced by a reasonable excuse. The romance should be started immediately. Blessings on the memory of poor, stout-hearted, tipsy George Thomas!
"I should be only too delighted. There would be nothing long-suffering about it." Then doubt crept into her mind as to how Robert would regardsuch a plan. Probably he would grudge her this pleasure as he grudged her all others, with the exception of riding and petty occupations. Well, if he did she must contrive to hoodwink him somehow. For this morning at least she could enjoy Mr. Flint's society. He seemed in no hurry to go, and she told him all about the Carringtons, and her regret that, being a girl, she could not follow in their footsteps; confided to him how she had craved to reach India, disclosed, perhaps unconsciously, the vague dissatisfaction she felt with her daily life now that her wish was accomplished.
"Why didyouchoose to come to India?" she asked him with frank curiosity, and was thrilled sympathetically when he told her that he too had been born with an hereditary call in his blood for the East.
"I come of an old Anglo-Indian stock myself. I'm the fifth generation of my family to serve the Indian Government. It seemed somehow inevitable that I should come out here. I passed high enough for the English Civil, but I chose India without hesitation. Apart from family links with the country, I didn't fancy being mewed up in an office from morning till night, with little prospect of getting to the top of the ladder, and not enough money for sport and the kind of amusements I like. Dances and dinners and tea-parties are not in my line. Out here I can afford a good horse and unlimited cartridges, and I know I can be useful to India in my small way. I mean to end up with a Lieutenant-Governorship at least."
"You are very ambitious," exclaimed Stella; but it was as if she cried "Hear, hear."
"Call it a passion for success," he said, smiling; and Stella felt that deep determination lay beneath the smile and in his nature, and with her whole being she applauded his aspirations.
"You will get the Star of India," she said, hardly knowing why the particular reward should suddenly have recurred to her.
"A star worth striving for," he said seriously, "even if it should burn one's wings."
"Oh, how I envy you!" Tears rose to her eyes. "And I, who love India too, can do nothing—can never be useful!"
"Who knows? Your chance may come."
"If it does you may be sure I shall take it." Just then Stella looked up, to see Sher Singh standing in the doorway, and she realised that for the last few moments the man had been coughing gently to attract her attention. Was she never to be free from this perpetual spying and watching?
"What is it?" she asked impatiently in Hindustani.
"Your highness"—with a low salaam—"the sahib has sent a message. Will Fer-lint Sahib go to the office? The Commissioner-Sahib desires his presence."
Mr. Flint rose. "Well, good-bye, Mrs. Crayfield. Needs must when official devildom drives. I will tell you when the George Thomas romance is well started."
"Don't forget the book about him you promisedto lend me," said Stella eagerly. But when he had gone she gave herself over to a frenzy of suspicion. Had Sher Singh told Robert that she was laughing and talking with "Fer-lint Sahib"? and had the message been sent with a purpose? She dreaded yet looked for Robert's return, so that she might know where she stood in regard to Mr. Flint's visit. Perhaps it was all her imagination. The summons might have been perfectly free from intrigue on the part of Sher Singh; yet she was uneasy, and she wandered from room to room, a victim to apprehension, her condition aggravated by the knowledge that she had found such pleasure in this new friendship, fearful as she was that it might be denied her.
To her astonished relief, when Robert appeared for the midday breakfast he was accompanied by Mr. Flint, and the two seemed already to be on excellent terms.
"I've persuaded Mr. Flint to join us at breakfast," Robert explained to her pompously; but after this he took no notice of his wife, talking "shop" persistently with his new subordinate—all about revenue, and boundaries, and agricultural prospects, of the danger of famine should the monsoon fail or be fatally late. Stella listened with interest, though perforce she was excluded from the conversation, and instinctively she understood why Mr. Flint made no attempt to draw her into it. Mr. Flint was setting himself to please his superior, for which intention she felt thankful to him; also she was dimly aware that his object was two-fold, that he meant to makefriends with Robert in order that he might the more easily be permitted to make friends with her. She effaced herself purposely, and welcomed the sudden intrusion of an excited fox terrier, who rushed into the room wildly in quest of his master.
"I must apologise for Jacob," said Mr. Flint, as the dog leapt upon him with yelps of joy. "I thought I had left him safely tied up."
Robert endured the interruption with good enough grace. He did not like dogs, would not keep any himself—to Stella's disappointment. But the disturbance was trivial. He made no comment when his wife enticed Jacob to her side with succulent scraps from her plate, and soon had him seated contentedly on her lap, lolling a red tongue, casting affectionate glances at his master across the table. To Philip this seemed a good omen. Jacob as a rule was not fond of ladies, except of his own species, and his wholesale acceptance of Mrs. Crayfield's attentions was somewhat surprising. Flint was careful to ignore Jacob, much as Colonel Crayfield ignored his wife, and he was secretly entertained when, the meal over, and Mrs. Crayfield rose from the table, Jacob trotted after her into the drawing-room, leaving his master to smoke and continue his talk with the Commissioner. Master Jacob was no fool; he knew when he had found an entrancing companion.
The morning had been a success, but Philip took his dog back to the Rest House that afternoon with feelings divided. To him the situation in regard tothe Crayfields was now clear enough—an elderly man married to a young and beautiful wife whose heart was still whole, the husband loftily secure in his authority, his ownership. There was danger in prospect unless he could be certain of keeping his head; and as he thought of the girl's beauty, her youth, her attractions, and her obvious interest in himself, he feared for his own strength of mind. It might be more than wise to abandon all schemes for meetings that were not inevitable; but the temptation was strong, and he knew very well that to a certain extent he should yield to it. All the same, he would have to walk warily. An entanglement at this stage of his career might be fatal to his advancement. Colonel Crayfield was hardly the type of a complacent husband, and he had known cases during his service when appearances only had brought about irrevocable disaster to foolish, flirtatious couples who in deed as well as in purpose were innocent of actual harm.
After all, with the cynicism of circumstances, it was Colonel Crayfield himself who made matters easy. He had taken a fancy to his new assistant, invited him frequently to singles at tennis, and never suspected that Flint let him win, or beat him by such a small margin that the defeat had a stimulating effect. Stella sat by and watched these games, Jacob reposing on the edge of her skirt, or more often on her lap. Robert bore with the presence of Jacob, unless he ran after the balls or barked piercingly at squirrels. Then the Commissioner shouted abuse at "that damned dog," and Flint administeredchastisement, ostensibly severe, in reality mild, that caused Jacob to retire affronted beneath Stella's chair.
When the swift Indian dusk descended, Robert, who perspired abnormally under exertion, would hasten indoors for a bath and a change, with Sher Singh in attendance, unwitting of the fact that his wife and young Flint invariably sat on side by side in the hot, scented darkness as happy companions, their fellowship ripening dangerously with each hour they could compass alone one with the other. Skilfully Flint had brought the George Thomas romance into play. He talked of it openly before Colonel Crayfield, and one night, when he was dining with the Crayfields, he confessed he had brought one or two chapters with him that he proposed, with their consent, to inflict after dinner on his host and hostess. Robert grunted contemptuously, Stella had the acumen to agree with polite indifference, and when the reading began Robert at once went to sleep and snored. The chapters were short, and, truth to tell, of little literary value, though written in easy style with a talented pen, costing the author no effort. But Stella was deeply impressed and interested. She longed to hear more of the hero, the young man of high birth who had got into such a scrape at home that he was forced to flee the country, and found himself in the service of a treacherous old native lady, the Begum Somru, whose commander-in-chief at the time was an Irish adventurer, one George Thomas. And while Robert slept and snored, Philip read and Stella listened. Then, the manuscriptlaid aside, they talked India in subdued voices to their hearts' content. This programme was repeated more than once, until Robert turned restive.
"Bother the boy!" he said. "Why does he want to write all this rubbish—wasting his time!"
"It's his way of amusing himself," Stella suggested carelessly, "like me with my painting and fancy work."
"Well, it doesn't amuse me to hear it, or you either, I should imagine."
"I confess I'm rather interested in the story. I feel I want to know what happens next."
"Then let him spout it at some other time, when I'm not present. I suppose there'll be no peace till it's finished. Give him a gentle hint."
"I'll try. But won't it hurt his feelings?"
"Not any more than my going to sleep directly he starts reading, I should think."
Therefore, on the next occasion, before the manuscript could be unfolded, Stella went to the piano.
"No reading to-night, Mr. Flint. We're going to have some music. I want you to hear how my husband can sing. Come along, Robert." Her fingers rippled lightly over the keys, and Robert sang readily, lustily, song after song, much to his own enjoyment, and presumably to that of the guest, who applauded with tact, and requested encores till the performer, in high good humour, declared he was hoarse and could sing no more. Then Mrs. Crayfield continued the concert, and Philip sat gazinghis fill at the vision she presented, the light from the wall-lamp behind her gilding her hair, her voice sweet and true, causing his heart to ache with ominous yearning. He felt confident she found pleasure in his friendship, yet to-night he was puzzled by her attitude until, the music put away and the piano closed, she said with an assumption of matronly indulgence: "I'm afraid we haven't considered poor George Thomas. How is he getting on?"
"Oh, pretty well, thank you."
"Has the slave girl escaped?"
"Not yet; it's rather difficult; but I mustn't bore you any more with my attempts at fiction." Purposely he spoke in a tone of humble discouragement; he was feeling his way.
"Bring the stuff over to-morrow before we play tennis," suggested Robert magnanimously, "and the memsahib will listen; stories amuse her."
"Oh, may I? But," turning to Stella, "won't it interfere with your afternoon siesta?"
"Not a bit," Mrs. Crayfield assured him. "I never can sleep in the daytime, but Robert must have a rest. I tell him he works far too hard."
"Young bully, aren't you?" was Colonel Crayfield's playful retort, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Take my advice, Flint, and when you marry don't choose a wife from the schoolroom."
"Judging by your example, sir," chaffed Philip, "one might do worse."
"Well, all things considered, I suppose I've been lucky. Good night. I shall expect to lick you to-morrow at tennis after you've exhausted yourself and my wife with your intellectual exertions."
"Not if I can help it," said Philip, diplomatically defiant.
When Mrs. Antonio pronounced Rassih to be "a very hot place," her words at the time had conveyed little to Stella of what to expect. The heat grew fiercer than she could have believed possible; the blazing sun, the scorching wind, the nights that seemed equally long and hot as the days, without variation of temperature save for the worse. There was no escape, no deliverance, and the rains tarried. Despite her youth and her health, she flagged, lost her appetite, lived chiefly on tea and iced mango-fool, with all the short-sightedness of the young in matters of nourishment. Robert, on the contrary, appeared to thrive. He ate well, slept soundly, rode and played tennis as usual. His very vigour was exhausting to his wife.
Now the only ladies left in the station besides herself were Mrs. Beard and Mrs. Antonio. Martha and Mary and Deborah were dispatched (at the mission expense) to cooler climes; Pussy Antonio was on a long visit "up hill" to relations; Mrs. Piggott had fled, like the rest, to the Himalayas. Therefore Mrs. Crayfield's "at homes" were for the present in abeyance, and had it not been for Philip Flint, the monotony of her days would have become well-nigh intolerable. Stella lived for the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. Whether she might have welcomed his society with equal delighthad he been Mrs. or Miss Flint, possessing the same tastes and interests, had not occurred to her. One source of annoyance during his visits ceased suddenly—Champa and Sher Singh no longer peeped and peered from the doorways. On the other hand, Champa began to behave as if she recognised, and was ready to abet, an intrigue that must be kept from the Commissioner's knowledge. Early one morning she sidled into the bedroom with a note that had arrived from Mr. Flint for Mrs. Crayfield, hiding it beneath her wrapper, looking unutterable warnings, since the sahib was half awake. She handed it covertly to her mistress. In a flash Stella recognised what lay in the woman's mind, and she made haste to rouse Robert as she took the note and opened it.
"Mr. Flint has got fever," she told him; "he won't be able to play tennis this evening."
"Say salaam," she added severely to Champa, who retired, snubbed, to give the messenger the orthodox message of acknowledgment.
This episode worried Stella. She was not yet so conversant with Oriental outlook as to comprehend that to the native mind there could be but one interpretation of her intimacy with a sahib who was not her husband nor in any way related to her. She felt enraged, humiliated, by Champa's assumption that she must wish to conceal the note from Robert, and in consequence she passed a restless morning after a long, hot ride that drained her energy. It was the oldmunshi'sday with his pupil; but when he presented himself with his pen-box and sheaf ofyellow papers, she could not settle down to the lesson, was unable to fix her attention, and, pleading a headache, she dismissed him politely. Then she tried writing her weekly letter to The Chestnuts; but her hand clung damp to the paper, and she had not the strength of will to persevere; the keys of the piano stuck to her fingers; it was useless attempting to paint or to embroider. Finally she sat idle in the darkened room, permitting her thoughts to wander without aim, backwards and forwards in chaos, now in one direction, then in another, till they collided with the solid fact that her disturbance of mind was now not so much connected with Champa's insulting behaviour as with her disappointment that she was not to see Philip Flint that afternoon, a vexation aggravated by anxiety concerning his condition. Had he got all he needed? He was still in the Rest House, and she pictured him lying sick and helpless in the hot and hideous little building. Had he plenty of ice? She knew the supply was limited. She would have liked to order soup or jelly to be prepared for him, but the order would have to go through Sher Singh. The day wore on as usual. The heavy midday breakfast, Robert's rest afterwards, her own efforts to read while he slept. By tea-time her head ached definitely and badly. Robert suggested that another ride would do it good. She might like to try the grey stud-bred he had bought the other day, since her own mare had already been out in the morning.
"I can't ride again to-day," she declared fretfully. "I don't feel up to it. You had better try the grey yourself."
At once he became significantly solicitous, and the meaning in his questions and concern annoyed her still further.
"Oh, do go," she cried, exasperated at last, "and leave me alone. I want to be quiet. My head aches, that's all."
He grumbled a little that Flint should be ailing and therefore unavailable for tennis. He could not decide whether to try the grey or to send for one of the Public Works assistants to play with him. On inquiry it was ascertained that the young man in question was still out in the district; and finally, to his wife's relief, he ordered the grey to be saddled and set off for a solitary ride.
Stella repaired to the front balcony to see him mount and to wave him a friendly farewell in apology for her ill-humour. The grey was a satisfactory purchase, a handsome animal, well up to weight, but evidently hot-tempered, and gave trouble at the start. Certainly Santa-Sahib looked his best on a horse. He was a good rider, and for a moment Stella repented her peevish refusal to ride with him. Then erratically the question occurred to her: Supposing there was an accident, supposing Robert were killed, how would she feel?
It was as if she awaited an answer from beyond her own brain, and for answer there came to her the sudden vision of Philip Flint. He seemed to be standing before her. She saw his blue eyes, heard his slow, pleasant voice. What did it mean? Aghast at her thoughts, shadowy and indefinite though they were, she rushed back to the drawing-room, shaking,unstrung, with the feeling that she had committed murder in her heart. She was a wicked creature! Oh, why had she married Robert? Why had she not stayed at The Chestnuts with grandmamma and the aunts, ignorant, safe, however dull? Nothing but evil had come of her yearnings for India, and there was no one to whom she could turn for help, for advice, for sympathy.
In trembling haste, but without purpose, she put on a hat and went out into the compound. Involuntarily she glanced around for Sher Singh, but for a wonder he was nowhere to be seen, and impulsively she decided to call on Mrs. Antonio—anything to escape from the harassing fancies that beset her.
The house occupied by the Antonios was no distance, built as it was on a further portion of the fort walls; it stood prominent against the copper-coloured sky, encouraging the venture....
Mrs. Antonio was at home. As Stella sat in the drawing-room awaiting her appearance she noticed a curious smell; it recalled to her mind Mrs. Piggott's belief that the doctor, if not his wife as well, indulged in the hookah. And why not, queried Stella, if they liked it? though the taste was not easy to understand judging by the acrid odour! The room felt fusty, was crammed with a strange assortment of cheap bric-a-brac overlaid with dust, and the heat was insufferable.
When Mrs. Antonio appeared she presented what Stella's former school-fellows at Greystones would have described as "a sight for the blind," clad as shewas in a terrible yellow dressing-gown, a bath towel bound turban-wise about her head.
"Please excuse, Mrs. Crayfield dear," she apologised. "I have been washing my hair. I did not wish to keep you waiting. Does your ayah prepare you areca-nut wash? It is best thing!"
"I will remember," said Stella, who had brought a bountiful supply of shampoo-powders with her from England. "Champa has not told me about it."
"Oh, my, that ayah of yours, that Champa! Sheisa lazy," continued Mrs. Antonio; she unwound the towel and rubbed her grey locks as she talked. "Where did you get her?"
"She was engaged by Sher Singh, our head servant."
"Yes, and that Sher Singh!" Mrs. Antonio peered at her visitor through a screen of wet hair. "He is a badmash."
There was no need for translation, Stella knew the word well enough—it meant rascal. "I detest Sher Singh," she admitted, finding comfort in the expression of her feelings, "and I know he hatesme!"
"Of course, what else? So many years with Colonel Crayfield, and knowing too many secrets! He is jealous. Tell your husband let him go, give a pension. He is opium-eater, all say in the bazaar."
"An opium-eater?"
"Yes, but do not say to Colonel Crayfield that I hinted. You see you are so young, Mrs. Crayfield dear. That is why I warn. If he stays that man will do harm—make mischief."
Stella shrank from exposing her helplessness inthe matter, felt ashamed also of her inclination to let things slide rather than provoke Robert's wrath. She said:
"Thank you for putting me on my guard, Mrs. Antonio. It is friendly and kind of you. Now will you tell me about the areca-nut wash for the hair? I am sure it must be excellent."
Mrs. Antonio followed the drag and plunged into directions, presented Mrs. Crayfield with a handful of the beneficial nut; then talked of Pussy's hair and other perfections until Stella made an opportunity for escape.
As she strolled home she felt further depressed. Her mind was full of Mrs. Antonio's warning; it served to strengthen her feeling of repugnance towards Sher Singh. She tried to argue with herself that there might be excellent reasons for Robert's attachment to Sher Singh apart from the value of the man's services; gratitude might be involved, possibly Sher Singh had nursed his master through a dangerous illness, or in some way saved Robert's life. Robert would never have told her; he was so secretive. He seldom spoke of the past, and she knew little or nothing of his former life. She had never induced him even to talk of his friendship with her father and mother. She hated the feeling that she was not in her husband's confidence, though she was guiltily alive to the truth that she did not exactly admit him to her own! Bother Sher Singh! He was a perpetual thorn in her flesh; she had never disliked the man more than when this evening she beheld him standing sentinel at the foot of the steepsteps that led up to the dwelling rooms on the fort walls. There he stood pompous, important, clothed in immaculate white with a smart blue belt and Robert's crest fashioned in silver fastening a band to match the belt across his big turban. She longed to get even with him, and when he started almost imperceptibly at sight of her she felt a vindictive satisfaction that for once she had eluded his vigilance. Clearly he had been ignorant of her excursion, had believed her to be sitting solitary above during the Sahib's absence. He salaamed low with what seemed to her mocking humility as she passed him, and with equally mocking disdain she ignored the salutation; not pausing to observe the effect of her insult, she went on up the steps miserably conscious that she had made a mistake.
Mrs. Antonio's assertion that Sher Singh ate opium did not disturb her unduly. She remembered vaguely to have heard that all natives took opium to a certain extent, just as most Europeans took alcohol, in moderation. She knew nothing about it, and therefore Mrs. Antonio's caution not to mention the matter to her husband seemed to her sound. But once in her bedroom the rest of the warning swung through her brain: "If he stays that man will do harm—make mischief," and panic possessed her.
It was useless to assure herself that she was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Beneath all her defensive reasoning lay a dread apprehension that she was powerless to control. It was all so intangible, so exasperating, this heavy-hearted sense of foreboding without actual foundation. Despairingly shesought refuge in making the worst of her headache; that, at least, was definite enough. She summoned Champa and prepared for bed, so that when Robert returned from his ride she might plead indisposition as an excuse for absenting herself from the dinner table.
Robert accepted the excuse in all good faith. He prescribed a dose of quinine and a glass of iced champagne, both of which she swallowed to please him, and when later he came to her room she lay still, with closed eyes, till he was safely asleep. Then she stole from her bed and went out on to the balcony. Yellow and parched the landscape lay before her, bathed in the strong Eastern moonlight, the little heaps of ruins in the foreground picked out with black shadows—relics of past power, dead echoes of ancient strife! On this spot where she stood, on the ramparts of the old Moghul fort, perhaps Emperors had stood also, unwitting of the future, of the coming downfall of their dynasty.
From Philip Flint she had learnt how the fort had been built by the great Akbar in the reign of his greater Western contemporary, Elizabeth; how it had lain with his descendants to uphold Moghul might and dominion, and how they had failed—failed before a power that was stronger in its spirit of self-sacrifice and honest purpose. 'Midst all her unease of mind she felt the magic and the marvel of the past; remembered George Thomas and his wide ambitions—a voice crying in the wilderness of turmoil and chaos and oppression of the helpless, a pioneer of the peace and protection to follow for this gorgeousold country. Yet was the present order and prosperity doomed to pass in its turn, leaving even less traces of its influence than just ruins and remains and reminders? Would India seethe again with tyranny, murder, persecution, general insecurity of property and person, creed up against creed, custom against custom, avarice stalking the land to block and destroy all progress? Flint, she knew, feared for India's future, owing to the Western system of education that was being pursued without forethought, without judicious provision for employment that would guard against disaster. Sooner or later, he had said, there would come into power a faction that for the sake of unpractical theories and so-called "ideals" totally unsuited to the East, would liberate forces, dangerous forces already at work beneath the surface for personal gain, that would seek to oppress and intimidate the masses, render just administration impossible, degrade British rule into a farce. And then? Well then it would devolve into a choice between the withdrawal of British authority, leaving the country open to conquest from some stronger foreign nation, or a reversion to sane government, and the drastic suppression of sedition, conspiracy, and rebellion.
In face of these reflections Stella's own troubles seemed to fade into space; she felt lifted above them, indifferent to petty considerations, to the jealousy of Sher Singh, Robert's propensities and the limitations he sought to impose upon her. Now boldly, and without scruple, she permitted her imagination to run riot. Supposing she were Philip Flint's wife—how she would strive to help and encourage him, how shewould fling herself into his work and his aspirations, each of them doing their utmost, hand in hand, for the welfare of the country they both loved! Heart and brain afire she paced the broad balcony in a maze of fictitious delight; to-night there was little sound, no howling of beasts save in the far distance where jackals hunted in packs; and, near at hand, only the soft murmur of the city beyond the walls. Spellbound, as in a dream, she loitered; the heat was intense in the quiet, the desolation, the hard yellow light of the moon, but it seemed merely to caress her limbs, to encourage the intoxication of her fancies.
A sudden sound shattered the reverie; a dull thud as if something had fallen within the building from the roof to the foundations.... Again—this time it was less loud, less definite, rumbling away into silence. She listened, alert, her heart beating quickly; then came reassurance with the recollection of Mrs. Cuthell's conviction that strange echoes were caused by the occasional fall of masonry below in the underground ruins. Wrenched back to reality she returned to the darkened bedroom, once more a prey to restless depression. Robert lay sleeping profoundly, his deep, regular breathing, and the monotonous flap of the punkah frill, were the only sounds she could discern as she lay wide awake, her senses sharpened, her nerves overwrought. But just as a hint of drowsiness gave hope of repose for body and mind, again she heard something that this time could not be attributed to the falling of bricks or stones, since, of a certainty, it was within the room.A light patter on the matting, a pause, hesitation, a faint whimper....
In sheer terror Stella leapt from her bed; could it be a ghost—the spirit of a helpless little child massacred with other victims of the great tragedy in this hateful house? Only by the strongest effort she refrained from shrieking aloud as a soft touch fell on her ankle; it was the warm, wet lick of a tongue. She was thankful she had raised no disturbance when by the dim radiance of the moon through the open doorways she saw no ghost, no child, but only Jacob!—Jacob with a broken strip of cord hanging to his collar, apologetic, unhappy, squirming at her feet in his dumb, pathetic attempts to explain his desertion of his master.
Stella consoled the little dog, let him lie by her side on the bed. His company brought a sense of comfort and security. Philip's servants must have imprisoned Jacob in some out-house so that his well-meant attentions should not disturb the sick man. She hoped it argued healing sleep for Philip—did not mean that he was worse. Meanwhile she must await daylight to ascertain the truth.
At last she fell asleep, Jacob's nose cuddled in the crook of her elbow, regardless of Robert's indignation when he should awake and discover the presence of "that damned dog."
The sun poured upon the flat roof of the baking little rest-house, though the hour was yet early. Philip Flint lay limp and exhausted on a long chair in the veranda; the sharp "go" of fever had worn itself out for the time being, worn out its victim also. Through the night he had tossed and talked nonsense, shivered and burned by turns, with aching limbs and bursting head. Now the reaction seemed equally bad, if not worse, since, while the malady raged, he had at least been but vaguely aware of bodily distress; and, though harassed with hideous dreams, there had come interludes when he felt as if wafted to regions of bliss, his companion a being half goddess half mortal. One moment she floated beyond his reach in limitless space, remote as a star.... He had heard his own voice calling, entreating with a delirious confusion of words on his lips: "Stella—a star—Star of India——" Again she was close to him, held to his heart.
Blurred memories of these transports lingered in his mind as he lay gasping with the heat, and then came devastating doubts and warnings, sweeping the glamour away. He dared not shut his eyes to the danger, in truth he stood on the brink of a moral precipice; unless he could manœuvre a transfer from Rassih, unless in the meantime he could keep clear of the Commissioner's house, he was bound to findhimself desperately in love with the Commissioner's wife; and, without vanity, he foresaw that the situation must become equally perilous for her. What a fool he had been!—ensnared by the girl's beauty, by the tempting circumstance of her alliance with a man so much her senior for whom it was obvious she had no real affection, a man who was blind to the budding of her intellect, who merely valued her bright innocence as a whet to his senses. Yet apart from these odious reflections, apart from selfish perspective, Philip felt it was up to him now to call halt for her sake. So far they had exchanged no words that might not have been shouted from the housetops, but what price words when came mute understanding, when just a little more and they would find themselves in the grip of that eternal, immutable force called Love! And then? How should he bring himself to leave her desolate, unhappy, to face a future without hope because his own target in life was Success, fulfilment of ambition?
From the outset of his career one aim had possessed Philip Flint—to arrive, to reach the topmost rung of his particular ladder; and already his future was brilliant with promise, his progress sure, unless, through his own folly, he loosed his hold and fell back. Well he knew the power of Mother Grundy in Indian official circles, the need for avoidance of serious scandal in a country where moral standards and example must count for promotion among a community that, officially speaking, was composed of one class. In England it was possible for a man to hold high public office while his domestic belongingssocially could not be recognised; in India such a state of affairs would be wholly unworkable. Imagine a Chief Commissioner, a Lieutenant Governor, any representative of the Crown, not to mention a Viceroy, with a wife who could not be "received"! No; open scandal in India spelt failure. Therefore it was a choice for Philip Flint between heart and head; and now he asked himself grimly which was to prove the stronger?
The beat of a horse's hoofs outside scattered his thoughts. He raised himself on his elbow to see Colonel Crayfield dismounting, and a couple of peons ran forth with salaams to receive the important visitor.
Colonel Crayfield stumped up the veranda steps. "Hallo, Flint, sorry to hear you are sick," he threw his hat and whip on to a camp table, dragged a chair into convenient position and seated himself weightily. "Had a sharp bout of malaria? You look pretty well washed out!"
"Sharp and short, sir, I hope. I think I'm about over it now all right."
"Poof! the heat of this place!" the Commissioner looked about him with disgust. "Not fit for a dog. Talking of dogs, your terrier strayed up to our house last night; it worried the memsahib, because she took it into her head it must mean you were at the last gasp. I promised to come and find out if you were still alive!"
"Very kind," murmured Philip; "as usual I must apologise for Jacob, and I'm afraid he hasn't come back yet!"
"Oh, that's all right, never mind the dog. The question is, how you can ward off another attack; Rassih has a bad reputation for intermittent fever once it gets hold, and stopping in this infernal little bungalow won't help you. What do you say to coming to us for a bit? Plenty of room and no lack of ice and good milk; we'll soon have you fit. I'll send the tonga to bring you up, and your man can follow with your things."
In Philip's present enfeebled condition of body and spirit the temptation was severe; setting aside the pleasant prospect of creature comforts, food properly prepared (his own cook was woefully careless) there would be—Stella! He strove to hold on to the arguments that at the moment of Colonel Crayfield's arrival were in process of bracing his will and his judgment; now they were slipping away—if only time could be gained in which he might call them to heel, summon strength to refuse with firmness....
He stirred uneasily: "It's exceedingly kind of you, sir, but I couldn't think of giving you and Mrs. Crayfield the trouble. I'm not really ill; to-morrow I shall be as fit as ever again. It's nothing but an ordinary go of malaria."
He felt he was gabbling what his chief would regard as merely conventional protests; even to himself they sounded futile, unreal.
"Rubbish!" the ejaculation was no more than he might have anticipated. "Don't be an ass. Give me a bit of paper and a pencil and I'll send word to my wife. The tonga can be here in two shakes, and I'll wait and go back with you myself."
He began to shout orders. The groom was to return with his horse and the note. Philip's personal servant was bidden to produce paper and a pencil, moreover to pack a portmanteau with his master's requirements. In a few moments the whole matter had passed from Philip's control, and he resigned himself to Fate. But what irony that Stella's husband, of all people, should be the means of forcing him into a position that, unless Fate proved unnaturally considerate, might lead right and left to disaster!
"Oh, do go on—don't stop. I shall be miserable till I know what John Holland and Anne decided."
"But I don't know myself. That's as far as I've written. I was going to askyouwhat you thought they should do. What do you think?"
Flint laid the sheets of manuscript, the George Thomas Romance, on the wicker table that stood between himself and his hostess. The two were seated on the balcony, though it was late in the morning. Rain had fallen over-night, and the temperature was lowered for the present—not that the monsoon had actually broken up-country, but reports were hopeful, and for the past few days there had been a welcome gathering of clouds culminating in a heavy downpour. Still the fear remained that the clouds might yet disperse, to leave the district parched and arid as before.
The desert steamed like a gigantic hot-bed, the atmosphere was reminiscent of an orchid house, but at least there was temporary respite from imprisonment in closed and darkened rooms, and the air wafted from a hand-punkah, wielded with vigour by a youthful coolie, was comparatively cool and refreshing. Philip Flint, set free from the tortures of the Rest House, had quickly recovered condition despite a recurrence of fever—just a sufficient recurrence to justify prolongation of his stay with theCrayfields, a short extension of idleness encouraged by his unsuspecting Chief. To-morrow he intended to return to his uncomfortable quarters; work must be resumed; meanwhile he had lived in a golden dream, oblivious of the future that now loomed before him like a grey, empty tomb, compared with the rapturous present.
As he gazed unceasingly at Stella nothing seemed to matter if only he could hear from her lips that she cared for him. Beloved! how perfect she was from the sheen of her pretty head as she bent over some trifling needlework, to the tips of her little arched feet; and her nature was as sweet and tender and white as her slim body——
"Well, what do you think?" he persisted recklessly; and in repeating the question he knew he was heading for danger, as a rider might put a runaway horse to an impossible fence that the inevitable crash should come quickly, prove neck or nothing.
She hesitated, sighed. "Oh! I don't know. To begin with, you see, Anne was married, and her husband, though she hated him, was fighting like John, under George Thomas. Would it have meant trouble, disgrace, for John if——"
"If they had bolted? Perhaps; though in those days it might have been different. But apart from that—what about the marriage question? If you had been Anne?"
"I should have done what was best for John."
"Even if it meant parting from him for ever?"
"Of course!" she said stoutly.
"Not simply because you were married?"
She raised her eyes from the foolish strip of embroidery engaging her fingers.
"Stella!"
There! The fence was taken, the crash had come. Now they must both face the truth, outwardly self-controlled because—what bathos! because of the punkah coolie and the open doors. Philip cursed the fact that privacy in India was next to impossible; he saw that Stella's eyes were brimming with tears. How her hands trembled! Yet he did not dare give her comfort by taking her in his arms. As in his dream, she was far from him, inapproachable as her namesake, a star.
The silence that fell between them was tense; the swish of the punkah went steadily on, the heat grew heavier, more saturating; in the hazy sky a vulture alternately sailed and dipped, hung motionless as though suspended by an invisible wire, on the outlook for some carrion prize below.
Then Philip found himself speaking rapidly, in a low voice; his hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles showed white and hard through the skin. He scarcely knew what he was saying, self-mastery was gone, and in the flood of his passionate declaration Stella shivered and blanched. He saw love in her eyes, but fear also—fear and helpless despair. He paused, drew in his breath sharply, but so far he felt no penitence, no remorse for having let himself go; he was conscious only of a wild exultation, for he knew that in heart and in soul she was his. He craved to hear from her lips that she loved him; she must tell him—not with her eyesalone. That it was cruel to force the admission he did not, in his madness, consider.
"Speak to me, Stella—just say it, say it once.Tellme."
Her lips moved, he bent forward. But before he could catch the whisper she had risen abruptly, to pass with swift steps into the house. He rose in his turn to stay her flight, and was confronted on the threshold of the open doorway by Sher Singh.
Disconcerting as was the man's unexpected appearance, it was to Philip merely an accidental, if enraging, check to his intention; it accounted for Stella's sudden retreat—from where she had sat she must have caught sight of Sher Singh's approach. But relief quickly followed exasperation as he realised how narrow had been their escape from an equivocal situation, for next moment Colonel Crayfield was in the room. Sher Singh's unwelcome intrusion had, after all, been timely, and thanks to the numerous exits of an Indian habitation Stella had vanished just a second or two before the entry of her husband....
The rest of the morning was charged for them both with repressed emotion. They sat at the breakfast table outwardly composed, inwardly fearful of meeting each other's gaze. Stella's mental disturbance was increased by the conviction that Sher Singh was on the watch; he must have observed that she and Philip were engaged in no ordinary conversation when he surprised them on the balcony, must have noted her confusion as she passed him in her flight. Now she realised her folly in nothaving held her ground; she should have remained in her seat and given warning to Philip by speaking promptly to Sher Singh, since of course the man shared Champa's belief that a guilty understanding was afoot between herself and "Fer-lint sahib." No doubt it was he who, in the first place, had suggested the idea to Champa. Her fears in connection with Mrs. Antonio's warnings had dwindled during the days of Philip's visit, but now mental torment returned with the feeling that Sher Singh was but biding his time for mischief with the deadly patience of the Oriental. Dread lest he should lead Robert to scent the situation that had arisen between herself and Philip turned her sick.
Deeming it more prudent to avoid Philip for the immediate present, she sat in her room while Robert rested, her mind in confusion as she pretended to read. To ignore Philip's outpouring, to continue as if nothing disturbing had occurred, was clearly impossible. Philip must be warned; but how to contrive that warning without risk of being spied upon was a problem. Even could she accomplish it safely she shrank from facing the days to come with this secret between them. She contemplated appealing to Robert to allow her to take advantage of Mrs. Cuthell's invitation, on the score that she could endure the heat no longer; but should he refuse, as was more than probable, could Philip be induced to apply for leave, however short, on the plea of health? Something must be done, and without delay, that she might gain time to set her mind in order, free from continual trepidation. Ifonly she could secure the chance of a long private talk with Philip....
Wearily she sat in the drawing-room before the tea-table that afternoon, awaiting the two men. Robert, when he went to his dressing-room, had said that if the courts were not too damp for tennis, and if Flint felt up to it, they might try a game. He was the first to appear, and evidently he was not in a good humour. Stella's heart sank at sight of his frown, but bounded next moment with relief when she heard the cause. It seemed that Sher Singh, as well as herself, desired "leave of absence."
"Confound the fellow," Robert grumbled, "he's just had a telegram, and says he must go off at once to see to the funeral of some near relation."
"How long does he want?"
"He says only two or three days, but with natives that may mean anything."
Stella trusted privately that in this case it might mean two or three weeks.
"He suggested that if Flint were staying on with us for the present his man could look after me for the time."
"But Mr. Flint has arranged to go back to the Rest House to-morrow——"
"Then he'd better alter his arrangements. He's no trouble, and it's far more comfortable for him here. Don't you want him to stay?"
"I don't care particularly one way or the other, but on the whole I'd rather we were alone."
Oh, shades of conscience! Stella bent over the tea things, ashamed of her hypocrisy.
Robert's face cleared. He beamed complacently. "We can't always expect to be alone, little selfish one!"
"When does Sher Singh want to go?"
"By this time he's gone, I imagine. He intended to catch the afternoon train."
"Well, it can't be helped," said Stella, "and of course if you wish it, I'll press Mr. Flint to stay. Now he can be at work again I shan't have to entertain him——"
"Or listen to his eternal novel."
"I don't mind that; but it's a bore making conversation."
"Yes, I understand. Well, anyway it's a charity to put him up for a bit longer, and he can sing for his supper by trying to beat me at tennis every day. Here he comes——"
Stella looked up. There was Philip in flannels; his expression was sad, dispirited, as though he too had been ground in the mill of mental perplexity during the last two or three hours. There came a singing in her ears, a mist clouded her vision. How horrible for them both to be forced to play a part—a part so ignoble, opposed to her whole nature, and, she felt assured, to his also.
"Enter Mr. Flint!" declaimed Robert with jovial intonation. "The memsahib and I were just talking about you, my son."
"What were you saying? Nothing nasty, I hope?" He avoided Stella's eyes as he seated himself and took the cup she held out to him.
"Quite the contrary," puffed Robert. "We wereplanning to persuade you to stay on with us, especially as my bearer has demanded short leave, and yours, with your permission, might fill the gap for the time being!"
Stella noted a slight flicker of Philip's eyelids, and her ear caught the echo of self-control in his voice as he answered: "You are very kind—and of course if my man can be of the slightest use——"
"Very well then, that's settled." Robert attacked the eatables, talking the while of rain and crops and the uncertainty of the outlook. "Unless things improve pretty soon there is a difficult time ahead," he predicted.
And Stella repeated the foreboding in her heart, though from a very different standpoint.
Tennis, after all, proved impossible. The courts were a swamp, and as Robert clamoured for exercise the three set off eventually for a late and, to Stella, a tedious ride. She was too troubled even to find pleasure in the after-effect of the rain upon the scenery, though she could not but observe the wondrous vermilion and purple of the sky, the great clouds massed on the horizon like some angry army awaiting the word to press forward, or to retire; the colour reflections on the long streaks of water that still lay upon the earth's hard surface; the rows of birds gathered on the edges of the miniature lakes, suggesting, in the distance, broken borders of white stones. The trees were washed of their drab veiling of dust, and foliage shone in the light of the sinking sun; an odour of earth refreshed rose in the thick, hot air.... But the mighty magnificence above,the glow flung over the flat, interminable landscape, served but to increase her sense of helpless despondence.
There seemed so little hope of safe conference with Philip, and, though the strain of his presence held for her as much happiness as fear, it was imperative that some plan of separation should be devised unless they were to embark on a course of intrigue and deception that, even apart from any question of conscience, must involve risk of disaster.... Bewildered, unbalanced, as she rode between her husband and the man she loved, she felt that her life was broken and stained already.
Next day the two men were out in the district on duty from morning to evening. Stella passed the period of their absence in a state bordering on stupefaction; each hour that went by, devoid of an opportunity for clear understanding with Philip, seemed to widen the zone of danger. That night as she dressed for dinner the reflection of her face in the mirror appalled her—what a scarecrow, how white and haggard and hideous! Limp though she felt from the moist heat, oppressed as she was with her tribulation of mind, she made a brave effort to amend her appearance—rearranged her hair, bade Champa get out a becoming pink frock, stockings and shoes to go with it, opened her jewel-box, meaning to wear her pearl necklace....
The pearl necklace was not in its case. At first unperturbed Stella searched among her trinkets, only gradually to realise that the necklace was undoubtedly gone. Champa when questioned of course knewnothing about it, she might almost have been unaware that her mistress possessed any jewels at all! Then she suggested that the memsahib might have lost the necklace out riding, and in response to Stella's derisive rejection of such an absurd idea she dissolved into tears, protesting that she, at least, was no thief, however wicked the rest of the servant-people might be.
"Go and tell the Sahib I wish to speak to him," commanded Stella severely; it was not that she suspected Champa for one moment of having stolen the necklace, but the woman's cowardly attitude incensed her. She understood nothing of the prevalent fear among native servants of false accusation contrived by some colleague intent upon personal purpose, whether vengeful or in the hope of advancement, no matter at whose expense. Champa sidled muttering from the room, and presently Robert came in half dressed. His face shone with perspiration, his neck, minus a collar, reminded his wife of a chunk of raw meat, and suddenly she felt indifferent as to whether the necklace he had given her was lost irretrievably or not; she wished she had not summoned him.
"What's the matter, you're not ill?" he inquired.
"My pearl necklace has gone," she said, much as she might have announced the disappearance of some trivial article.
"Good God!" Robert pounced upon the jewel-box, turning the contents over with ruthless hands.
"It's not there," Stella told him.
"Then where the devil is it? When did you wear it last?"
"I can't remember."
"Nonsense! You often wear it in the daytime as well as in the evening—you must have missed it before now, if it had been gone any time. It's worth hundreds. Where have you looked? It may be among your clothes——"
"I always put it back in the case. I haven't looked anywhere else."
"Good Heavens, then do so at once! Where's the ayah, what has she got to say?"
"She doesn't know any more than I do what has happened to it. I suppose I ought to have kept the box locked."
"And if you had you'd have left the key lying about. You're so infernally careless."
Robert raved and stormed, while Stella and Champa ransacked drawers and wardrobes without result. The necklace was not forthcoming. Dinner was postponed, every servant in the establishment was called up, and the whole staff was threatened with dismissal, imprisonment, punishment, unless the pearls were produced.