I dare not choose my lotI would not if I might....
I dare not choose my lotI would not if I might....
I dare not choose my lotI would not if I might....
I dare not choose my lot
I would not if I might....
Strive as she would she could not get away from the refrain, the very movements of the fan beat time to the words and the tune.
Not mine, not mine the choice....
Not mine, not mine the choice....
Not mine, not mine the choice....
Not mine, not mine the choice....
But she had chosen, she had dared; and what had been the result?
In things or great or small....
In things or great or small....
In things or great or small....
In things or great or small....
Supposing she had made a different choice; for example—on that other occasion, when Philip would so gladly have taken her away to live, if need be as he had said, "just for each other." At that time she had honestly put her own longing aside that his future, his work, his ambitions might not suffer. Supposing she had yielded, failed to "walk aright" according to her own conception, how soon would Philip have discovered his mistake? He owed her much! And she had done her little bit for India—not that India counted any longer with her now; India was to blame for everything, she told herself petulantly, illogically. She did not care what happened to India!... Suddenly Robert began to talk, and her whole attention became concentrated upon him. Gradually his voice grew clearer, though it was a curious, unnatural voice as if some stranger were speaking through his lips. Now and then he laughed, a hard self-satisfied little laugh.
"There they all go!" he waved his hand in a mocking welcome. "What a pretty procession! Not a bad record! No trouble, with a little precaution. Ah, Susie, you young devil—ran off with that fellow to spite me, did you? What was his name, now? Couldn't have done anything to suit me better.... Not a patch on the little Eurasian girl; look at her! Cost a pretty penny to get hermarried to that black railway boy. A fortune for him, anyway. Good child, run along; you're all right.... How many more? Where are you all going—to Hell?" He sang hoarsely:
No rose nor key, nor ring-necked dove,She gave but her sweet self to me!
No rose nor key, nor ring-necked dove,She gave but her sweet self to me!
No rose nor key, nor ring-necked dove,She gave but her sweet self to me!
No rose nor key, nor ring-necked dove,
She gave but her sweet self to me!
"Yes, eyes like forget-me-nots. That was a lesson, a near shave. Nearly gave me away too, as well as herself. Well out ofthat! Something safer, easier to shunt. Sher Singh knows which side his bread's buttered ... faithful fellow Sher Singh...." The voice dropped again to an indistinct mutter.
Stella sat aghast. Was it all true, or just the delusions of a disordered brain? She felt in her bones that it was all true. Yet what did it matter? Robert's past life was nothing to her. Only, when he got well, could she forget these revelations, would it not be harder still to face life with him, however she might contrive to go her own way by means of subterfuge—and "precaution"! All shred of consideration and pity for Robert fell away from her as she sat patiently waving the fan. She, also, seemed to vision the "pretty procession" of his victims; they mocked her with their eyes as one of themselves. A nausea seized her of his cruelty, his pitiless sensuality; she felt she could almost applaud Sher Singh if indeed the man had actually tried to poison his master.
Then, without warning, Robert sat upright. Words came tumbling in confusion from his lips; something about the balcony, about someone who hadthrown himself from the balcony.... He was getting out of bed! She tried to push him back, called loudly for Dr. Antonio, but the long snores from the dressing-room went on.... Now clinging to Robert's arm she was being dragged by the great bulky figure towards the open door that gave on to the balcony, and all the time she called and screamed, not daring to let go. They were out on the balcony; the stars had disappeared, and a faint yellow light was stealing over the sky like the reflection of some vast conflagration unseen in the distance. From below rose a sudden clamour, beasts fighting among themselves over carrion. Robert moved on, unconscious of her frantic efforts to stop him; she was powerless as she felt herself being drawn to the balustrade, still calling, clinging. His hands were on the stonework, he was climbing up, raising her with him. Then all at once he paused, turned his head, looked down on her; his face was terrible. Next moment he had taken her by the shoulders and flung her violently from him, and as she reeled giddily she saw something leap into the dawnlight, something that was like a gigantic bird with wings outstretched. She fell forward, striking her head heavily against the balustrade.
Stella lay semi-conscious, weakly pondering. What a queer smell; she knew the smell, yet could put no name to it; the room seemed unfamiliar, and she found she could see only a portion of it as if the rest were in darkness. What had happened? Where was she? Not that it signified—she felt too ill to care.When she tried to raise her hand it was heavy as lead—how funny! When she tried to speak she could not remember what she wanted to say. Her hat was too tight, it hurt her head, and she could not take it off. Why was she lying in bed with her hat on? That was funny too! She heard a little feeble laugh—who had laughed? She was very thirsty.... Ah, that was nice and cold.
"Thank you," she managed to say politely, as some iced liquid trickled down her throat. Then as her senses slowly awoke she found herself looking into Mrs. Antonio's homely brown face. Kind Mrs. Antonio, who was giving her a delicious drink. Mrs. Antonio would take off the hat that was hurting her forehead. Now she knew the name of the smell that pervaded the room; it was hookah! The successful recollection brought a sense of triumph. She smiled sweetly at Mrs. Antonio....
It was some days before Stella's memory grew clear, before she could recall what had happened up to the moment when she had fallen against the stone balustrade. Now she knew that she was in the Antonios' house, that she had been there for nearly three weeks hovering at death's door; she knew that Robert had been buried in the little European cemetery, and that a new Commissioner had arrived who, according to Mrs. Antonio, was "a very kind man and attending to all business" until Mrs. Crayfield should have recovered sufficiently to do her share; everybody in the station had been "helping and good, there was no hurry about anything, no need to bother." Stella knew also that there wasinjury to one side of her head, but to what extent she had not yet thought to ask. Her mind had been too exercised with the realisation of Robert's tragic end, with mingled compassion for him and, she could not pretend to deny it, relief for herself; any effort to look forward was as yet almost beyond her strength.
One morning later, when the bandages had been finally removed and she found she could see with both eyes, she asked Mrs. Antonio to bring her a hand mirror; she said lightly: "I want to see what I look like. I expect I'm an awful fright, but I'm well enough now to bear any shock!"
"Better go through your letters," suggested Mrs. Antonio, laying a little heap of accumulated correspondence on the table beside the bed. "I have to run away just now and see to the fowls and the goats."
She left the room hastily, and Stella fingered the envelopes with reluctance, dreading the condolences and the sympathy she might find within them. First she skimmed the English letters apprehensively; it was possible that the news had been telegraphed home to the papers. No; evidently when last they wrote Grandmamma and the aunts had known nothing. There was a letter, of course, from Maud; one from Sir George Rolt, others from friends she had made at Surima; Mrs. Cuthell had written. All contained stereotyped phrases; difficult letters to write! She hardly read them, because there was one she had put aside as yet unopened—one from Philip Flint! She knew the clear, small handwriting from seeing the manuscript of the George Thomas romance. Howcurious that she should receive her first letter from him in such circumstances. What had he written? Just "deep sympathy," no doubt, like all the others! Her hand went out to the letter; she felt faint as at last she forced herself to tear it open. For a few moments the words danced before her eyes. There were very few words; no formal beginning—only this:
"I have seen what has happened, and I write to tell you that I am the same, always the same. If you want me I will come anywhere and at any time. But if you do not write I shall understand.—Philip."
"I have seen what has happened, and I write to tell you that I am the same, always the same. If you want me I will come anywhere and at any time. But if you do not write I shall understand.—Philip."
She sank back on her pillows. Philip was the same, always the same! She must have known it all along in her heart; how could she ever have doubted him! "Philip," she breathed, "Philip!"
The stuffy, hookah-smelling room was glorified, full of a celestial light. How quickly she would get well; she was well already—all the dark days were over. Happiness lay ahead, such happiness! She would send him just one little line to tell him she had his letter, that she would write; she composed it in her mind. Or should she telegraph, do both?... When and where they would meet did not trouble her; time was nothing; whatever interval was necessary would pass like a dream.
Mrs. Antonio, returning from her ministrations to the goats and the fowls, found the patient sitting up in bed, a pencil in her hand, writing on half-sheets of paper.
"Now, now," scolded Mrs. Antonio, shaking her forefinger, "doing too much!"
"I am quite well," said Stella. "I feel I could get up and do anything."
"To-morrow, perhaps, out of bed on the sofa. And Pussy will read to you. Such a nice book she has got, called 'Wide, Wide World.' Shall she come just now?"
"Not to-day, dear Mrs. Antonio. I have had some good news in my letters, and I can't think of anything else. I should like to do my hair when I have finished writing, and then have some of your nice tea. And will you send my letter and a telegram for me to the post office presently?"
"Doing hair! Writing letters! Sending telegrams!" exclaimed Mrs. Antonio. "You are wanting to run before walking!"
"Well, do let me run; I promise not to fall down. There, my letter is ready, and the telegram. Now do give me a looking-glass, and a brush and comb, there's a good soul. I feel I want to smarten myself up!"
"I think the doctor will be coming in just now. Better to wait and ask what he says. Listen!" she cocked her ears. "That is him coming back from the bazaar dispensary. I hear the trap. Wait a moment, Mrs. Crayfield dear——"
She was gone; and Stella, elated, defiant, rose from her bed and tottered across the room. She was determined to see herself in the glass before Mrs. Antonio came back. If she was a scarecrow she would know how long to postpone her meeting withPhilip; she must be looking all right when she met Philip again.... Clinging to the furniture, she made her way to the dressing-table. Had she any legs, or hadn't she? If she felt she was walking on air, was it any wonder after Philip's letter! Now she had reached her goal. She bent forward; and in the mirror she beheld a sight that froze her blood. The whole of one side of her face was disfigured, hideous, grotesque; a great, puckered red scar ran from her forehead to her chin, shortening the contour, lifting the edge of her mouth.... She was revolting! That was why Mrs. Antonio had evaded her request for a hand glass.... Clutching the edge of the table, she stood gazing at the wreck of her beauty. Everything was gone; she could never let Philip see her; and she was so young, so young!
A few minutes later she had groped her way blindly back to the bed. She tore up the letter and the telegram she had written, tore up Philip's letter also. "If you do not write I shall understand." She could never write; Robert's legacy of punishment was complete.
Lady Lane-Johnson looked about her handsome drawing-room with critical gaze. She moved a bowl of roses to a more effective position, loosened a sheaf of Madonna lilies in a crystal vase. The atmosphere was fragrant with the perfume of costly flowers; the whole room betokened prosperity combined with good taste, from the excellent examples of modern Art on the brocade-hung walls to the Aubusson carpet and the silk curtains that subdued the sound of traffic through the open windows. And Philip Flint's sister harmonised with her surroundings, an elegant, well-bred looking woman in a Paris gown, diamonds in her hair, round her neck, at her breast.
She consulted her list of expected guests; the pairing for this dinner party had entailed an unusual amount of consideration. In such undertakings John was of no use whatever; he would rush in at the last moment, and unless she took care would probably seize absentmindedly on the first lady he saw and hurry her down to dinner. Even now he had not returned; if she heard him on the stairs before the arrivals began she must catch him and remind him that he was to take in old Lady Bawe (though he always declared her name ought to be spelt Bore). She herself must put up with Lord Redgate, disagreeable creature, but the laws of etiquette forbade any other arrangement; anyway she would have CarmineLake, the fashionable portrait painter, on her other side, and he was good company. Her own parents were rather on her mind; her father never considered the political feelings of his neighbours, and invariably suspected her literary and artistic friends of being Radicals. Concerning Lord Redgate's opinions there could be no question of anything so mild as "suspicion," and she had therefore placed the two gentlemen as far apart at the dinner table as possible. She knew her mother felt "out of it" among actors and painters, and authors, and John's distinguished professional colleagues with their wives who were always busy over public meetings and charity entertainments patronised by Royalty.
As a rule she did not invite her old-fashioned parents to her dinner parties; they preferred to come quietly, when she had an evening to spare, but to-night their presence was unavoidable, because Philip had just arrived from India (she had not even seen him yet), and she particularly wanted him and "the old people" to meet Lord Redgate and his daughter Dorothy, who had known Philip in India two years ago; and if she, Grace, were not greatly mistaken the young lady would like to meet him again as often as possible! Lord Redgate would not have said "Thank you" had she bidden him to a quiet family gathering; that would have to come later if matters shaped as she hoped they might. It would be such an excellent marriage for Philip; Lord Redgate had so much influence, his son-in-law would be pushed on regardless of obstacles, however glaring the "job"; his one weakness was his self-willed,impulsive daughter, who publicly boasted that she could turn her father round her little finger!
Grace knew from Dorothy that she and Philip had kept up a desultory correspondence since their parting in India. She wondered if she would have time to pump Philip in the matter of his feelings towards the girl if he and the old people arrived early, as she had told them to do. She hoped Philip would not look too "Indian." His clothes were sure to be all wrong, seeing that he had arrived only three days ago, during her absence in the country for a week-end visit. The dinner party had been hastily convened, with apologies and explanations for the short notice, directly his telegram came from Marseilles.
Was that John on the stairs? She flew to the door and saw her husband ascending leisurely.
"Make haste, darling," she called, "and remember you are to take in Lady Bawe."
"Why, is there a dinner party?" He blinked at her dreamily; his scanty hair was ruffled, he looked tried, over-strained. That afternoon he had been engaged on a stupendous operation, and the reaction of success was still upon him.
"Yes, yes, I told you! Go along quickly and dress."
"You look wonderful," he said, smiling at her.
She knew he was proud of her, that he grudged her nothing in the world, that the money he made gave him pleasure principally for her sake, yet sometimes he provoked her almost past bearing, his forgetfulness, his blindness to the value of her socialtriumphs that were undoubtedly an indirect asset to him in his calling. His calling came first with him, she came second; and there were no children, nothing to fill her life beyond the eternal round of engagements and social successes, which during the last ten years had become a sort of second nature to her. Now she looked forward to match-making on her brother's behalf.
The front door bell rang. "There!" She waved her husband up the stairs. "Don't be longer than you can help, and whatever you do, remember Lady Bawe."
"Lady Bawe," he repeated, and quickened his steps obediently.
Presently Sir Philip and Lady Flint, and Mr. Flint, were announced.
"Well, mother—well, father." Grace kissed her parents, then turned to embrace her brother. "Philip," she cried, "how you have altered! Is it really you?"
She could hardly believe that this sun-baked, middle-aged man, growing rather bald, with the set face and grave eyes, was Philip. Her remembrance of him last time he was on furlough was so different. Then he had looked almost boyish, full of spirits, enjoying every moment of his leave, yet enthusiastic over his prospects when he should return to his work. Now he looked as if nothing would ever arouse his enthusiasm or high spirits again. He even showed little pleasure at seeing her, and they had been such pals in the old days! Grace supposed it was the want of rest and change that ailed him. He oughtto have come home two years ago, after all his hard work over the famine, instead of being tempted to stay on in a responsible position that, whatever it might lead to, could hardly be worth the sacrifice of health. She thought he looked far from well as she drew him aside and whispered:
"Who do you think is coming to-night on purpose to meet you again?"
"Tell me," he said indifferently.
"Dorothy Baker."
It was a relief to see his face light up with a certain amount of interest. "Dorothy Baker! Just fancy! And when I last saw her——"
His memory turned to an Indian junction and a native-crowded platform, a dimly lit railway carriage, and Dorothy Baker with all her wild ideas, her conceit and her flashes of humility, her freckled face and slim, long figure. "Then she knows I am at home? I'm afraid I didn't write and tell her I was coming."
"Yes, she knows, and presently she and her father will be here. This party is in your honour, dear old boy."
"Very kind of you." There was no more than politeness in his tone, but his sister observed that he looked towards the door as though watching for the arrival of Dorothy Baker.
Mr. Carmine Lake was announced, and Lady Lane-Johnson welcomed him with effusion. Sir Philip Flint glared disapproval of the celebrated artist's abundant locks and soft, tucked shirt, glared more fiercely still on the couple that followed, whosename was well known in Liberal circles, though the gentleman present was only a relative of the real culprit. The room filled quickly. Lord Redgate and his daughter were the last to arrive.
Dorothy entered swiftly, eager, animated, dressed as usual, simply but expensively. Her gown was of a soft shade of green that suited her tawny colouring. Lady Lane-Johnson thought she had never seen the girl look better—quitepretty, in spite of her strong resemblance to her father, whose irregular features and ruddy complexion she had inherited in a refined and more kindly form. Lord Redgate was an ugly man, but no one could say that his daughter was ugly or even plain.
As Lady Lane-Johnson greeted the pair Philip came forward. He was glad to see Miss Baker again, and Miss Baker made no concealment of her own delight. Her evident pleasure, though it could hardly fail to flatter his vanity, caused Philip a slight feeling of embarrassment. He had never realised that the girl liked him to such an extent; in fact, he remembered that at the time of their parting she had appeared almost indifferent to him. Her heart must have grown fonder with absence.
"Pater," she said, turning to her father, "this is Mr. Flint, who was so kind to me in India, you remember."
Lord Redgate shook hands without speaking. Philip encountered a searching gaze from beneath the shaggy red eyebrows. He felt he was being "sized up."
"You will take Miss Baker down to dinner,"Grace told her brother, "and you must put up with me, Lord Redgate, though"—with an engaging smile—"I can't talk about labour troubles, and 'back to the land,' or anything of that kind, you know."
He grunted. Certainly Lord Redgate's strong point was not "manners."
"Now we are all here," went on Lady Lane-Johnson, not at all disconcerted—she had expected nothing else from her distinguished guest, peer of the realm with unlimited riches though he was—"except John, of course." Consulting her list, she went in and out among the company allotting partners, while Miss Baker chattered with a sort of nervous excitement to Philip.
"And how is India? It seems more like twenty years to me instead of only two since I was out there. I shall never rest till I can get back. How long are you home for?"
"Six months, unless I take an extension."
"Good! You will come and see us? I've such heaps to talk about; and you must stay with us in the country. Your sister has told me how splendidly you have got on—Simla and Calcutta, and no end of importance. The next thing will be 'The Star,' of course."
Just then Sir John hurried in, and the little disturbance that ensued as he went round shaking hands, to be successfully anchored by his wife to Lady Bawe, parted them for the moment. But when, with Dorothy on his arm, Philip found himself descending the staircase, carefully avoiding the train of the lady in front of them, it was of Stella Crayfield that hewas thinking. Miss Baker had innocently started the aching, regretful memory. The one star he really desired was not for him, would never be his. Where was Stella at this moment? What had become of her? The letter he had written to her after her husband's death was never answered, and, true to his promise, he had "understood," had accepted and respected her silence with bitter resignation, extracting what solace he could from his work and his rapid advancement, though his success brought him little solid satisfaction.
Now they were all seated at the dinner table, with slices of musky melon before them; and fantastically the notion struck him that Miss Baker was rather like a slice of melon herself—all curves and rich golden hues, delectable but just as unsatisfying.
"What about the book?" he inquired with an interest that was not wholly simulated. "If it has appeared, why didn't you send me a copy?"
Her face fell. "Oh, that was a dreadful blow!" She looked up at him with a pathetic demand for sympathy in her fine eyes. "No one would publish the book unless all expenses were guaranteed by the author, and though, of course, there would have been no difficulty about that——"
"You wanted it to come out on its own merits?"
"Yes, that was how I felt. Pater said it was very stupid of me."
"I think it was very honest of you."
"Do you really? I often wanted to ask you, but it seemed such a confession of failure, and you knowyou always made me feel a failure when I was with you in India!"
"Did I? I assure you it was quite unintentional."
She laughed a little self-consciously. "Oh, I'm sure it was very good for me, and perhaps it helped me to realise that my object in writing a book at all was not so much to give my experiences and opinions to the public as to impress my friends with my cleverness and superiority. Reallyyouare to blame for the non-appearance of the book."
"What an unkind accusation!"
"Not quite so unkind perhaps as it might appear," she said softly; then, as though to edge away from a too intimate topic, she began to ask questions about his last appointment, about his voyage home. What had he done with Jacob? Had he sold the chestnut pony? And they talked and talked as course succeeded course, until the wine and the wonderfully cooked food, and the girl's unaffected interest in himself and his doings chased the cloud from Philip's spirit, lifted his depression, and he felt, as the women streamed from the dining-room at the conclusion of the meal, that perchance life need not be quite so dreary, so empty, after all.
Someone plumped down in the vacant chair beside him. It was Dorothy's parent, a glass of port in his hand, purpose in his bearing. Philip prepared himself for an argument as to the claims of India to Home Rule. He felt ready to go farther than his own convictions in order to confute the ignorant and arrogant assertions he anticipated from this man, who seemed to him a traitor to his own class, and equallya traitor to the class into which he had shoved himself by means of his tongue and his wealth.
Instead, equally to his annoyance, he found himself being catechised as to his pay and prospects in the Indian service. When would his pension be due? What would it amount to? Did he expect any special recognition for his work during the famine? Philip scowled and answered shortly, said in conclusion that he expected no recognition of his famine services, it was all in the day's work. He endeavoured to change the subject, but his inquisitor, for some reason of his own (if he had any, as Philip queried, beyond vulgar curiosity), was not to be snubbed. "Let me see, what are the Indian decorations? C.I.E.'s one of them?"
Philip interposed flippantly: "Which means A.S.S. very often!" But the pleasantry was lost on Lord Redgate, who either ignored or did not perceive it.
"Now I recollect," he continued. "And C.S.I., the Star of India; but I'm blessed if I know which is the more important."
"The Star, of course," snapped Philip. Why in the world should he be haunted this evening by the word that was so closely associated with all that had gone wrong in his life?
Lord Redgate produced a gold pencil-case and made a note on his shirt cuff. Philip watched him, wondering moodily what he was writing; then Lord Redgate looked up, and the eyes of the two men met.
"You were very good to my girl in India," he said unexpectedly, and the rugged face softened.
Philip flushed, repenting his antagonism, but he could not bring himself to like Lord Redgate any better. "I did nothing," he protested awkwardly.
"She told me how you looked after her. My girl and I understand each other; there are no secrets between us."
"There was very little to tell. I was glad to be of use."
A pause followed, and Philip rose. "If you will excuse me, I want to have a few words with my brother-in-law." And he made his way round the table to where Sir John was sitting silent, not attempting to make conversation. His wife was perhaps right when she declared that John was the worst host in the world; but his wine was excellent if his company was not, and his guests were contented with the former.
Meanwhile in the drawing-room Miss Baker had attached herself to the guileless Lady Flint, who was willingly drawn into confidences respecting her son's boyhood. Here was a nice, unaffected girl; it was no effort to talk to her, especially as she was anxious to talk about Philip, and had seen Philip in India, had seen how he lived and how hard he worked.
"It must be so lovely for you to have him at home again," said this charming young lady.
"Yes, my dear, it is a great comfort and pleasure, but I don't feel quite happy about him. He has changed a good deal."
"Well, it's a long time since you last saw him, isn't it?"
"I don't think he looks well."
"Neither do I, but he will soon be all the better for the change to England."
"He was a delicate child though he grew up quite strong. You see, he was born in India, and I couldn't bring him home till he was nearly seven years old." The old lady prattled on, and Miss Baker listened with such encouraging interest that Lady Flint plunged deep into the subject of Philip's childish ailments, the difficulties over his education, the agonies of parting with him just when she felt he most needed her care.
"We Indian mothers have always that trial to meet—separation from either husband or children, and it never seems to be taken into account by those at home who don't have to face it. Personally we were lucky in finding a nice place for Philip and Grace till they were old enough to go to school, but then the holidays were always on my mind; relations are sometimes so injudicious. Fortunately the children had character, both of them, and as my husband rose in the service I was able to come home more frequently to see them. Dear Philip was such a clever boy!"
"He is a very clever man!" quoth Miss Baker emphatically, "and how well he has got on!"
"He was always ambitious; he mapped out his own career from the very first—got a scholarship for his public school and again at Oxford, and passed very high for the Civil Service. He could have stayed at home, but he preferred to take India, and his father and I were very glad. Life in an office would not have suited him; he was a sportsman at heart as well as a student."
"No wonder you are proud of him——"
Lady Flint dropped her fan; Miss Baker picked it up, deferentially, and as she restored it Lady Flint thought the girl's hair very pretty, though it was a pity, in her opinion, that she wore it cut short. A possibility crept into her mind that was not altogether distasteful: was there likely to be "anything" between Miss Baker and her beloved son? Though Miss Baker had no connection with India beyond her brief visit to the country, she seemed a warm-hearted, sensible child, and certainly she appreciated Philip! Lady Flint was aware that Lord Redgate was a very rich man, which might be a barrier; if not of course it would be nice to feel that Philip and his wife need never be worried over money matters; in the case of Grace's marriage that had been a satisfactory element, who could deny it?—though she would not have had either of her children influenced in the least degree by worldly advantages.
She felt her way gently. "How would you like to live in India?" she inquired, and she saw the girl flush as she answered decidedly: "I should simply love it!"
"Perhaps your father will take you there again for a visit some day?"
"I went alone, you know—that time. And if I ever go again it will not be on a visit; I shall go to stay."
Lady Flint looked a little puzzled. "But what would your father say to that?"
"My father never interferes with anything I want to do."
"Dear me!" said Lady Flint.
The door opened and the men came into the room. Philip made straight for his mother and Miss Baker, who whispered hurriedly: "Lady Flint, may I come and see you?"
"Do, my dear, I am always at home on Sundays. I shall be very pleased to see you. Come next Sunday if you can." And she made a mental note to keep Philip at home next Sunday afternoon. If the two young people were mutually attracted she would help on the courtship to the best of her powers; but she rather wished Miss Baker were not a rich man's daughter, and not an Honourable—it would mean that Philip, like Grace, might be absorbed into a world she did not understand.
"I have been hearing all about you!" exclaimed Dorothy, looking up at Philip as he stood beside them. "How tiresome and naughty you were, and how you wouldn't work, and gave such a lot of trouble after you grew up!"
They all laughed, and Philip glanced affectionately at his mother, a glance that endeared him the more to the long-limbed girl in the green gown....
Then a well-known pianist who was of the party consented to play, and silence was enforced on the audience. Once at the piano the musician continued to give unlimited samples of his own compositions, and Philip, though he thought the fellow made an unconscionable noise, welcomed the respite from conversation. Again he felt depressed, inert, unreasonably impatient with the well-fed, well-dressed throng that had met together merely to eat and drinkand to impress each other with their own importance. They were all so self-satisfied in their several ways! He made up his mind that he would get away from London as soon as he could do so without hurting his parents' feelings; go somewhere to fish by himself; he had no use for crowds like this.
"You will come and see us?" repeated Miss Baker when at last farewells became general. "Come and dine quite quietly, just ourselves. When will you come?"
He could hardly plead a press of engagements, yet he was seized with the reluctance to tie himself that so often attacks the newly returned Anglo-Indian; everyone was in such a hurry at home, he wanted to feel free, but evasion was impossible, and a near date was decided upon.
Going home with his father and mother in the hired brougham he said: "I wonder how Grace can stick that kind of life!"
"So do I," agreed the General.
"But her friends are all so clever," protested Lady Flint; she had never before felt so well disposed towards Grace's world; "and most of them do something."
"Nothing that really matters, except the doctor lot," growled Sir Philip, puffing at one of his son-in-law's excellent cigars. "Upon my word, I felt thankful I was a bit deaf when that music master, or whatever he calls himself, began hammering on the piano. And as for that fellow Redgate—all I can say is that if he made himself, as he boasts, he made a mistake."
"Well, dear, his daughter seems a very nice girl. You think she is nice, don't you, Philip?"
Philip answered casually: "Oh, she's all right, as long as she gets her own way."
Lady Flint ventured to announce that Miss Baker was probably coming to tea on Sunday, and Sir Philip said he hoped her father was not coming too. "If he is," he added truculently, "I shall go out."
How tiresome they both were, thought poor Lady Flint; perhaps the dinner had something to do with it, certainly it had been very rich, and far too much of it. The General was sure to have eaten all the things that he knew disagreed with him, and of course Philip was not accustomed to such elaborate feasts.
Philip did not carry out his intention of leaving London as soon as escape could be accomplished without hurt to his parents' feelings. He felt as though helpless in the grip of some mysterious conspiracy that from day to day left him with hardly an hour that he could call his own.
"London is an awful place," he complained to his mother; "the smallest errand runs away with the best part of a day, buying socks and shirts for example, not to speak of boots and the tailor! Trades-people seem to take a delight in obstructing one at every turn. If you wish to buy a pair of gloves in comfort you have to be prepared to spend hours over it, what with going and coming and hunting about for what you really want!"
"Dearest boy, how you do exaggerate!" argued Lady Flint, fondly. "But I know what you mean. I always felt the same for the first month after I got home from India. Life is so different out there; plenty of space and no trouble over trifles, though one hardly calls setting oneself up in necessaries exactly a trifle anywhere. You ought to go to the dentist, too, and see a doctor, and have your eyes tested. Don't leave all that to the end of your leave, or the last month will be worse than the first. And your father thinks you ought to attend a levee."
"My teeth are all right, I'm not ill, and I cansee perfectly well; also I am not going to attend a levee," he assured her firmly; he could not have explained his condition of mind to his mother even had he desired to do so; he could hardly account for it to himself. He felt restless and listless at the same time; he hated the crowds in the streets and the shops, the appointments to see relations that his mother cajoled him into making, the little luncheons and teas with aunts and cousins who were all so much more delighted to see him than he was to see them; and Grace was a nuisance; she dragged him hither and thither, tied him down to engagements without his permission, told him, when he protested, that he wanted "waking up." Miss Baker, to his surprise, was ever ready to aid and abet Grace in making up theatre and supper parties—always something—Sandown, Ranelagh, the Park, endless "tamashas"; Miss Baker appeared to have forgotten all her unworldly theories, and to be as keen on gaiety as the rest of them; and wherever they went he found himself at her side. Philip began to suspect his sister of match-making; the suspicion became a certainty one evening when he had accompanied her unwillingly to a great "crush" in Carlton House Terrace, which, to him, was just a kaleidoscope of colour and jewels, and a pushing, chattering throng.
The blaze of light, the crowd, and the scents, and the closeness of the atmosphere, despite blocks of ice and electric fans, confused and depressed him; he stood moody and resentful as Grace greeted her friends, kept introducing him: "My brother from India," and he had to listen and reply to vapidremarks about heat and snakes, and how interesting it must be to live in India, and so on; till at length, in desperation, he interrupted a conversation his sister was holding with a being whose coat-front was bespattered with orders, to tell her he meant to go home.
"This is more than I can stand," he said with suppressed impatience; "I'm off!"
"Oh, Philip, do wait; Dorothy is sure to be here presently, and then you'll be all right." Her eyes roved round the brilliant scene. "She was to meet us here, you know. You can't disappoint her."
"She won't be disappointed."
"Of course she will be. Philip," she added, with serious intention, "don't be a fool!"
"What do you mean?" he began hotly, but just then they were swept asunder by new arrivals, and as he turned to flee he encountered Miss Baker at the head of the stairs. He felt that a web was being woven around him; now he understood what they were all driving at—Grace, and his mother, and yes, Dorothy herself!—for as he met her eyes shining with welcome he realised that she, with everyone else, awaited but one outcome of their friendship. How blind he had been; he cursed his own denseness.
As a matter of course she attached herself to him. "Where shall we go? It's too early for supper, and I don't feel inclined to sit and listen to music. Let's find some comfortable corner where we can talk in peace."
"I am making for a comfortable corner farther away," he said petulantly; "I'm going home!"
"Oh!" her dismay was patent, "and when I've only just come? I've got something to tell you, something thrilling! Look here, I know this house well. Come along, follow me!"
What else could he do? Morosely he followed her, feeling rather as if he were walking in his sleep, through a door, along a passage, up a few steps, and they were alone in a pretty boudoir that was cool and quiet, fragrant with flowers, away from the crowd and the noise.
"Now we are safe! Give me a cigarette." Dorothy settled herself in a deep chair; the gleam of her hair against a pile of purple cushions, her long white arms and slender outline presented a striking picture, as Philip could not but note as he stood before her on the hearthrug. Had it not been for the disturbing idea that had taken definite shape in his mind this evening he would have felt soothed, contented, very much at home with her. As it was, he began to distrust his own powers of resistance. Either he must get out of London at once, or he would be forced seriously to consider the question of asking Lord Redgate's daughter to be his wife. If, as he could not help assuming, she expected him to propose to her sooner or later, opposition from her father was not to be anticipated. Dorothy would have her own way—given the chance. The fact that he was now actually contemplating the possibility startled him. What a mean brute he must be! He could never love the girl as a man should love the woman he married; if itbecame necessary he must tell her the truth, and put an end to all thought of anything but friendship....
"You are very glum to-night," she remarked, gazing at him through a cloud of smoke. "What is the matter?"
"Probably the usual curse of the Anglo-Indian—liver!" he replied, with an effort to speak lightly. "I've been eating and drinking too much ever since I got home. It's time I went in for the simple life, somewhere out of all this. It doesn't suit my peculiar constitution!"
"It doesn't suit me either," she said reflectively.
"You seem to thrive on it, anyway!"
"Oh! I am one of those chameleon people who can adapt themselves to any surroundings. I could be happy anywhere, on a desert island, in the Indian jungle—more particularly in the Indian jungle, provided——"
She paused and flicked some cigarette ash on to the carpet.
He took a little china saucer from the mantelpiece and placed it on a table beside her. "You must learn to be tidy wherever you are!" he said with mock severity, and added: "What was it you had to tell me?"
"A secret! Such a nice one, though soon it will be a secret no longer."
"Oh! Are you going to be married in spite of your contempt for my sex?"
She drew in her breath sharply, as though something had hurt her. "Why do you remind me of mysilly ideas? Don't you think I have the sense to see when I have been wrong?"
He evaded reply to the question. "Well, out with this wonderful secret. Don't keep me in suspense."
"It's this—you are to have the C.S.I.!" she told him triumphantly. "The Star of India! Doesn't it sound splendid—glittering, glorious, grand!"
He stared at her stupidly, stammered: "How—how do you know?"
"Pater told me to-night, just as I was starting to come here," and she added naïvely: "to come and meetyou. Good old Pater, he is arranging it all. Now, what do you say to that for a piece of news?"
"It is extremely kind of him, but I don't want it, I don't deserve it!" he cried in desperation. "You must tell him—it must be stopped——"
"What on earth are you talking about? If you don't deserve it, who does? Anyway, it's to be yours, whether you feel you deserve it or not, and I can't tell you how proud I feel that in a kind of way you will have got it throughme!"
Through her! and through her, if he chose to say the word, he could have all that, to the world, would appear to make life well worth the living. For the moment the temptation was strong, almost overwhelming. Here, for the asking, was the devotion of a clever, capable girl who had the makings of a true comrade, who would revive his ambitions, enter wholeheartedly into his career; he saw himself honoured,successful, beyond his dreams; a power in the country that he loved to serve, with every advantage, officially and socially, in his grasp. Why should he hesitate? Here was his chance! he stood at the turning-point of his existence that meant "fortune" without struggle or delay if he went boldly forward....
Then, all at once, sweeping aside the temptation, the brilliant outlook, came the thought of Stella, the true Star of his life and his heart; and dimly he felt that to barter the memory of that other star, however far from his reach, for tangible gain would be infamous, contemptible. The shadow was more to him than the substance; he could not do this thing and feel that his purpose was clean!
"I suppose you will think I am mad," he said slowly, with difficulty, "but there is something—something that stands in the way——"
The girl paled, dropped the end of her cigarette into the saucer, and he saw her hands grip the arms of the chair. "Is it—is it because——" she lost her self-control. "Oh! don't look at me like that! Can't you see—what does anything matter! Don't be so proud. Nothing can be too good for you—Philip!"
She rose, held her hands out to him, firm, square hands; he took them gently, reverently, and she swayed as she recognised the lack of passion in his touch.
Haltingly, as best he could, he tried to tell her the truth, but it all sounded so elusive, so unsubstantial, he felt he could hardly expect her to comprehend.Silence fell between them; he turned from her in painful regret.
She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Philip, don't you trust me? Do you think I can't know how you feel? If I can't help you in one way I can in another perhaps, by giving you all my sympathy and understanding. I hope if I had been placed as you are that I should have done exactly the same. I see—I realise——" she faltered pitifully, "that as things are you can't take the Star, you can't owe it tomein the least degree. I will explain somehow to my father; leave it to me, it isn't too late, and some day you will have it—earn it yourself entirely—and—it may be the other one too, I hope so, I do indeed! if she is worthy of you. But oh! how could she, how could she leave your letter unanswered! There may have been some mistake, it may come all right, don't give up hope. The most wonderful things happen. And I—I shall always be your friend——"
She stopped, breathing fast; she had spoken so rapidly, under such stress of emotion. As he met her strained, wide-open eyes she looked almost unreal. A mist clouded his vision; he felt choked as he tried to answer, to thank her; speech seemed so futile; for him the whole thing was beyond words; he knew he was failing hopelessly to express himself.
She gave a tremulous laugh that was half a sob. "It's all right, don't say anything, don't try. We bothknow. Let's get back to the crowd," and moving to the door she turned out the lights. Quickly shewent before him, down the steps and along the narrow passage. He saw her mingle with the throng, her head held high, talking and laughing, a bright, conspicuous figure, a brave, noble-hearted girl! He wished honestly that he could have loved her; wished it quite apart from the solid advantages she could have brought him as his wife.
A day or two later when Philip, preparatory to his departure from London, was choosing a fishing-rod in a well-known shop devoted to the requirements of anglers, a little lady dressed in the height of fashion rustled over to him from the farther end of the showroom where she had been standing in company with an elderly, distinguished-looking man.
"Is it Mr. Flint?" she inquired gaily; and as he looked at her in puzzled politeness a vague memory returned to him of someone trigged out in sequins and tinsel, with a tambourine....
"You don't remember me? This time I'm not pretending. We really have met before! My name is Matthews—Maud Verrall, you know, Stella Crayfield's friend. How history repeats itself. Fancy my having to introduce myself again, and all among fishing-rods and tackle and things, instead of in a ball-room full of dressed-up idiots in India!"
"Why, of course—of course, how are you?" he said, gathering his wits together, battling with an impulse to attack her on the spot as to Stella's whereabouts, to ask her all about her. If anyone knew it would be this wonderfully garbed little person, who now proceeded to beckon to her deserted companion.
"Here's another old friend of Stella's, Sir George Rolt; you saw him at that horrible ball, if you remember——"
The shop assistant stood by in patient resentment as the male customers neglected their object, and the lady chattered of everything but fishing-rods.
"I'm taking Sir George down with me to my old home in the country to-morrow for a visit," she told Mr. Flint; "he and my husband are going to fish from morning till night. So dull for me! but I shall have Stella to talk to, and she will be thankful. She's at The Chestnuts, you know. 'Grandmamma and the Aunts'," she added with a mischievous "moue," then she sighed "Poor Stella!" and she looked at him searchingly. "That was a terrible business, wasn't it?"
Philip composed himself with an effort. "Her husband's death, you mean? Yes, I suppose it was. I have heard nothing of her since it happened. I hope she is well, have you seen her lately?"
"Quite lately; I've only been in town for a flying visit, just to get clothes."
There was an awkward pause. Philip became aware that Sir George was regarding him with particular attention. Was the man Stella's future husband? The possibility filled him with helpless rage.
Mrs. Matthews coughed artificially and glanced from one man to the other. "Sir George, dear," she said sweetly, "you'd better go back to that kind gentleman who was giving you such good advice about fishing-rods, or someone else will snap him up. I want to talk secrets with Mr. Flint, if he's not in too great a hurry."
Sir George smiled and moved away compliantly. Mrs. Matthews apologised to Philip's assistant. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I haven't seen this friend of mine for such ages. Presently he will buyheapsof things, don't wait for him now if you are busy. I will see that he doesn't run away!"
The young man succumbed to her blandishments, and Mrs. Matthews piloted Philip to a corner of the shop where she annexed a couple of chairs.
"This is a funny place for a private conversation!" she remarked, "but I'm not going to lose such a chance now I've got it. Fancy our meeting like this; what a piece of luck! Now listen to me and answer my questions." She scrutinised him closely. "You look struck all of a heap!"
"I feel it," said Philip briefly.
"Why? because you want to hear news of Stella, or because you don't?"
"Because it's the one thing in the world I wish for," he answered, his heart beating fast.
Her face cleared. "That's all right; one step forward! Now tell me—do you know why Stella never answered your letter?"
"There could be only one reason. I told her in my letter that if I did not hear from her I should understand." He fixed his eyes on a stuffed salmon in a glass case, he could not bring himself to meet Mrs. Matthews' inquisitive gaze.
"You silly fool!" said Stella's friend vigorously. "Couldn't you have guessed that she must have had some desperate reason?"
"I thought——"
"You thought everything that was wrong, of course. Men always do. Sir George Rolt thinks he is devoted to me at present, dear old thing, and that I am equally 'gone' on him, but he's mistaken, though it's great fun for us both while it lasts. Can you stand a shock, Mr. Philip Flint?"
"I can stand anything," said Philip doggedly, "except——"
"I know what you were going to say—except to hear that Stella never wants to see you again?"
"Exactly."
"Would it make any difference if you found her altered in another way?"
"How do you mean?" he asked, mystified.
Then Mrs. Matthews 'set to' as she would herself have expressed it, and for the space of five minutes she talked breathlessly, uninterrupted by Philip, who listened to her in greedy silence.
"There," she concluded at last. "Now, do you see?"
"Not altogether, I must confess. I don't see why Stella should have concluded that her appearance would have made the smallest difference to me, after my letter. It was very unfair to me!"
"Don't talk such trash. It was perfectly natural. She was too hideous for words until she got home; we came home together, and I made her put herself into the hands of an expert. Massage and treatment did wonders, but, all the same, poor dear, she will never be beautiful again!"
"Good heavens, as if that would matter to me. Whatever she looks like——" he paused, overcome by his feelings.
"Well, I will believe you, though one never knows! Anyway she's not so bad, it's only one side of her face."
"Mrs. Matthews, for goodness' sake don't talk like this; I can't bear it. Just tell me, once for all—does Stella care for me still?"
"Yes, darling, she does; and the best thing you can do is to come down with me and Sir George to-morrow, fishing-rods and all, to The Court, and make her tell you so herself. Will you?"
"Will I?" he scoffed ecstatically. "Mrs. Matthews, you are an angel!"
"Not yet," she assured him. "I don't mean to die young."
* * * * * *
Philip Flint walked up the short drive to The Chestnuts. The air was filled with the peace and the scent of the summer's evening; and as he viewed the old house with its little paved terrace, the lawn sloping down to the stream, the cedar tree, the red wall of the kitchen garden, he felt that it was all familiar to him.
An old lady was seated on the terrace flags—that would be "Grandmamma"; and an austere-looking female emerged from one of the French windows to speak to the old lady—was that Aunt Augusta, or Aunt Ellen? His heart warmed towards them. And as he hesitated, hardly daring to goforward, he caught sight of a form stretched on a long chair beneath the cedar tree.
Boldly he took a short cut through the shrubs. At the sound of his footsteps she looked up, gave a little cry, hid her dear, maimed face in her hands. Stella—his beloved, his star, his Star of India!
Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited, La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.4F.80.1019