I dare not choose my lot,I would not if I might.
I dare not choose my lot,I would not if I might.
I dare not choose my lot,I would not if I might.
I dare not choose my lot,
I would not if I might.
She was barely conscious of the present, hardly even of the determined embrace that held her fast; only the past seemed real, and it was the past that won. When he released her, flushed and breathless, she knew she had dared to choose her lot once and for all; she was in the grip of a wild excitement; she, Stella Carrington, was to be married, like Maud Verrall, and she was going to India, to India! The doorway of life was unlocked at last, presenting a wondrous vista, entrancing, irresistible.... Then, blocking the doorway, she saw Colonel Crayfield, bulky, triumphant, a masterful smile on his face.
"Well, isn't it all right?" And again he drew her to him, this time gently, protectively, and with his arm about her they sauntered among the vegetables and fruit bushes, while he held forth concerning the future, Stella hearkening as in a dream. She knew he was speaking of his position, of horses and clothes, of a piano, and a pearl necklace; but it was of India she was thinking as she hung on his arm in childlike gratitude. Was he not granting her the desire of her heart?
"You are a sort of fairy godfather!" she told him, laughing; "perhaps not exactly afairy—more of a Santa Claus. I think I must call you Santa-Sahib."
"Call me what you like; but doesn't it spell Satan as well?"
"That will come in useful when you are disagreeable, cross with me."
"I shall never be cross with you, my jewel, my pet!"
Oh, it was all delightful, almost too good to be true.
But what about grandmamma? He said that grandmamma knew.
"So you have made it all right with her?" she exclaimed, with the kind of sensation that is engendered by some lucky escape. How clever of him! He was a wonder, her saviour, her deliverer. True, he was neither young nor "a picture," but one could not have everything, and Stella told herself she was going to be quite as happy as Maud Verrall, very likely far happier.
"Just fancy!" she sighed ecstatically. "And if I had only known what was coming when you found me in the larder! Isn't it a mercy that we both like onions? Do tell me, when did you think of your ripping plan?"
"The first moment I set eyes on you at the station," he declared untruthfully.
"Oh! ThennowI know why you looked at me like that."
"Like what?"
"You did—and then under the oak tree, too! I felt there was something."
"Bright little star!" Hiding a smile, he raised her hand and kissed each pink finger-tip with deliberate enjoyment.
"I got your letter," wrote Stella to Maud Verrall, "and am awfully glad about your news, though at the time it made me feel simply green with envy. How little I thought I should have some news to tellyouwhen I answered it. Don't faint, but your little friend is also engaged,and going to India! I could turn head over heels with joy. Perhaps we shall meet next as married ladies! Wouldn't it be fun if we went out in the same ship? My fiancé is a big, tall man, much older than me; but I don't mind that a bit. There is something rather romantic, I think, in the idea of a husband a good deal older than oneself. He hasn't got a beard, and is not at all bald. I like him very much, and he spoils me frightfully. Before we sail I am to have singing lessons and learn to ride, and he says I can order what clothes I like. He is giving me a real pearl necklace. His name is Colonel Crayfield, so my initials will still be the same. Old Betty says that is unlucky, but I don't believe her; nothing could be unlucky that gets me to India. It's all like a heavenly dream, only a dream that will go on; no waking up to find myself stuck at The Chestnuts with nothing to hope for but deadliness evermore. I suppose I am an ungrateful pig. I know grandmamma and the aunts are fond of me, and of course I am fond ofthem, but I can think of nothing butmy own good luck. They don't seem altogether pleased about it; I can't imagine why, except that they never have wanted me to enjoy myself. I really believe they think it's wicked to be pleased about anything but the garden and sermons and the weather. However, I don't care. I am going to India, and nothing else matters on this earth."
So the "heavenly dream" continued, unmarred by the odd lack of sympathy displayed by grandmamma and the aunts, and, if anything, enhanced by the departure of Colonel Crayfield for London; his absence left Stella more free to indulge her fancies, to lose herself in visions, to revel, almost as though drugged, in blissful imaginings. Her betrothed sent presents and frequent letters that, though short, were fervent, and added to the glamour.
Thus time flew by, till the day of the marriage, which took place, very quietly, in the little old church. The ceremony was performed by Canon Grass in a manner, as Stella afterwards declared, that was more befitting a funeral than a wedding. She attributed his lugubrious voice and demeanour to the fact that the unfortunate gentleman was so ill-mated himself. Mrs. Grass attended the service in her invalid chair, and looked like a rag doll—poor thing, and poor Canon Grass! Grandmamma did not even have a new bonnet, and might have been a graven image. Aunt Augusta behaved as if they were all doing something wrong; and, of course, Aunt Ellen wept.
Stella thought it really very horrid of them, whenshe herself was feeling so jubilant, and dear old Santa-Sahib was so nice and so kind, and looked almost "a picture" in his new clothes. He had grown a little thinner, which was a great improvement. She wore the pearl necklace, his wedding gift—it was lovely! Why did everybody but Santa-Sahib seem to wish to damp her spirits, to put a spoke in the wheel of her pleasure? Of course, there was no reception, no fuss; that she had not expected; all she would have liked, and resented not having received, was just a little sympathy with her state of joy—a little acknowledgment of her good fortune.
They drove straight from the church to the station to catch the express for London; and from then onwards "the dream" became rather more harassing than heavenly! Stella found herself in a sumptuous hotel; there was a lady's maid, a smart person engaged by Colonel Crayfield until the date of their sailing, who embarrassed her. She was confused, dismayed by revelations that, it appeared, were inseparable from matrimony, and therefore had to be accepted as a sort of toll-bar on the road to India. The weeks were packed with ceaseless activities: singing lessons, riding lessons, dressmakers, restaurants, shops, theatres.
It was actually a relief to the overtaxed bride, when they had sped across the Continent "via Brindisi," to settle down on the big P. & O. steamer, that throbbed and smelt, and was so strange, yet proved a paradise of rest and peace compared with London. There were not so many passengers—itwas early in the season—but everyone was interested in young Mrs. Crayfield; they were all very kind and friendly. Her deck-chair was always surrounded; her singing was a great success; and though Santa-Sahib was tiresome in forbidding her to dance or take part in theatricals on board ship, she had an extremely pleasant voyage.
They landed at Bombay, and oh! the rainbow-coloured crowds, the splendour, the white, shining buildings, the spicy, intoxicating warmth. It was all entrancing to Stella, oddly familiar and yet so novel. How quaint the contradictions of "The Queen of Cities," such a mixture of dignity and squalor! The best hotel was barrack-like, comfortless, not over-clean; insects dotted the walls; there were flies in myriads; doubtful food; yet at that period it was the only possible refuge for European travellers coming and going.
Santa-Sahib grumbled and scolded; but Stella said what on earth did comfort and food and cleanliness matter? Were they notin India? To her, all the sights and sounds, the merciless sun, the dust and the clamour, even the smells, were thrilling. Robert's head servant was there to meet them, an elderly, important-looking native; his name was Sher Singh, and he had secured an ayah for the memsahib, a good class Mohammedan woman who knew her work and understood a little English. Stella appreciated her quiet movements, her deft attentions, and was not overawed by "Champa" as she had been by the grand maid in London. The ayah's attitude towards the Sahib entertained her; it wasfull of such humble and modest reverence. She would warn her mistress of the Sahib's approach as though for the coming of an emperor; turn aside bashfully when he entered the room, and draw her wrapper over her face. But Sher Singh! To Stella there was something vaguely sinister about the bombastic figure that held a weird, elusive reflection of his master's bearing and outline. The man seemed to watch her furtively, and though he anticipated her wishes, obeyed her least sign, she felt that beneath his diligent, obsequious care there lay a smouldering resentment.
"I'm sure Sher Singh is jealous of me," she told her husband; "he looks on me as an interloper. It's only natural, I suppose, after his long service with you as a bachelor, but it makes me uncomfortable."
"Nonsense!" he said sharply. "Sher Singh is an invaluable servant. Whatever you do, don't quarrel with him. It's all your fancy—you don't understand natives."
"Some day I shall. I mean to!"
"Well, don't begin by misunderstanding Sher Singh. I couldn't do without him."
There was a note of finality in his voice. It sounded to Stella almost as though he would prefer to part with her than with Sher Singh! She determined to banish the little rasp from her mind; after all, what did it matter? It should not interfere with her enjoyment—Sher Singh was only a servant.
They stayed long enough in Bombay to dine at the Yacht Club; to visit the caves of Elephanta, so old, so mysterious; to spend a day with an Englishmerchant prince, a friend of Colonel Crayfield's, in his palace on Malabar Hill. And then came the journey up-country: days and nights in the train, passing from tropical temperature to chilly dawns, first rushing through scenery grand and austere, Doré-like in its peaks and valleys, wondrous in the crimson sunset; afterwards vast yellow plains, relieved by patches of cultivation, villages, groves—mightily monotonous. Except for the time when she slept, and when they alighted at echoing stations for unpalatable meals, Stella did not cease to gaze from the windows of their compartment. The crowds on the platforms of big junctions and wayside halting-places were fascinating; the family groups, the varied clothing, the half-naked sellers of fruit and sweetmeats, the pushing, the shouting, the flurry.
It was midnight when they reached Rassih. The branch line had but lately been completed, and the railway station was little more than a short strip of unfinished platform. The station-master, a fat babu, received the travellers with elaborate civility; and, outside, a curious conveyance awaited them—like a broad, low dog-cart, hooded, drawn by a pair of white bullocks, all horns and humps and pendulous dewlaps. Stella never forgot her first transit through the slumbering city; the little caves of shops, some dimly illumined; the occasional glimpses of figures squatting muffled and shapeless, or stretched on rude bedsteads. From upper storeys floated snatches of sleepy song and the faint twang of stringed instruments. Pariah dogs nosed and snarled in the gutters. Beneath the general somnolence lay aceaseless, subdued undercurrent of sound that seemed to mingle with stale odours of spice and rancid oil; above it all the slate-blue sky pressed low, deeply clear, besprinkled with stars.
The tonga skirted a high wall, cutting through dust so deep that its progress was hardly audible, turned in through a gateless arch, and halted before a massive, towering building. Stella, weary, yet excited, followed her husband up a steep flight of stone steps that terminated in a vast, whitewashed vestibule; there were countless doors, all open, screened with short portières. It was cold, gloomy, dim. None of the lamps that hung on the walls had been turned up; the silence was oppressive, cheerless.
Robert, muttering angrily, strode ahead and stumbled over a form that lay swathed, corpse-like, in one of the doorways. A scene ensued that to Stella was horrifying. The corpse-like figure sprang up with a wild yell of alarm, and was cuffed and abused by the Sahib. The noise brought a scampering of bare feet and a swarm of people, hastily binding on turbans, adjusting garments. It appeared that the servants had all been asleep, that preparations for the Sahib's arrival were not even begun. The air shook with the wrath of the Sahib; he would listen to no explanations; the offenders ran hither and thither; there was confusion, consternation.
Stella stood by, silent, trembling; she was appalled by her husband's exhibition of rage; he might murder one of these defenceless people; it seemed even possible that at any moment he might turn upon her, and kick and beat and abuse her also! Whata ghastly arrival!... Then all at once there was peace. Sher Singh had arrived with the luggage, and in no time refreshments were on the table; the dining-room, big as a ballroom, blazed with light; the Sahib's fury subsided.
To Stella's astonishment the servants conducted themselves as if nothing extraordinary had happened, and all went well. Robert made no excuse or apology for his anger; apparently he was unconscious of having behaved, as it seemed to her, like a madman. He ate and drank with complacence, asking questions quite amiably at intervals of the rotund attendant who was evidently chief of the table staff; while Stella, unable for very fatigue to swallow food, sipped her tea and looked about her with dazed interest.... What high walls, washed a pale brick colour; how bare the great room, just a big table and clumsy wooden chairs with arms and cane seats. On the floor was a sort of thick drugget; it felt hard beneath her feet. A wood fire had been lighted in a wide open grate; it smelt fragrant, comforting.... Stella's eyes drooped; the white-clad figures of the servants grew blurred to her vision; Robert himself, still eating heartily, seemed to recede in a mist. Then suddenly there arose, from somewhere outside, a succession of blood-curdling yells, and she started, wide awake, laid hold of Robert's arm. "Oh, what is it?" she cried in alarm. "Someone is being killed!"
He laughed and patted her hand reassuringly. "It's only hyenas and jackals," he told her; "you'll hear it every night—soon get used to it."
Hyenas and jackals! Wild beasts she would have gazed at in a zoo with wondering interest were here, close by, and no more to be heeded than if they had been stray dogs! She remembered that this was India; the weird noise fired her fancy, and mingled with her dreams that night.
She awoke next morning to a very different sound, the cooing of doves; bright, hard sunlight streamed through the long door-windows. She found she had slept late; Champa, bringing tea, said the Sahib had already gone out, had left orders that the memsahib was not to be disturbed. Then she bathed—in a bathroom that resembled a prison cell; the tub was of zinc, and there was a row of red earthenware vessels for the cold water. Stella thought them very artistic; how Mrs. Daw would love to paint on them, paint storks and sprays of apple-blossom, and fill them with dried bulrushes—the very thing for a bazaar!... But there was nothing that could by any possibility be considered artistic about the bedroom: the beds were just wooden frames, not even enamelled or painted; two enormous cupboards stood against the walls; the fireplace was a cavern; the dressing-table was more suited to a kitchen; and there were a few clumsy chairs matching those of the dining-room. It was with a slight feeling of desolation that she began to explore the house; in the drawing-room was a certain amount of wicker furniture, with loose cretonne covers of an ugly pattern, a pair of handsome screens, and two or three richly carved tables; the dining-room she avoided, having caught sight ofservants laying the table; she felt shy of encountering them. She peeped into other rooms, all of them equally bare and enormous, comfortless—even the one she supposed must be Robert's study, since it had a business-like table in the centre, covered with papers.
And yet there was something exhilarating in the airiness, in the sense of space, the hard brilliance of the sunshine outside, the unfamiliar scents and sounds that seemed to float everywhere. Her spirits rose as she wandered out on to a balcony almost wide enough for a dog-cart, and gazed over a limitless landscape studded with low bushes, and in the foreground a few ruins of what might have been mosques or dwellings or tombs. The flat country, stretching for miles to the dusty horizon, was impressive in its very persistence and sameness, that was without relief, save for here and there a pillar of dust that swirled upwards, waltzing madly for a moment as though demon-possessed. Then she watched a more steady dust-cloud, of a different form, that was wending its way slowly among the clumps of scrub and stunted bushes; and presently there came into view a string of camels led by a great beast hung with gaudy trappings, ridden by a figure swathed in white garments, heavily turbaned. On they came, a silent, stately procession, moving as though to the rhythm of a funeral march, men striding beside them in flowing garments or seated between the great bales slung on either side of the camels' humps. One or two baby camels shambled along by their mothers—awkward, woolly creatures, the size of colts, with legs that appeared too long for their bodies.
Fascinated, Stella watched the cavalcade till it vanished in a cloud of dust; then she walked to the end of the balcony and looked over the parapet, down a drop that made her feel giddy. There was nothing below but heaps of rough stones and bricks, coarse grass, and thorn trees. Again she glanced over the waterless waste, burning drab and drear in the hot sunshine, and suddenly she thought of the Common at home, of the green turf, the gorse and the bracken, the blue distances; she wondered what grandmamma and the aunts were doing at that moment; she remembered the smooth lawn and the cedar tree, the little stream.... The unwelcome pang of home-sickness was discomforting, but it did not last long. As she turned away the realisation that she was in India, that the life she so desired had begun, came back to her forcibly; and soon she was finding pleasure in the garden, in watching the pair of small white bullocks that drew water from a well in a big leather bucket like a gigantic sponge-bag; in strolling among the shrubs that flamed with blossom, scarlet, yellow, pink. There was an orange grove, too, with real fruit on the trees gleaming golden among glossy foliage. Flights of green parrots flew screaming above her head; gay-crested little birds hopped and scuffled in the dust at her feet; small grey squirrels scampered in every direction. Was there anything at The Chestnuts to compare with it all?
Santa-Sahib was in good humour when he returned. They had a wonderful breakfast at midday: a curry of chicken, with snowy rice boiled toperfection and served separately, not as a border round some réchauffé, which was old Betty's conception of a curry. Other dishes were numerous, and fruit was in abundance—oranges, custard apples, loquats; also delicious little scones. Afterwards Robert took her into the drawing-room, and told her she could spend what she liked on it; said he had ordered a piano from Calcutta; it ought to arrive in a day or two now. He was sure she would wish to have pretty chintz, and silk cushions, and new curtains. When she asked him if it would not all cost too much money, he laughed and kissed her, called her his baby. Sher Singh was summoned, and was bidden to send for a silk merchant from the bazaar, and to engage a "durzey"—a male person whose duty it would be to sit in the veranda all day and make curtains and cushions and chair covers, and anything else the memsahib might desire. Stella felt like a princess in a fairy tale.
During the next few days the ladies of the station called on the Commissioner's bride. Mrs. Cuthell, wife of the Deputy Commissioner, came first; she was a homely human being, anxious to be kind; but her good-natured intentions were leavened by a natural resentment that her husband's superior in the service should have married anyone so junior in years to herself. She said she hoped Mrs. Crayfield would not find her position too difficult; of course, she would have much to learn.
"Hitherto," she remarked, "I have been the principal lady!" She forced a smile. "Now I shall be obliged to take a back seat! We were all sosurprised when we heard that Colonel Crayfield was bringing out a wife. We had looked on him as a confirmed bachelor. Certainly we did not expect a wife as youthful as yourself!"
"It's a fault I shall grow out of, perhaps," pleaded Stella meekly; and afterwards Mrs. Cuthell told Mrs. Piggott, the police officer's wife, that she thought the new bride was rather a cheeky chit. Mrs. Piggott made haste to ascertain the truth of this opinion for herself. Stella found her a more entertaining visitor than Mrs. Cuthell, though perhaps less likeable; Mrs. Cuthell, she felt, meant to be motherly, whereas Mrs. Piggott, who also seemed quite middle-aged to Stella, assumed the attitude of a contemporary. She had sharp eyes, a sharp tongue, and endless stories to tell of the other folk in the station; how the Paynes (Post Office) brought up their children so badly, talked nothing but Hindustani to them; what a lot of money the Taylors (Canals) wasted, getting their stores from Bombay, and things out from home—if they ever paid for them at all! AndhadMrs. Crayfield seen the Antonios—Dr. Antonio and his wife and daughter? Old Antonio had been an apothecary at the time of the Mutiny, and had somehow hung on to the position of Civil Surgeon ever since—he had been years and years at Rassih; the Government was only too glad to leave him there, regardless of the feelings of the rest of the station. Why, they were practically natives! And it was believed they smoked hookahs—certainly their house smelt like it. Pussy, the daughter (no chicken), had been doing her best to marry young Smithson,the Taylors' assistant; but she, Mrs. Piggott, had warned the young man, with the result that just as the Antonios were expecting him to propose every moment, he had fled into camp. If only the Antonios could know! They would never speak to her again.
"And no great loss," added Mrs. Piggott, "except that in such a small station it's a pity to have rows. Then there are the Fosters (railway people); they are inclined to give themselves airs because they have a little money of their own, which is unusual in India. But you will see them all for yourself, my dear. Of course, you will come to the Club? We all play tennis there every evening, and have tea and pegs, and look at the English papers."
"I suppose so," said Stella doubtfully; "but my husband hasn't said anything about it."
"You must cure him of his dull habits. Hitherto he has only had some of the men to play tennis with him on his own courts, which, of course, are first-rate, but it's rather unsociable of him. He must not expectyouto hold yourself aloof from the rest of us. Now if he won't bring you himself to the Club just let me know, and I can always pick you up on my way."
Mrs. Piggott saw herself envied by the station as young Mrs. Crayfield's bosom friend. She took the first opportunity of telling Mrs. Cuthell, whom she detested, that Mrs. Crayfield had been perfectly sweet toherwhen she called, had asked her advice on all kinds of points, and had taken her into her bedroom to show her the trousseau and the jewellery, etc.—all of which, by the way, was untrue; but Mrs. Piggott considered the falsehoods worth while, since it annoyed Mrs. Cuthell and made her jealous.
Stella thought she would like to belong to the Club; but, to her surprise, when Robert came to the drawing-room for tea, and she mentioned the subject, he said he did not wish her to "make herself cheap"; he disapproved of the Club gatherings—a lot of gossiping women and silly young men. Once a week—whichever day she liked to select—she could be "At Home" to the whole station. Their own tennis courts were in excellent order, and there was no occasion to become intimate with anyone.
"You will return their calls, of course," he continued, "and we must give a couple of dinner parties, and there will be your weekly reception. That will be quite enough. Now go and get on your habit and we'll have a ride."
Stella obeyed, feeling rather crestfallen. The programme sounded dull. Was she never to make any friends? And what was Robert's objection to all these people? Surely she and Robert were not so superior themselves as to warrant such splendid isolation! However, for the moment she made no protest; the recollection of her husband's violence on the night of their arrival was still with her; she feared to provoke him. But there would seem to be drawbacks to the position of "chief lady of the station," according to Robert's idea of its fulfilment!
She forgot her vexation in the delight of mounting the handsome chestnut mare that was to be her own property, and in the softening sunshine theyskirted the high wall of the city and trotted along the unmetalled footway of the main road beneath splendid trees planted at equal distances apart. They passed a few compounds with thatched bungalows standing well back from the dusty road; these dwellings looked humble in comparison with the palace on the old fort walls that commanded the huddled bazaar and the scattered European habitations beyond. They met native vehicles packed with passengers; and riders of miserable ponies dismounted, making obeisance, as the Commissioner Sahib went by; low narrow carts, crowded with women and children and merchandise, creaked along lazily in the middle of the road.
Then they turned from this main thoroughfare and galloped along a broad, grass-grown canal bank, flanked on one side with luxuriant plantations; on the other, dull green water flowed steadily, silently, bearing life to the villages and crops below. Crossing a bridge, they rode to a village where Colonel Crayfield wished to make some inquiries connected with his administration; and Stella watched, keenly interested, while the headman, a patriarch with a long, henna-dyed beard, hurried forth to make his report, followed by a rabble of peasants who gathered at a respectful distance to gape at the spectacle of an Englishwoman on horseback. Now and then a naked child would run boldly into the open, only to be hauled back shrieking by relations whose reproaches were as piercing as the culprit's lamentations.
The memsahib gazed at it all, absorbed; shewas sorry when her husband raised his whip to his hat in farewell salutation to the headman, and they turned their backs on the village and the eager, excited little crowd. Their return was by a different route, which, to Stella's secret interest, took them past the Club gardens. Tennis was in progress, and the spectators were seated in chairs collected around a refreshment table. Every head was turned in the direction of the riders; the Club members seemed as eager to behold the lady on horseback as had been the villagers. It was pleasing to Stella to find herself the object of so much human curiosity.
It was the day of Mrs. Crayfield's first garden party. What struck Stella as an extraordinary form of invitation had gone forth by hand: a notice, with "Mrs. Crayfield at Home," and the chosen date, inscribed in large copper-plate by a clerk in the Commissioner's office. Below was written, "Please write seen," and then came a column of names, the whole of the visitable community of Rassih. This document came back duly initialled by all but one or two inaccessible bachelors who were out in the district on duty. Stella expressed a nervous hope that everyone would come, and inquired what preparations she ought to make.
"Trust them to come!" scoffed Robert. "And don't worry yourself about preparations. The servants know what to do."
And, indeed, the servants' capabilities seemed miraculous. Tennis nets were fixed, the courts marked out correctly; tables became covered with cakes and sandwiches, tea and coffee, spirits and liqueurs, multitudes of soda-water bottles; there was fresh lemonade and claret-cup. All far more imposing than even the yearly flower-show at the vicarage at home that was patronised by the whole county! Stella felt there ought to be a band in attendance as well. She dressed herself in a soft white gown, and a lace hat that had cost Santa-Sahib a fabulous sumin London; then she stood for a few moments on the raised plinth overlooking the garden to watch Sher Singh giving orders and directions on the tennis ground below. Nothing had been forgotten; the row of cane chairs had little strips of carpet in front of them, and a group of small native boys clothed in white, with red caps and red belts, stood ready till they should be wanted to retrieve the balls. And all this was to happen every week!
Santa-Sahib came out and stood beside her, bulky, cheerful, in clean flannels, smoking a long cheroot.
"Turn round, little girl," he commanded; "let's have a look at you."
She turned and bobbed him a curtsey; he regarded her from head to foot with a proprietary air of satisfaction, yet he was silent, and Stella inquired anxiously if she "would do."
"Just as well, perhaps, that we're not in a big station," he exclaimed, half laughing, half serious, "or it would take me all my time to look after you!"
"But shall we be here always?" she asked.
"The longer the better," he answered shortly. "And no careering off to the hills, mind, unless of course——"
"Unless what? Do tell me!"
"Unless your health makes it necessary."
"My health? But I'm as strong as a horse. What do you mean?"
"What I say, my good child. Thank goodness youarea fine healthy young woman, and that old Antonio's strong point is maternity cases!"
The blood flew to her face, and down again to her toes; such a possibility, at which she now understood he was hinting, had never presented itself to her mind. She felt horrified, frightened, as though caught in a trap. Did Robert expect it of her? How cruel of him to talk like this just when she was so content and lighthearted, looking forward to her garden party, to everything in the future. A baby! She knew nothing about children, and if she did have a child it would, she felt sure, be exactly like Santa-Sahib—plain, and solid, and red. Why on earth couldn't one be married without all that sort of thing!
She heard Robert say: "Why, what's the matter?" and she looked up to find his small, hard eyes fixed on her with a quizzical expression that disturbed her still further.
"Nothing," she replied uneasily, turning from him to hide her distress. "Look, there's somebody arriving. Hadn't we better go down?"
"It's Beard, the missionary, and his wife, and I'm hanged if they haven't brought their family with them!"
An odd little party was scrambling from an antiquated pony carriage. Mr. Beard, in a long black coat, white trousers, and a pith hat shaped like a half of a football; Mrs. Beard, in a voluminous gown of some green material; and three little girls, who all wore sun-hats as well—hats so large that they appeared to rest on the children's shoulders.
Stella hastened down the steps in front of her husband, to greet the guests who were now arrivingin force. To her relief, Mrs. Cuthell, so to speak, took command, and proceeded to make up the sets for tennis, explaining thatsheknew how everyone played, which, of course, Mrs. Crayfield could not; and soon the courts were filled with vigorous people, running and shouting; tennis balls flew, the little boys darted after them, non-players gathered in knots about the tables, or settled in the easy chairs, and it was all very pleasant and cheerful. Stella, feeling excited and important, set herself to do duty as hostess. She conversed with Mrs. Beard, and duly admired the three little girls who hung round their mother; two were twins; the third was only a year younger, which accounted for their all looking about the same age and size. Mrs. Beard said that the number of native Christians in the Rassih district was on the increase; she hoped Mrs. Crayfield would visit the school and distribute prizes.... Stella then listened to Mrs. Antonio's artless admiration of her daughter "Pussy," who played tennis well, and was certainly a handsome creature with rich colouring and brilliant dark eyes. Why Mrs. Piggott should have branded the Antonios as "practically natives" Stella could not quite understand, though they seemed different, it was true, from the rest of the official community, and they spoke with a curious accent. Dr. Antonio was a stumpy, good-humoured person, with a large stomach about which he had bandaged a crimson silk sash; he had long, straggling whiskers, obviously dyed, and a dark, puffy face. Mrs. Antonio was sallow and thin, and had regular features inherited by her daughter,whom she adored with the frankest extravagance. She was drawing Mrs. Crayfield's attention to Pussy's perfect complexion, when Mrs. Piggott joined the group, and remarked pointedly that Mrs. Foster's sister, who was playing tennis in the same set with Pussy, was to be envied her lovely white skin, fair hair, and blue eyes.
"But how pastee!" objected Mrs. Antonio. "She had a nice colour in her cheeks when she came out last year from home; now it is all gone, while my Pussy she is like a rose."
"Well, you see," said Mrs. Piggott, with the air of a kindly instructress, "Pussy is accustomed to the climate; you must remember that she has never been to England!"
Stella glanced nervously at Mrs. Antonio, but Pussy's mother merely nodded complacently and turned to her hostess. "My Pussy, she is so healthy and strong. It is luckee, for this is a very hot place, Mrs. Crayfield."
"So I understand," returned Stella politely; and then Mrs. Antonio began to talk about punkah coolies and their perversities during the hot season, and alluded to something called "tatties." Mrs. Piggott bemoaned the difficulty of procuring ice when it was most needed. Mrs. Beard said, with self-righteous resentment, thatMission peoplehad to endure the heat without such alleviations; and Mrs. Antonio confessed that ice gave her "pain at stomach," but that Pussy liked to suck lumps, which was bad for her prettee teeth.
During this dull conversation among their eldersthe Beard children took courage and wandered afield; they made for a big mango tree, behind which they appeared to find some attraction.
As each set of tennis came to an end the players gathered about the refreshment tables; trays were handed round by the white-clad servants under the authoritative supervision of Sher Singh, and suddenly Mrs. Antonio transferred her attention from Pussy to Colonel Crayfield's bearer.
"That man! How does he behave to you, Mrs. Crayfield, dear?" she inquired with genuine, if inquisitive, solicitude.
Stella resented the question, conscious as she was of her subordination to the rule of Sher Singh. She felt sensitively suspicious that the little gang of ladies were one and all aware of her humiliating position.
"He seems to be a very good servant," she replied evasively, "and he is devoted to my husband."
Mrs. Cuthell joined in. "Oh, yes, and Colonel Crayfield to him; everyone knows that! But all the same, bachelors' old servants are invariably antagonistic to a mistress. It's a mistake to keep them. When you have learnt something about Indian housekeeping you will find out how he has been feathering his nest all these years!"
It was Mrs. Piggott's turn next. "How well I remember the bother I had with my husband's old khansamah when first we were married. He used to commit endless atrocities, and then declare he had only obeyed my orders. Edward always believed him! However, I soon put my foot down and got rid of him. There was such a row!"
"I go to the bazaar myself," said Mrs. Beard somewhat irrelevantly, "and do my own marketing."
"Ah! but of courseyourservants are Christians," argued Mrs. Piggott, covert contempt in her tone, "and we all know what that means!"
Mrs. Beard reddened. "Which shows how lamentably ignorant you all are," she retorted. "You think that because a native is a Christian that he must be a rogue. I admit that he generally is a rogue to start with, but not because he is a Christian. It is because, unfortunately, our converts are mostly drawn from a class that has nothing to lose by embracing the true religion, people who are outcasts by birth, cut off from all spiritual advantages, oppressed and despised, jungle folk, gypsies, many of them thieves by profession, and such like. So far we have hardly tapped the better born classes, and whenever we do it is a real triumph, for they have everything to lose from a worldly point of view. But we know we must begin from the bottom and work upwards, and already great progress has been made, though it is necessarily slow, and the fight is often disheartening...."
Stella looked at the faded, dowdy little woman with a new interest. Mrs. Beard and her husband were working for India, doing great work, just as great in its way as the Carringtons had done in the past, and as their kind were doing in the present. She wished she could help the Beards by engaging a whole staff of Christian converts as servants! But so far she was powerless, there was nothing she could do; and as the atmosphere had become slightlyuncomfortable she was about to try and change the subject when, to her relief, a diversion was caused by Mrs. Beard's discovery that her offspring were disporting themselves behind the mango tree with some native children, though, surely, according to Mission theories, Mrs. Beard should have felt no displeasure?
"Martha, Mary, Deborah!" she called sternly, "come here at once!"
This summons was not obeyed, but apparently it caused an animated argument between the padre's children and their Oriental playmates. Again Mrs. Beard raised a voice of command, and presently Martha and Mary and Deborah emerged from the shelter of the tree, escorting a small brown boy attired in a red cotton garment and an embroidered skull cap.
"Mother," shouted the three little girls in chorus, "this dear boy wants to come to our school. We will make him a Christian, mayn't we?"
To their mortified astonishment this praiseworthy plan did not meet with the encouragement it deserved. The Commissioner's head servant pounced on the red-coated pagan and took him, howling loudly, from his friends.
Stella rose. "Sher Singh!" she called angrily, "let the child alone!" Of course, the man heard her order, must have known, though perforce she had spoken in English, what she wished him to do; but he paid no attention, just bore the child, kicking and screaming, towards the servants' quarters.
Martha and Mary and Deborah ran to their motherand buried their faces in her skirt. Stella looked round for Robert; he was drinking a whisky and soda, regardless of the scene. Mrs. Cuthell laid a restraining hand on her arm. "It's quite right, Mrs. Crayfield," she said with reassuring inflection. "The servants' children must be kept in the background, otherwise they would swarm all over the place."
But Stella felt she had been publicly flouted by Sher Singh, and though for the moment she was helpless, she resolved to tell Robert, when the party should be over, that for the future she expected Sher Singh to obey her. Meantime, while Mrs. Cuthell made up fresh sets of tennis, she apologised prettily to Mrs. Beard.
But when the guests had all departed, with many gratifying assurances of their enjoyment, her courage dwindled. Since the night of her arrival at Rassih she had dreaded Robert's anger; the unpleasant memory remained with her so vividly—the uproar, the helpless alarm of the servants, her own fear and dismay. Never before in the whole course of her sheltered existence had she seen anyone so angry. And now, were she to protest against Sher Singh's behaviour, what if he should rage at her in the same manner? As he passed into his dressing-room she recognised, with a sinking at her heart, that she was afraid of her husband, abjectly afraid, ten thousand times more afraid of him then she had ever been of grandmamma. She dared not risk a scene, dared not stand up for herself. She would let the matter rest for the present, wait till Sher Singhdisobeyed her again. After all, perhaps the man had not heard, or had not understood her this afternoon.
However, towards the end of dinner she happened to look up and catch Sher Singh regarding her with an expression of such venomous hatred that she barely checked an exclamation. Meeting her astonished gaze, he turned away abruptly to the sideboard, and she drew in her breath, shivering. When, a little later, he was pouring port into Robert's glass, she observed that his hand shook, that his eyes were heavy and bloodshot; there was something strange in his appearance.
She tried to dismiss the incident from her mind, turned her thoughts to some advice Mrs. Beard had given her as to studying Hindustani. At least she might dare to attack Robert on that point. It was like being a deaf person not to understand the words spoken around one. And once she had obtained some command of the language she would be in a position to give her own orders to the other servants without Sher Singh's intervention.
She waited until they were in the drawing-room, and Robert had flung himself into an easy chair to examine some official document. He worked very hard, and seemed to think of little else.
"Robert," she began softly. He did not hear her. She repeated his name and he looked up abstractedly. Then he lowered the sheets of foolscap and removed his pince-nez.
"What is it now?" he inquired with indulgent resignation.
"Can I have lessons in Hindustani?"
"Why? What good would that do you?"
"I want to learn, and I have nothing particular to do while you are at work all day."
"You've got the piano, and you can order what books you want from Bombay. Haven't you any fancy work?"
She laughed. "Fancy work! I want to use my brains."
"Don't talk nonsense. What good will Hindustani do your brains? Keep up your French and music. Natives respect Englishwomen far more if they can't speak the language."
"Oh, Robert, what a thing to say! I'm sure that can't be true."
"You know nothing about it, you silly child. Come here!"
She had risen and was moving restlessly about the room. As she passed he put out his arm and pulled her down on to his knees. With a strong effort she controlled her reluctance, realising, suddenly aghast, that her distaste for Robert's demonstrations of affection was on the increase, that it threatened to develop into actual aversion. As he pressed her face against his shoulder, kissing her hair, a sort of desperation seized her. She did not love Robert, had never loved him, and at this moment she almost hated him. The question rose in her mind: Was it because they had known she was not in love with Robert that grandmamma and the aunts had shown so little sympathy with her marriage, had behaved as if she were doing somethingreprehensible? If so, why had they not warned her? Yet, supposing they had gone so far as to put probable consequences before her, would she have heeded, believed them? No, she knew well enough that in her headstrong simplicity nothing would then have turned her from her purpose. If anyone was to blame in the matter it was Robert, who had married her to please himself only, regardless of her ignorance of life and love, even partly, perhaps, because of it. She recalled a sentence in the letter Maud Verrall had written announcing her engagement: "I am very happy and awfully in love." If only she was in love with Robert! But she was not, she never could be. Did he know it? Not that she believed he would care one way or the other as long as she submitted to his will in every detail. But at least she did not intend to submit with regard to learning Hindustani. More than ever did she feel that congenial occupation of mind was a necessity, that if she could not satisfy her craving for knowledge of the country she would rather have stayed on at The Chestnuts. How could she hope to understand India, as far as it was possible for an Englishwoman to do so, till she was able to talk to the people? She had already discovered that India for its own sake did not interest Robert. He worked hard because he liked work. He had a clear, hard brain; the mode of existence suited him; he appreciated his big pay and the importance of his position; natives were afraid of him, and he liked to inspire fear. He never talked to her of his work, or of the people and their histories and religions, and nowhe did not want her to learn the language, beyond the smattering that would suffice for her daily requirements.
However, learn it she would. And a means, though repugnant, of gaining her ends occurred to her. Bracing her will, she slipped her arm about his neck and laid her lips to his cheek. "You areSatanSahib now," she murmured plaintively. "I don't like you at all."
His grasp of her tightened. "Why, what have I done?"
"The first little thing I have ever asked for you refuse me!"
"What was it?"
Good heavens! Were her wishes so trivial to him that they could pass from his mind on the spot?
She answered his question without betrayal of her resentment. "That I should learn Hindustani properly."
"What a little pest! Well, if I say 'yes,' how much will you love Santa-Sahib?"
"Ever and ever so much," she cooed, knowing that half measures would be useless, that she must pay, and pay fully, for what she wanted.
"All right, then we must see about a respectable oldmunshi, who won't let you work too hard or teach you bad words. After all, if you must use what you call your brains, it may be better for you than French novels. But remember, if you're going to pose as a clever woman I'll divorce you at once!"
"I don't think you'll get rid of me quite so easily," she laughed. The victory elated her. In future she would have no scruple as to this method of conquest when the object she desired was worth it. So she sipped her first taste of the power of sex hypocrisy, scented the supreme value of feminine arts and wiles.
Stella was careful to conceal from Robert the pleasure she found in her lessons with the white-bearded, horn-spectacled patriarch appointed her tutor. Having attained her desire through guile, she did not intend to risk deprivation through candour. Now and then, as a precaution, she would allude jokingly to her studies, sometimes feigned to be weary of them, implying that only a determination not to be baffled by a self-imposed task caused her to persevere; and Robert, who regarded the matter as a whim that would pass, made no further obstruction. During the hours while he was safely at office she worked zealously, and the progress she made surprised her, unconscious as she was of her own mental ability. Soon she could carry on simple conversations with the old teacher, and she forbade Champa to speak to her in English, greatly to the disgust of that accomplished female, who feared that her prestige in the compound as interpreter to the memsahib might suffer.
Champa sulked, and in some mysterious fashion seemed to join forces with Sher Singh in creating an atmosphere of espionage that to Stella was intensely exasperating. Did she give an order on her own account, it was caught up at once and repeated elaborately by the ayah; if she wandered in the garden Sher Singh would follow, and when she madeobjections both servants professed to misunderstand what she said. She felt she was being harried, and was unable to discover the reason. Never could she succeed in exploring the servants' quarters, for Sher Singh was always at hand; and as Robert had bidden her keep away from the low line of dwellings that swarmed with people, like a species of human ant-heap, disobedience might be reported by Sher Singh to his master either with or without intentional spite. Sometimes Mrs. Cuthell came to see her, also Mrs. Piggott and Mrs. Antonio, and during their visits Champa lurked and peeped, or Sher Singh hung about the doorways.
These ladies invited Mrs. Crayfield informally to tea or to tiffin, but Robert discouraged acceptance, said it was better not to start intimacies, as if he were jealous of her possible friendships; and although no real sacrifice was entailed, Stella made capital out of her refusals—pretended she was foregoing a pleasure for the sole reason that she wished to follow Santa-Sahib's will. She told herself she was growing sinfully deceitful; but her apprehension lest her study of the language should be stopped if she opposed Robert's prejudices in any other direction was stronger than her conscience. Anything to keep him amiable. Sometimes she wondered if she had any conscience left. Therefore Crayfield remained complacently convinced of his young wife's devotion. She gave him no trouble, was apparently content to leave the household control to Sher Singh, always looked lovely and fresh and sweet-tempered, and he desired no more. Wit and wisdom, intelligentconversation on her part would merely have bored him, rendered him vaguely suspicious. In his opinion women were better without education, which, all the same, was not to be confounded with what he regarded as "accomplishments." He liked her to sing pretty ballads and play waltzes; he enjoyed singing to her sympathetic accompaniment; and when she attempted to paint flowers and kingfishers and storks, or embroider strips of "crash" with intricate patterns in coloured cottons, on the lines of Mrs. Daw's remembered achievements, he criticised the results with patronising encouragement.
Thus the days passed smoothly. Rides in the late afternoon, a few formal dinners to "the station," the weekly "at homes," music in the evenings, until, shortly before Christmas, they went into camp on a tour of inspection. This meant double sets of tents, quantities of folding furniture, camels and carts and followers innumerable; it was a kind of royal progress. They passed from district to district, joining camps with various officials who came within the Commissioner's jurisdiction, friendly people to be entertained by their chief, entertaining him and his pretty wife in return. Stella revelled in the long marches on horseback, in the brilliant "cold weather," the small game shooting parties in the evenings when work was over, and the ever interesting background of villages, crops and cattle. She felt that such compensations made it worth while to be Santa-Sahib's plaything, especially as her lessons could be continued with the oldmunshi, who had somehow provided himself with a tent like a candle extinguisherand a small cow-hocked pony at Government expense. From him Stella gathered much local lore, curious stories of native village life. He expounded to her the system of self-government, old as the East. She caught glimpses of an ingrained faith in the power of spells and charms that all went back to the worship of Nature, though their origins had long been lost sight of, obscured by time.
It was with genuine regret that she returned to the station to "settle down," according to Robert, for the hot weather months. Rassih looked dusty and drear after the groves and cultivation of the district, the house felt more vast and oppressive, the outlook over the desert was one endless yellow haze. Preparations proceeded for the fierce heat that was at hand. Punkahs were hung from the ceilings, clumsy machines called "thermantidotes" made their appearance for the purpose of pumping cooled air into the rooms when the moment should arrive, screens of sweet-scented grass lay piled in the verandas, to be erected in the doorways and kept damp when the west wind should sweep and swirl over the land by day, and often by night as well.
The only change that threatened the social community was the coming departure of the Cuthells. The transfer took place shortly after the Crayfields' return to the station, and Mrs. Cuthell paid her farewell respects to the Commissioner's wife bursting with satisfaction, her broad face one beam of rejoicing and excitement.
"I can't describe to you how thankful we are to be leaving this dreadful place, Mrs. Crayfield,especially just as the hot weather is beginning. Only wait till it is in full blast, my dear, and then won't you wish you were out of it too! Rassih is one of the hottest stations in India, and this house, for all its height and space, can be a veritable oven. It's such luck that we are going to the hills on duty. You must ask your husband to let you come up to us for a visit. You will lose your bright complexion and good spirits, and get fever and prickly heat and all the rest of it if you stay here too long."
"It is very kind of you," rejoined Stella, unperturbed by these awful forebodings, "but I'm really rather looking forward to the experience."
Mrs. Cuthell glanced round the great drawing-room, that certainly of late had undergone much improvement, but all the same she gave a little shudder.
"Well, of course you can but try it," she croaked; "but in addition to definite drawbacks, I always feel that this house is so creepy. I suppose on account of its history—all those poor women and children being murdered here at the time of the mutiny. It seems so horrible to think of the officers cut down on parade, and then their families hiding here on the roof. They say the mutineers did not think of looking for them on the roof, and were just leaving the compound when one woman peeped over the parapet and they saw her. Of course, it was all up with the poor creatures; they were dragged down and murdered. It is difficult to realise that it all happened less than forty years ago."
She paused abruptly at the sight of Stella's whiteface and horror-stricken eyes. "Oh, didn't you know?" she inquired with remorse. "I'm so sorry I spoke of it, but I never dreamt——"
Stella gulped down her horror, but for the moment all her enthusiasm for India turned to revulsion. That dark page of history had hitherto seemed so remote, so unreal, like some tragedy of the Middle Ages long since forgotten and forgiven. Now the fact of its comparative recency, the vision of those defenceless women and children dragged down from the actual roof that was above her head, to be butchered without mercy in these very rooms, affected her acutely. How could she exist month after month in a dwelling that must be saturated with such agonising memories?
"Now, if anyone tells you that extraordinary noises are sometimes heard during the hot weather," continued Mrs. Cuthell with the best intentions, "don't take any notice. I have never believed in ghosts myself, and probably if therearenoises they come from the underground ruins—falling of masonry, and so on."
"The underground ruins!" repeated Stella. What was she to hear next?
"Yes. You know, one of the old Moghul emperors—I forget his name—was supposed to have dug himself a subterranean living-place, because he was blind—ophthalmia, no doubt, like so many natives. Anyway, all underneath the house and compound there are said to be tunnels and chambers, and an oil tank and treasure, and goodness knows what. The emperor went to war with someneighbouring enemy and got killed, so that he and his followers never came back, and what they left underground nobody knows."
"And has nobody ever tried to find out?" asked Stella, her curiosity aflame.
"I believe your husband's predecessor in the appointment got leave to dig. He used the prisoners from the jail, but so many accidents happened—men fell into holes and broke their limbs, or died from the bad air, and were bitten by snakes, and in the middle of it all the Commissioner went mad and committed suicide by jumping over the parapet at the back of the house. Of course, the natives said the digging had brought bad luck——" Again Mrs. Cuthell feared she had been indiscreet. "But you mustn't think of these things," she added cheerfully. "There is hardly an old house in India that hasn't some unpleasant story, and I'm sure you are far too sensible to let your mind dwell on anything that may have happened in the past."
It had been far from Mrs. Cuthell's intention to leave a legacy of apprehension and disquietude to the Commissioner's young wife, though she had never quite forgiven the usurpation of her throne as chief memsahib of the station by one so much her junior. With all her shallow outlook, Mrs. Cuthell owned a well-meaning disposition, and now she sincerely regretted that in her selfish elation and glee she should have alarmed and depressed the poor girl, however unwittingly, as she could not fail to perceive had been the result of her chatter.
"Now do remember," she said with anaffectionately repentant farewell, "if you find you can't stand the heat you have only to write and say you are coming to us, and we shall be truly delighted to put you up for as long as you like. I mean it."
Stella murmured her gratitude. She divined Mrs. Cuthell's self-reproach, and realised the wisdom of her advice not to allow her mind to dwell on the information so thoughtlessly imparted. After all, if Mrs. Cuthell had not divulged the history of the house, someone else would have done so sooner or later; it was only a wonder she had not heard it all before now. She freely forgave Mrs. Cuthell, and was sorry to see the last of her. Had Robert allowed her to make a friend she would have chosen Mrs. Cuthell, who at least was simple and true. Stella did not trust Mrs. Piggott. Mrs. Antonio and Pussy were out of the question as intimates. She had nothing in common with Mrs. Beard, and she had seen little of the other ladies. None of them had made friendly advances beyond their first calls, and a self-interested attendance at Mrs. Crayfield's weekly "at homes," when they were assured of good tennis and refreshments and an enjoyable afternoon.
Nevertheless, Stella had Mrs. Cuthell to thank for a sleepless night, that was followed at intervals by many others. She lay awake visualising horrors, listening with dread for "extraordinary sounds," though she heard nothing more startling than the usual chorus of jackals and hyenas outside, the snores of a servant in one of the verandas, and the coughing and murmuring of the night guard. She made no confession of her fears to Robert. For one thingshe suspected that his silence concerning the stories and associations of the place had been due not so much to consideration for her peace of mind as for his own convenience, and she could well understand his motive. A wife with "nerves," despondent, anxious to escape, would not be at all to his taste. But her efforts to conceal her apprehensions and her antipathy to the house only added to the strain.