"Little Miss Green, now—that girl over there dressed as a butterfly? Not much to look at, I grant you. With her figure she ought to have gone as a blue-bottle, but she can dance, and first go-off in a place like this you have to take what you can get. She and her sisters rely on the new-comers, thankful for any kind of partners; sensible girls! Easy enough to drop them when you get into the swim. Or there's Mrs. Bray; only her husband's jealous. Of course they're known as the donkeys. He won't let her dance with anyone more than once. There was a row at the last Cinderella——"
Flint bestirred himself. "Please don't trouble. Idon't want to dance. I'll just look on for a bit." He nodded a polite but determined dismissal, and was turning away when his tormentor exclaimed:
"Ah! Here we are! Now look. Here she comes, the General in tow, of course, and half a dozen other adorers. She's a fine hand at driving a team!"
Flint held his breath, his heart seemed to rise in his throat as the crowd parted slightly and a group came through one of the doorways. To the swing of a waltz he saw Stella—yes, Stella—advancing down the long, shining floor of the ballroom, radiant, light-hearted, attended by a little court of men mostly in uniform. He could not have told how she was dressed, he merely had an impression of floating pink drapery, gleams of silver; she looked to him taller, less girlish, in a way changed; her bearing held a gay confidence.... How different from his last sight of her—a wan, despairing figure, huddled weeping in a chair! She had forgotten him; their love had been but an episode in her young life, while for his part how he had suffered!—sacrificed so much. He ought to have expected it, should have realised that, child as she was, her heart must heal quickly from a wound that, though painful enough no doubt at the time, had not gone deep. Youth had asserted its claim; pleasure, social success, admiration, had consoled her successfully. He strove for her sake to feel glad, to stem the storm of rage and self-pity that seized him. Devil take the handsome, elderly satyr who was speaking in her ear.... She was smiling at him; it was unbearable. Now she was hidden by the whirling, throng. He waited, morose and miserable, planningto leave the bright scene before she should discover his presence, to clear out of Surima at dawn, and go where he could assert his claim to advancement, pick up the threads of ambition, push and trample and fight his way fiercely to the top. It was not too late, the way was still open....
Yet, unable to tear himself away, he stood, a stiff, black figure against the wall, his eyes scanning the dancers, until presently she passed him in the arms of her distinguished-looking partner, the scarlet of whose coat clashed harshly with the rose-colour of her gown. As they danced they were talking and laughing. In his mind Philip called to her: "Stella! Stella!"; he felt as if the whole room must hear him.... The pair halted at the opposite side of the room. The man was bending his iron-grey head towards her; there was force, personality in the well set-up figure and the bold features that but just escaped coarseness. He was taking Stella's fan from her hand with a familiar, proprietary air that to Philip was maddening; he lost hold of his high intentions and crossed the room deliberately, making his way among the dancers regardless of their indignant protests, the collisions he caused; as far as he was concerned they might all have been phantoms—he simply walked through them.
Then he stood before Stella, before the woman he loved, bowed like any casual acquaintance, and heard himself saying:
"Mrs. Crayfield, have you forgotten me? My name is Flint."
Startled, she looked up, and he saw the colourdrain from her lips and cheeks. The General stiffened, clearly resenting the intrusion.
"I've just got up from the plains," continued Philip pleasantly, though he found it hard to steady his voice. "I had no idea you were at Surima. It's a long time since we last met, isn't it?"
"Yes," she said faintly, not looking at him; "a long time——"
He knew that for the moment, at any rate, he was being a kill-joy, a ghost at the feast, calling up the past, spoiling her pleasure. Yet the consciousness was mingled with a sense of revengeful satisfaction that he could not control. Her passing vexation of spirit was as nothing compared with the tortures of his own.
"Come along, Mrs. Crayfield," the General was moving his feet, impatient to be off again, "we shall miss the last part of the waltz." He made as if to place his arm about her waist.
Philip turned aside, not waiting for her to look at or speak to him further. Blindly he made his way from the ballroom, his thoughts, his sensations in confusion, only to find himself in the midst of a babbling concourse of natives outside, bearers of the canoe-shaped conveyances in which ladies, and even a few men, were borne to the dance; neighing ponies were clustered by the railings; it was all jostle and noise. He walked round to the side of the hotel and discovered an empty veranda, a quiet refuge where he could smoke and attempt to think calmly. As he leaned on the railing his racked nerves welcomed the cold night air, the star-lit peace, the scent and thefaint stir of the pine trees. Beneath the ramshackle building sloped the wooded hill-side; far, far below lay the wide plains, dark and boundless as an ocean. Right and left in endless majesty stretched the mountains, and back in ever-rising ranges to the snow peaks, "the home of the gods." His thoughts went loosely adrift; that little crowd of human beings dancing, philandering in the ballroom, intent on their enjoyment, their fleeting loves and hates; whose lives were less than infinitesimal fractions of seconds compared with the ages! Who could grudge them their "little day" while it lasted? Nature had no pity, no sympathy for the struggles, the temptations, the sorrows, the pleasures of the ever-passing multitude of human insects loving and dancing and fighting through their short moments of darkness or sunshine.... What was love, what was sin? What difference could it make whether any of them failed or succeeded, did what seemed to them right or wrong! Nothing really mattered.... Should the human race be swept from the face of the earth, the hills and the plains, the seas and the sun, the moon and the stars, would go on to the end of Time....
Footsteps and voices broke in on Flint's wild, if hardly original, reflections. He recognised that a couple intent on privacy were groping their way into the dark retreat. He heard the grating of chairs on the stone floor, caught snatches of talk as he hid himself instinctively in the shadow of a pillar.
"All right?" the man's tone was full of tender concern. "You won't feel cold? Now listen—give me your hand, your dear little hand! I must tell you.I can't wait any longer. Youknow, don't you, darling?"
There came a tearful, agitated response. "Yes, but there will be such a row. Mother and father will never understand——"
"Oh! they will, when they see we're determined. Don't be frightened. We've only got to stick to it, hold on. You do love me, sweetheart, don't you?"
Philip slunk round the pillar and left the lovers to themselves. How he envied the two young creatures!—their path clear before them save for the frail barrier of parental prudence, which, of course, in the end would break down. It was all so idyllic, so natural. What a contrast to his own dark outlook where love was concerned.... In bitter envy he loitered on the pathway outside, beset by a longing to return to the ballroom that he might catch just one more glimpse of Stella, whatever the cost, before turning his back on Surima at dawn.
In a few moments he was standing among a group of spectators in one of the doorways, his eyes anxiously searching the crowd of dancers. But in vain; she was not in the ballroom.
"Hullo! This is luck. Thought you'd gone bye-bye!" His importunate acquaintance of the dinner-table was pushing a way to his side. "Flintisyour name, isn't it?"
Philip nodded absently.
"Well, Mrs. Matthews would like me to introduce you; she says she knows all about you. Dark horse,youare! You never let on when I mentioned her at dinner. It was only when she got hold of me justnow and said: 'Mr. Horniblow, you know everybody, can you point me out a new arrival whose name is Mr. Flint,' that I smelt a rat, and of course I made straight foryou. There she is. Come on now, quick, or we shall miss her."
He grabbed Philip's coat sleeve and dragged him forward. Before he could resist he was being presented to a lively-looking little lady all sequins and red and gold tissue, and a tambourine.
"That was very clever of you, Mr. Horniblow," she said brightly to the triumphant go-between. "Thank you so much."
She turned in pretty apology to Philip. "Don't think me too bold," she seemed to be pitching her voice high of intention, "perhaps you've forgotten me? ButIrememberyou!" She shot him a meaning glance, and he could not but take the hint.
He feigned pleasure. "This is a surprise! But when we last met you weren't a gypsy, or—or a Spanish dancer—which must be my excuse for not recognising you at once." He offered her his arm.
With a charming smile she waved away her late partner, a diffident young soldier easily shelved for the moment; and talking gaily of the dance, of the dresses, of anything, she guided Philip to the platform, of which the front seats were filled with chaperones and partnerless girls. Well at the back, screened by this rampart of female forms, stood a sofa, safe from listening ears. They took possession of it.
"Neatly done!" exclaimed Mrs. Matthews, sinking to her seat.
"Very," returned Philip, "but I don't quite understand——"
"YouareMr. Flint, Mr. Philip Flint?"
"Certainly. That is my name."
"Well, Mrs. Crayfield has gone home."
"Oh? Wasn't she feeling fit?" he inquired, apparently unmoved.
She glanced at him in rather resentful surprise. "Now don't be tiresome," she said quickly. "I know all about it, and we haven't much time to talk. I can't throw over any more partners. Stella was worried, upset, at seeing you so unexpectedly. I said I'd find you and explain. She's staying with me; we were girls together, you know. I dare say Stella has told you about me, Maud Verrall?"
"Yes, of course." Of course he knew about Maud Verrall, and The Court and The Chestnuts, and Grandmamma and the Aunts; had any detail of Stella's childhood, imparted to him by her, faded from his mind!
"We only got into touch with each other again at the beginning of this hot weather; somehow we'd stopped writing. But when I settled to come up here I wrote and asked if I could break my journey with the Crayfields for a few days. What an awful hole Rassih is! I found Stella half dead. That old brute, Colonel Crayfield, ought to be shot, and his horrible servant too. Between them they had nearly killed the poor girl."
Philip moved uneasily, and drew in his breath. "Do you——" he began, but he was not allowed to finish his question; Mrs. Matthews took it up.
"Do I know everything? Of course Stella told me, and the silly row about the pearls that gave the show away. She had a perfectly poisonous time after you left; I don't know how she got through it, and I'm sure she doesn't know either. When I turned up, old Crayfield was getting rather sick of her always being seedy; and I diddled him into letting her come with me. He took a fancy to me, and I let him—any port in a storm! We've lived in terror that he would come up on leave, but luckily he hasn't been able to get away. Stella was awfully ill for the first few weeks after we arrived——"
"She looks very well now," said Philip coldly, "and happy," he added.
His companion smote him sharply on the knee with her fan.
"My good man, you ought to be thankful, both for your own sake and for hers!"
"I am; and for that reason don't you think I'd better go without seeing her again?"
Mrs. Matthews hesitated; and Philip waited, hoping for some crumb of comfort, for the smallest encouragement to stay.
The answer came slowly. "I think you ought to go. You see—you see Stella has found out the power of her beauty and her charm, and it's a sort of consolation to her. She'll never get into mischief, not seriously, I mean, with anyone else, and as you and she can't come together again without the risk of a lot of bother and trouble, you'd much better let her alone. You can't blame her if she takes what she can get out of life under the circumstances——"
"I don't," he said shortly. "If she can put the past behind her I can but try to do the same."
"Wise man! Oh! look at this creature making for me; I shall have to go, the dance has begun."
A cowboy had climbed the daïs in pursuit of Mrs. Matthews, and further hope of confidential conversation was blocked. Philip rose and held out his hand.
"Good-bye, then—and thank you for your advice. I will take it. I recognise that you are right."
As they parted he saw sympathy in her bright eyes, and was grudgingly, miserably grateful.
"Oh! How slack I feel. Dances are the devil!" Maud Matthews yawned and stretched amid a nest of cushions in a long chair. "I'm sure I must look about sixty. Do I, Stella?"
She appealed to her friend who at that moment joined her in the veranda of the Swiss Chalet-like habitation perched on the hill-side. Clear midday sunshine blazed over the terraced garden thick with dahlias, crimson and purple, orange-red, yellow, a wild, luxuriant growth. Pots of chrysanthemums fringed the veranda steps, an autumn odour pervaded the atmosphere, a smell of ferns and moss and pungent evaporation. The sky was like pale blue glass, and far, far away, beyond valleys and rising ranges, glittered and sparkled the everlasting snows.
Outside, on the narrow pathway, young Richard was asserting himself in a perambulator, attended by the long-suffering ayah who every few minutes retrieved a woolly toy, handing it back to the small tyrant with indulgent remonstrance. "Hai-yai! What is to be done with such a malefactor! Must not throw; it is forbidden."
"Beat him," his mother advised lazily. "Beat him with a big stick."
"Dost harken?" warned the ayah. "One more throw, and see what will befall!"
Instantly the woolly toy was again hurtled downamong the dahlias, and the child shrieked with mischievous glee.
"Aree! Narty!" the ayah picked up her petticoats and plunged into the foliage.
Unperturbed by her son's misdemeanours, Mrs. Matthews turned once more to her guest and began to patter nonsense. Truth to tell she was nervously delaying the moment when Stella's questions must be answered.
"If possible, dear thing, you look even more dreadful than I do, though you went home so early last night. I got back at some disreputable hour and peeped into your room, but you were asleep. Really, to look at you, one would imagineyourhusband was coming up on leave next week instead of mine. What on earth shall I do with Dick! He'll hate all my men friends, and be rude to them, and expect me to break all my engagements. I suppose we shall go to bed early and have long walks before breakfast, and devote ourselves to young Richard with intervals for arguments over domestic affairs——"
"Oh! to hear you," interrupted Stella with exasperation, "one would think you didn't care one snap for Dick or that imp in the perambulator. Why humbug with me of all people?"
"Yes, I know," in hasty apology. "I know I am lucky. Yet you have your compensations. You are ever so much better looking than I am, and your looks are of the sort that will last. Your nose, for example; it's a nose for a lifetime!Youcan amuse yourself with a clear conscience, without feeling a pig, as I do when I flirt till all's blue. How I am to suppressBobbie Nash when Dick appears on the scene is a problem, and I can't give the young owl a hint beforehand; that would be a bit too low! Now, you and your old play-boy—even Dick couldn't make a fuss if it was the General instead of Bobbie Nash!"
"Oh, Maud, do stop!" cried Stella, at the end of her endurance. Maud's little excitements and intrigues were so trivial; no misery, no heartache, lay beneath the surface of her frivolity. Stella knew well enough that Maud loved her husband, and that once he was on the spot she would be happy in his company, though in his absence the attentions of a herd of irresponsible young men was as the breath of her nostrils. "How can you go on gabbling like this when you know what I am longing to hear?"
Last night she had fled from the ballroom, distraught by the sudden, unexpected meeting with Philip. It had been beyond her to remain as if nothing had happened. She was at a loss to interpret his demeanour, so distant, so formal; did he intend her to understand that his feelings had changed? She had relied upon Maud to find out; for hours she had lain awake listening for Maud's return till, from sheer exhaustion, she had fallen asleep, and, after all, Maud had not awakened her. Both of them had slept late into the morning, and now Maud would only drivel about her own silly affairs. The suspense was intolerable; she could bear it no longer.
"Aren't you going to tell meanything?" she demanded furiously.
"Wait a moment." Mrs. Matthews rose from her long chair and went to kiss her obstreperousoffspring in the perambulator, gave some directions to the ayah and banished the pair to another quarter of the garden out of sight and hearing. Then she returned to her seat and faced Stella with reluctance.
"It's rather difficult to tell you," she began. "That was why I was putting it off. He has gone."
Stella flushed and paled. "Gone? Gone away from Surima—from—from me?"
Maud nodded. "Now, dear thing, be sensible. I assure you he hopes you may have got over that unfortunate business between you. He wants to get over it too. I don't say he has, any more than you have, altogether, but you both will, given the chance. Isn't it best? You can't deny it, Stella."
"Oh, Maud, what have you done?" Stella's voice rang sharp with pain and reproach. Her disappointment was poignant. She had expected some message, she hardly knew what, but something of solace and reassurance, at the least that Philip wanted to see her alone. She had never dreamed that he would not wish to see her.
"I haven't done anything," declared Maud defensively. "He saw for himself that you weren't exactly pining away without him, and if you do still care about him you ought to be thankful that he has gone off like this without making further trouble for you or for himself. After all, you wouldn't bolt with him when you had the chance, and quite right too! And now you shouldn't want him to be a martyr any more than he wants you to mope for the rest of your life."
Stella gazed at her blankly. Staunch friendthough Maud was, how little she understood. Oh, why had she not stayed on at the ball? She might have got at the truth for herself. Instead, she had behaved like a fool, like a coward; and so Philip had gone!
She burst out: "Tell me what he said, what you said. Tell me exactly. Don't dare to keep anything from me."
"My dear girl, keep calm. You can't expect me to remember every single word we uttered. I'm not trying to make mischief and muddles, like people in stories. I simply told him how I had got you away from Rassih and how ill you were, and he simply said that as you looked very happy and well he thought the best thing he could do was to clear out, and I agreed with him. I pointed out that you had learnt to enjoy yourself, and that he couldn't blame you. He said he didn't. I must say I don't wonder you fell in love with him, especially at Rassih. He is an awfully good sort; but you know if he had stayed here now the whole thing would have begun all over again, and been worse than ever. Buck up, Stella! You had a lucky escape. I dare say I might have persuaded him to stay, but I knew it was best not to. When you have thought it all over you'll say I was right and be grateful, instead of looking as if you would like to poke my eyes out!"
Stella sat miserably silent. There was nothing further to be said. It would hardly be fair to accuse Maud of having done her an ill turn, but at present she certainly could not bring herself to feel grateful. Sore and wretched, she rose.
"I'm going for a walk before tiffin," she said abruptly.
"Keep out of the sun, then," advised Maud, "or you'll have a headache. Remember it's the General's garden party this afternoon, and the club dinner and theatricals to-night. Just put out the 'Not at home box,' will you? I'm not fit to be seen this morning, and can't be bothered with callers."
A little later Stella strolled along the pathway. She hung the protective card-box on the trunk of the pine tree that guarded the small domain; then she wandered up the steep incline towards an upper road little frequented by the English community. It led to the back of the hill, where as yet no bungalows had been erected, dwindling eventually to a mere bridle path used by the hill people from far distant villages. Once away from all sound of the station, she seated herself on a moss-covered boulder and gazed gloomily over the blue valleys and the opposite mountains that in the rarefied atmosphere looked so unnaturally near. Jungle fowl were calling, crickets sang lustily among the ferns that fringed the tree branches; a family of black monkeys crossed the path and went crashing and chattering down the wooded precipice below; round the shoulder of the hill trudged a stalwart hill-woman, a load of charcoal on her back in a conical-shaped basket. She had a flat Mongolian countenance, red colour in her brown cheeks, and her eyes were like green agates; a heavy turquoise necklace hung round her neck. She grinned a friendly greeting as she passed the forlorn figure seated by the wayside, and Stella envied her. Howcontented and independent she looked, though probably she had two or three husbands and led a hard life of toil. At any rate, she was neither desolate nor oppressed. The sound of her stately tramping died away, and at last, influenced unconsciously by the solitude, the grand beauty of the landscape, the purity of the air, Stella began to think more coherently, to think of all she would have told Philip had he been beside her asking for her confidence, anxious to know all that had befallen her since their parting at Rassih. Then, though she had thought he was going out of her life, the distress and the terror had been leavened by the conviction that he loved her. This time he had gone of his own free will, ready to forget her, wishing to forget her. It seemed years since he had called to her that night in the big drawing-room. She seemed to hear his voice now, charged with love and despair. And the memory of the time intervening until Maud's arrival was like a long nightmare, followed at Surima by a blank that, ill as she was, came as a dreamless, refreshing sleep from which she had awakened to a world of diversion.
With returning health and the stimulation of Maud's company she had begun to find solace in her freedom, in the power of her beauty, which slowly she had learn to value. At first the attention she attracted came to her as a genuine surprise, and all the dances, the parties, the light-hearted gatherings proved a welcome refuge from depressing thought. Finally she had plunged into the gay whirl with a will, encouraged by Maud, living solely in theagreeable, intoxicating present, banishing as far as possible the past from her mind, refusing to look forward.
And in one second all the false ramparts she had erected around her had crumbled to dust. One moment she had been laughing, free from care, the next she had looked up in the midst of some careless banter to see Philip—but what a different Philip, cold and callous and hard! Stella did not doubt Maud's version of the conversation that had passed between the two. It seemed clear enough that Philip shrank from renewal of the past, and was it any wonder? She tried to be just to him, yet a feeling of bitter resentment fought with her sense of fair play. Why, when she had discovered that, given the opportunity, life could be enjoyed, should he have come to disturb and distress her? Where, all this time, had he been, what had he been doing? No word concerning him had reached her. Of course, she understood that he had not known she was at Surima; yet why, if he did not wish to meet her again, had he come up to her in the ball-room? Surely it would have been simple enough to leave Surima without allowing her to know he had been there at all. Was it partly for her sake that he had, to quote Maud, "cleared out," or was it entirely because he feared she might expect him to lay his heart at her feet once more? Whatever the reason the result was the same. He had gone without a word or a message that would have left her in possession of the truth.
Passionately she wished she had the power towipe the whole incident from her mind. Maud was right; she had her compensations; but of what value would they be to her once she was back at Rassih? In another month or less she must return to Robert, to the horrible old house, to Sher Singh, and the loneliness, the dull round of petty happenings repeated day after day.... A fierce defiance seized her; at least she had this month before her; she could but make the best of it. Her heart hardened. She looked up at the clear blue sky, watched an eagle soaring over the valley, became conscious of the vast, sunny peace around her, drew in long breaths of the wonderful air.... After all, she was young, she was well; and when she returned to Rassih she would endeavour to recover her influence with Robert. Once reassured of her loyalty he might allow her to invite friends to stay with her, friends she had made at Surima, might permit her to pay visits in return. Next year she would manœuvre to take a house of her own at Surima for the hot-weather months. With such a prospect the coming winter could be endured. She realised that Robert, on his part, had a grievance against her; undoubtedly she had been a disappointment to him. She owed him some consideration; in his way he had not been ungenerous; all this time at Surima he had kept her well supplied with money, and if he had been glad to get rid of her was it not only natural?
Well, she would continue to enjoy herself now, and then she would go back and wheedle and coax and work upon Robert's weaknesses until she could induce him to grant her liberty when occasion shouldarise. Let Philip go hang. If he wished to forget her let him do so; she could play the same game, and play it she would! Resolutely she turned her mind to coming dissipations; the General's garden party this afternoon—she was fully aware that the station regarded her as the special "favourite" of Sir George Rolt. Subalterns made up to her with the idea that she held the ear of the Chief; not only subalterns either, but more senior aspirants to favour and promotion. The sense of prestige and power fed the worst side of her nature, and, in addition, she liked Sir George Rolt, whose free admiration raised her to a pinnacle of importance, rendered her an object of envy among all the other women of a certain type in the place who possessed any claim to attractions. To-night there would be the Club dinner, with theatricals to follow; at both gatherings she knew she would be the best looking, best dressed woman of the throng, and her sore spirit took comfort in the conviction.
Stella wandered back to the little bungalow on the side of the hill feeling as though she had drunk deep of some draught that stilled trouble and pain for the time, however pernicious its after-effects.
The Swan Song of the Surima season took the form of a picnic—a truly ambitious entertainment given by a moneyed merchant from Calcutta, whose ideas of hospitality had apparently no boundaries. A banquet was prepared in the vicinity of a famous waterfall some two miles below the station; champagne vied with the waterfall itself in its volume and flow; there was a band; Badminton nets had been erected on a convenient plateau, and covetable prizes had been provided for the winners of an improvised tournament of two a side; in addition every lady present was to receive a gift—chocolates, scent, pretty, expensive trifles. High spirits prevailed, and amid the gay, well-dressed assemblage of women Mrs. Crayfield was pre-eminent.
Stella had won the first prize in the tournament, a jewelled bangle; animated, flushed, she stood the centre of attention receiving congratulations, protesting that her success was due only to her handicap, and to the exertions of her partner in the game. "You all know I can't play a bit!" she said laughing, radiant; the bangle was lovely, everyone was so nice, nobody seemed to grudge her the little triumph; it was all delightful.
"Never mind—you have won, no matter how!" chaffed the General. "Now aren't you tired?" he added, lowering his voice. "Come for a stroll, to get an appetite for tea!"
Adroitly he detached her from the crowd that had already begun to disperse in groups and pairs. As Stella and Sir George moved off together Maud and her husband went by; Dick Matthews had arrived at Surima the previous evening, and Bobbie Nash, as some wag had remarked, was nursing his nose in the background for the time being; the only individual, perhaps, who was not altogether enjoying the picnic.
"Don't attempt to follow us!" called Maud as she passed Stella and the General, and she looked back at them over her shoulder, pulled down her mouth, cast up her eyes, then tucked her arm into Dick's and stepped out beside him with an air of exaggerated virtue.
"Little cat!" exclaimed the General, highly entertained with her antics, "as if we should want to follow them!" He glanced about, scanning various directions in which they might hope to find privacy; and presently they were climbing the slope of the mountain above the waterfall to seat themselves on the trunk of a fallen tree screened by a tangle of ferns, saplings, feathery bamboos, beneath the shade of the oaks that rose densely behind them.
Sir George took out his cigarette case. "Well," he said with a resigned sigh, "it's sad to think we shall all be scattered during the next ten days. I wonder when and where you and I will meet again!"
"Goodness knows!" Privately Stella did not particularly care. "Don't let us look forward."
Yet his words gave her a sense of depression after all the gaiety and the glamour of the picnic luncheonand the surface excitement of the tournament. She was tired, conscious of reaction; her spirits fell. She would have preferred to sit silent, listening to the music of the waterfall, the cheerful chirrup of the crickets, to be soothed by the scenery and the soft evening sunshine, the peace and the remoteness of the surroundings.
"Not look forward to our meeting again?" Reproachful astonishment was in the General's tone as he leaned forward to look into her eyes. "Do you mean to forget me, little girl?"
She was aware of a certain magic in his bold, strong face, in his maturity, and experience of women and of the world. Stella felt helpless, ensnared, yet the ensnarement was enticing, held a baleful fascination. So often during these months at Surima she had felt it, felt at the same time that it meant nothing serious; it was just a game, but a game that Sir George knew so much better than she did how to play without fear of disastrous result. More than once had he led her, as it were, to the edge of the volcano; just a peep over and a timely withdrawal into safety.
"Why don't you answer?" he laid his hand on hers; she moved her hand quickly, yet, as before, not altogether unwilling to dally with the moment that held a little thrill of excitement.
"Of course," she said demurely, "I don't want to forget you. Why should I?"
"Well then, give me something to remember—that we can both remember to the end of our days!"
His arm went round her; his face, his hard, handsome face, was close to hers! he meant to kiss her,meant business this time—because it was the last opportunity? And of a sudden Stella thought of Philip, of how Philip had held her in his arms, had pressed his lips to hers....
"Don't!" she cried desperately, "don't! You can't understand—it's impossible——"
"Why?" he inquired, intrigued. "Is there someone else?"
She let herself go, turned to him in her distress, with an instinct that he would comprehend if he had but an inkling of her plight. "Yes," she said tremulously, "there is, there was, someone else, and it's all so hopeless, and miserable!"
He held out his hand, this time with friendly, almost fatherly intention. "There! Poor child, how was I to know? Forgive me; I dare say I've been a beast, but I meant no real harm. Tell me all about it, eh?"
Sir George felt as much curiosity as interest to hear the little story. Surely she was too young, too inexperienced, to have had any serious love affair; he was prepared to be secretly amused, as well as to show adequate sympathy. Probably it was just some boy and girl romance, and her parents had married her suitably to put an end to it.
"I can't talk about it," said Stella.
"Did it happen before, or after you were married?" he persisted.
She did not answer.
"Then it was after!"
She nodded reluctantly.
"And shall you see him again?" Clearly it wasno one at Surima, since he himself had been the favoured one of all her adorers.
"No, never!" said Stella vehemently.
"Well then, listen to my words of wisdom. Don't imagine at your age that you won't fall in love again, but when you do remember to keep your head if you can't keep your heart. The world is never well lost for any man's sake, whatever the poets may say. If I'm not mistaken you have plenty of grit; so don't allow circumstances to get the better of you. Take what you can get out of life without losing your place in the ranks of the righteous, or you'll be trampled into the dust. Love as much as you like, but love wisely. Bide your time, Stella, my child; you'll forget this lover, whoever he is, and there'll be plenty more. Break hearts all over the place, they'll mend soon enough, and you'll have had your amusement without paying for it. But don't make false steps and imagine you can't suffer for them at the hands of the world. It's not good enough, believe me!"
From one point of view Stella felt he was right; from another, and a higher point, that his advocations were false. Had he told her to remember her marriage vows, to be faithful in thought as well as in deed to her husband, to shrink with shame from all thought of extracting consolation by devious methods.... She almost laughed as she imagined Sir George preaching such practice. Yet in substance his counsel was not far removed from the course she had mapped out for herself that morning on the hill side after her meeting with Philip in the ball-room; and Maud hadoften said much the same thing, though not quite so plainly perhaps. Truly she was between the devil and the deep sea; but which was which? To do her duty by Robert honestly, squarely, meant a sort of death in life—the deep sea? To play a part while seeking underhand compensations—the devil?
"Look here," went on Sir George kindly. "Come and stay with me for the race meeting at my headquarters this November. You shall have the time of your life. A big party, all the prettiest women in the Province, and you'll be the prettiest. You shall do hostess if you like. People might talk, no doubt they do now, but that doesn't matter as long as they've nothing to lay hold of. Is it a bargain?"
It was an alluring invitation. But could she accept it with any hope of fulfilment? Perhaps—if she carried out her programme of false conciliation where Robert was concerned.
"I'm not sure if I could get away," she said doubtfully.
"The husband?" queried Sir George smiling. "Aren't you clever enough to get round him?"
Stella felt reckless. "Anyway, I'll try," she declared; and she determined, if humanly possible, to succeed.
"Very well, leave it at that, and let us hope for the best. Count on me to send you the right kind of letter, and we'll pull it off somehow. Cheer up, my dear, never say die!" He patted her hand, and lit his cigarette, persuaded her to take one too, and Stella felt comforted, almost convinced that he and Maud were right—that in time she might forgetPhilip; she had all her life before her in which to do so!
Someone was shouting below them; it was the summons to tea. Figures emerged from all quarters, the valley resounded with voices, privacy was at an end. Stella rose readily. "We must go," she said, glad of the interruption; and they scrambled and slipped their way back to the meeting place. At sunset a procession started toward the station—a phalanx of dandies and ponies and more Spartan pedestrians who felt equal to the climb. It was almost dark when Stella and her friends reached their perch on the hill side, tired yet cheerful, ready for a rest if hardly for dinner after the superabundance of fare they had lately enjoyed. Maud rushed to the nursery, Dick hung about, smoking, in the veranda; Stella was making for her bedroom when one of the servants accosted her with a salver in his hand on which lay a yellow envelope.
"Telegram, Memsahib," he said stolidly; she opened it with a qualm of foreboding. It was signed "Antonio," and she read:
"Come down Colonel Crayfield ill."
"Diagnosis difficult," said Dr. Antonio pompously professional, yet clearly puzzled and disturbed.
Stella stood with him in the big drawing-room that looked dusty and neglected in the dim lamplight, trying to gather what had happened, what was likely to happen. From across the hall came a monotonous sound, a loud, delirious voice repeating some sentence over and over again. On her arrival, soon after midnight, she had scarcely been able to realise that it was indeed Robert who lay on his bed, so strangely altered, talking incoherently, paying no heed to her presence. Mrs. Antonio was there as well as the doctor; apparently the good couple had not left the house for the past twenty-four hours.
"Is it typhoid, do you think?" Stella asked helplessly.
"No, not typhoid, some kind of poison."
"Something he had eaten?"
"How can I say? One day quite well, playing tennis, then feeling ill, sending for me; and all at once very high fever, delirious. As yet not yielding to treatment. Typhoid, smallpox, cholera, malaria," he ticked off the diseases on his fingers, "none of them. I have grave suspicion, Mrs. Crayfield!"
"You mean you think someone has tried topoisonmy husband?"
"Yes, that is what I think."
"But who could it be? The servants have all been with him for years——"
"That is so. But where is that bearer, that Sher Singh?"
Mystified, Stella stared at the old man. "Isn't Sher Singh here?" In all the distraction of her arrival she had not noted Sher Singh's absence, had not thought of him.
"Not here! He has——" Dr. Antonio paused as though searching for a word, "he hasbunked."
"But surely——"
He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands. "Afim-wallah, you know!" he said significantly.
"Afim-wallah?"
"Yes, opium-eater."
"I don't understand. Dr. Antonio, do speak plainly. Is it your opinion that Sher Singh has been trying to poison my husband? But Sher Singh was so devoted to him!"
"That is just it. Jealousy, and you coming as bride, and the woman, his relation, sent away. Now, brain upset with opium, and you coming back again soon."
"Sher Singh's relation? What relation?" She thought impatiently that the old doctor's imagination had run away with him; then, from the back of her mind, called up by the mention of opium in conjunction with Sher Singh, came the recollection of all Mrs. Antonio had said that hot afternoon long ago in her stuffy, hookah-smelling drawing-room. She visualised the untidy form clad in a grotesque dressing-gown; the bath towel tied over the grey hair,the mysterious nods, and: "Knowing too many secrets!" What was behind it all? The idea that Sher Singh had tried to poison Robert seemed to her too melodramatic and impossible to be accepted, whatever his provocation or mental condition; yet, according to Dr. Antonio, Sher Singh had disappeared, "bunked!" Why?
"What relation?" she repeated.
Dr. Antonio puffed, and fidgeted his feet. "Oh, no use going over old stories. All done with," he said evasively. "Only, putting two and two together, it is my suspicion that Sher Singh has done harm. But these things are not easy to bring home; at present we have just to think of curing."
He took out a large gold watch, for the clock in the room had stopped. "Will you rest now, Mrs. Crayfield? Not much change likely just yet. My wife, she must go home and get sleep, but I will remain."
"I am not tired," declared Stella, though she ached all over after the long journey. "It is you who ought to rest," and indeed the old man's fatigue was patent. "Let me sit with my husband while you lie down; there is a bed in the dressing-room, and I would call you at once if necessary."
Just then Mrs. Antonio joined them. She also looked well nigh worn out.
"He is dozing now!" she said hopefully; and Stella became aware that the sound in the bedroom had ceased.
A little later she was seated by Robert's bedside, and from the dressing-room came long-drawn, regularsnores which told her that Dr. Antonio was already enjoying his well-deserved rest.
Robert lay quiet, save for his quick, uneven breathing, and now and then a moaning sigh. The punkah had been stopped by Dr. Antonio's orders because, as he had explained to her, it had seemed to worry the patient; it was hardly needed now that the nights were growing cooler except to keep off mosquitoes, and Stella could do that with the palm-leaf fan Mrs. Antonio had handed over to her before her departure.
For an hour she sat fanning the mottled, swollen face on the pillow; the lights were turned low, and the long door-windows stood open. It was a bright starlit night; except for the cry of some restless bird, and the intermittent squabbling of animals at the base of the fort walls, there was little sound.... Stella tried not to think, she did not want to think; and to keep her mind quiescent she repeated to herself verses, songs, anything she could recall mechanically, but always with irritating persistency the words of the hymn that seemed to have been the starting point of her real life kept recurring, ousting all else: