The disappearance of the pearls caused general commotion throughout the Commissioner's establishment. Perforce the police were called in to make investigations, and Mr. Piggott being absent from the station on duty, the chief native subordinate took command of the compound and set up a species of martial law. The servants, in terror of secret extortion under threat of false proof or suspicion, seemed to lose their wits, and either blundered idiotically over their duties or forgot them altogether. Champa collapsed, distraught with agitation, and refused to stir from her quarters.
Robert talked of little else but the loss.
"Such a thing has never happened before inmyhousehold," he kept repeating, as they sat at an uncomfortable meal next midday. "You are perfectly certain, Stella, that you haven't mislaid the necklace or dropped it anywhere?"
And each time he asked the question Stella replied wearily, "I am perfectly certain," until she felt tempted at last to declare that she had thrown away the pearls of deliberate intention. Her nerves were on edge, and she found it hard to control her temper. Mercifully, breakfast was now practically over.
"What about that man of yours, Flint? How long have you had him?"
"Five years, and he's certainly not the thief, ifthat's what you mean. He's a respectable, simple-minded old fellow with a long record of good service to his credit."
Robert grunted incredulously and lit a cheroot. "That ayah knows something," he suggested to his wife, "or why hasn't she turned up this morning?"
"She's ill," said Stella, "ill with fright, I should think."
"A guilty conscience more likely."
"I'm quite sure she had nothing to do with it."
Annoying as Champa had been, Stella was convinced of the woman's honesty.
"How can you be sure? Don't talk nonsense."
"Well, wasn't she engaged by Sher Singh?" She felt she had scored, and emboldened by the advantage, added recklessly: "If it comes to that, I would sooner believe that Sher Singh——"
"Sher Singh," interrupted Robert angrily. "On the contrary, if he had been here the thing wouldn't have happened. Some rascal took the opportunity of his absence."
"Then, unless it was all prearranged, the thief must have acted pretty promptly," argued Stella, who had arrived at a pitch of provocation that rendered her indifferent to Robert's displeasure. "Perhaps the telegram was bogus?" she continued ironically; "sent to lure the unsuspecting Sher Singh from his post." And with an effort she quelled a ridiculous impulse to add that possibly Sher Singh had borrowed the necklace in order that some member of his family might wear it at the relative's funeral. She came dangerously near to laughter in picturingthe scene that such a suggestion would evoke. As it was, her sly attack on the good name of Sher Singh led to mixed consequences.
Robert rose impatiently. "Sher Singh must come back. If a wire goes at once he ought to be here to-night."
Stella repented her imprudence; on the other hand, as Robert strode from the room to fulfil his intention, there was comfort in the fact that at last she and Philip were safely alone for a space. The table servants, at work in the pantry, were well out of hearing; the punkah coolie at his post could not see them.
Philip said breathlessly: "Stella, what are we to do?"
The moments were precious; she answered with haste, though her voice was calm. "One of us must go away. It's the only thing to do. Sher Singh——"
"What has Sher Singh to do with it?"
"He knows, he has been watching us. He would do anything to harm me. Anyway, we couldn't go on like this——"
"It's all my fault," he said wretchedly. "What a selfish beast I have been. I ought to have held my tongue."
"What difference would it have made? We bothknew!"
He was amazed at her fortitude. No longer was she the helpless, unhappy child weighed down by relentless fate, but a woman determined to grapple with the future. The Carrington spirit of pluck and endurance still lived in the last of the line.
A little cloud of masculine grievance gathered in his mind, rose between them. His was the blame for the whole situation, and he was prepared to sacrifice all for her sake, to take her away that they might live for themselves alone. Since his outburst on the balcony wild schemes had invaded his brain, though as yet, without practical plan; now it chafed him to feel that she might not be ready to follow his lead in joyful appreciation of his purpose. The realisation fanned his passion, strong as it was already.
"Are you thinking of yourself or of me?" he asked bitterly.
"Oh, how can you!" she cried, pained beyond further expression of reproach; yet she understood that his cruelty arose from the very strength of his feelings, and while with feminine instinct she divined his love-selfishness she cared for him none the less.
"Look here," she said firmly, "I belong to Robert. You belong to India. And we've both got to remember——"
"Oh, I know what you're going to say—remember our duty. Duty be damned," he retorted, beside himself. "You can't love me as I love you or you wouldn't talk like this. What do I matter to India?—I'm only a fly on the wheel. What do you matter to Crayfield, any more than if you were—well, a pearl necklace, for instance!"
"I know my value to Robert exactly," she told him with a wry little smile; "but I married him for what he could give me, and he has given it. I don't agree with you as to your value to India. India dependson men like you; and if you are flies on the wheel, the wheel wouldn't go round without you."
It was true, and he knew it. All the same, he felt that Stella meant more to him now than his duty to India and all his ambition.
"We belong to each other, and to no one and nothing else," he maintained doggedly. "You can't go on living with one man when you know you love another. It's not right."
"Perhaps not, from one point of view, but I don't take that view. We can't think of ourselves. I shall ask Robert to let me go to the Cuthells, even if I have to pretend to be ill. If he won't let me go, then you must apply for leave, or get away somehow from Rassih."
"Stella, are you made of stone?" He drew his chair nearer to hers, laid his hand on her arm, rejoiced as he felt how her pulses responded to his touch. "Think what the separation would mean. We could go to England," he urged. "I would work for you, slave for you, darling."
"And that would mean your giving up India?"
"Not necessarily. I can take leave on urgent private affairs for six months. Furlough is due to me, too, but that takes time to arrange. I could get it tacked on afterwards, and then—then we could be married and come out together. It would all have blown over."
But even as he spoke there came visions, strive as he would to ignore them, of obscure little stations, promotion tardy, other men passing over his head for the rest of his service.
"And suppose Robert wouldn't—supposing we couldn't be married?"
This possibility had not entered his mind. He hesitated, then added quickly: "He couldn't be such a brute! If he was, I'd retire; we would live quietly somewhere out of the world, just for each other. Don't you care for me enough to take the risk?"
She did not answer, because she feared if she spoke at the moment she might burst into tears. He misunderstood her silence.
"I tell you," he went on impetuously, "I tell you again, as I told you yesterday morning, that nothing matters to me in the world but your love. It means more to me than my work and my aims, my life itself. Without you, success in the Service would simply be dust and ashes. I'd sooner live on a desert island with you than be Viceroy of India. Are you afraid to trust yourself to me?"
She struggled for self-control. His eyes were pleading, his face looked drawn. She longed to give in, to tell him she asked nothing better than to be with him for always, at whatever the price or the punishment. Yet surrender at best must mean greater sacrifice for Philip than she on her side could offer, and she meant to hold out even should it all end in a parting that left Philip with the impression that she valued her worldly well-being beyond his love. Her thoughts were simple, direct; but she felt if she tried to explain, urged the fact that she cared too much for him to become a drag on his life, would find compensation in knowing he was free to go forward untrammelled, she might only appear to besetting herself up on a pedestal of self-righteousness at his expense. She temporised.
"Let us think it over," she entreated; "let us give ourselves time, by one of us going away, at any rate for the present."
"Time would make no difference as far asIam concerned. It would only be the same thing all over again! But if you think it would help you to forget, then of course I must agree."
"Oh, it isn't that," she protested, tortured beyond endurance. She cast about in her mind for further argument. "Do you remember one day when I told you how I regretted I wasn't a man to do what little I could for India, and you said my chance might come?"
"Oh, you sweet, silly child!" he scoffed. "Do you honestly imagine that India would crumble to pieces without me?" He laughed as he seized her in his arms, kissing her madly. She wrenched herself free, stood swaying, confused, overcome with the force of his passion, the thrill of his embrace. Then came the sound of Robert's returning footsteps, and she held up a warning hand, bent over the bowl of flowers on the table as though to rearrange them. Philip moved his chair back to its original position and busied himself with his cigarette case, but he could have wished that Crayfield had surprised them; then there would have been an end to all subterfuge, of all Stella's doubts and scruples. He felt a cur because he did not stand up and proclaim the truth there and then, so setting her free from the onus of decision.
"That's done!" said Robert. "Now, when Sher Singh comes back, perhaps we shall get to the bottom of this pearl business. Are you ready, Flint? We ought to be off again if we're to see to that farther chain of villages. It looks like more rain, thank goodness. Stella, you'd better go and lie down; you look like a ghost."
"I feel like one, too," she answered, and as he turned to leave the room she followed him quickly. "Robert, wait a moment." She caught his elbow. "Come into my room, I want to speak to you."
He acquiesced, though with impatience. "Well, what is it?"
"I must have a change," she began volubly; "I can't stand the heat any longer. I believe I shall die if I don't get away from it. You can't think how awful I feel."
He looked at her in astonishment, with which concern, vexation, and a shade of indefinite suspicion were mingled.
"You want to go away? You know perfectly well I can't ask for leave with all this distress in the district, even if the rains break freely in the next few days."
"But I could go alone," she pleaded. "Mrs. Cuthell would have me, I know she would. I'd come down again directly I felt better. It isn't gaiety I want, only to feel better."
"Antonio must come and have a look at you. Perhaps——"
"No, no," cried Stella. "It's not that!" She almost wished it were, that she might have strongerexcuse for flight. The idea even crossed her mind to feign doubt in order to gain her purpose, and though she dismissed it with horror she clung ignominiously to the straw that floated detached from definite deception.
"If I could only get strong," she hinted shamefacedly, "it might make a difference. I feel such a wreck, Robert. I'm so sorry, but I can't help it."
It was all true, she told herself wildly. She did feel a wreck; she was sure she would be seriously ill if she stayed on at Rassih, unless—unless Philip would go instead.
"Well, wait till this evening," said Robert, "and we'll see. I must be off now; Flint is waiting, and we've a long afternoon's work to get through." He advised her to rest, and kissed her in kindly, if perfunctory, farewell.
When he had gone, Philip with him, a hot muggy silence descended upon the premises. The servants went off to their quarters in the compound for the customary midday meal and sleep, save for a couple of peons on duty who snoozed in the front veranda, and the ever present shift of punkah pullers. Since the downpour of rain the west wind had ceased to roar and rage over the land; Nature seemed motionless, as though waiting in patient expectance for the swollen clouds to discharge their burden of water.
Stella, torn with emotion, wandered from room to room, unable to rest, Jacob pattering at her heels. She found herself longing for the peace and security of The Chestnuts, for the home of her childhood that in her young arrogance she had despised, rebellingagainst its restrictions. Now she visualised the old house and garden bathed in serene summer sunlight, the village, the common, the cornfields; remembered with regret the small vexations, her ignorant, stupid little grievances that were as grains of sand compared with the mountain of trouble before her. She wept with self-pity, with terror of the future. The word "disgrace" rang in her ears, disgrace for herself and for Philip unless she had strength to resist him; and yet if she remained steadfast, what of the long empty years that lay ahead like a limitless desert? Even to face them with courage—for Philip, that Philip might go forward unshackled by fetters riveted in shame—seemed more than she had power to undertake. Could she tell Robert the truth, entreat him to help her, to let her leave Rassih for a time? No; such a scheme was unworkable. She knew him well enough to feel sure she might as well throw in her lot with Philip at once. Robert would never forgive, understand; and could she think that he might, she herself had rendered such a course impossible by her way of deception—allowing him to believe that she loved him, leading him to assume that she but tolerated Philip's companionship. Even from Philip there was no hope for such help as would support her in her struggle.
The room grew dark. At first she fancied that the gloom must be of her own mental making; then came a dull roll of thunder, followed by a close, threatening pause, full of portent. A little breeze rose and whispered through the house, stirring the curtains, like a scout feeling its way in advance of the attackto come. She went out on the balcony, to see huge purple clouds, rent with forked lightning, rolling up rapidly from the horizon. The air was full of dust; birds were wheeling and crying against the sinister background. Jacob cowered, trembling, at her feet. A drop of rain fell like a bullet on the balustrade, another, and another.... In a few seconds a rush of wind drove her indoors, and with a mighty tumult of sound the rain fell in one solid, relentless sheet as if giant buckets were being emptied from above.
Stella threw herself on a sofa in the drawing-room, Jacob cuddled at her side. She ceased to think, was conscious only of the noise and the darkness that seemed to continue for hours, until, exhausted body and soul, she fell asleep.
Robert and Philip returned late in the evening, drenched. Robert, despite his wetting, was cheerful over the fact that, to all appearances, the rains had arrived to stay, though he grumbled because there was no further news of the necklace, and because Sher Singh had not yet arrived. Philip looked white and ill as they sat down to a belated dinner; once or twice he shivered, and he ate little or nothing. Stella watched him in anxious concern; a return of malaria was only to be expected after his long ride in wet clothes. By this time the downpour had slackened, and from without came the clamour of frogs—"Croak, croak, co-ax, co-ax"—in regular rhythmical chorus. The temperature had fallen, punkahs were almost unwelcome; the reaction was depressing. A damp mist crept into the great room; little black insects gatheredin multitudes around the lamps on the walls; lizards darted among them, enjoying the feast they provided. Stella could have cried with dejection, and, to add to it all, as they passed from the dining-room they encountered Sher Singh, salaaming, full of important concern. He had heard of the robbery, understood why he had been recalled, though he explained humbly that in any case it had been his intention to return next morning. The Sahib's telegram had, of course, hastened his departure. The matter of the necklace, he added miserably, was to him terrible, a disgrace to the household; he, the slave of the Sahib and Memsahib, would neither sleep nor eat till the thief was discovered, the pearls restored; until then his face, as chief servant, was blackened.... He showed signs of prostrating himself at his master's feet, and Robert, to escape a scene, bade him go and do his best to clear up the mystery, thus tactfully dismissing him.
Philip, with Stella's warning in his mind, had regarded the man closely during this interview. Stella was right; he felt certain Sher Singh was up to no good, that his leave had been part of some treacherous scheme, and he made up his mind to remain in the house till he knew what it was. If Sher Singh meant to make mischief, to arouse his master's suspicions in regard to his mistress, he, Philip, must be at hand to see Stella through; it might even bring matters to a crisis, help to decide for them both. He had a presentiment that, whatever Sher Singh's intention, something would happen that night, and,ill as he felt, he assumed liveliness, made conversation with Crayfield, discussing results should the rain prove to be merely local, the effect that severe distress would have on the various areas under their control. Robert, lured from the subject of the pearls, talked freely, held forth on his experiences in a famine that had occurred early in his own service, and how abominably he had been treated, his efforts ignored by the Government.
"It's always been the same," he complained; "the fellows who do the real work may die in harness, literally driven to death, and get no credit; while those who have done nothing but talk and write, are smothered in decorations and shoved up to the top of the tree. Thank goodness I could retire to-morrow, if I felt so inclined, and snap my fingers at the lot of them."
He cited instances of his contemporaries in the Service, who, without a quarter of his own claim to distinction, had been given the C.I.E. and the K.C.I.E., the C.S.I. and the K.C.S.I., until Stella felt that the alphabet, as well as the Government, must be to blame for failing to recognise Robert's meritorious achievements; and her memory turned to the evening at The Chestnuts when she had wondered if he were sore because no Order had yet been bestowed upon him. Since then she had not thought of it, but now she suspected that the omission rankled in his mind, and her sympathy with his possible disappointment went out to him. She knew how he worked, and even if he worked without enthusiasm, surely that was even more to his credit thanif he were spurred by romantic inspiration? She wished he had confided in her, allowed her to share his feelings; but she knew that to him she was of small account intellectually; the disparity of years stood between them. And even had he admitted her to his confidence, what could she have done save endeavour to console him with understanding? It was not as if he were young, like Philip, with the world of India before him.
But the very fact of this disadvantage helped her determination to fight against her love for Philip. For Robert's sake in the present she could only refrain from adding to his sense of failure in life; for Philip's sake in the future she must stick to her post; and for her own sake—well, at least she could feel she was doing right, whatever Philip, in his desperation, might argue. Peace of mind would come, though at best a dull, empty peace, with the knowledge that she had nothing to fear, that she had brought trouble to no one. Then again round and round swung the question on which hung her chief difficulty: if Robert refused to let her go to the Cuthells—if Philip could not, or would not, get leave or a transfer from Rassih, what was she to do? In such a situation she saw little chance of true peace of mind. It would mean one continual effort to avoid Philip by every manœuvre in her power, to pretend, pretend, pretend, both to him and to Robert.
She sank into a sort of lethargy; her brain felt numbed, and the voices of the two men sounded hardly nearer than the ceaseless song of the frogs outside. A figure came into the room, stood for amoment by Robert. It was Sher Singh—always Sher Singh! How she loathed the creature. Robert rose, and went away; Sher Singh too. She roused herself with an effort; Philip was asking her something:
"Did you hear what he said? Were you asleep?"
"No, I don't think so; I don't know." She sat upright, passed her hand over her eyes. "What did he say?"
"He said the pearls had been found."
So the tiresome pearls had been found! It seemed to Stella that the news had barely reached her understanding before Robert was back. He crossed the room reflectively, with measured tread, the pearls gleaming white in his big hand; the contrast struck Philip as painfully symbolical: just as pure and as perfect was his dear love in the man's coarse keeping.
Crayfield paused, dandling the pearls. When he spoke he addressed himself to Flint in a voice that was devoid of all expression. He said: "My wife's necklace was found in your room."
For a moment Philip gazed at him dumbfounded. Then, as with the shock of a flashlight, he understood. Sher Singh! Sher Singh had either put the necklace in his room, or pretended to find it there, not with the object of fastening false suspicion of theft upon anyone, but in order to compromise the mistress he so hated. What a fool as well as a devil the fellow must be! How could he imagine that such an obvious piece of spite was likely to succeed? Yet, what was the meaning of Colonel Crayfield's curious attitude? Was it possible that he believed—— Swiftly Flint's mind pounced on the opportunity: he mightrefrain from defence, allow the "find" to speak for itself. But what about Stella? Would she realise the situation? Already she had risen, trembling and white with indignation.
"Robert! What do you mean? Surely you don't—youcan'tsuggest thatMr. Flinttook the pearls?"
Philip glanced at her hopelessly. Her simplicity was almost unbelievable; her innocence, all too obvious, had lost them their chance of freedom.
"Philip!" she cried involuntarily, and made a quick movement towards him. Crayfield moved also, just a couple of interceptory steps. He laughed, and put the pearls in his pocket.
"That's all I wanted to know," he said coolly, an ugly glint in his eyes. "Out you go, my boy! You didn't steal the pearls, of course; but you've been doing your damnedest to steal something else, and you haven't succeeded."
"You may think what you like!" interposed Philip hotly; but he felt he was blustering, that Colonel Crayfield, his senior in years and authority, had the whip hand of him, perceiving the truth. The trap had been cleverly laid.
"Thank you! Then I like to think this: you have been making love to my wife under my roof, taking advantage of her youth and inexperience; but mercifully you've been caught in time. Now go and pack your belongings and clear out. Consider yourself on leave. I want no scandal. Slink off—quick! You young hound!"
Stella had sunk into a chair. Her husband stoodbefore her; Philip could not see her face. He was racked with humiliation, with helpless rage; his pride, his self-respect lay in the dust, since he could not but recognise the fundamental justice of his chief's accusation.... Must he leave Stella without comfort, without reassurance of his fealty and love? Driven to desperation, he tried to push Crayfield aside; he might as well have endeavoured to move a mountain.
"Stella!" he called hoarsely; but for answer to his cry came only the sound of stifled, terrified sobbing.
Colonel Crayfield stood silent, motionless, until all sound of Philip Flint's exit had ceased. When, with a dazed effort, Stella looked up at her husband, his face reminded her dimly of some monster depicted on a Chinese screen. She held her breath, half expecting him to kill her there and then. Instead, to her amazement, he merely spoke to her as he might have spoken to an unruly child caught in some act of mischief, ordered her to her room, watched her grimly as she rose in dumb obedience.
Passing through the hall, she encountered Philip's old servant; he looked harassed, bewildered, as he salaamed. "It is the Sahib's order," he said in querulous resentment, "that his belongings be taken back to the Rest House at once! Even but now hath he departed there himself, and on foot! Yacoub-dog also." Clearly the old man expected some explanation. What could she say? Only that she supposed the Sahib's orders must be obeyed. She left him standing puzzled, indignant, in the doorway of the bedroom his master had occupied.
For days afterwards Stella felt, as it were, "put into the corner" by Robert. This attitude on his part, humiliating to her though it was, came as a partial relief; it gave her time to revive in a sense from the shock she had suffered. The interval of disgrace, despite its ignominy, rested her nerves, and helpedher to face Robert's forgiveness, which, when it pleased him to extend it, was far more unbearable than his displeasure. She dared make no further appeal for permission to join Mrs. Cuthell; she knew well enough, if she did so, what Robert would say: that she was not to be trusted! Her very pride gave her strength to conceal, often to overcome, her physical distress during the unhealthy, wearisome months that followed before the cold season set in.
The monsoon weakened, failed; the heat was diabolical, mosquitoes were a torment, the days and nights seemed endless, and there was always Sher Singh, watchful, malignant. Champa had begged leave to resign from the Memsahib's service once the disturbance caused by the episode of the pearls had subsided in the compound; she did so with crocodile tears and feeble excuses. The truth was, that having been frightened out of her senses, she felt unable to recover her pretentious position in the Rassih establishment. So Champa departed without great loss of dignity, and her place was taken by a humble person whose name her new mistress did not even trouble to inquire, since the word "Ayah" seemed to be the beginning and the end of her obtuse personality.
Stella's spirit supported her, but nothing could deaden the heartache; there was nothing to relieve the burden of her time, nothing to ease the struggle to control her ever-growing abhorrence of Robert and his demands on her outward docility.
All that winter they toured in tents. The scarcity,though not so severe in the Rassih division as in other adjacent areas, meant much extra work for the Commissioner, and occasionally Stella would be left in the camp for two or three days while Robert and his satellites went off on side inspections by rail. At such times Robert would commandeer some lady, whose husband happened to be on duty with him, to keep Mrs. Crayfield company. Stella would have preferred to be alone; it seemed to her that she had lost the capacity for making friends; but at least Robert was absent, at least she was freed from the strain of his presence, and for that she gave thanks while enduring the companionship of an unwelcome visitor who she knew was an unconscious watchdog.
Only these little periods of peace, the tonic of the cold-weather climate, the frequent change of locality kept her going; but when they returned to Rassih her vitality sank, the effort to keep up appearances became harder, and she felt that the fight could not continue much longer. Constant attacks of low fever laid hold of her, and Robert was annoyed because she could not eat, could not sleep, because, he declared, she would make no attempt to exert herself, because the medicines prescribed by Dr. Antonio did her no good.
Gradually his impatience changed to indifference. He ceased to scold and advise, or to insist on her company; paid little attention to her. She knew he was bored with her sickliness, her altered appearance. She only prayed that he might send her home.
Relief came from quite an unexpected quarter.The English mail arrived one evening while Robert was out riding: the usual consignment of papers for him—he seldom received anything else beyond business communications—a letter for Stella from Aunt Augusta, and one with an Indian postmark; the handwriting on this envelope stirred her memory, but she laid it aside till she had read Aunt Augusta's letter. The little chronicles from The Chestnuts were precious to her now. She read greedily of small happenings, how old Betty had been so troubled with rheumatism that further help was needed from the village; how grandmamma had dropped her handkerchief in church last Sunday, and little Isaac Orchard, the blacksmith's son, had picked it up and run after them, and grandmamma had given him a penny. (Stella could see her bestowing the reward with the air of a potentate; doubtless they had talked of the incident all through luncheon.) The potatoes were disappointing: so many of them were diseased this year. Canon and Mrs. Grass had been to tea; poor Mrs. Grass's health did not improve, but she had been none the worse for the outing. Aunt Ellen had embroidered such averypretty cushion cover as a birthday present for grandmamma, and so on. The letter concluded with the usual messages from all at The Chestnuts to dear Stella and Robert, and the hope that they were both keeping fairly well.
Stella then opened the other envelope. Maud Matthews! What a surprise! Only once had Maud written since her arrival in India as a bride, and Stella had long since assumed that she had dropped out ofMaud's thoughts. The letter was like a refreshing little breeze to its dejected recipient:
"My dear Stella,—"I know I'm a pigandadevil (that's Dick's word) not to have written all this time, but unless I make myself answer a letter the moment it comes I somehow get so that I simply can't answer it at all. Anyway,you'llhave to answerthis, because I want to know if I can break my journey up country at Rassih with you and your good man. Don't you hate that expression? In most cases I'm sure 'bad man' would be nearer the mark. I've got a baby—such a grand excuse for going to the hills! And I've taken a small house at Surima, a long journey from here, but it's such a jolly place, and no one bothers what you do. My old Dick will be as right as rain by himself, and he'll come up on leave later on. Rassih isn't much out of my way, and I must stop somewhere to take breath. It would be such fun to meet again and have a talk and a laugh. Are you going away for the hot weather, or are you one of those saintly wives who never desert their husbands? Have you got a baby? If not, don't; they are a scourge, though I admit mine might be worse now he's here, and I refrain from infanticide because he does me such credit. He's not a bit like Dick. Now may we come? Send me a wire, because we must start in a few days, and, anyway, wiring is easier than writing a letter!"Ever yours,"Maud Matthews."
"My dear Stella,—
"I know I'm a pigandadevil (that's Dick's word) not to have written all this time, but unless I make myself answer a letter the moment it comes I somehow get so that I simply can't answer it at all. Anyway,you'llhave to answerthis, because I want to know if I can break my journey up country at Rassih with you and your good man. Don't you hate that expression? In most cases I'm sure 'bad man' would be nearer the mark. I've got a baby—such a grand excuse for going to the hills! And I've taken a small house at Surima, a long journey from here, but it's such a jolly place, and no one bothers what you do. My old Dick will be as right as rain by himself, and he'll come up on leave later on. Rassih isn't much out of my way, and I must stop somewhere to take breath. It would be such fun to meet again and have a talk and a laugh. Are you going away for the hot weather, or are you one of those saintly wives who never desert their husbands? Have you got a baby? If not, don't; they are a scourge, though I admit mine might be worse now he's here, and I refrain from infanticide because he does me such credit. He's not a bit like Dick. Now may we come? Send me a wire, because we must start in a few days, and, anyway, wiring is easier than writing a letter!
"Ever yours,"Maud Matthews."
Stella dropped the letter in her lap, and sighed with mingled hope and foreboding. Would Robert consent to her friend's visit? What a blessed break it would make in the monotony of her days. Her courage rose. She decided to send the telegram now, before Robert's return. He could hardly insist that she should cancel it, once it had gone; whereas, if she waited to ask his permission he might raise objections, though what reason could he advance for refusing to receive Mrs. Matthews and her baby for a few days on their way to the hills?
Hastily she wrote out a telegram, called a peon, and dispatched him with it to the post office. Mercifully, Sher Singh was not lurking about, else the message would certainly have been withheld until his master's return; such was her bondage to the servant who ruled!
Nervously she told her husband, when he came back, what she had done, handed him Maud's letter, her heart beating fast.
"What a flibbertigibbet!" he exclaimed contemptuously. "I suppose we must put up with the infliction, as you say you have wired already."
"I thought you wouldn't mind," said Stella apologetically. "She's an old friend of mine, and I should like to see her again."
"Very well then, let her come. Perhaps it will be an incentive to you to pull yourself together and behave a little less like a wet rag!"
Maud arrived with mountains of luggage, the baby, and a retinue of servants, and from that moment the house seemed transformed. Robert succumbedreluctantly to the gay company of his guest, who took it for granted that he was overjoyed to receive her; she chattered and chaffed and looked charming—such a contrast to her frail hostess!
It was not until the morning after her arrival, when Robert was safely at work, that Maud started a confidential conversation with Stella, who hitherto had avoided a tête-à-tête. She shrank from any admission of her unhappiness and ill-health; but Maud, with all her fortunate lot in life, had spotted at once that something was wrong, and by degrees she succeeded in worming the truth from the unwilling Stella, who proved as wax in her ruthless hands. Very soon she knew all concerning the unsuitable marriage, the trouble with Sher Singh, the affair with Philip Flint and the incident of the pearls, Stella's pitiful condition of body and mind. The two sat talking in low voices throughout the morning, while it pleased "young Richard," as his mother called him, to sleep soundly.
"Something must be done," pronounced Maud; "you'll snuff out if you go on like this!"
"I shouldn't care," said Stella hopelessly.
"Nonsense! What you want is a good rousing change away from this beastly house and every one in it. That bearer alone would give me the creeps if I stayed here much longer. Once you were away from it all you'd get over this business with Philip Flint. I should have forgotten Dick if I hadn't married him. Now I'll tell you what: I mean to make up to your old Robert-the-devil and canoodle him into letting you come to Surima with me."
Stella gave an incredulous laugh. "You don't know him. He will never let me go!"
"I knowmenpretty well, my dear, and after all he is a man, as well as a brute—very often the same thing, but not always. You can pretend to be jealous, if you like; it might help matters on!"
"I can't pretend any more about anything!" Stella had small hope that Maud would succeed in her project; if she did it would be little short of a miracle.
"Very well, then; lie low and leave it all to me. Here he comes, my lord the elephant. How the time has flown without him."
She turned to greet Robert as he came into the room. "Well, here you are at last, just in time to save us from dying of dullness. Have you been working very hard? If so, how do you manage to look as if you had just come out of a band-box? You ought to be made to give up the secret!"
Robert regarded her with amused indulgence. "How do you manage to talk such nonsense and look so fetching?" he retorted.
"Do I look fetching?" She rose and shook her skirts. "Oh! I've lost my shoe!" She hopped, and held forth a slim little foot in an open-work stocking. "There it is, under that chair."
With a grunt, Robert stooped and retrieved the shoe. "What an absurdity!" he exclaimed, balancing it on the palm of his hand.
She clutched his arm to steady herself. "Don't make my shoe look silly! I daren't put my footdown; I might tread on a pin or something and get 'mortification-set-in' or whatever it is."
He pushed her into a chair. "Now then, 'hold up' and be shod." He pressed her ankle with his finger and thumb. "Quite clean: no splint, not a wind-gall!" He took his time fitting on the truant shoe.
Stella observed the scene with excited wonder. Robert was flirting! She could hardly credit her senses. His small eyes twinkled wickedly. Maud looked like a mischievous sprite. Was it possible that by this means Maud might really succeed in her object? As long as she did succeed Stella did not care what means she employed.
They went in to breakfast. Maud sparkled and bantered, and talked tactfully of food, praised the curry and the cutlets, exchanged reminiscences with her host concerning the cooking at various restaurants in London, besought Colonel Crayfield to take her for a ride that evening, and, to Stella's secret entertainment, Robert agreed at once, though she knew he had arranged to play tennis. For her part she had planned a drive alone with Maud; instead, she found herself placed in charge of "young Richard." Later on she and the baby, with his ayah, watched the pair ride away, Maud mounted on the grey stud-bred that by now had become a sober and tractable member of the stable.
"Gee-gee!" quoth the ayah importantly to the bundle in her arms; and young Richard, aged eight or nine months, leapt and squealed with delight. He was a handsome, good-tempered child; to Stella heappeared singularly intelligent, and she felt almost happy that afternoon wandering about the garden with him and his attendants, the ayah garrulous and consequential, swinging her voluminous skirts, a staid bearer carrying a white umbrella and a rattle.... Yet Stella did not envy Maud her motherhood, no thrill of maternal longing possessed her as she took the child in her arms to show him the birds and the squirrels; she was only thankful there was no "young Robert" to bind her more closely to the man she had come to loathe.... She wondered how Maud was progressing with her subtle scheme, wondered with a gleam of hope if, after all, Robert might not be glad rather than otherwise to get rid of her, glad to take advantage of Maud's persuasions while pretending to grant his engaging guest the favour she asked of him. Had Maud already broached the subject during their ride ...?
Could she have known it, Maud was making headway, craftily, with Robert while Stella was amusing young Richard.
"Isn't it funny?" said Mrs. Matthews as she and Colonel Crayfield walked their horses along the canal bank after a brisk canter. "I feel as if I had known you for years! I think Stella is very much to be envied."
"Do you?" He grinned complacently. "Tell me why you think so."
Maud sighed. "It must be so nice to have a husband one can lean on, who doesn't expect his wife to do all the planning and thinking. Now with me and DickIhave to take all the responsibility abouteverything. I daresay I seem very frivolous and feather-headed, but I flatter myself I have my share of common sense. It was dreadful having to decide about leaving Dick for the hot weather. Of course, I was torn in two—duty, you know, and all that—but there was the child to be considered as well as my own health. I am sure if you thought Stella ought to go to the hills, instead of saying, like Dick, 'do as you think best,' you would settle it off-hand, not leave the decision to her. Wouldn't you?"
"Stella has no common sense," he said evasively, frowning.
Mrs. Matthews gazed thoughtfully ahead. "I know what you mean. Some people take a long time to grow up. Of course Stella is awfully good and sweet, but as a companion for a man of the world——"
He glanced at her in quick suspicion, and she divined that he was questioning how much, if anything, Stella had confided to her.
"I can't quite make her out," Maud continued confidentially. "She seems to me so listless, not interested in anything. I tried my utmost to get her to talk this morning, but it was no use. What is the matter with her, Colonel Crayfield?"
"She's not well, and she will make no sort of effort to rouse herself." He paused, then added violently: "She's just a little fool!"
"Well, when you think of her upbringing what can you expect? But it seems rather hard on you! I wonder if I could help in any way——"
"What could you do? If a man of my age is weakenough to marry a child, he must put up with the consequences."
"Perhaps if she could have a change; is there no one you could send her to?"
"Only a woman who wouldn't know how to look after her. She'd very soon get into mischief."
"Oh! surely Stella would never do that!"
His silence was significant. For the moment Mrs. Matthews accepted it. She appeared plunged in reflection. Presently she said: "Couldn't you get leave yourself and take her away?"
"Just now it's quite impossible."
"I understand. Later on do you think you could manage it?"
"Perhaps. But I've no use for hill stations."
"Rotten places," said Maud. "I know I shall be bored to death at Surima."
"Not likely," scoffed Robert. "You!"
Mrs. Matthews felt she had perhaps made a false step. "Oh! I've no doubt I shall have a good time after a fashion. I always make the most of circumstances, and luckily I have a head if I haven't much heart! I can take care of myself anywhere. Look here," she went on boldly, "would you think of entrusting Stella to me? I should like a companion, and there's plenty of room in the house I have taken. Directly you can get leave you could join us for a bit, and that would be ripping!"
He hesitated, gnawed his lip, said grumpily: "It's rather a tall order!"
"Why? It would do Stella all the good in the world. I'm certain she'd come back a differentcreature. You'd never repent it. What could be worse for you than the silly state she has got into?"
"That's true," he admitted; and she played on his vanity and his self-commiseration until he had promised to think over her proposal.
Maud returned from the ride in the sure and certain hope that she had triumphed.
A weak monsoon, following on scarcity already serious; consequent failure of autumn and spring crops; and famine, dread word, echoed over the half of India.
Now the hot weather had set in unusually, as it were, malevolently early. Areas none too fertile at the best of times reverted to parched deserts, wells and river-beds dried, canals shrank, strained to the limit of inadequate supply. People and beasts were dying of disease and starvation, and officials, both European and Indian, fought one of Nature's remedies for over-population with every ounce of human energy.
Philip Flint sat in his office-tent weary, over-taxed, writing with a sort of dogged persistence. His papers were powdered with dust, the ink evaporated, thickened in the pot; his eyes smarted and his bones ached. For months he had been touring through stricken districts, his camp a kind of flying column, inspecting and organising relief works, famine camps, poor-houses, hospitals. Out at dawn, often not home till dusk, he would have to sit up half the night to wrestle with reports and returns, accounts and statistics; so sparing neither body nor brain on behalf of the miserable multitude that crawled and craved, hunger-smitten, homeless, his heart sore with the sight of skeleton children, exhausted mothers, piteous old people....
Early yesterday he had arrived at a remote point far from town or railway, where earthworks had lately been started for the relief of an area comprising numerous scattered villages, never prosperous, now on the verge of absolute ruin. Transport was the chief difficulty; it must be some time before the light railway that was being laid from the nearest junction could be completed. Cartage and bullocks were scarce, and though a certain stock of food and necessaries were already to hand, there were many to be fed, clothed, accommodated, and the numbers increased day and night. The hospital sheds, in charge of a native doctor, were filling rapidly; further medical help would be needed. Flint had been thankful to hear from his senior subordinate that recently a Zenana Mission lady had arrived with a fair supply of comforts. He was familiar with the invaluable work of such women; it was beyond all praise. As yet he had not had the time to visit the little encampment pointed out to him on the far side of the works; all day he had been too busy superintending transport, checking stores of grain, considering applications for financial assistance, while it was his duty, as well, to detect and guard against imposition, to sift demands, even to appear callous, that the ready cunning of those who sought to benefit by help intended for their suffering brethren might be frustrated. Only this afternoon he had been nearly outdone by an old fellow who presented himself among a gang of emaciated villagers clamouring that he had no plough-bullocks, no seed, nothing—that he and his descendants were ruined.... At first Flint had listened with sympathy untilsomething in the demeanour of the bystanders aroused his suspicions; a few of the less distressed members of the crowd were covertly smiling as though in amused admiration of the patriarch's powers of persuasion, and a little adroit inquiry disclosed the fact that the supplicant was none other than the moneylender of the village whence they had all come.
In contrast with this example of rascality a man of low caste in obvious need had stoutly refused assistance other than in the form of a loan from the Government to be repaid with reasonable interest when times should improve. So it had gone on from the first—patience and pride, heroic endurance, a fine sense of fair play, in company with avarice, fraud, evil intention. Ignorance, stupidity, superstition had to be reckoned with as well, allowed for; the problems were endless, for, while the people must be tended and fed, money could not be wasted or misapplied.
At last Flint laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair to relax muscles and mind. Had he been called upon to define his condition, he would have summed it up simply in the one word "cooked." He lit a cigarette and allowed his thoughts liberty, it was seldom he permitted them to dwell upon the past, but to-night he was too tired for self-discipline. On leaving Rassih he had volunteered for famine work as a desperate antidote to his sickness of heart and spirit; this in face of the knowledge that the decision had probably cost him a chance of important advancement, but the future for him had been shorn of attraction, and the sight of wretchedness and want, his passionate pity for the helpless, the strain and thestress of the work had, he knew, preserved him from despair as no official promotion could have preserved him at the time.
All the same Stella had never been far from his memory, and to-night she seemed to him painfully near. Again he went over that last scene in the Commissioner's house, saw Crayfield standing grim and contemptuous in the big drawing-room, Stella weeping and helpless, himself worsted, ashamed, without honest claim to defence. "Slink, you young hound!" The sentence forced itself backwards and forwards through his brain, hitting his pride each time like a shameful blow.... In his weak selfishness what misery he had brought upon himself and the woman he loved, would never cease to love. Where was she now? What was she doing? He pictured her at the piano accompanying the self-satisfied vocal performance of her husband! He visioned the light on her hair, the delicate outline of her neck, and he writhed as the memory tortured his heart. What devilish fate had taken him to Rassih! Yet he had a feeling that in any case he and Stella must ultimately have met, and that some day, somehow, they must meet again. The refrain of a cheaply sentimental little ballad he had heard her sing came back to him: "Some day, some day, some day, I shall meet you"—he could almost hear the clear, chorister-like voice.... Of a certainty the day would come, and then? He smiled with a sweet bitterness as he recalled her faith in his work, in his usefulness to India; she had said: "Without men like you the wheel would not go round." Well, he was doing his best in his own wayto act up to her trust; and for her sake he would stick to the wheel, humbly, unswervingly, though the zest and the savour of ambition had gone, wiped out by unlawful love....
A cold muzzle crept into his hand that hung listless at his side—Jacob, diffident, sensitive, asking attention; Jacob had loved her too, with all his tender dog-heart. On that terrible evening Jacob had sat shivering on the edge of her skirt, conscious of trouble, until he followed his miserable master from the room.
Suddenly he became aware that someone was speaking; he looked up to see an apologetic peon standing at his elbow.
"Sahib, there is a memsahib without."
For one wild second he fancied it might be Stella, his mind was so full of her. Had she fled to him, sure of his love and protection, willing to give herself into his care? He felt as though aroused from a distressing dream, perhaps to find that all the pain and the longing had passed——
"A memsahib is without," repeated the peon resentfully. "She will not depart, though this slave hath told her that the sahib is busy."
Flint rose mechanically, his reason flouting the fancy that Stella could be "the memsahib without." A tall figure was framed in the doorway of the tent.
"Yes?" he said with tentative politeness.
"I won't keep you long." The voice was brisk and high. "I've come from the Zenana Mission camp, where I'm helping Miss Abigail on behalf of the Charitable Relief Fund Committee."
"Indeed!" murmured Philip, inwardly apprehensive. The Charitable Relief Fund Committee sometimes added heavily to his work and responsibilities, admirable though its purpose, welcome though its help.
"Yes, I've been hoping all day to get hold of you, but you were always somewhere else."
"Please come in." He glanced around dubiously, for the interior of the tent seemed hardly fit for the reception of a lady; files and papers heaped on the table, on the chairs, even on the floor; dust, cigarette ends, everywhere; camp equipage, boxes, books and boots, in a hopeless jumble.
"I'm afraid it's all very untidy," he added as he cleared a seat.
The brisk, high voice responded: "Whatdoesit matter! Who can hope to be tidy in these horrible circumstances. I feel very untidy myself."
She did not look it, whatever she felt. Here was no typical Zenana Mission female, but a long-limbed, well-built girl, garbed in a neat holland frock, brown shoes, wash-leather gloves, and an obviously English felt hat, bound with a blue puggaree, that proclaimed itself "Indispensable for travel in the East." All very plain and serviceable, but to an experienced eye undoubtedly expensive.
To Flint's astonishment she took off her hat, carelessly, as any man might have done, and dropped it beside her chair. He saw that her hair was cropped short, a thick mop of curling, fox-coloured hair; that her eyes, clear and shining, were grey (and truculent), that her freckled irregular nose and rather large mouthhad a certain charm. He felt faintly scandalised when she proceeded to help herself calmly to a cigarette from his box, lighting it with an accustomed air. Smoking among ladies was not general in India at that period. Seated, she crossed her legs, showing slim ankles and neatly-turned calves in brown stockings.
"Well," she began, "I thought someone ought to come and tell you that a lot of people have bolted from the relief works."
"Yes, I know——"
"And you don't care, I suppose," she interrupted.
He stared at her, puzzled; why this unprovoked attack? "We shall get them back. Perhaps you don't realise the reason——"
Again she broke in: "It's because you officials inspire no trust!"
What on earth was the matter with the girl—was she a lunatic?
"I'm afraid superstition is more to blame," he told her patiently. "Some mischief-maker among them has probably started the report that they are all to be murdered in order to extract oil from their bodies for medicinal purposes."
"What nonsense!"
He wondered if she meant the report, or his explanation.
"Of course it's nonsense. But that kind of thing will happen, even nowadays. Superstition dies hard in India. Coolies often bolt wholesale when some important work has to be started, because in old times, before our occupation of the country, a human victimwas nearly always buried beneath the foundations of any big building as a sop to the gods!"
He could see she did not believe him. His anger rose. "How long have you been out here?" he inquired.
"Quite long enough to discover how little the people are considered. I think the Government ought to be hanged. Not a penny will you spend—on this famine, for example—without exacting the uttermost farthing in return. You make these wretched creatures work for a mere pittance, you force them into poor-houses when you know it lowers their self-respect, and many of them die because they would rather die than accept relief in the way you administer it!" She paused, breathless.
"And how do you propose it should be administered—indiscriminately, and no questions asked? That would be rather hard on the taxpayers, and bad for the people themselves. I think even the Charitable Relief Fund Committee would hardly work on those lines."
She ignored his argument. "It's appalling," she went on heatedly, "to find how badly private charity is needed. I came out a few weeks ago to see what I could do to help, and I'm horrified. Where would all these unfortunate people be without the Charitable Relief Fund!"
"If it comes to that," he retorted, "where would they be without all the Government machinery that is kept ready to be set going directly scarcity becomes serious—the means of transport, the linking up with unaffected Provinces, the loans for seed and cattle.Good Heavens, you can have no conception of the work."
She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her with a peremptory gesture, and continued quickly: "Private charity is of the utmost value in a calamity of this kind, and we are only too thankful for it, especially in remote regions, but personal sacrifice and hard work isn't entirely confined to the non-official. The help would be simply a drop in the ocean if the way hadn't been prepared. Try to be just, Miss——"
He waited interrogatively.
"Baker—Dorothy Baker"—she waved her cigarette. "You may have heard of my father, Lord Redgate?"
So here was the solution of the girl's extraordinary antagonism. She was the daughter of a new-made nobleman whose apparent object in life, to judge by his speeches, was to disparage British administration in India, to discount the long years of effort and experience, to undermine confidence in honest rule. No doubt such an undertaking engendered a nice sense of superiority and importance that blinded its owner to the truth, if his eyes were not shut deliberately. This obtrusive young woman was clearly imbued with her parent's particular form of conceit. He would not trouble to wrangle with her further.
"Oh! yes," he said indifferently; "we have all heard of your father. Did he object to your coming out here alone?"
"Object? Of course not. He believes in the freedom of the individual. And if he had objected Ishould be here all the same. I always do as I please."
"And it pleased you to come out and do famine work. How kind of you!"
She shot him a glance of contemptuous suspicion. He understood all that the glance implied; as a British official in India he was an enemy of the people, a bureaucrat, battening on the revenue wrung from a poverty-stricken land, one of the guilty gang that kept Indians from the possession of their country. Yet she seemed in no hurry to quit the presence of such a tyrant and oppressor; evidently she found his chair comfortable, was enjoying his cigarettes, and perhaps she was not altogether averse to a little change of companionship? It was conceivable that the privilege of constant intercourse with her Zenana colleague might have become a bit of a strain. For himself her young presence, despite her antagonism, was in a measure welcome after his fit of depression. Physically she was an attractive creature, and her naïve self-importance, her impulsive opinions, suited her vigorous personality. Jacob, the little traitor, was already making advances to the visitor. She snapped her finger and thumb in response.
"I like dogs," she said, as though it were a form of weakness that redounded to her credit. "And they always love me!"
"And horses?"
"Oh! yes, rather! I wanted to buy a pony, but Miss Abigail seemed to think it would not be quite in keeping with the work we are doing, and that the money had better be spent in some other direction.We get about in a bullock shigram, not a very comfortable or rapid mode of progression, but comfort and convenience don't count, of course. Personally, I'm not sure that we oughtn't to walk everywhere."
"It would perhaps be a waste of energy and time," suggested Philip.
"But think of the example! You, I suppose, ride or drive everywhere?"
"I couldn't get through my work if I didn't; it would entail endless delay in the administration of relief. I'm practically single-handed in this circle. For example, to-morrow morning I have to cover, roughly speaking, about fifteen miles before breakfast. How would you like to come with me? Have you a saddle—I could mount you."
Obviously the offer tempted her. "Yes, I brought out my saddle. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad thing——"
"It would give you a further opportunity of condemning our iniquitous methods," said Philip meekly.
She let the thrust pass. "All right; what time do you start?"
"About six. Is that too early for you?"
"Don't talk rot! Send the gee to our camp, and I'll be ready."
"Good! Now can I offer you any refreshment—will you have a cup of tea or coffee, or," he ventured, in view of the cigarettes, "a peg?"
"Nothing, thank you." She rose a little reluctantly. "Now I must get back——"
"Have you a lantern?" he inquired, for the sudden Indian dusk had descended.
She looked out of the tent. "No, I never thought of it, but I can find my way all right."
"I'll come with you——"
She protested. He paid no attention; and presently they were stumbling along side by side in the wake of a peon who marched ahead swinging a hurricane lantern, and banging a staff on the ground to scare possible snakes that at this season, waking from their winter sleep, were apt to lie curled in the warm dust, a danger to pedestrians.
"Are you married?" she asked him suddenly.
"No, I am a lone being, and I think it is just as well."
"Why?"
"If I had a wife and children it would only mean separation sooner or later. Children must be sent home after a certain age, not only on account of health and education but because the moral atmosphere is bad for them, and to my mind the children should be considered before the husband."
"How do you mean—the moral atmosphere?" she asked argumentatively. "I have always understood that natives were excellent with children, kind and patient and faithful."
"They are all that, bless them!" he said, "but their ideas of discipline are not quite the same as our own. To tell lies is merely a matter of self-protection, and, all wrong as it may seem, they knuckle under to English children, let them have their own way, and encourage them indirectly to be arrogant and self-indulgent, taking a sort of pride in their faults! At least that is what my married friends tell me."
"Then the parents are to blame!" declared Miss Baker severely, "for leaving their children to the care of servants while they amuse themselves flirting and dancing and playing games! You don't accuse this Mr. Kipling everybody talks about of writing what is not true, I conclude?"
"Have you never read a preface to one of his books in which he particularly warns his readers not to judge of the dirt of a room by the sweepings in a corner? Parents in India are much the same as parents in England, and parents in England haven't to contend with exile and climate and long separations"—he paused, feeling he was wasting his breath, and was ashamed of a spiteful little sense of satisfaction when at that moment she tripped and clung to him to save herself a fall.
"Now, if I hadn't been with you"—he could not help reminding her.
"I should have come a cropper, and probably been none the worse," she replied ungratefully. "What were we saying? Oh! about parents in India. Why do you go into the Indian services at all then? You know what to expect!"
"Why do we go into the army and the navy—the worst paid professions on earth? It's an instinct, thank goodness, and with it goes the love of justice and fair play towards the weak and unprotected. It's the keynote of our power all the world over."
"Oh! you are hopeless!" cried Miss Baker. "I call it love of conquest, and position, and power!"
"Call it what you like, don't you shut your eyes to the results—anyway, out here."
"The results! Poverty and famine, and a refusal to allow the people to govern themselves, refusal to mix with them socially——"
"Wait a moment," he interrupted, angry with himself because he could not keep silence. "Which in your opinion should govern—the Hindus or the Mohammedans?"
"Of course the Hindus. India istheircountry."
"The Mohammedans would have something to say to that; or, rather, it would be deeds not words. And how about other nations who would all like to exploit India? We could hardly be expected to keep up an army and a navy to prevent them from doing so if we had no stake in the country."
"Go on," she urged sarcastically. "I am listening."
"When India is in a position to protect herself from internal quarrels and foreign invasion it will be time enough for us to clear out; and as far as social questions go I can assure you they are not at all anxious to mix with us. Their customs and traditions are all opposed to ours.... But it would take weeks to give you even the most superficial idea of the difficulties, and at the end I suppose you wouldn't believe me."
"Oh! I've heard it all over and over again from hide-bound old generals and retired civilians at home, the same time-worn arguments that really mean nothing. However, I am quite ready to believe that you, personally, are well disposed towards the people, and that you do your best for them in spite of the trammels of red tape!"
He refrained from an amused expression of gratitude. After all, the girl was actuated by benevolent intention, however befogged, and she was enduring discomforts, almost hardship, in her self-imposed philanthropy, as he realised when they arrived at the Zenana Mission encampment. What wretched little tents, badly pitched, ill-lighted, with a clamouring throng of distressful humanity pressing up to the very flaps. From the tent in the centre came the sound of singing; a familiar hymn tune.
"There now!" exclaimed Miss Baker in vexation. "I'm late for evening prayers. I'm an atheist myself, but I try to fit in with my chief's customs."
"I hope for her sake that you spare her argument on the subject of religion at least!" said Flint with a magnanimous laugh, as he held her hand in farewell. "We shall meet again to-morrow morning."
He watched her disappear into the principal tent, and turned his steps back to his camp, his feelings ajar. Why would these good folk from home interfere in what they knew nothing about. What mischief they made, all unwittingly for the most part, adding to the difficulties already so great for those who were working under conditions but dimly understood even by the faction who trusted their own countrymen, and did not regard the English official as a thief and a bully and a time server....
In spite of Miss Baker's tiresome attitude, he looked forward to seeing her the following morning. She was a stimulating companion and engaging in her way with her boyish figure, her eager grey eyes, her expressive, irregular features.... In time, if theymet often enough, they might become friends—an armed friendship, perhaps, but none the less interesting for that.... What would Stella have thought of her, Stella with her passionate perception of the work that England had done in the past, was doing in the present, would continue to do as long as she was permitted, with honest endeavour, for India. He was conscious of a revival of his old ambitions as he plodded over the uneven track, and far into the night he sat writing, reading, spurred, refreshed as well, by the unexpected diversion of Miss Baker's visit and her violent opinions.