Star of India by Alice Perrin (new reading .TXT) 📖

there'll be no peace till it's finished. Give him a gentle hint."

"I'll try. But won't it hurt his feelings?"

"Not any more than my going to sleep directly he starts reading, I should think."

Therefore, on the next occasion, before the manuscript could be unfolded, Stella went to the piano.

"No reading to-night, Mr. Flint. We're going to have some music. I want you to hear how my husband can sing. Come along, Robert." Her fingers rippled lightly over the keys, and Robert sang readily, lustily, song after song, much to his own enjoyment, and presumably to that of the guest, who applauded with tact, and requested encores till the performer, in high good humour, declared he was hoarse and could sing no more. Then Mrs. Crayfield continued the concert, and Philip sat gazing[Pg 121] his fill at the vision she presented, the light from the wall-lamp behind her gilding her hair, her voice sweet and true, causing his heart to ache with ominous yearning. He felt confident she found pleasure in his friendship, yet to-night he was puzzled by her attitude until, the music put away and the piano closed, she said with an assumption of matronly indulgence: "I'm afraid we haven't considered poor George Thomas. How is he getting on?"

"Oh, pretty well, thank you."

"Has the slave girl escaped?"

"Not yet; it's rather difficult; but I mustn't bore you any more with my attempts at fiction." Purposely he spoke in a tone of humble discouragement; he was feeling his way.

"Bring the stuff over to-morrow before we play tennis," suggested Robert magnanimously, "and the memsahib will listen; stories amuse her."

"Oh, may I? But," turning to Stella, "won't it interfere with your afternoon siesta?"

"Not a bit," Mrs. Crayfield assured him. "I never can sleep in the daytime, but Robert must have a rest. I tell him he works far too hard."

"Young bully, aren't you?" was Colonel Crayfield's playful retort, laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Take my advice, Flint, and when you marry don't choose a wife from the schoolroom."

"Judging by your example, sir," chaffed Philip, "one might do worse."

[Pg 122]

"Well, all things considered, I suppose I've been lucky. Good night. I shall expect to lick you to-morrow at tennis after you've exhausted yourself and my wife with your intellectual exertions."

"Not if I can help it," said Philip, diplomatically defiant.

[Pg 123]

CHAPTER X

When Mrs. Antonio pronounced Rassih to be "a very hot place," her words at the time had conveyed little to Stella of what to expect. The heat grew fiercer than she could have believed possible; the blazing sun, the scorching wind, the nights that seemed equally long and hot as the days, without variation of temperature save for the worse. There was no escape, no deliverance, and the rains tarried. Despite her youth and her health, she flagged, lost her appetite, lived chiefly on tea and iced mango-fool, with all the short-sightedness of the young in matters of nourishment. Robert, on the contrary, appeared to thrive. He ate well, slept soundly, rode and played tennis as usual. His very vigour was exhausting to his wife.

Now the only ladies left in the station besides herself were Mrs. Beard and Mrs. Antonio. Martha and Mary and Deborah were dispatched (at the mission expense) to cooler climes; Pussy Antonio was on a long visit "up hill" to relations; Mrs. Piggott had fled, like the rest, to the Himalayas. Therefore Mrs. Crayfield's "at homes" were for the present in abeyance, and had it not been for Philip Flint, the monotony of her days would have become well-nigh intolerable. Stella lived for the sight of his face and the sound of his voice. Whether she might have welcomed his society with equal delight[Pg 124] had he been Mrs. or Miss Flint, possessing the same tastes and interests, had not occurred to her. One source of annoyance during his visits ceased suddenly—Champa and Sher Singh no longer peeped and peered from the doorways. On the other hand, Champa began to behave as if she recognised, and was ready to abet, an intrigue that must be kept from the Commissioner's knowledge. Early one morning she sidled into the bedroom with a note that had arrived from Mr. Flint for Mrs. Crayfield, hiding it beneath her wrapper, looking unutterable warnings, since the sahib was half awake. She handed it covertly to her mistress. In a flash Stella recognised what lay in the woman's mind, and she made haste to rouse Robert as she took the note and opened it.

"Mr. Flint has got fever," she told him; "he won't be able to play tennis this evening."

"Say salaam," she added severely to Champa, who retired, snubbed, to give the messenger the orthodox message of acknowledgment.

This episode worried Stella. She was not yet so conversant with Oriental outlook as to comprehend that to the native mind there could be but one interpretation of her intimacy with a sahib who was not her husband nor in any way related to her. She felt enraged, humiliated, by Champa's assumption that she must wish to conceal the note from Robert, and in consequence she passed a restless morning after a long, hot ride that drained her energy. It was the old munshi's day with his pupil; but when he presented himself with his pen-box and sheaf of[Pg 125] yellow papers, she could not settle down to the lesson, was unable to fix her attention, and, pleading a headache, she dismissed him politely. Then she tried writing her weekly letter to The Chestnuts; but her hand clung damp to the paper, and she had not the strength of will to persevere; the keys of the piano stuck to her fingers; it was useless attempting to paint or to embroider. Finally she sat idle in the darkened room, permitting her thoughts to wander without aim, backwards and forwards in chaos, now in one direction, then in another, till they collided with the solid fact that her disturbance of mind was now not so much connected with Champa's insulting behaviour as with her disappointment that she was not to see Philip Flint that afternoon, a vexation aggravated by anxiety concerning his condition. Had he got all he needed? He was still in the Rest House, and she pictured him lying sick and helpless in the hot and hideous little building. Had he plenty of ice? She knew the supply was limited. She would have liked to order soup or jelly to be prepared for him, but the order would have to go through Sher Singh. The day wore on as usual. The heavy midday breakfast, Robert's rest afterwards, her own efforts to read while he slept. By tea-time her head ached definitely and badly. Robert suggested that another ride would do it good. She might like to try the grey stud-bred he had bought the other day, since her own mare had already been out in the morning.

"I can't ride again to-day," she declared fretfully. "I don't feel up to it. You had better try the grey yourself."

[Pg 126]

At once he became significantly solicitous, and the meaning in his questions and concern annoyed her still further.

"Oh, do go," she cried, exasperated at last, "and leave me alone. I want to be quiet. My head aches, that's all."

He grumbled a little that Flint should be ailing and therefore unavailable for tennis. He could not decide whether to try the grey or to send for one of the Public Works assistants to play with him. On inquiry it was ascertained that the young man in question was still out in the district; and finally, to his wife's relief, he ordered the grey to be saddled and set off for a solitary ride.

Stella repaired to the front balcony to see him mount and to wave him a friendly farewell in apology for her ill-humour. The grey was a satisfactory purchase, a handsome animal, well up to weight, but evidently hot-tempered, and gave trouble at the start. Certainly Santa-Sahib looked his best on a horse. He was a good rider, and for a moment Stella repented her peevish refusal to ride with him. Then erratically the question occurred to her: Supposing there was an accident, supposing Robert were killed, how would she feel?

It was as if she awaited an answer from beyond her own brain, and for answer there came to her the sudden vision of Philip Flint. He seemed to be standing before her. She saw his blue eyes, heard his slow, pleasant voice. What did it mean? Aghast at her thoughts, shadowy and indefinite though they were, she rushed back to the drawing-room, shaking,[Pg 127] unstrung, with the feeling that she had committed murder in her heart. She was a wicked creature! Oh, why had she married Robert? Why had she not stayed at The Chestnuts with grandmamma and the aunts, ignorant, safe, however dull? Nothing but evil had come of her yearnings for India, and there was no one to whom she could turn for help, for advice, for sympathy.

In trembling haste, but without purpose, she put on a hat and went out into the compound. Involuntarily she glanced around for Sher Singh, but for a wonder he was nowhere to be seen, and impulsively she decided to call on Mrs. Antonio—anything to escape from the harassing fancies that beset her.

The house occupied by the Antonios was no distance, built as it was on a further portion of the fort walls; it stood prominent against the copper-coloured sky, encouraging the venture....

Mrs. Antonio was at home. As Stella sat in the drawing-room awaiting her appearance she noticed a curious smell; it recalled to her mind Mrs. Piggott's belief that the doctor, if not his wife as well, indulged in the hookah. And why not, queried Stella, if they liked it? though the taste was not easy to understand judging by the acrid odour! The room felt fusty, was crammed with a strange assortment of cheap bric-a-brac overlaid with dust, and the heat was insufferable.

When Mrs. Antonio appeared she presented what Stella's former school-fellows at Greystones would have described as "a sight for the blind," clad as she[Pg 128] was in a terrible yellow dressing-gown, a bath towel bound turban-wise about her head.

"Please excuse, Mrs. Crayfield dear," she apologised. "I have been washing my hair. I did not wish to keep you waiting. Does your ayah prepare you areca-nut wash? It is best thing!"

"I will remember," said Stella, who had brought a bountiful supply of shampoo-powders with her from England. "Champa has not told me about it."

"Oh, my, that ayah of yours, that Champa! She is a lazy," continued Mrs. Antonio; she unwound the towel and rubbed her grey locks as she talked. "Where did you get her?"

"She was engaged by Sher Singh, our head servant."

"Yes, and that Sher Singh!" Mrs. Antonio peered at her visitor through a screen of wet hair. "He is a badmash."

There was no need for translation, Stella knew the word well enough—it meant rascal. "I detest Sher Singh," she admitted, finding comfort in the expression of her feelings, "and I know he hates me!"

"Of course, what else? So many years with Colonel Crayfield, and knowing too many secrets! He is jealous. Tell your husband let him go, give a pension. He is opium-eater, all say in the bazaar."

"An opium-eater?"

"Yes, but do not say to Colonel Crayfield that I hinted. You see you are so young, Mrs. Crayfield dear. That is why I warn. If he stays that man will do harm—make mischief."

Stella shrank from exposing her helplessness in[Pg 129] the matter, felt ashamed also of her inclination to let things slide rather than provoke Robert's wrath. She said:

"Thank you for putting me on my guard, Mrs. Antonio. It is friendly and kind of you. Now will you tell me about the areca-nut wash for the hair? I am sure it must be excellent."

Mrs. Antonio followed the drag and plunged into directions, presented Mrs. Crayfield with a handful of the beneficial nut; then talked of Pussy's hair and other perfections until Stella made an opportunity for escape.

As she strolled home she felt further depressed. Her mind was full of Mrs. Antonio's warning; it served to strengthen her feeling of repugnance towards Sher Singh. She tried to argue with herself that there might be excellent reasons for Robert's attachment to Sher Singh apart from the value of the man's services; gratitude might be involved, possibly Sher Singh had nursed his master through a dangerous illness, or in some way saved Robert's life. Robert would never have told her; he was so secretive. He seldom spoke of the past, and she knew little or nothing of his former life. She had never induced him even to talk of his friendship with her father and mother. She