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

moved on, unconscious of her frantic efforts to stop him; she was powerless as she felt herself being drawn to the balustrade, still calling, clinging. His hands were on the stonework, he was climbing up, raising her with him. Then all at once he paused, turned his head, looked down on her; his face was terrible. Next moment he had taken her by the shoulders and flung her violently from him, and as she reeled giddily she saw something leap into the dawnlight, something that was like a gigantic bird with wings outstretched. She fell forward, striking her head heavily against the balustrade.

Stella lay semi-conscious, weakly pondering. What a queer smell; she knew the smell, yet could put no name to it; the room seemed unfamiliar, and she found she could see only a portion of it as if the rest were in darkness. What had happened? Where was she? Not that it signified—she felt too ill to care.[Pg 279] When she tried to raise her hand it was heavy as lead—how funny! When she tried to speak she could not remember what she wanted to say. Her hat was too tight, it hurt her head, and she could not take it off. Why was she lying in bed with her hat on? That was funny too! She heard a little feeble laugh—who had laughed? She was very thirsty.... Ah, that was nice and cold.

"Thank you," she managed to say politely, as some iced liquid trickled down her throat. Then as her senses slowly awoke she found herself looking into Mrs. Antonio's homely brown face. Kind Mrs. Antonio, who was giving her a delicious drink. Mrs. Antonio would take off the hat that was hurting her forehead. Now she knew the name of the smell that pervaded the room; it was hookah! The successful recollection brought a sense of triumph. She smiled sweetly at Mrs. Antonio....

It was some days before Stella's memory grew clear, before she could recall what had happened up to the moment when she had fallen against the stone balustrade. Now she knew that she was in the Antonios' house, that she had been there for nearly three weeks hovering at death's door; she knew that Robert had been buried in the little European cemetery, and that a new Commissioner had arrived who, according to Mrs. Antonio, was "a very kind man and attending to all business" until Mrs. Crayfield should have recovered sufficiently to do her share; everybody in the station had been "helping and good, there was no hurry about anything, no need to bother." Stella knew also that there was[Pg 280] injury to one side of her head, but to what extent she had not yet thought to ask. Her mind had been too exercised with the realisation of Robert's tragic end, with mingled compassion for him and, she could not pretend to deny it, relief for herself; any effort to look forward was as yet almost beyond her strength.

One morning later, when the bandages had been finally removed and she found she could see with both eyes, she asked Mrs. Antonio to bring her a hand mirror; she said lightly: "I want to see what I look like. I expect I'm an awful fright, but I'm well enough now to bear any shock!"

"Better go through your letters," suggested Mrs. Antonio, laying a little heap of accumulated correspondence on the table beside the bed. "I have to run away just now and see to the fowls and the goats."

She left the room hastily, and Stella fingered the envelopes with reluctance, dreading the condolences and the sympathy she might find within them. First she skimmed the English letters apprehensively; it was possible that the news had been telegraphed home to the papers. No; evidently when last they wrote Grandmamma and the aunts had known nothing. There was a letter, of course, from Maud; one from Sir George Rolt, others from friends she had made at Surima; Mrs. Cuthell had written. All contained stereotyped phrases; difficult letters to write! She hardly read them, because there was one she had put aside as yet unopened—one from Philip Flint! She knew the clear, small handwriting from seeing the manuscript of the George Thomas romance. How[Pg 281] curious that she should receive her first letter from him in such circumstances. What had he written? Just "deep sympathy," no doubt, like all the others! Her hand went out to the letter; she felt faint as at last she forced herself to tear it open. For a few moments the words danced before her eyes. There were very few words; no formal beginning—only this:

"I have seen what has happened, and I write to tell you that I am the same, always the same. If you want me I will come anywhere and at any time. But if you do not write I shall understand.—Philip."

She sank back on her pillows. Philip was the same, always the same! She must have known it all along in her heart; how could she ever have doubted him! "Philip," she breathed, "Philip!"

The stuffy, hookah-smelling room was glorified, full of a celestial light. How quickly she would get well; she was well already—all the dark days were over. Happiness lay ahead, such happiness! She would send him just one little line to tell him she had his letter, that she would write; she composed it in her mind. Or should she telegraph, do both?... When and where they would meet did not trouble her; time was nothing; whatever interval was necessary would pass like a dream.

Mrs. Antonio, returning from her ministrations to the goats and the fowls, found the patient sitting up in bed, a pencil in her hand, writing on half-sheets of paper.

[Pg 282]

"Now, now," scolded Mrs. Antonio, shaking her forefinger, "doing too much!"

"I am quite well," said Stella. "I feel I could get up and do anything."

"To-morrow, perhaps, out of bed on the sofa. And Pussy will read to you. Such a nice book she has got, called 'Wide, Wide World.' Shall she come just now?"

"Not to-day, dear Mrs. Antonio. I have had some good news in my letters, and I can't think of anything else. I should like to do my hair when I have finished writing, and then have some of your nice tea. And will you send my letter and a telegram for me to the post office presently?"

"Doing hair! Writing letters! Sending telegrams!" exclaimed Mrs. Antonio. "You are wanting to run before walking!"

"Well, do let me run; I promise not to fall down. There, my letter is ready, and the telegram. Now do give me a looking-glass, and a brush and comb, there's a good soul. I feel I want to smarten myself up!"

"I think the doctor will be coming in just now. Better to wait and ask what he says. Listen!" she cocked her ears. "That is him coming back from the bazaar dispensary. I hear the trap. Wait a moment, Mrs. Crayfield dear——"

She was gone; and Stella, elated, defiant, rose from her bed and tottered across the room. She was determined to see herself in the glass before Mrs. Antonio came back. If she was a scarecrow she would know how long to postpone her meeting with[Pg 283] Philip; she must be looking all right when she met Philip again.... Clinging to the furniture, she made her way to the dressing-table. Had she any legs, or hadn't she? If she felt she was walking on air, was it any wonder after Philip's letter! Now she had reached her goal. She bent forward; and in the mirror she beheld a sight that froze her blood. The whole of one side of her face was disfigured, hideous, grotesque; a great, puckered red scar ran from her forehead to her chin, shortening the contour, lifting the edge of her mouth.... She was revolting! That was why Mrs. Antonio had evaded her request for a hand glass.... Clutching the edge of the table, she stood gazing at the wreck of her beauty. Everything was gone; she could never let Philip see her; and she was so young, so young!

A few minutes later she had groped her way blindly back to the bed. She tore up the letter and the telegram she had written, tore up Philip's letter also. "If you do not write I shall understand." She could never write; Robert's legacy of punishment was complete.

[Pg 284]

CHAPTER IX

Lady Lane-Johnson looked about her handsome drawing-room with critical gaze. She moved a bowl of roses to a more effective position, loosened a sheaf of Madonna lilies in a crystal vase. The atmosphere was fragrant with the perfume of costly flowers; the whole room betokened prosperity combined with good taste, from the excellent examples of modern Art on the brocade-hung walls to the Aubusson carpet and the silk curtains that subdued the sound of traffic through the open windows. And Philip Flint's sister harmonised with her surroundings, an elegant, well-bred looking woman in a Paris gown, diamonds in her hair, round her neck, at her breast.

She consulted her list of expected guests; the pairing for this dinner party had entailed an unusual amount of consideration. In such undertakings John was of no use whatever; he would rush in at the last moment, and unless she took care would probably seize absentmindedly on the first lady he saw and hurry her down to dinner. Even now he had not returned; if she heard him on the stairs before the arrivals began she must catch him and remind him that he was to take in old Lady Bawe (though he always declared her name ought to be spelt Bore). She herself must put up with Lord Redgate, disagreeable creature, but the laws of etiquette forbade any other arrangement; anyway she would have Carmine[Pg 285] Lake, the fashionable portrait painter, on her other side, and he was good company. Her own parents were rather on her mind; her father never considered the political feelings of his neighbours, and invariably suspected her literary and artistic friends of being Radicals. Concerning Lord Redgate's opinions there could be no question of anything so mild as "suspicion," and she had therefore placed the two gentlemen as far apart at the dinner table as possible. She knew her mother felt "out of it" among actors and painters, and authors, and John's distinguished professional colleagues with their wives who were always busy over public meetings and charity entertainments patronised by Royalty.

As a rule she did not invite her old-fashioned parents to her dinner parties; they preferred to come quietly, when she had an evening to spare, but to-night their presence was unavoidable, because Philip had just arrived from India (she had not even seen him yet), and she particularly wanted him and "the old people" to meet Lord Redgate and his daughter Dorothy, who had known Philip in India two years ago; and if she, Grace, were not greatly mistaken the young lady would like to meet him again as often as possible! Lord Redgate would not have said "Thank you" had she bidden him to a quiet family gathering; that would have to come later if matters shaped as she hoped they might. It would be such an excellent marriage for Philip; Lord Redgate had so much influence, his son-in-law would be pushed on regardless of obstacles, however glaring the "job"; his one weakness was his self-willed,[Pg 286] impulsive daughter, who publicly boasted that she could turn her father round her little finger!

Grace knew from Dorothy that she and Philip had kept up a desultory correspondence since their parting in India. She wondered if she would have time to pump Philip in the matter of his feelings towards the girl if he and the old people arrived early, as she had told them to do. She hoped Philip would not look too "Indian." His clothes were sure to be all wrong, seeing that he had arrived only three days ago, during her absence in the country for a week-end visit. The dinner party had been hastily convened, with apologies and explanations for the short notice, directly his telegram came from Marseilles.

Was that John on the stairs? She flew to the door and saw her husband ascending leisurely.

"Make haste, darling," she called, "and remember you are to take in Lady Bawe."

"Why, is there a dinner party?" He blinked at her dreamily; his scanty hair was ruffled, he looked tried, over-strained. That afternoon he had been engaged on a stupendous operation, and the reaction of success was still upon him.

"Yes, yes, I told you! Go along quickly and dress."

"You look wonderful," he said, smiling at her.

She knew he was proud of her, that he grudged her nothing in the world, that the money he made