Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  Brooding in this fashion, she made up her mind to fall in with Miss Jellings’s wishes, although, truth to tell, she was feeling somewhat nervous over the whole business. Armand’s cheery self-confidence, however, when he turned up the next morning to discuss the matter again, was infectious. He brought the two women a formal invitation from the raja and explained that though he could not escort them, since he had to return to Bhindi that same afternoon, he would certainly be on hand to meet them, if they would arrange to come by car the following day. Nor did the news that Stella would be making the trip alone affect his enthusiasm. It was ridiculous of Fendish and Blonson, he declared, to hint that Bhindi was not a suitable place for a white woman to visit. Certainly the old raja had been a bit of a Bluebeard, but Chawand Rao, his nephew, was a man of very different stamp. He was all for progress, had already begun to build roads and sewers and to work out schemes of education for his people. It was extraordinary of Fendish to be so suspicious of him, but there—any Englishman who stayed in India more than a few years seemed to develop these prejudices, to become hidebound.

  He took his departure in high spirits, prophesying to Stella that her week in Bhindi would give her something to remember with pleasure all her life, and promising Miss Jellings to look after her young secretary as though she were his little sister. He would arrange for a car for her, he declared, from a garage in the city; all she would have to do was to pack a suitcase and step into the car when it came to fetch her. She need not even trouble to bring a bearer with her; he would see to it that there were servants at the guest bungalow to look after her during her stay.

  Knowing how horrified and indignant Roger would be when he heard of the trip, Stella found herself hoping that she would get away before the news reached him. And as the time crept by without a word from him, she began to think she would succeed. But the next morning just as she was finishing breakfast—Miss Jellings being asleep—she heard a car purring up the driveway and a moment later Muhammad Ali announced gravely that Fendish Sahib wished to speak to her.

  “Very well; ask him to come in.” She wondered if the Indian, with his imperturbable expression, was conscious of her agitation. Probably he knew the ins and outs of the whole affair, was well aware that the sahib was annoyed with the memsahib—and why!

  But when Roger, hardly waiting for permission, strode into the room, she felt that the word “annoyed” was a poor description of his emotions. He was white with anger, and his eyes, which so short a while ago had rested on her with such passion, such tenderness, fairly blazed in his face.

  “Stella, there’s a ridiculous story going about—that you’re off to Bhindi this afternoon—by yourself!” His voice was unnaturally quiet; it would have been far less frightening, Stella felt, if he had raised it and shouted at her.

  But scared as she felt she resolved to hold her ground. She had made up her mind to break with Roger and here, plainly, was a heaven-sent opportunity.

  “It’s perfectly true,” she said steadily. She had jumped up when he came in but now sat down again, for her legs were trembling so violently it seemed impossible that they should hold her up. And then, before he could speak, she went on coolly, “Miss Jellings has asked me, as her paid employee, to go to Bhindi for a special purpose. Some very old and interesting ceremonies are taking place there this week, and she wants me to make notes on them.”

  “Does she absolutely insist on your going?” Roger rapped out the question.

  Stella hesitated, a pulse throbbing in her throat. To lie was foreign to her, and she could not forget that Jelly had told her explicitly that she was under no obligation to make the trip.

  “That’s answer enough for me,” he exclaimed. “Look here, Stella, you’ve got to tell her that you’ve changed your mind. It isn’t safe for you to go, and I won’t have it.”

  “And what right have you to order me around?” The peremptory note in his voice stung her to genuine rebellion.

  “The right of any man out here to see that one of his fellow countrywomen doesn’t get herself into a horrible mess. And there’s more to it than that.” He began to pace up and down the long room. “I could tell you stories of happenings at Bhindi that would make your hair stand on end; and I can assure you that if you came to any harm, it wouldn’t be you alone who would suffer. It would mean a punitive expedition. Dozens of lives, English and Indian thrown away, maybe, because of your wicked folly.”

  “I think you are exaggerating the danger.” Her tone was cold. “Armand Verle has been living in Bhindi for the past eighteen months, and if it wasn’t safe for a woman to stay there he’d be the first to know.”

  “Know? He doesn’t know anything—that nincompoop! Just because Chawand Rao has picked up a few Western ideas, Verle is ready to trust an ignorant English girl to his protection. I could kick the young fool from here to Bhindi, with the greatest of pleasure. As for you, Stella—considering that you were put into a blue funk by half a dozen beggars—in a modern town like Ghasirabad—”

  “Well, I’m not in a blue funk now!” His contempt and anger were arousing in her an indignation that matched his own. She had expected him to appeal to her on the grounds of his affection for her and had steeled herself to treat him with quiet and kindly determination, making him believe that his feeling for her awoke no echo in her own heart. Instead he was trying to deal with her as though she were an utterly irresponsible little fool who must be saved from her own idiocy.

  “And what exactly do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  “That I’m not afraid of making this Bhindi trip—and that I’m not scared by your bullying, either.”

  “Bullying?” He seemed taken aback by the word.

  “That’s what I said. You may mean well. But if you imagine you’re going to treat women in that blustering, caddish way and get away with it—well, I for one won’t put up with it. So far as I am concerned, I never wish to speak to you again.”

  For a moment he did riot speak. Then he said, incredulously, “But, Stella, surely you understand—”

  She would not look at him; to meet the expression that she knew instinctively was dawning in his eyes would be too great a test of her strength. She must be resolute, must send him away.

  “There’s nothing to understand,” she returned curtly. “And nothing to say—except that I wish you a very good morning.”

  Still he hesitated. She could feel his eyes searching her lace, and her heart was beating to suffocation. But suddenly Roger turned and swung out of the room and down the veranda steps. Starting up his car with quite unnecessary violence, he drove off down the tree-lined avenue, making so much noise that had not Jelly been a heavy—and late—sleeper, there would certainly have been some awkward questions to answer as to the reason for the commotion.

  She had so much to do in the way of preparations for her patient’s comfort during her week’s absence that the minutes flew by; and though Jelly, when she at last woke up, commented on her pallor, it was clear that she had no notion of its cause—had no inkling of the misery and unrest that were tearing at the younger woman’s heartstrings.

  Too unhappy now to feel even a tremor of nervousness, it was a relief to Stella when the moment of departure arrived, and she was getting into the huge but battered old Austin that was the pride and glory of the local garage. It was early afternoon, the hour of her usual siesta, but in spite of her fatigue the jolting and bumping of the car along the pitted and uneven road made it impossible to drop off into a doze. She could only brood, in a veritable agony of mind, over the bitter success of her attempt to break with Roger. How easy it had been, after all, to extinguish that weak little flame of love that had been lighted in his heart.

  Presently, however, as the pace of the turbaned driver grew slower and slower and his muttered imprecations more tediously frequent, weariness overcame her, and she slipped into sleep.

  She had only slumbered a few moments, it seemed, when she was awakened by the sound of horses’ hoov
es close at hand, and peering through the windows she found that darkness had fallen.

  Glancing at her wristwatch she saw to her amazement that it was past six o’clock, and now realized, for the first time, that the car had ceased its snail-like progress and had come to a standstill.

  Voices reached her now; the horsemen were talking to the driver. And she called out eagerly, “Is that you, Armand?”

  Evidently, however, she did not make herself heard, and she was about to rap on the partition that separated her from the driver, when there was a crash of gears, and the Austin, lurching forward, got under way again and proceeded on its journey.

  I hope to goodness there’s not much more of this, she thought, beginning to feel thoroughly irritable—and painfully in need of a cup of tea. But a few minutes later her annoyance was lost in a much stronger emotion. The car, moving more quickly now on a far better road, turned through an immense gateway; and as she looked through the little back window of the car, a great door swung into place behind them. And when, really frightened, she leaned out and asked the driver where he was taking her, he answered, his face expressionless, “To the palace, memsahib. It is His Highness’s command.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Almost before she had time to take in what the man was saying, the car stopped abruptly, with a squeal of brakes, and the door was opened by a black-bearded orderly in imposing livery who, salaaming respectfully, invited her to alight and enter the palace.

  In her agitation every word of the Hindustani acquired with such effort during recent months deserted her completely. She could only exclaim, in peremptory English, “Has everyone gone quite mad? I’ve no intention of getting out here. I wish to be driven to the state guest house—at once!”

  The man, looking thoroughly bewildered and plainly understanding very little of what she was saying, went forward to speak to the driver. An animated discussion ensued, of which the only phrase she could catch, flung from one to the other, was, “His Highness’s orders.” Feeling more and more uneasy, she peered out and saw that the car was drawn up beside a flight of wide steps leading to a building topped with domes and pinnacles that in the dusk had an eerie quality reminiscent of stories from the Arabian Nights. Light was streaming from an open door revealing the figures of a dozen or so other orderlies grouped on the steps, and as she watched them, feeling every moment more exasperated and more helpless, some of them came down to join in the argument with the driver.

  She wanted to ask for Armand, but it was obvious that she would have no chance of making herself heard above the din, as long as she sat in the car; and at last, anger conquering fear, she got out and, addressing the group in general, demanded sharply, “Where is Verle Sahib?”

  The question brought no more satisfactory response than her previous remarks. All that happened was that the first orderly, bursting into rapid Hindustani, renewed his eager request that she should enter the palace; while the driver of the car muttered that they were in Bhindi now, where everyone had to obey the raja’s commands; that Verle Sahib himself could only do as His Highness ordered and was probably waiting inside to greet the memsahib.

  That’s nonsense; still, I can’t stay out here all night, was Stella’s thought, and after a moment’s final hesitation she nodded stiffly to the orderly and allowed him to lead her in triumph, between the rows of attendants on the steps, into the vast entrance hall of the palace.

  At any other time she would have been entranced by the beauty of the white-marble walls and pillars, and of the fairylike carving with which they were adorned; but now there was only one thought in her mind: to see this preposterous Chawand Rao and demand that she should be put in touch at once with Armand Verle, and escorted to the state guest house. However unpleasant a person Chawand Rao might be, he would at least be able to carry on a conversation with her in English, for it was well-known that he had been educated at one of the English universities.

  Her legs were trembling as she stood there, and she longed to sit down. But the only furniture was a large divan that she guessed from its position in the center of the room and from its sumptuous cover of shot blue and gold, was the “throne” from which Chawand Rao dispensed justice to his people; and it needed more courage than she possessed to seat herself there.

  Glancing around she saw that curtains of the same gorgeous fabric hung over four archways at the sides and the back of the hall. And at that moment one of these curtains was moved aside, and a man came in—an Indian who, by his manner and dress, she at once guessed was Chawand Rao.

  What manner of man she had expected to meet she could not have said, but certainly it had been someone very different from this dignified and handsome personage who, with his olive skin, might well have passed for a Spaniard.

  Coming straight up to her, he held out his hand. “I must apologize for persuading you to come to the palace,” he said. “But I am sure that when I explain, you will forgive me.”

  “Persuade?” Her voice was grim, and she resolutely ignored his outstretched hand.

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. “Miss Hantley, if you will only hear my explanation—”

  “That’s precisely what I’m waiting for,” she retorted sharply.

  He gave a slight, formal bow. “And in addition I wish to make you a thousand apologies. If you will come to my library where tea is ready—and where there is the sort of furniture to which you are accustomed—we can talk comfortably. I feel sure that five minutes’ conversation will make you feel differently about the matter.”

  She gave him a keen glance and noticed for the first time that haggardness lurked behind his smile, and that the eagerness in his dark eyes was akin to desperation. Whatever his motives were in waylaying her and bringing her in his high-handed fashion to his palace, desire was not one of them; she would stake her life on that.

  “Very well,” she said coolly. “I’ll at least hear what you have to say in defense of your extraordinary behavior.” And she followed him through the archway from which he had emerged.

  The doorway led into a narrow but well-lighted corridor that turned and twisted in a confusing manner. Occasionally they mounted a few steps, occasionally they descended. It branched out, too, in different directions, and seeing her bewilderment Chawand Rao stopped for a moment to explain that this network of passages was hewn, like the rest of the palace, from the living rock; that in bygone centuries there had been a fortress here, and that much of the original structure still remained. Only the front part of the palace was comparatively modern, he declared—and that went back some four hundred years!

  In a few moments they reached another curtained archway—there were no doors of any description, Stella observed—and passed into a room so different from anything she had yet seen that to enter it was to return, all in a moment, to the twentieth century. Chawand Rao’s study might have belonged to any English gentleman of wealth and good taste. Chairs and chesterfield were leather covered and solidly comfortable, and the oak desk had a workmanlike appearance. Logs burned in an open fireplace, and on a small table stood a tray with a silver teapot and a set of priceless Limoges cups and saucers.

  With as little embarrassment as though it were his regular habit to have strange young Englishwomen brought against their will to his palace, he did the honors of the tea table; and when they were both provided with fragrant China tea and wafer-thin bread and butter, he plunged into explanations.

  “Miss Hantley,” he said, looking at her steadily, “you are not only a kindhearted woman, you are a trained nurse. I had you driven here this evening, instead of to my guest house, because my little son is desperately ill.”

  For a moment she did not answer. She was searching his face to see if truth was there—or a lie. But at last she said quietly, “Why did you not set about things in a more courteous and civilized manner? Could you not have sent someone responsible to meet me with a proper message?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Bhindi Palace
has so many foolish tales hung about it, you might well have refused to come.” He hesitated. “Now I have seen you, I realize that I need not have adopted such crude methods, that you are not the woman to refuse help to a sick child. I beg you to forgive me.”

  “What is the matter with the boy?” The grief and anxiety in Chawand Rao’s dark eyes made Stella forget her resentment and all her nervous fears.

  “I’m afraid it’s pneumonia, though my aunt, the old rani, as they call her—” and he gave a melancholy smile “—is convinced that a demon has got into the child’s chest and needs exorcizing.”

  Stella frowned. “And is this—this old lady looking after him?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. You see, Miss Hantley, I am a widower, and when I succeeded my uncle and came here to Bhindi with my three little sons, his widow stayed here and took charge of them.”

  “But supposing she objects to her patient being examined by an English nurse?”

  His eyes flashed then. “Miss Hantley, you English seem to think that an Indian heart beats in different fashion from your own. My children are the greatest treasures I possess and Prithviraj, my firstborn, is the most precious of them all.”

  “I had better see him at once.” Stella set down her cup mill got up. “If it really is pneumonia, even minutes count.”