Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  A look of relief swept across his aquiline features. “I was hoping you would say that. His room is a short distance away, in the women’s quarters. I’ll take you there at once.”

  As they reentered the labyrinth of corridors, Stella mind herself recalling, with feeling, Roger’s enthusiastic words about his work of bringing light to the dark corners of the world. Certainly these passages must have been creepy places when oil lamps were the only form of illumination; even in the daytime they would have seemed sinister and gloomy, and at night—well, she for one would have needed all her nerve to grope her way around them. And then she bit her lip. What on earth would Roger think if he heard that she was not merely in Bhindi but in the palace itself? How horrified and disgusted he would be; how contemptuous of what he would term her “crass folly.” Yet—why should all that trouble her now? What did it matter either way what he thought of her?

  A left-hand turn brought them into a wide lobby from which several doorways opened, and here a dozen or more servants, women and young boys for the most part, were sitting waiting patiently, apparently for orders and chatting in low tones.

  They were on their feet in an instant as their master approached, and salaamed profoundly both to him and to Stella; then one of them, bolder than the rest but scared for all that, volunteered the information that the little prince had been coughing incessantly for a long time.

  Pricking up her ears Stella heard faintly in the distance the hard little cough that had grown so familiar to her in her nursing experience and decided that Chawand Rao was probably correct in his diagnosis. And when she entered the sickroom, and stood by the bedside looking down at the small figure tossing and turning there, she felt certain that he was right. Prithviraj was desperately ill with pneumonia, and unless he received the most careful nursing there was no chance at all that he would live.

  The only light came from a smoky oil lamp placed on a shelf and at first Stella did not observe a figure sitting on a low divan on the other side of the room. But presently it moved, and when Stella, startled, looked inquiringly at Chawand Rao, he said in a formal tone, curiously unlike that which he had been using hitherto, “And now I must present you to my aunt—Her Highness the Dowager Rani of Kotpura State.”

  Uncertain what was expected of her, Stella dropped a little curtsy and then held out her hand.

  “I’m going to try to help you with the little prince,” she said steadily. “I’m afraid he’s pretty bad.”

  There was a moment of hesitation; then a small hand touched hers lightly and a voice said frigidly, in fairly fluent English, “What can you, a foreigner, do for him? He is in the power of demons, and you know nothing of the prayers and spells that alone can cure him.”

  “Bibi, listen!” Chawand Rao spoke gently but with, resolution. “We have tried your ways, and they have failed. Tonight the English nurse takes charge, and all that she orders must be done.”

  “Then the child will surely die.” The conviction and the intense hostility in the old woman’s tone made Stella feel queerly nervous, and as her eyes, growing accustomed to the bad light, took in more details of the imposing figure, this feeling of fear increased.

  In her youth the old rani must have been a strikingly handsome woman. Now, with every feature sharpened and every limb emaciated, with her flaming eyes sunk in their sockets, she had the look of a fierce old eagle bent on battling with and destroying anyone rash enough to come between her and her prey.

  “He is my son, my firstborn. Would I lightly risk his life?” It was on her account, Stella knew, that Chawand Rao was speaking English; he wished her to hear and understand all that was being said between him and his aunt.

  “That he is your child is a small matter; that he is heir to the throne of the Fire-born is the important thing.” Swiftly the answer was tossed back. “To the English the rajas of Kotpura are petty princelings of no account; they do not even know that beside our dynasty, Pope and Bourbon alike are modern upstarts.”

  “All this I realize, Bibi, and still my word holds good. The English nurse must try her skill; we must make way for her, and see that no obstacle lies in her path.”

  Slowly, and with a faint jingle of ornaments, the old woman got to her feet. “I go, Chawand Rao, but with the solemn warning that you will bitterly regret forsaking the ways of your forefathers.” She fixed her glittering eyes on her nephew. “When the day of wailing comes and the ashes are smeared on our foreheads, do not turn to me for comfort—all I shall have for you is curses.”

  With the shuffle of light heelless slippers and the, swish of silken garments she was gone, leaving behind her nothing but a faint perfume of sandalwood. And at once Stella, who had been growing increasingly impatient turned to Chawand Rao.

  “May I have one of those women out there to help me?” she demanded sharply. “There is much to be done—at once.”

  He nodded. “There is one Jeythoo who was my wife’s chief ayah. She will obey you faithfully, and moreover she understands a word or two of English. I will send her in to you immediately. If there is anything that I myself can do or order to be done, a message will bring me instantly.”

  She thanked him and a few minutes later, with the help of the fat but extremely nimble Jeythoo, was transforming the stifling room into something more like a private ward in a modern hospital. The foul-smelling lamp was banished, and the electric lamp—carefully shaded—was switched on; the patient was bathed, and the crumpled, dirty sheets and soiled nightshirt were exchanged for fresh linen; a window was opened wide and soon the queer, malodorous compound with which the child had been dosed was replaced by a jug of fresh lime juice and water.

  During the whole business the little boy seemed barely conscious of anything that was happening, and Stella after some halting questions to the ayah, came to the conclusion that the dreaded crisis was probably about three days distant. She must stay and nurse the child; that was a foregone conclusion. But she must also impress on Chawand Rao the necessity of sending for a competent doctor—if one was available in this remote corner of Hindu India.

  As she was finishing her ministrations, a message was brought to her from Chawand Rao. A large room had been prepared for her not far from the sickroom. A hot bath awaited her, and dinner would be sent in as soon as she was ready for it.

  Looking at the messenger she shook her head. “I’ll sleep here in the little prince’s room. Jeythoo is getting a bed ready for me. As for food, a tray sent into the next room; will do best.”

  With Jeythoo’s help the boy was able to grasp the gist of her words, and adding a request that she might speak to the raja at the first opportunity, she sent him off.

  When Chawand Rao returned, he could hold out no hope at all of being able to obtain the services of a doctor. He had already tried in many directions, but there was a spate of epidemics throughout the whole province, and always the same answer was returned, even from one or two who were his friends. No doctor could leave a host of patients and make the long and difficult journey to Bhindi; for the sake of one small child. If it was a question of one life or many, then the one must be forfeit—prince or no prince.

  Stella shrugged her slim shoulders. “Then I shall just have to do my best—provided that my employer will consent to my staying on. I shall have to get a note off to her first thing tomorrow explaining the situation and asking her to send along my case of medical supplies.”

  “It shall be dispatched the moment it is ready.” Chawand Rao’s face was alight with gratitude. “And Miss Hantley, whether the boy lives or is snatched away from us, I shall owe you a debt that nothing can repay.”

  Long after she had crept into the bed Jeythoo had arranged for her on the old rani’s divan, Stella lay sleepless. What a strange, incredible turn her life had taken, for the time being. For the past five years, ever since Allegra Glydd’s wickedness had brought her brief career as a dancer to an end, little that was eventful had happened to her. Hard work, first in a hospital and then in a
private nursing home, had left little time for outside interests. Nor, indeed, had there been much opportunity for them. For though many of her patients had vowed enthusiastically to keep up with her after their recovery, very few had done so.

  Miss Jellings had been the shining exception. Firmly convinced that Stella had saved her life and declaring that, with her slight knowledge of typing and passionate interest in dancing, she would be the ideal secretary as well as nurse, she had whisked her out to India, paying her a generous salary and treating her more as a daughter than an employee. And already that humdrum existence as a nurse in England might never have been.

  Of course—it was no good ignoring the fact—it was meeting Roger that had made the real difference. They had known each other such a short while! Yet it seemed impossible that there had ever been a time when she had not thrilled to the touch of his hand, ached for the sight of him and the sound of his voice.

  I’ve never been in love before, and I know I shall never be in love again, she told herself desperately as she tossed restlessly on the uncomfortable divan, listening to the hard, incessant coughing from the other side of the room. It’s all so bitterly ironical. Why did it have to happen, if nothing was to come of it? Why, out of all the millions of men in the world, must Allegra be engaged to Roger’s brother?

  Allegra! The very name was torture! To utter it, even in the silence of her own heart, was to unleash a flood of emotion that came very near to hatred. It was a relief when her little patient, crying fretfully for a drink, forced her mind into saner channels.

  There was much to do for the child, and when at last she was back in bed again, her mood was quietened down to resignation. Even the thought of Roger’s disgust when he heard of her being in Bhindi Palace was almost bearable now. If, as she had firmly resolved, their ways were to part, why should it fret her that he should misunderstand and disapprove of her actions?

  It was surely better so.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning saw her settled into a definite routine with her small patient who, still in a half-conscious condition, seemed unaware that a stranger was looking after him. Daylight had robbed the situation of much of its unreal and frightening quality. And when, as she was breakfasting in the next room, a message was brought that Verle Sahib would like to see her, she was able to receive the young Frenchman in a fairly philosophical frame of mind.

  But if she was calm, Armand Verle certainly was not. White-faced with worry, he wanted to know why she had allowed herself to be driven to the palace, instead of to the state guest house, and declared that he had waited for her there the previous evening—growing more and more perplexed—for the best part of three hours.

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “So you had no idea, either, of what was happening!”

  “Absolutely none.” He began to pace up and down the room, so evidently distressed that she found herself feeling a little sorry for him. “It wasn’t until nearly eleven o’clock that a rumor reached me of your being brought here, and when I rushed around to find out, the men on guard professed to know nothing. As for disturbing any of the royal household to make inquiries, it was as much as their job was worth, they said.”

  She gave a queer little laugh. “His Highness goes in for somewhat high-handed methods.” And briefly she told him of the events of the previous evening.

  He looked slightly relieved as he began to understand the situation but observed gloomily enough that it was “a bad business,” all the same.

  “What Miss Jellings will say to me, I can’t think,” he told her. “As for Fendish—he’ll want to knock my head off on sight. But honestly, Stella, I couldn’t have believed an apparently civilized fellow like Chawand Rao could have acted in such an outrageous fashion. Talk of despotism! Why, he might have scared you out of your wits.”

  “I’m not scared now,” she assured him. “But I must say I’m extremely glad to see you. For a girl who has never out of England until a few months ago, it’s no joke being completely cut off from other Europeans.”

  “I’ll spend as much time as possible with you,” he promised. “And let’s be thankful these people are Hindus, not Muslims. If Chawand Rao was a son of the Prophet, there’d be no putting my nose in this wing of the Palace.”

  He hesitated. “Shall I ask His Highness if we may have our meals together? I might even help you with Prithviraj. With all this excitement about the Fire Festival tomorrow evening, there is no question of my carrying on my ordinary job. The children won’t take in a word of my lessons.”

  “I should be very glad if you would relieve me sometimes.” She lowered her voice and spoke very rapidly. “I’m terribly afraid of the old rani’s getting into the sickroom and giving the boy some of those horrible drugs of hers. She’s quite capable of shutting up the window, too—and upsetting all my other arrangements.”

  He smiled satirically. “And I bet Chawand Rao is wise to that. I’ll ask his permission to sit with the patient whenever you have a short spell off duty. Only you’ll have to leave me precise instructions.”

  “I shouldn’t like to desert him long at this stage.” Stella was frowning a little. “But if I’m going to nurse him, day and night, through the crisis—when it comes—I ought to get some fresh air, even if I don’t stir beyond the palace gardens.”

  He nodded.

  “And now you’re here, you oughtn’t to miss the ceremonials tomorrow night. You owe it to Miss Jellings to go if you possibly can.”

  She looked doubtful. In her anxiety over the sick child her obligations toward Jelly had almost slipped out of her mind.

  “If I go it will only be on one condition,” she declared at last. “That you’ll give me your word of honor not to leave the boy for an instant, so long as I’m out of the palace.”

  The permission for which Armand asked was almost eagerly given, and the young Frenchman lost no time in showing Stella how anxious he was to make up for leadings her into such an awkward and difficult situation. Armand, was skillful with his fingers and quick at grasping her directions, and Stella soon felt confident at having him in charge of her patient; and with this weight off her mind she made no further bones about using the room a short way down the next corridor that had been originally prepared for her.

  Her first action on gaining a few minutes’ freedom was to go to this room and write a letter of explanation to Miss Jellings, together with a request that her medicine easel should be sent to her. She handed this letter a little later to Chawand Rao himself, when he came to visit the sick child.

  “It shall be sent off at once,” he promised, and then, added, his face troubled, “Verle tells me that you wish to witness the ceremonials tomorrow evening. It would be a great pleasure to have you there, but the child—would it be safe to leave him?”

  “So long as Mr. Verle gives me his word to stay with him I could easily be away from him for an hour or two.” Stella spoke with confidence. “The crisis won’t occur for another three days, at the earliest. It’s then that I must not stir out of earshot.”

  He nodded gravely. “I trust you, Miss Hantley. I know you would not take a single risk where the life of my child is concerned. You shall do your duty by Miss Jellings—and be a spectator at one of the strangest and most moving dance dramas that India still has to offer.”

  All that day and the next there was a great bustle in the palace, and except for brief moments, when the raja stole into the sickroom to gaze wistfully at the frail, fever-racked figure of his child, Stella saw little of Chawand Rao. As for the old rani, there was no sign of her at all—for which Stella was duly thankful.

  From every corner of the state and from far beyond its borders, folk were assembling to take part in, or witness the famous fire dances, the more important of them being accommodated in the palace itself or in the guest house, the humbler in lodgings in the town.

  In spite of her preoccupation with her patient, Stella felt herself infected to some degree by the general excitement,
and when the hour came for setting out for the arena where the ceremonies were to be held, she was keyed up for adventure.

  She had been told earlier in the day that she would be driving there in company with some of the more distinguished women guests, and found them delightful company. Now that she was settling down to her strange existence, her Hindustani, such as it was, came back to her, and though few of the Indian ladies knew more than a word or two of English the party quickly established friendly relations.

  Ten minutes’ drive along a road that skirted the town brought them to an open piece of ground, bordered with trees and illuminated by hundreds of flares. At one end glimmered a white marble pavilion, and in front of this, near the center of the arena, were two tents. A group of musicians, some thirty strong, had gathered near these tents, and already strains of thin, unearthly music came from their lutes and pipes, to the accompaniment of the low, insistent beat of drums.

  They were driven at once to the pavilion and shown to a balcony furnished with cushions—and warmed, inconspicuously enough, by hot pipes—from which a good view could be obtained. And presently the old rani arrived with her attendants, to be followed a few minutes later by Chawand Rao and his retinue.

  Throngs of people had collected on the edge of the enclosure and the chatter that rose from them came near drowning the plaintive music of the little orchestra. But suddenly the door of one of the tents was flung aside, and two men came out to blow a shrill, compelling blast on silver trumpets; and, as at an understood signal, the audience settled down in silence to see what was to come.

  Next to issue from the tent was a body of torchbearers, moving rhythmically to form one gleaming pattern after another. Now it was a lotus flower that unfolded in the darkness; now there writhed a glittering serpent, crowned with gems; now sun, moon and stars blazed forth.