Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  And then the dancers rushed together to make what looked like a huge beacon, and from this there stepped out a tall, magnificently formed woman dressed from head to foot in sequined robes that gleamed red gold in the torchlight.

  How she had got there Stella could only guess. Probably she had crept unseen from the other tent. But this she knew—that she had never, in all her life, seen such perfect artistry.

  Every rippling movement of her splendid, supple body, every gesture of the proudly poised head, the slender jeweled feet and hands, combined to form a living flame. Not for her were the crude leap and pirouette of the West. She swayed and fire flickered; she raised an arm, and a new flame sprang to life; and all the while she sang in a sweet, high voice, a chant that though she could understand no: word of it, stirred Stella’s heart to its very depths.

  More and more poignantly, as she listened, she found herself longing for Roger’s presence. There was a message for the two of them, she was certain, as much as for the vast Indian audience, in this exotic dancing and singing, though what the message was she could not tell.

  Presently, moved by an irresistible impulse, she turned to the Indian lady nearest her and asked her, in her careful Hindustani, the subject of the dancer’s song.

  “She sings of love.” The Indian woman, as rapt as herself, sighed the words. “Love at the beginning of time, when human hearts were bright and pure, and men and women sang for joy as they tended their flocks and reaped the golden corn. But wait—from love springs birth and from the sacred fire is born the first Kotpura king.”

  The drama went on, with garlanded girls bringing a small wandering boy from the second tent. But Stella could no longer keep her mind on the colorful spectacle enacted before her.

  Love—and birth! If only her love for Roger could have followed its normal course to marriage and motherhood. To surrender one’s self to the beloved and to pass on the flame of life; what other meaning was there for womanhood? What did a career count, the bleak knowledge that one was serving one’s fellow men and women, if the best thing of all was denied one?

  She had arranged with Chawand Rao that a car should available to take her back to her patient the moment she died to go, and long before the drama ended she slipped unobtrusively out of the pavilion and was driven to the palace. It was not anxiety for the child that made her leave the queer, unearthly scene, but the tumult in her own breast. In the sickroom, moving about familiar tasks, her Western matter-of-factness would surely be too strong for these wild and primitive emotions.

  But when she reached the threshold of the sickroom and stumbled over something that lay there, she was nearly overmastered by the most primitive emotion in the world—dark terror. For lying flat on his back, motionless and with outstretched arms, was Armand Verle.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In a second her nursing training reasserted itself, and dropping to her knees she groped for his wrist and felt his pulse, which to her infinite relief beat faintly. She noticed in that same instant that he was breathing heavily and: swiftly, and with the aid of a pocket flashlight looked at his eyes. The pupils—diminished to mere pinpoints—told their own story. He had been drugged—given a strong narcotic that might take hours to work off.

  Who was responsible? The old rani, for a certainty. True, she had, like herself, spent the evening watching the fire drama. But she had a score of servants who would not dare to disobey her orders. It was doubtful if even Jeythoo, loyal as she was, would have the courage to defy her.

  She went out into the corridor and called for servants to help her, and a few minutes later Armand had been carried, still in a coma, into a nearby room and deposited on a, divan. She must attend to him, try to force him back to consciousness, but first she must see how Prithviraj was faring.

  A glance at the child showed her that much of the good work she had accomplished, since beginning to look after him, had been undone during her brief absence. He, too, had been given a narcotic, though in a very much smaller quantity; the same noxious preparation, no doubt, with which the old rani had been trying to cure him before her advent. And so angry did she feel that had the old woman been standing there before her she would have been strongly tempted to do her some physical injury.

  It was better, she decided, to leave the boy to sleep off the drug, but Armand must certainly be brought around. And after half an hour of drastic treatment she succeeded in rousing him sufficiently to whisper a few words. There had been something funny about the coffee, he muttered; he had felt queer soon after drinking it and had staggered to the doorway for air—only to collapse. She would never forgive him, he supposed, for it was the second time he had let her down by his idiocy. Rather ironical, considering he would rather please her than anyone—anyone—he broke off in the middle of the halting sentence, too drowsy to continue. With a groan of utter weariness, she pulled him to his feet, and throwing one of his arms around her shoulders, forced him to walk up and down the room. Midnight came and still she was working on him, bullying him into moving about, slapping his pallid face with wet handkerchiefs. And then a curious thing happened. She had the odd and disturbing feeling that she was being watched, and wheeling around in the direction of the doorway she met the burning eyes of the old rani. The glance they exchanged was like a rapier thrust, and in that Instant Stella knew that in Chawand Rao’s aunt—the widow of that former raja about whom such terrible things were spoken—she had found a fierce and implacable enemy. So long as she was in the palace, she would have to be ceaselessly on her guard.

  Before she could speak to her the old woman had vanished, and as before, only the faint perfume of sandalwood remained as witness of her presence.

  It was nearly dawn before she thought it safe to leave Armand and go to bed, and even then she dared not sleep. Always she was straining her ears for a stealthy footfall and fancying that she saw a veiled figure gliding toward the child’s bed.

  As soon as she was up and dressed, she sent a message to Chawand Rao, begging him to come to see her at the first possible moment. A few minutes later he arrived calm and unhurried as usual, on the surface, but with a look of keen anxiety in his eyes.

  “The child?” he queried steadily.

  “He’s no worse—although he was given some sort of a sleeping draft last night while I was out.”

  The Indian’s expression altered, surprise followed swiftly by blazing anger. “You mean—”

  “Wait a moment. I want you to come and see Armand Verle. The person who drugged Prithviraj very nearly finished off his tutor.”

  Without a word he followed her into the room where Armand was lying, still pale and heavy eyed but fully conscious. He gave the Frenchman a courteous greeting and then, bending over him, peered into his eyes.

  “Opium,” he said briefly, as he straightened himself and then stood for a full two minutes in silence, pondering deeply.

  Surely he’s not foolish enough to be in doubt who responsible for this, Stella thought impatiently, and the next instant realized that whatever Chawand Rao might think of his royal aunt, he would not discuss her with strangers.

  “I shall put a strong guard on all these rooms,” he said at last. “And after I have spoken to them, they will not dare admit anyone who might disobey your orders. To certain others, too, commands will be given, and I can promise you that there will be no further incidents of this nature.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Stella spoke bluntly. “With the prince’s crisis coming nearer and nearer, I can’t afford to have any more sleepless nights—working the whole time.”

  “Nor shall you,” Chawand Rao assured her. And then he asked, frowning, “Has your friend Miss Jellings sent you the medical supplies you asked for?”

  Stella shook her head. “Not yet, and it’s beginning to worry me. I need them badly.”

  “Then perhaps, Verle, you’ll make the effort and drive over to Ghasirabad today to get them.” Chawand Rao’s tone was suave but resolute. “After what happened las
t night you will be glad of a break—uncomfortable though the journey is, alas!” He paused for a second, fastening his eyes on the Frenchman. “I know I need not ask you to refrain from talking to your friends of your unpleasant experiences last night.”

  “It’s all just as you please, Your Highness.” Armand’s tone was weary. “I’ll go willingly, so long as Miss Hantley will be properly looked after—”

  The raja gave a faint, ironic smile. “I think I can guard her as well as you have done hitherto,” he observed coolly, and salaaming gravely left them.

  “That’s a nasty one for me!” Armand achieved a rueful grin. Then as Stella turned to go, he put out a detaining hand. “Just a minute, Stella. I haven’t thanked you half enough for what you did for me last night. You were an absolute angel.”

  “Angels don’t usually administer emetics, surely.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “Don’t laugh at me, sweet.” A pleading note had crept into his voice. “I know that you’ve no use on earth for me; and Roger Fendish is the lucky devil who—”

  “How dare you talk such utter rubbish?” The color washed into Stella’s face.

  “It isn’t rubbish. I only wish it were.” In. spite of her efforts to free herself, he still held her by the wrist. “Oh, Stella, haven’t you guessed that ever since I met you, I’ve been crazy about you?”

  With a final jerk she wrenched her hand free. “Nonsense! We’ve only known each other a matter of days.”

  “And how long have you been acquainted with Fendish? Weeks? Months?”

  I feel as though there was never a time when Roger and I were strangers, she thought with a rush of emotion that was bittersweet. But she said, coolly enough, “That drug seems to be taking a long time to wear off. The kindest thing I can do for you is to get you some more strong coffee,” and swept indignantly out of the room.

  She wondered seriously, later on, whether it really was the opium that had made him behave in such an odd fashion; for when, early that evening, he returned from Ghasirabad, he was his usual amusing and imperturbable self. At the same time he had something to tell her that she found decidedly disturbing.

  The letter she had written to Miss Jellings and that she had put into Chawand Rao’s hand herself—the letter that he had promised should be dispatched at once—had never reached its destination. Did it not look as though Chawand Rao’s power, even among his own servants, was limited—that in spite of his proud words, the old rani could circumvent him, how and when she pleased? And if this was so, was she or Armand or poor little Prithviraj any safer now from her attentions than they had been the previous evening?

  She said nothing of her fears to Armand, who despite his cheerful manner was still looking white and tired. She simply thanked him with impersonal cordiality for fetching the much needed case of medical supplies and then tore open the note Jelly had enclosed.

  Characteristically Miss Jellings said little about herself beyond that she was “fairly fit,” but she had so much to say about Roger that Stella wished fervently she had waited to read, the letter until she was in the privacy of her own room—instead of under Armand’s keen eyes.

  Roger Fendish is worried to bits about you already, and what he’ll say when he hears of this latest development—that you are actually in the palace—I can’t imagine. He drops in to make inquiries about you—usually on some other pretext—every single morning and has succeeded in making me feel very guilty about sending you to Bhindi at all. You must, of course, see the child through the worst of the illness, but don’t stay on a day longer than is absolutely necessary. And don’t, if you’ll take an old woman’s advice, dismiss Roger’s love for you too lightly. He may not have a smooth tongue and easy manners—and it’s obvious that he has a very hot temper. But he’s a real man, the kind in whom a woman could put complete faith. He wouldn’t only worship his mate; he would work for her, fight for her, if need be. And such men, Stella, aren’t to be met with every day of the week. Remember, too, that though he loves you, he is horribly proud. If you once send him away, he won’t come crawling to heel again.

  For my own selfish reasons, I don’t want to lose you, but if I knew that you were going to marry Roger, I would dismiss you with my warmest blessing.

  Your loving old friend, Sarah Jellings

  Conscious that the tears had started to her eyes—for the letter had moved her deeply—she set vigorously about her evening duties. As she worked a resolution formed in her mind, and presently, leaving Jeythoo in charge—Armand having gone to bed exhausted—she slipped off to her own room eager to put her intention into practice.

  If Roger really loved her—as she loved him—it was useless to sit down and let a worthless creature like Allegra Glydd ruin both their lives. Why should Allegra hold the monopoly on happiness? Why should she be shielded and protected from the consequences of her own wicked actions?

  Getting out her notepaper she began to write a letter, not to Jelly, but to Roger himself, giving him a bald history of that dreadful time five years ago. At first her pen moved slowly, but presently, as memories swept back to her brain, her words flowed. She said as little as possible about Allegra. Her task was simply to vindicate herself, the Star Lefreyne on whom those cruel, damning suspicions had rested. She had been barely twenty at the time, she pointed out, and maybe a shade careless and irresponsible, but that had been her worst fault. Never in her life had she been guilty of the slightest dishonesty, and she could swear that the jewels that had been traced to her box had been put there by the thief as soon as the hue and cry alerted.

  She hesitated before continuing the letter, longing to appeal to Roger to believe in her, yet too proud to do so. And while she sat there irresolute, a low cough outside her room told her that someone wished to speak to her.

  “What is it?” she exclaimed.

  “The child is worse. It is well that you should go to him.” The voice was that of one of the women servants, but which one she could not distinguish.

  “I’ll come at once,” she returned quickly, and bundling her papers into an attaché case, she went hurrying to the sickroom, where she found Jeythoo bending earnestly over the small restless patient.

  “What is the matter with him?” she asked sharply.

  “He coughs and coughs. I have been giving him a few sips of the drink you prepared for him.”

  “Wait. I’ll raise him a little to make it easier for him.” Gently she slipped an arm under the pillow and lifted the child a few inches, then held the glass to his lips. He did not, she thought, look any worse than when she had left him, but for the first time he seemed to recognize her and gave her a wavering smile.

  “The darling! Oh, memsahib, if you only knew what a sweet, pretty fellow he is when he is running about in good health.” She lowered her voice. “Even Her Highness, the old rani, adores him.”

  Stella smiled, looking down at the child. “We will have him fit and well again before very long,” she said confidently. “And now, Jeythoo, as he is awake, we had better make his bed and settle him for the night. Then, with luck, he may sleep for hours.”

  Some twenty minutes later., the last little jobs completed, Stella turned to Jeythoo.

  “I’ll be back directly to relieve you for the night,” she; said. “Meanwhile, though I want you to be watchful of the prince, you need not get frightened so easily. There was no real need for you to send for me half an hour ago.”

  Jeythoo’s fat brown face took on an expression of bewilderment. “Send for you! Memsahib, I sent no message to you. When you returned, I thought it was of your own design.”

  It was Stella’s turn to stare. “One of the women servants, came for me,” she declared, coldly and with evident suspicion. “She asked me to come at once to the child. If it was; one of those working under you, it was very officious—”

  “None of the other servants have been in the room since you left. Nor is it true that the prince was worse. He was coughing, certainly, but that is nothing new.”
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  Stella shrugged her shoulders. “Well, think no more about it. Strange things seem to happen in Bhindi Palace—”

  “But not so strange as in former days.” Fear shone now in Jeythoo’s eyes, and all Stella’s doubts of her vanished. “I could tell you stories, memsahib, of screams in the stillness of the night, of harmless folk who—”

  “Never mind about that now.” Stella spoke brusquely. She felt uneasy enough already, without Jeythoo’s horrific tales, and was in no mind to listen. “Stay here for a few minutes, and when I come back you can go off to bed.”

  “As you please.” Once again Jeythoo was the stolid servant, without emotions or thoughts of her own, and leaving her Stella slipped back to her own room.

  Apparently, everything was as she had left it, including—and this was her first thought—the papers in her attaché case. There was no support for her intuitive guess that the false summons had been given with the motive of getting her out of her room for a few minutes. And then she noticed something that in her flurry she had overlooked: the faint, lovely fragrance of sandalwood.

  There is no necessity for Jelly to urge me to leave here at the first possible moment, she thought grimly, as she took up her unfinished letter to Roger and thrust it into her pocket. A nursing job at Bhindi Palace is a little too exciting to be pleasant. And she found herself, wondering anxiously how many days or weeks must elapse before she could decently return to Ghasirabad. Once the child was definitely through the crisis, she decided, she must leave him to his own people; even the old rani might be willing to carry out her instructions, she felt, if she saw that the boy was on the road to recovery.

  Thinking along these lines she hesitated about finishing and dispatching her letter to Roger. If she made up her mind to be back in Ghasirabad within a week or two, would it not be wiser to talk to Roger instead of writing to him? It would be difficult to open the subject, but once the ice was broken, much could be said that could not be expressed in a letter. Then, too, there was the risk that it might share the fate of her first note to Jelly and fail to reach its destination; indeed, she would not have been surprised if the old rani, who had clearly been on a voyage of discovery, had abstracted it to read in private.