Finally, though not without a sigh at the thought of so much wasted effort, she tore up the letter in small pieces und burned them carefully in an ashtray; then, nerving herself to face whatever terrors the night might produce—oh, for an English door with a good strong lock—she returned to the sickroom.
Wondering with a dry little smile what the very conventional matron of the nursing home would say if she saw her, she arranged a, species of booby trap just inside the doorway and settled down to sleep. Except for one or two calls from her patient, who seemed rather restless, and complained of the pain in his side, the night passed peacefully enough. But when she awoke refreshed the next morning, she knew at once that for many hours ahead there would be no rest for her. Prithviraj had entirely lost that feverish look and the quick, difficult breathing had slowed down to a normal rate. To inexperienced eyes his illness had suddenly taken a turn for the better. And indeed he murmured happily, smiling up at her, that he was almost well again. But to Stella these signs and symptoms pointed to one thing only: the dreaded crisis had begun.
Her whole attention given now to her patient, everything else faded into insignificance. The disturbing behavior of the old rani counted so little that when Chawand Rao stole into the sickroom, she did not even remember to mention it to him; even Roger—always in the forefront of her mind these days—was thrust into the background. Every least thought was centered on the small olive-skinned boy who was embarking on the struggle for his precious life; at all costs that fight must be won.
As soon as the news reached Armand, he was at her side, eager to help her. There was no hint now in his manner of any feeling for her stronger than friendship, and his cheerful good-humor, coupled with his evident desire to wipe out his recent “defeat” at the hands of the old rani, made Stella glad of his presence. That outburst of his the other morning had been, she was sure, an aftereffect of his dose of opium, and if he remembered it now, which was doubtful, it would be with a sense of shame; he would never behave like that again.
And later that same day she was even more thankful that he was at hand. For when, after snatching a brief nap in her own room, she came out into the corridor, intent on hurrying back to the sickroom, she received a shock. Sitting outside her doorway was a fierce-looking old Indian, gray bearded and armed with a very ugly bowie knife that, unsheathed, was lying across his knees.
He was up in an instant and salaaming, but his expression was so hostile, the thought shot through her mind that he must be an assassin, hired by the old queen to make an end of her. Had not Jeythoo spoken of muffled screams, of bodies dragged along those winding passages at dead of night!
But if she was terrified she did not mean to show it. Staring haughtily at the man, she demanded sharply to know what he was doing, coming without permission to sit outside her door.
“I have permission, and from His Highness the raja himself; but more than that, I have a command—from my master.”
Her fear gave way to bewilderment. “What do you mean? Speak more plainly, please.”
The man’s face grew more sullen than ever. “To the memsahib, no doubt, every Indian looks alike. Why would she remember Fendish Sahib’s poor, unworthy khitmatgar?”
Recognition leaped into her eyes. “Of course! You waited on us that night at dinner at Mr. Fendish’s bungalow. But—I still don’t understand. Do you really mean that he sent you here to look after me?”
“I do, memsahib, though truth to tell I had no wish to come. And what a fight I had to gain an entry into the palace. Those dogs of Hindus at the gate, seeing in me a son of the Prophet, would have sent me packing, but I refused to go; and at last His Highness, who though an idolater is no fool, intervened and himself brought me to your door.”
A wild feeling of joy surged in Stella’s heart. Jelly was right. Roger really cared for her, was desperately anxious to shield her from harm.
“I am very glad that you are here,” she said quietly, “but I am sorry that you come unwillingly.”
“Memsahib, how could it be otherwise?” His frown betokened worry now as much as annoyance. “Am I not my sahib’s chief servant, in charge of his household? And is it fit that I leave him when no less than four visitors arrive from Bombay to stay with him? The sahib’s brother and the memsahib he brings with him are young, and will not criticize. But the old sahib and memsahib—”
Stella went white. “Is it Mr. James Fendish and Miss Glydd who are coming?” she asked, striving hard to hide the dismay that had seized her.
“They had already arrived when I left.”
“I see.” She hesitated, and then, conscious that the old man’s eyes were resting wonderingly on her face, she told him steadily that she would be spending the rest of the night in the sickroom.
“Then I will bring bedding and sleep outside the doorway,” he observed and salaaming left her, as deeply troubled now as she had been happy only a few moments before.
Allegra Glydd, not only in Ghasirabad but in Roger’s bungalow! What chance now was there that Roger would ever understand the truth of that old story? There was such candor in Allegra’s dark eyes, such childish innocence in her voice. If she had been able to fool a hardheaded judge, would she not be able to twist a man like Roger around her little finger? Already he believed in her and was prejudiced against that so-called friend of hers, Star Lefreyne.
He thinks he is in love with me, she thought despairingly, but he scarcely knows me. When he remembers how he spoke to me of Star Lefreyne, and of how I kept silent on the subject, isn’t it almost certain that his prejudice will be deepened? From the very moment Allegra exclaims, “Stella Hantley! Why, that’s the other name of that awful Star Lefreyne”—the mischief will begin to work.
For a full five minutes she paced up and down her room, sick with misery at the thought that at this very moment Allegra might be pouring her lies into Roger’s ears. To steel herself to sacrifice and walk out of Roger’s life, in order to save people from unhappiness—that was something she might well have brought herself to do. But to lose his affection and respect without the chance, perhaps, of defending herself—for if he met her with cool politeness, what could she do—oh, how was.it to be borne?
And then, true to her nursing training, she squared her shoulders and fought back the hot tears that threatened her.
One thing is certain, she told herself resolutely. Crybaby tactics will cut no ice in a situation like this. And meanwhile—I’ve a life to save.
CHAPTER SIX
Before she could return to her patient, however, she had another intruder to reckon with. The low cough that takes the place of a knock at the door throughout the curtained East sounded just outside in the corridor. And when she went to investigate she found herself looking into the wrinkled, inscrutable face of the woman she had, with such good reason, come to dread—the old rani.
“May I speak with you a moment?” It was a command rather than a request, and before Stella could demur the old woman had stepped over the threshold. “It is some time now since we met and talked together.”
“And yet, Your Highness—” Stella met those hooded, glittering eyes without visible tremor “—I seem to have been conscious all the while of your presence near me.”
Just for an instant the old queen’s fierce gaze wavered, then recovering herself she went on hardly, “Time was when I was rani of Kotpura State. Now my realm is shrunk to a few meager square yards—the women’s quarter of Bhindi Palace. And even here my authority is challenged.”
There seemed no suitable reply to make to this assertion, and Stella remained silent. Then the old woman continued, with increasing bitterness, “The heir to the throne of the Fireborn dynasty lies sick unto death, and those of his own house and race are banished from his bedside. An infidel Christian woman, whose very touch is defiling, tends him, night and day; and to guard him there comes no Hindu warrior, but a Muslim slave.” She wrung her clawlike hands. “Surely the Goddess Kali—Kali the Terrible—will exact
a fearful vengeance!”
For the first time Stella realized something of the depths of the old queen’s emotion. It was not mere jealousy of the usurpation of her power, nor even anxiety over the life of Prithviraj, that racked her so cruelly. Stronger than these natural feelings was her sick terror of the curses that might fall upon the ancient Kotpura dynasty if the old taboos were broken, the old gods defied.
“Your Highness, perhaps I understand, just a little. But I have convictions as strong as yours. There is only one chance of saving the prince—to leave him in my hands.”
“You arrogant upstarts of the West!” The thin lips curled. “All your knowledge comes to you from the East. Medicine was practiced and understood here when Europe was peopled by savages.”
“True, but we have perfected the rudiments you taught us.” Stella spoke with patient courtesy. “Your Highness is too well informed to deny that the British, with all their faults, have saved millions and millions of Indian lives through their medical skill. Malaria, cholera and typhus claim fewer victims year by year.”
“If we argue the benefits and curses of British rule in India we shall be here all night.” The old rani neatly evaded the issue. Then abruptly she changed her tactics. “Miss Hantley, I who am accustomed to order make a plea to you now. I love my little grandnephew, and if I must not nurse him I may surely visit him sometimes.” She fixed her eyes on Stella’s face. “You must often grow weary. Could I not take your place for a brief half hour, watching over him—ready to summon you should any change occur?”
“I am afraid I must see him through this crisis without help from anyone.” Stella, remembering the disturbing incidents of the past few days, did not hesitate; not for five minutes would she trust her precious charge to the care of his fanatical greataunt. Heaven knew what poisonous concoctions she might in all good faith pour down his parched throat.
“Yet others do help you. A low-caste ayah! A foreign tutor, so addicted to drug taking that he cannot refrain from indulgence even at critical times like these.”
Stella suppressed a gasp at this bare-faced twisting of the truth. But the old woman, disregarding her went on bitterly, “And now this unspeakable Muslim. It is a strange state of affairs.”
“Your Highness, let us be frank with each other. I can trust these people to carry out my orders. You, I know, would take the first opportunity to use your own methods.”
“That may be your last word; it is certainly not mine!” The old rani’s eyes flashed, and drawing back the heavy silk curtains, she went swiftly out of the room.
Lord, what on earth will she be up to now, Stella thought wearily as a moment later she made her way to the sickroom. She was immensely thankful to see Hussein’s figure lying across the threshold. With the sturdy old Muslim on guard, she and her little patient should be safe for a few hours at least.
So intent was she on watching for any change of pulse or temperature during the crucial period that she soon dismissed the old woman’s threats from her mind; and when, about eleven o’clock the next morning, she became vaguely conscious of whispering and muffled exclamations in the corridors of the women’s quarter, she gave them no particular attention. Presently, however, feeling that all this chattering might disturb Prithviraj, she sent Jeythoo out with a message, asking for greater quiet, and on the ayah’s return heard a piece of news that succeeded, for a few minutes, in distracting her attention.
The old rani, it seemed, had discovered that some of her most valuable jewels—a priceless set of emeralds—had been stolen, and all the rooms in the quarter were being searched.
“I don’t care if all the crown jewels have been stolen,” she said sharply. “That noise has got to stop. If you can’t get them to be quiet, you must send Hussein to His Highness and ask him to come at once.”
“His Highness had already been sent for,” Jeythoo returned nervously. “And they say it is Hussein who is the chief cause of the commotion. They want to search your room, and he refuses to let them enter.”
And then quite suddenly there was silence outside, and the next instant Chawand Rao’s voice was heard speaking sternly in Hindustani. “How dare you behave like this when your prince is fighting for his life? Are you human beings? Or are you chattering apes?” Then, outside the doorway, he called softly, “Have I permission to enter and see my child, Miss Hantley?”
“Of course.” Stella felt relief at the presence of the raja. “These are the critical hours; it is good that you should be often at his side.”
He bent over his child and touched his forehead with gentle fingers; Prithviraj, looking up, smiled at him—then, feebly turning his head, sent a smile across to Stella.
“The English miss is so kind and so pretty,” he murmured. “Do you not see, father—her hair is a gold crown, like the one you wear when you give audience!”
The raja gave a grave smile in return. “Hush, my little son, you must not tire yourself with talking. You need all your strength. Sleep, now.”
Obediently the boy closed his eyes, and in a few moments he had dropped off. And then Chawand Rao turned to Stella.
“Do you know what all this fuss is about? Is it true that the Muslim servant whom Fendish Sahib sent to wait on you is giving trouble?”
Briefly Stella repeated what Jeythoo had told her—not without misgiving, for a certain suspicion was taking shape in her mind and she added quietly, “I should like to tell Hussein that he must allow the queen to have my room searched provided it is done in my presence—and in yours, too, if you will.”
Chawand Rao nodded. “Very well, Miss Hantley. But I would like Mr. Verle to be on duty here with Jeythoo while we are out of the room. Then if any change occurs you can be sent for without the child’s being left alone.”
A few minutes later Armand came hurrying along, looking startled but making no comment on the turn affairs had taken. With Chawand Rao at her side Stella went to her room. A knot of servants were hanging around the doorway, which was blocked by the solid figure of Hussein, and as soon as the pair of them appeared, the old rani came gliding up the corridor, her proud little head held high, her thin wrists and ankles a-jingle with ornaments.
“Perhaps, nephew, since I no longer have authority even in the women’s quarter, you will give this Muslim your command to make way for my servants. Every room in this wing has been searched for my stolen jewels, save this—and your son’s sickroom.”
“Miss Hantley herself wishes the search to be made.” The raja’s voice was suave. “You hear this, Hussein?”
Sullenly the Muslim salaamed and moved aside, and feeling as though she were in a dream, Stella watched the Hindu servants moving about the room, peering behind the furniture, prying into drawers and draperies and bedding. Just so, she recalled, had those plainclothes men in London peered and pried into every corner of her bedroom in the apartment she had shared with Allegra Glydd; and just as surely as they had tracked down those missing gems would these Indians trace the old rani’s emeralds. For she was certain now that this scene was a fulfillment of that threat of the previous evening, although the coincidence seemed too extraordinary to be credible.
And then as, motionless, she saw a servant go to her suitcase and fumble with the lock, she knew that coincidence had no hand in the affair. She remembered that false summons to the sickroom, and how when she returned the scent of sandalwood had told her of the old rani’s presence there a few minutes earlier. She had never known the meaning of that incident, but now it was crystal clear. Those hooded eyes that spied everywhere had seen her absorbed in writing that long letter to Roger; and she had been got out of the way just long enough for the contents to be hurriedly digested. That accomplished, a plan had been hatched in the old queen’s subtle brain, to be used as a last resort. It was possible, she must have reasoned, for people to believe, even against the evidence, that a girl had been accused wrongly, once in her life, of the theft of valuable jewels. But who would believe that precisely the same thing coul
d happen again? Would they not feel certain that on both occasions the girl had lied in defending herself from the charge of theft?
“The case is locked; I cannot open it.” The Hindu servant’s voice fell on her ears. Mechanically she went across to him and handed him the keys and a minute later there was a general gasp—and from the old rank a cry of triumph. For thrusting his slim, brown hand into one of the side pockets, the Indian drew out something that shone and gleamed like green fire—a three-tiered emerald necklace.
“I knew it would be there.” Stella was the first to speak.
And then she turned to Chawand Rao whose handsome face had paled a little. “Last night,” she said steadily, “Her Highness was bitterly angry with me, because—distrusting her—I refused to allow her to watch by the bedside of your child. She threatened me—and now I understand the scheme she had in mind—simple to the point of childishness. She was to hide her emeralds in my suitcase, and then raise a hue and cry. ”
“You have a quick brain—and a tongue to match.” There was a significant glitter in the old rani’s sunken eyes as they rested on Stella’s face. “When the scene just enacted here is spread throughout Kotpura, do you think there are many who will accept your explanation?”
Her expression and the meaning note in her voice confirmed Stella’s suspicions in every particular; here was blackmail raising its ugly head.
“Enough of this, ladies!” Chawand Rao had recovered his poise. “Who was responsible for hiding the emeralds in that suitcase, I do not know. But of one thing I am convinced Miss Hantley is as innocent in the matter as I myself.”
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