“Raddled old corpse! I wonder she’s not afraid of being mistaken for a xylophone in that backless gown?” Armand stared after her indignantly. “Someone ought to pop her into a shroud and give her decent burial. And would I come to the memorial service? You bet—and laugh myself hoarse.”
“Armand—she might have heard!” Stella was genuinely shocked at his outburst.
“I wish she had!” He was grinning broadly now. “I’m not big and brawny like—well, some people! But if anyone tries being nasty to you while I’m around, they’re going to be made very uncomfortable. Two can play at the tongue game, and I’m quite unhampered with scruples.”
“I’d rather not have that sort of defense,” she told him coldly. “You’re a gentleman, not a guttersnipe, and—”
“My dear, I’m a nice mixture of both,” he assured her genially. “Just as you, for your part, are a nice mixture of angel and devil! And now—suppose you stop scowling and dance with me.”
Already in the dining room, which had been cleared for the purpose, a few couples were waltzing to the music coming from a big record player, and though Stella was in no mood for dancing, she let Armand lead her onto the floor.
If we’re dancing, she thought irritably, he won’t be able to talk so much. And wondering why she found him particularly exasperating this evening came to the conclusion that it was because he was behaving in so possessive a manner—almost, she felt, as though they were sharing a secret.
Before long the room began to fill up, and after a while Armand, mopping his forehead with a brilliantly colored silk handkerchief, asked her if she would prefer to sit in the bar for a little while.
Not caring either way, she gave him a vague, “Just as you like,” and strolled out of the room with him. But when, reaching the attractive cream-and-chromium bar, she saw Roger and the Glydds sitting there, she stopped short and asked him hurriedly if they could find some other spot in which to cool down.
“Of course.” Not by a flicker of an eyelid did he show surprise. “We’ll go and sit out in my car. I have a couple of good thick rugs, so we won’t be cold.”
She hesitated but already he was moving toward the entrance; and rather than stop him and engage in an argument, she hurried to get her wrap and followed him out.
The air was crisp—no hint in it yet of the burning hot weather that was to come—and the sky was a sapphire bowl encrusted with silver stars. A faint tang of wood smoke mingled with the exotic spicy scents she had come to associate with this land of India; and the muted strains of music, combined with the soft radiance streaming from the long windows, completed a scene of almost theatrical beauty. It was a night, she reflected bitterly, for lovers to walk and talk together. Yet here she was in the company of someone who meant almost nothing to her, while fifty yards away the man she loved, and who loved her in return, was making polite conversation with the girl who, though he little knew it, was the direct cause of his unhappiness.
They found the car without difficulty, for Armand had parked it in a little space some way from the others; and though it was a shabby affair compared with some of the big Daimlers and Sunbeams, Armand was soon making her cozy with cushions and a fleecy rug.
“I’m not having you catch cold,” he said, and again there was that oddly confident ring in his voice. “You’re much too precious a person.”
“You’re absurd,” she said lightly, resolutely disregarding his disturbing change of manner. “The whole idea of coming out here was to cool down.”
“Was it, darling?” He laughed under his breath. “Could anyone remain cool very long when they’re with you? C’est impossible!”
“For goodness’ sake, Armand, don’t begin any of that nonsense.” Her voice was coldly reproachful. “You promised, when you asked if you might bring me to this party, that you wouldn’t be—well, silly!”
“Maybe,” he returned jubilantly, “but you can’t deny that things have changed since then and that I’ve justification for—”
“What on earth has come over you, Armand?” She was looking at him in astonishment. “Are you trying to tell me that you really have inherited a fortune?”
“Stop playing the coquette, darling.” He slipped an arm around her waist. “Do you want me to embark on elaborate phrases—declaim to the stars that your love is a fortune in itself?”
“My dear Armand, you must be crazy! All I want at the moment is for you to remove your arm and explain why you are behaving in this extraordinary manner.”
“And all I want,” he exclaimed, laughing softly again, “is to kiss and kiss you until you drop this pose of coldness and confess to me what you’ve already admitted to other people—that you love me the way I love you.”
“It’s not true,” she began vehemently.
“It is,” he retorted triumphantly, “and you shall confess it.” His lips were brushing her throat. “Darling it’s a miracle that anyone so lovely, so perfect as you should have come to care for an obscure nobody like me. But I’ll make you happy, I swear I will.”
She struggled desperately to free herself from his grasp. “You’ve got it all wrong, Armand. Stop kissing me like this. You must listen to me.”
“You’re cruel, Stella! Snatching the cup away from a man who’s dying of thirst!” But in spite of his passionate words he loosened his grip on her and sat back, breathing heavily, asking, after a moment, in a steadier tone, “Well—and what is it that I have to hear.”
“That it’s all a mistake, your imagining that I’m in love with you.” And then her voice grew gentler. “I’m horribly sorry, Armand. I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world. I genuinely like you, and the thought of hurting you—”
“But, Stella, I was told quite definitely—no question of hints or anything like that—that you had actually spoken to other people of being in love with me.” His face, in the starlight, was white with misery and bewilderment.
“Then you were told a lie.” Her distress matched his own. “It’s a wicked shame, but perhaps if you tell me who the culprit was—”
“It was that Glydd girl.” He gave the answer without the slightest hesitation. “She seemed so absolutely certain, I couldn’t help believing her; though perhaps if I hadn’t been so eager to believe it—”
He broke off, turning his face away, and Stella, torn between fury against Allegra and pity for this man whom she had been obliged to humiliate so cruelly, laid a timid hand on his arm.
“Armand, I’m so frightfully sorry. I shall never forgive Allegra for what she’s done. It’s sheer misery to me to have to wound you like this—”
“You darling!” All the passion was gone from his voice, and he sounded utterly weary. “I shall never bear you the least ill will for anything you’ve said to me tonight. I shall just shrug my shoulders and tell myself that it was too much of a miracle, after all: that an angel like you could never have stooped to such a worthless fellow as myself. For I’m not up to your standards in any way, Stella—and I know it.”
She shook her head at that. “Don’t put me on a pedestal, Armand. I’m just as full of faults and weaknesses as any other woman. I only wish I was in love with you, but hearts are wayward things.”
A silence fell between them then, and after a little while Armand said quietly, “Do you mind leaving me here for a few minutes, Stella? I’ve had a bit of a blow, and I want to pull myself together.”
“Of course, Armand.” Without another word, she let him help her out of the car and walked slowly back to the club building, from which the strains of music were still issuing.
Conscious of looking flushed and disheveled, she made her way toward the cloakroom, hoping earnestly to escape running into anyone she knew. But luck was against her. Standing, smoking at the entrance was Roger, and his eyes as they rested on her briefly, and with faint contempt, told her that he missed no detail of her ruffled looks and was drawing his own conclusions as to their cause. And when, brushing past him in angry silence, she rea
ched the shelter of the cloakroom, she found that even here there was no peace for her. The only occupant of the daintily furnished room was a girl, peering intently at herself in a mirror and reshaping her lips with a scarlet lipstick; and the girl was Allegra.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
She saw Stella’s reflection in the mirror and turning around observed with faint malice, “Hallo, Star! Having a good time? You look like it!”
Stella came in and shut the door behind her. “Now that we’ve met like this—alone—” she said, her voice shaking with anger, “there’s a question I’d like to ask you.”
“Sounds like the Christy Minstrels—but go on, dear!” Allegra continued, tracing out a Cupid’s bow.
“What do you mean by telling Armand Verle that I was in love with him? It’s a lie—as you’ve very good reason to know.”
“My dear girl, I had it on the best authority.” Allegra put away her lipstick and took a small eyebrow brush from her handbag. “Roger was so down in the mouth the other day, I drew him out to confide in me—the sympathetic little sister touch, you know—and he told me you had given him to understand there was no chance for him because you’d set your affections on Armand Verle.”
“And you repeat his confidences!” It was all Stella could do to refrain from taking Allegra by her slim shoulders and giving her a good shaking.
“You shouldn’t be such a siren, Star! Poor Armand came to me, too, a few days later, with a similar tale of woe—how he adored you, and you wouldn’t look at him. So I thought, ‘Well, here’s my good deed for the day. I’ll make one poor wretch happier.’ And I passed on the glad tidings.”
“Knowing that—whatever Roger might have said or thought—there wasn’t a grain of truth in it!” Stella’s voice was charged with bitterness.
“I certainly hoped it was true.” Allegra seemed no whit discomposed by Stella’s fury. “I knew you were keen on Roger not so long ago, but people have been known to change their affections before now.” And then snapping together the clasps of her handbag, she folded her arms and looked up brazenly at Stella. “As a matter of fact, I may do a bit of changing around myself. I’m not at all sure I haven’t made a mistake in getting engaged to Jim.”
Just for a second Stella’s heart gave a leap of joy. If Allegra were to jilt Jim Fendish, all her troubles would be removed. There would no longer be any reason for holding her tongue over those incidents of the past; nor was it likely that either Roger or Jim would disbelieve her.
But the next instant her castle in the air dissolved in mist, for Allegra finished her sentence by saying, very slowly and deliberately, “Now that I’ve got to know Roger so well.”
“You little cad!” Stella exclaimed. And then she gave a scornful laugh. “If you think Roger would dream of marrying you, Allegra, you’re very much mistaken.”
For the first time, Allegra’s cool indifference showed signs of cracking. An angry flush rose to her cheeks and she observed quickly, “Is that a challenge to me? Do you suppose your attractions are so very superior to mine?”
“If you understood Roger at all, you wouldn’t take my remark that way.” Stella’s disdain was increasing. “You know that he’d never reach out for happiness at the expense of a favorite brother—nor take it if it was offered him. It’s for precisely that reason that I haven’t blown your gaff long ago—or tried to! Roger loves me, but we should never be really happy together if he was feeling all the time that our marriage was built on Jim’s misery.”
“What a peroration!” Allegra was recovering her aplomb. “I wonder you don’t take up lecturing: it’s supposed to be a paying game. However—” and she rose to her feet “—I’m afraid I can’t stop and listen to your flow of eloquence any longer. Roger’s waiting to dance with me.” And with one backward glance at herself in the mirror, she swept out of the room.
Mechanically Stella set about tidying herself, running a comb through her untidy curls and trying with the aid of her powder puff to tone down the scarlet of her cheeks.
It had been, she decided, one of the most wretched evenings she had ever spent. Chawand Rao’s cryptic remark had been enough to set her off worrying; and on top of this there had been Armand’s outburst of passion and Roger’s deepened contempt and hostility. But it was this hint of Allegra’s, that she was going to set her cap for Roger, that disturbed her most. It was easy to boast that Roger was too decent and too chivalrous to rob his brother of his fiancée. As Armand had observed only the other day, Allegra was the type of girl who could twist any man—or nearly any man—around her little finger. Was it so very unlikely that she might use her wiles successfully on Roger? Already she had wormed her way into his confidence and persuaded him, reserved as he was, to open his heart to her. To arouse his passionate nature, making him feel that he must at all costs possess her, even at the expense of his brother’s happiness, was not a very far step from this; and his present soreness would make her task all the easier.
Well, if he’s shallow enough to fall for a piece of rubbish like Allegra, that’s his funeral, she told herself bitterly, as she prepared to go back and mingle with the other guests. But she knew in her heart of hearts that the thought of seeing him caught in Allegra’s net was sheer agony; a torment too great to be borne.
From that evening onward, she was filled with one overmastering desire—to shake the dust, not only of Ghasirabad but of India itself from her feet and set sail for home.
She had looked forward so keenly to coming to “the gorgeous East,” and her first few weeks in this strange and colorful land had thrilled her to the core. After her hard work in the nursing home, it had seemed to her that she had been set free to wander in an Arabian Nights fairy tale. She had visited out-of-the-way cities and villages where Europeans seldom penetrated, and where life had been flowing in the same currents for well upon two thousand years; had witnessed age-old dances and ceremonies, sometimes breathtakingly beautiful, sometimes majestic and awe-inspiring, of which the ordinary tourist never heard. But of late she had been oppressed with misery, and it seemed to her as though this Mother India, who had held out such alluring arms, had become a sullen enemy, laying on her the curse that every step she took within her borders, every friendship she made, should lead only to sorrow and disillusionment.
But long as she might to break away, she was held there a prisoner until her patient should recover sufficiently to make the journey to Delhi; nor was she permitted to follow her own inclination and spend her whole time in the rest house and grounds. She must, Jelly insisted, join in the life of the English community, whether she and Roger were on good terms or not; she must go to the club and meet new people. She would get ill herself if she were cooped up day in, day out with a querulous old invalid.
Had Jelly been stronger Stella would have explained the whole situation to her. But in the old lady’s present low condition it was unthinkable to burden her with her troubles; to do so would cause her to worry and fret, and might even retard her recovery.
She went out as little as possible, although Armand, rather subdued these days, pressed her continually with invitations to go riding or golfing with him, or to drop in at the club for a cocktail and a game of darts. But whenever she allowed herself to be persuaded into acceptance of his hospitality, she had to endure the misery of seeing Roger and Allegra together. Truly, she thought, the feeling that a curse was laid on her went beyond the bounds of mere imagination. If she and Armand went to the golf course, Roger and Allegra were certain to have chosen that afternoon for a round; if a ride was the program, the road they chose would always be that favored by the other pair; and at the club it was a safe bet that wherever Allegra might be, Roger would not be far away.
Chawand Rao she saw but seldom, and then only in the distance. Having handed over the club premises to the English residents of his state, he disclaimed all right to go there without a direct invitation, and even when invited, he was always ready with a courteous refusal. Without explicitly saying s
o, he implied that if he formed the habit of visiting the club, other Indians of standing might expect to become members, and that this would inevitably lead to embarrassments. The club had been started for the benefit of Europeans, and if Englishmen and Indians wished to make social contacts they could very well do so on the polo ground or cricket field.
“It’s the feminine attitude that makes the color bar such a grim reality,” Armand explained to a slightly mystified ;’ Stella. “If the custom of purdah could be swept away, it would be far easier for the two races to get together. But there it is! In an old-fashioned state like Kotpura, hardly an Indian lady of good family would be found who would dream of coming to a mixed gathering; yet her male relatives expect to mingle freely with Englishwomen. It makes the whole thing artificial—as Chawand Rao is sensible enough to realize. That’s why—” and he frowned a little “—I can’t understand His Highness making passes at you, Stella. He must know that it’s no use.”
“He hasn’t been making passes at me!” Stella retorted irritably, adding a moment later, with a vehemence that startled the Frenchman, “if you only knew how I ache to leave this dreadful country! It’s positively sinister the way everything has gone wrong for me since I came here. I shall bless the day when I’m out of this strained, emotional atmosphere and back in matter-of-fact England.”
An outburst that made Armand look very pained and that launched him on a fresh endeavor to take her out of herself by showering invitations into her lap.
She knew that she was slipping into a morbid state of mind and tried hard to regain her normal balance; but so far had she drifted from the ultrasensible self of a few weeks earlier that when, one morning, as she sat sewing on the veranda, a disreputable-looking old fakir came limping up the drive and begged whiningly to be allowed to tell her fortune, she was seized with an urge to hear what he had to say. And instead of sending him packing, she gave him a rupee and settled down to listen to his droning prophecies.
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