Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  I know I’m being a fool to waste time and money like this, she told herself as she let him take her hand in his dirty fingers and peer at the lines of her palm. It will be just the usual stream of nonsense one hears from fortune-tellers all the world over.

  But after the first muttered sentences that dropped from the old man’s lips, her eyes widened; for he was delving not in the future but in the past, and painting her a rough picture that, blurred as the outlines were, awoke instant and painful recollections in her heart.

  “Years ago,” he murmured, “when you were at the threshold of womanhood, one who you thought your friend and sister showed herself to be a treacherous foe. Her tongue dropped lies and her heart was a black stone, and she brought great trouble on you, so that you wept by night and day for many moons.”

  With a sharp intake of breath she snatched her hand away.

  “This is a trick you play upon me,” she exclaimed. “Who are you?”

  “The memsahib is angry because I speak truth.” There was a peevish frown on the wrinkled face. “No matter. I will give you back your silver and go my way. But it is always the same. If one tells the sahibs what they know to be truth one is a trickster, and if one tells them lies one is a fool.”

  He hunted in the folds of his voluminous garments and producing her rupee held it out to her.

  “No, you’d better go on,” she said brusquely. “I’ll listen for a few minutes, anyway.”

  Without comment he replaced the coin in its hiding place, then brought out, after much searching, a crystal.

  “The hand tells the story of the past, the crystal mirrors the future,” he wheezed. “If you will be silent for a short space I will see what lies ahead.”

  For some moments he squatted there motionless, staring into the crystal; and watching him she felt a tremor of disgust, not unmixed with fear. What was she doing—a prosaic, well-trained hospital nurse—to permit this old wretch with his matted hair and dirty clothes to come so near her? Muhammad Ali or any of the other spick-and-span Muslim servants would be horrified if they saw her in conversation with a scalawag of a Hindu beggar.

  And then that mutter began again. “That woman, that black-hearted one with the smiling face, still dogs your path like an evil shadow. Once she sought to rob you of honor; now she seeks to steal from you something you hold almost as dear—the heart of the man you love.”

  “Stop! I don’t wish to hear any more!” Stella was trembling so violently she could scarcely force the words from her lips.

  Whether the fakir heard her or not she could not tell, but he went on, still in that singsong murmur. “Take courage, lady, and do not, in despair, turn to another who pleads for your love. For behind that thief-woman there creeps another, and in his hand glitters a knife.” And then he gave a low, sinister chuckle. “Shall I tell you how the scene unfolds?” Adding quickly, before she could do more than catch her breath in horror, “It is the first night of the new moon; it gleams in the sky like the curved blade of that threatening knife. She sleeps, and in the moonlight the curtains of her room are parted, and the avenger, who has watched and waited in hiding for many an hour, moves noiselessly across the floor. Silently he strikes, and there is no sound to tell that he has done his work well. Only a dark stain that widens and widens as—”

  “Stop, I say!” Shaking herself free of the paralysis that had seized her, she sprang to her feet. “Have I paid you silver to hear this farrago of wicked nonsense? How dare you come to me with your tales of murder? By some means—I cannot tell how—you have picked up some scraps of lying gossip, nosing around the servants’ quarters jackal fashion, as like as not.”

  The old man sat motionless, in sullen silence, and she went on angrily, “What is your motive? Did you think I would pay you double because you came with this wicked story—this tissue of nonsense? Be off with you before I call the servants to throw you out.”

  “As you please!” The fakir got slowly to his feet, his ash-covered face expressionless, and thrusting the crystal away, he gathered his tattered robes around him and went limping back down the driveway and out between the wide gates; while Stella, overcome by something very like physical nausea, stumbled up the veranda step and into the house.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The more she thought about it, the more furious with herself did she feel for having encouraged the old rascal to dish up this poisonous rubbish. But apart from this she was gravely disquieted. That there was any such plot on Allegra’s life she dismissed as absurd: the fakir was merely telling her what he, with his Oriental notions, thought would please her. What troubled her was the reflection that the story of that old incident of five years ago had somehow drifted into the unclean stream of gutter gossip that circulated in the servants’ quarters and in the bazaars of every native city. How had this happened? That Allegra had talked about it was most unlikely; her version would have borne a totally different complexion. No! It must be the old rani who was the fountainhead. She had possessed herself of the story when she had read that letter that Stella had written to Roger and destroyed without sending; and to keep such a tidbit to herself had been more than she could manage.

  The old wretch, she thought angrily as, more to distract herself than from any urgent necessity, she set about making some fresh lime juice for Jelly. I knew, when she gave me her cynical promise that the affair of her emeralds should never leak out, that there had been too many witnesses of the incident for it to remain a secret. But if she had had any decency at all she would have kept the contents of that letter to herself.

  So incensed did she feel that she could not rest until she had had the matter out with the old rani; and at three o’clock that afternoon, while Miss Jellings was having her usual nap, she set off on horseback for the Lake Palace, with a sleepy groom in attendance.

  It was quite possible, she knew, that the old queen would refuse to see her. But when, at the end of the two-mile ride, she reached the long white building at the edge of the little lake from which it took its name, she was received with almost exaggerated courtesy and taken at once to the anteroom of Her Highness’s apartments. Nor was she kept waiting there very long. In a few moments Jeythoo emerged, her broad face beaming, and after telling Stella that a sight of her was “like rain after a long drought,” she asked her to follow her into the old rani’s presence.

  As soon as she entered the darkened room, Stella was aware of that familiar odor of sandalwood; then, peering uncertainly, she discerned the figure of the old queen, seated at ease on a pile of cushions.

  “Miss Hantley, you are a welcome visitor.” The reedy voice was strangely cordial. “You must forgive this gloom, but my old eyes are tired by the strong sunlight, and you must pardon also the lack of chairs. Perhaps, for once,you will follow our barbaric Indian custom and make yourself comfortable on cushions. There are enough here for half a dozen women of your slenderness.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Stella’s tone was stiff, but she obeyed the invitation, and making her way gingerly across the floor, between little low tables and great china vases and all the other bric-a-brac of an Indian drawingroom, she lowered herself onto the heap of cushions, as far from the rani as politeness would allow.

  “If you will permit it, Your Highness, I would like to talk to you without risk of being overheard,” she observed, before the old queen could speak. She added hesitantly, “Though if we converse in English, of course, the servants will hardly—”

  For answer the old woman gave her cackling laugh.“When you have been longer here, you will learn that though every self-respecting servant will disclaim all knowledge of English—looking blankly at you if you give the simplest order in your own tongue—yet they understand very well what the sahibs say between themselves, in their presence.” And then, raising her voice, she called out sharply, “Jeythoo! Go at once to the far veranda and stay there until I summon you. And see that no servant breaks into our privacy. If you fail in this command, the punishmen
t will be sharp and swift.”

  “As your Highness pleases!” Jeythoo, who had been sitting in a distant corner, got up and, with a faint jingle of anklets, passed through into an inner room and—Stella presumed—out onto the veranda.

  “And now, Miss Hantley,” the old woman went on smoothly, “tell me why you have come to see me with so much anger in your heart.”

  “Because, Your Highness, I feel that you have treated me with black ingratitude,” Stella returned quickly. “I worked day and night to save the life of Prithviraj. And how do you reward me? You steal into my room—having tricked me into leaving it for a few minutes-—and read a letter meant for no eyes but mine—and those of one other person.”

  “But that is stale news!” The hooded eyes were staring at her with a puzzled expression. “Why should your natural vexation, having died down, blaze up again so suddenly?”

  “For a good reason. If you had kept in your own brain the secrets that you found in that letter, I might in time have forgiven you. But you have passed them on to others, dropping a hint here and there—”

  “That is untrue.” The bent old figure straightened itself, and the brown eyes smoldered now with indignation. “My notions of honor are different from yours, and so long as I thought you were endangering the life of my little grandnephew by your newfangled ways, I stopped at nothing to get you out of the palace. If I could have accomplished my wish by making your past troubles public, I might well have done so. But to gossip—without object—that I leave to the baseborn.”

  For a moment Stella, taken aback by the old woman’s vehemence and scorn, was silent. Then recovering herself she said evenly, “Perhaps, then, you spoke to His Highness and were overheard.”

  “I have spoken to no one of the matter: not one word of it has passed my lips.” The reedy voice took on a passionate quality. “By the living flame that has sung in the hearts of my race for countless generations, I swear it. May the dynasty of the Fireborn die if I lie to you.”

  “Then I apologize.” Stella’s rage gave way to perplexity—and a great weariness.

  “No, child! It is I who should apologize for many things. The old have much time for thought, and one thing at least I regret—that business of my emeralds.” She took up a little silver box containing the inevitable betel nut and began to chew. “Now, as for drugging the Frenchman, I have no contrition, except for the trouble it caused you. He has no interest in Kotpura, except to make money out of it.”

  Stella thought, with satirical amusement, and what good do you do among your people? All you care is that they should pay their taxes promptly and keep you in luxury.

  “I know what you are thinking.” The old rani’s expression, too, was ironical. “You are shocked because I have not quite the ideas of an English lady in my position. But I assure you that my nephew’s strange notions do not always pass over my head like smoke blown by the wind. As I said just now, the old have much—too much—leisure for reflection.”

  For a few moments Stella was silent. Then she asked jerkily, “Is it an Indian gift to read people’s minds? Are many of your race clairvoyant?”

  “Not one-tenth of those who claim second sight possess it.” And then the old queen’s rasping laughter sounded. “Do you ask this because I read with so much ease the thoughts that flit across your frank and open face? A child could do as much.”

  At any other time Stella might have felt annoyed at such candor, but she was too preoccupied to care and went on, frowning, “These fortune-tellers who come with their crystals and palmistry patter—do you think that any of them are genuine?”

  The laughter faded from the wrinkled face. “A few have the gift, but only on the rarest occasions do they try to exploit it. They are holy men, living as hermits, and must be sought out. Those who come whining around the verandas begging for money and promising to read the future are mostly frauds.” She paused. “You ask, of course, because one of them has professed to tell you of your past life, and by a lucky chance has hit on incidents similar to some you have experienced.”

  “It’s more than that,” Stella exclaimed. “That’s why I took it for granted that you—” She broke off, flushing.

  “Had gossiped!” The old rani finished the sentence for her. And then she shook her gray head. “I cannot help you, I am afraid. Who can trace the source of half the rumours and stories that float around the world?”

  Stella, sighing a little—for she was feeling oddly tired—began to get up from the cushions. “I am sorry to have troubled you, Your Highness,” she murmured.

  But the old rani stretched out a clawlike hand to detain her. “Wait a moment. I told you just now that it gave me remorse to think of that trick I played on you with my emeralds. I would like to make amends.” And she called out shrilly in Hindustani, “Jeythoo! Come here at once! Quickly now, lazy one.”

  After a minute there was the patter of bare feet, and the ayah parted the curtains and entered.

  “Come nearer!” the queen commanded. And when Jeythoo obeyed, she whispered something to her very rapidly that Stella did not catch.

  “As Your Highness pleases,” came the parrot answer, und the woman waddled off again into the inner room, to return a moment later with a metal box, some two feet square, that seemed, by her expression, to be extremely heavy.

  “Set it down before me and go,” was the next command.

  Once again the woman disappeared, and then the old rani took from her neck a thin gold chain to which were fixed some small keys.

  “Now you shall see something,” she announced and, unlocking the box, plunged in her hands, drew out a mass of jewelry, crude and barbaric in its settings, but of such magnificence as to make Stella feel she had strayed into some Aladdin’s cave. Rubies and emeralds glowed with red and green fire, and diamonds flashed out a myriad of colors. A sapphire necklace dripped from the lean, brown fingers, like blue water agleam in the moonlight, and topaz bracelets lighted up the gloom with their soft gold rays.

  “I want to make you a present,” and dropping the gems she held, the old rani removed a satin-covered shelf from the box.

  “But I couldn’t possibly take valuable jewelry,” Stella exclaimed, startled.

  “Oh, these you have seen are not mine to give,” the olds woman returned equably. “They are state jewels. When Chawand Rao takes another wife, they will belong to her, till she in turn hands them on to another. But here are some worthless trinkets that I can call my own.” She held out a shallow shelf containing a score or more of rings. “It is from these that I ask you to make your choice.”

  “Your Highness, I couldn’t think of such a thing.” Stella was covered with embarrassment. “Nurses don’t wear jewelry, you know.”

  “And will you always be a nurse?” The old queen spoke dryly. “Come now, choose your ring and seal our friendship; and let me tell you, Miss Hantley, you are the first Englishwoman whom I have wished to call my friend.”

  Still Stella hesitated and the old woman asked somberly, “Is it on my side only that the enmity has died away?”

  Stella raised her eyes and looked into the other’s face. “Your Highness, I accept your offer of friendship gladly! But what you call worthless trinkets are too magnificent for me to take.”

  “If you will not make your choice, then I must choose! for you.” The old rani pulled out an opal ring of a size and color that made Stella blink. “This has no great value, but see how the captive flame leaps in the smoke.” And she held the jewel up to catch a stray ray of light that filtered in from a shadowed window.

  “It’s beautiful,” Stella murmured, as she gazed at it entranced.

  “Then slip it on your finger—your little finger it must be, since you have sensible English hands.” She smiled, and for a moment the sharp features were softened. “When I first had it, as a bride, it was too large for me, for I was barely ten years old.”

  And then since Stella still made no move, she bent forward, and taking Stella’s hand, place
d the ring in position. Half troubled, half delighted, Stella tried to find adequate words with which to express her gratitude, and while she still stammered out her thanks, a cough sounded from the anteroom.

  “Who is it?” The old rani demanded suspiciously, thrusting her jewel box among the cushions.

  “It is Gapoo, Your Highness’s poor servant,” came a high boyish treble. “His Highness the raja commands me to ask if you will receive him.”

  “Tell him that I send salaams and am at his service,” time the quick response. And then she called, turning toward the inner room, “Come back, Jeythoo. Take away the box, and let in some light. His Highness hates a darkened room.”

  “If you will excuse me, I will go,” Stella exclaimed, rising. “I have left Miss Jellings too long already.” But before she could do more, Chawand Rao had entered and was greeting them both with courteous salaams.

  “You are only just in time to catch Miss Hantley,” the old rani observed, her voice faintly satiric. “In another moment she would have fled.”

  Stella felt herself flushing, and to cover her confusion she held out her hand to show him the opal ring.

  “Her Highness has been too kind to me,” she said haltingly. “She has insisted on giving me this wonderful jewel.”

  A look of surprise came into Chawand Rao’s eyes; but the next moment he said pleasantly: “It is a sign that she gives you something else, as well—her friendship. My aunt has told me many times that she has treasured that ring since girlhood.”