Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  It was hardly surprising that Stella slept little during the remainder of that eventful night. In the intervals between lurid dreams, in which she was chased with knives by hordes of shouting fakirs, or run down relentlessly by native cyclists, she tossed and turned, wondering what Allegra’s reactions would be to the incidents of a few hours ago. If Allegra believed that she, Stella, had saved her life, surely she would feel moved at last to make generous amends for the past; surely she would come out into the open and tell Roger and Jim the truth about those old happenings. Everyone, after all, had a spark of decency somewhere; the old rani had shown it, and Hussein, in the midst of his murderous designs, had felt the prick of conscience. Why should Allegra be the one exception?

  Hopes that she had thought were stifled forever sprang to life again in her heart. And instead of banishing from her mind the memory of that afternoon when Roger had taken her in his arms in the darkness and kissed her with such passion, such adoration, she allowed herself deliberately to dwell on it. If only Allegra had that tiny glimmer of honorable feeling, what bliss might lie ahead for herself and Roger—bliss summed up in that laconic phrase, “a happy marriage.” They would not only be lovers but friends and close companions, growing nearer and dearer to each other as the years went by—neither thinking the other perfect, but kind to each other’s little faults and foibles, and fearing one thing only, among life’s tribulations; the pain of separation from the beloved. Oh, it was true, she was sure, what Roger had said—they were made for each other!

  In spite of her broken night the revival of these hopes prevented her from feeling completely exhausted, and when the next morning she went to see Miss Jellings, the old lady declared that she was looking more cheerful than she had for a long time. Smiling back at her, Stella half expected some reference to her nocturnal expedition on Muhammad Ali’s bicycle, but apparently Jelly had heard nothing of this. Nor had she been aware of Armand’s visit, and she was highly intrigued to learn that he was coming to tea that afternoon to bring them a piece of good news about himself.

  “There are so few excitements here, it’s fine to have some sort of a thrill in prospect,” she told Stella. And though Stella, rather naturally, was far from agreeing with this point of view, she rejoiced that her dear old friend was feeling well enough to welcome a diversion from her long hours of rest.

  Her restlessness over Allegra, and the reaction from the alarms and excursions of the previous day, made the time hang heavily for Stella; and she, too, was glad when at four o’clock Armand made his appearance.

  She left him alone with Jelly for a few minutes, while she went to give some last-minute instructions to Muhammad Ali about, the tea—making him promise, however, to keep his secret until her return. And when she came back, with Muhammad Ali and the tea tray in her wake, it occurred to her that whatever Armand had been saying, he had succeeded in arousing Jelly’s keen interest. There was a tinge of color in her pallid cheeks and an unusual brightness in her eyes.

  But when Armand, furnished with a cup of tea and a hot scone, began to unburden himself of his news, her interest deepened into positive excitement, and even Stella was thrilled.

  Armand, it seemed, had by no means played the braggart when speaking modestly of his expectations. Although his own parents lived in a very small way in one of the less fashionable suburbs of Paris, his mother’s brother had amassed a large fortune in the silk industry and, being a childless widower, had made Armand his sole heir.

  “I was always so terrified the old chap would marry again and produce a string of offspring,” Armand exclaimed, almost jumping around in his jubilation. “Oh, I know I ought to look doleful and pretend I’m sorry he’s gone, but he was such an old misery I can’t bring myself to shed a tear. Besides, I can’t help knowing that it was largely to spite his dead wife’s relatives that he made me his heir. He didn’t like me particularly, but he simply loathed his in-laws.”

  “But are you certain he really has left his money to you?” Jelly asked, frowning. “I’ve heard of so many people being led up the garden path over wills and legacies.”

  Armand, beaming even more radiantly, tapped his breast pocket. “I’ve had an official letter from his lawyers,” he told them. “Apparently they were in touch with him, a short time before his death, and he got them to add a couple of codicils dealing with small bequests to business colleagues.”

  “And are you really tremendously rich now?” Jelly persisted.

  “Oh, I’m a millionaire—in francs, bien entendu,” was his complacent reply. “Or, rather, I shall be as soon as the formalities are completed.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be going back to France and running a silk factory?” It was Stella who asked the question.

  “I shall return to France, certainly, but as for the silk business, my uncle retired some years ago, so there are no responsibilities attached to the money. It is all invested in government stocks—thank goodness!”

  “How will you spend your time?” Stella wanted to know.

  “Not in giving French lessons,” he retorted gaily. And then, his exuberance fading a little, he added, “I know that even with much money time may drag, and one may feel very lonely, but if I cannot marry romantically—” and he stared studiously out of the window “—I shall find a good, sensible woman to be my wife. Even the pain of unrequited love would not make me decide to become a sour old bachelor like my poor Uncle Pepi!” A remark that caused Miss Jellings to give a suppressed chuckle, and that—hard as she strove to look solemn—brought a flush and a dimple to Stella’s cheeks.

  Having delivered his news, he would not stay very long. He was still in the raja’s employ, he declared, and was required at the palace for an hour or two. But he hoped most earnestly—and he turned his dark eyes in her direction—that Stella would be a sport and come to the club to celebrate.

  Stella thought quickly, perhaps if I go there, I may meet Allegra and discover if she has any idea of behaving decently. And for once in a way, instead of trying to find an excuse to refuse the young Frenchman’s invitation, she glanced across at Miss Jellings and asked if she might be spared.

  The old lady’s consent was given with a warmth that almost amounted to fervor; nothing pleased her better, she observed, than that this ridiculously conscientious young creature should be dragged out sometimes and made to enjoy herself. And it was arranged accordingly that Armand should call for Stella at seven o’clock and take her to the club for a cocktail or two.

  As soon as he left, Stella tried to persuade Miss Jellings to rest; she had had more excitement that day, Stella pointed out, than for many days past. But Jelly refused, with unusual obstinacy to obey her nurse; she had something serious to say, she declared, and would not be able to rest until she had got it off her chest.

  “It’s about Armand,” she remarked, when she had at last induced Stella to settle down in a chair near the bed, and listen to her. “He’s been telling me, as I gather he’s already told you on several occasions, that he’s extremely anxious to marry you.”

  “Oh, he thinks he’s in love with me.” Stella’s voice was a little impatient. “But as I’ve told you before, Jelly, I simply can’t take Armand seriously. Apart from the fact that I’m not in the least attracted to him, I always feel—absurd as it may be—that he’s years younger than myself, instead of older.”

  Jelly looked troubled. “I don’t like to see you throwing away such good chances of settling down,” she said. “You’ve turned Roger Fendish down—and he’s one in a thousand, that man—because of some mysterious barrier. You’re not going to tell me that there’s any strange reason why you and Armand—”

  “Heavens, no!” Stella exclaimed. And then she went on very quietly, “Don’t you see, Jelly, that it’s because I’m so terribly fond of Roger that no other man has the slightest chance of making me care for him? I’m well aware that Armand is an attractive person, although he leaves me stone-cold.”

  “He’d make quite a g
ood husband,” Miss Jellings told her meditatively. “He’s a bit on the shallow side, but the right sort of wife would develop his better qualities and whittle down his bad ones. After all, he’s a kind soul, and he’s blessed with that gift of the fairies, a fine sense of humor.”

  “I know all that, Jelly, dear, but it’s no use.” Just for a second Stella played with the idea of telling Miss Jellings that she was harboring a faint hope now that the way might after all be made clear for her to marry Roger. But she decided against it. Allegra was far too uncertain a quantity, and it would be cruel to raise Jelly’s spirits, only to dash them again in a few hours’ time.

  “Perhaps if you were to see him under different conditions, and a thousand miles or so away from Roger, you might think more of Armand,” Miss Jellings went on stubbornly. “Suppose, for instance, we were to arrange to travel back to Europe on the same ship! I’m sure he’d be very ready to delay his journey, if he saw any chance of that.”

  “What a matchmaker you are, darling!” Stella was smiling a little. “You don’t seem to like the idea of my going on with my nursing career once we’re back in England.”

  “No, I don’t,” Jelly retorted bluntly. “I let my profession take first place in my life—and look at me now, a lonely old woman with neither chick nor child. I’d hate you to make the same mistake, and what is more, I’d like to be sure you weren’t going to make it before—well, before this tired and ancient body of mine gives up the ghost.”

  “Jelly, don’t talk like that.” The tears sprang into Stella’s eyes. “You’re good for years and years yet, and I’m going on as your nurse-secretary until you give me the sack.”

  A look of great weariness crept into Jelly’s face, but she managed to achieve her cheery smile. “You’re a silly child,” she said. “However, I’ve said my say, and if you want me to lie flat now and rest, frankly I won’t be sorry to do so.”

  There was no question of dining at the club; as yet no facilities existed for providing meals of any kind. But it was already becoming a regular habit of the English folk in and around Ghasirabad to drop in toward half-past six for a short drink, and Stella felt pretty sure of running into Allegra, who adored opportunities of showing off the attractive little dresses she had brought from home.

  As it turned out, she was one of the first people Stella saw. She was sitting alone in a corner of the bar, toying with a drink and making a brief excuse to Armand that she wanted to have a private word with Allegra, Stella slipped over and asked her, rather lamely she felt, how she was getting on.

  “Extremely well, thanks!” Allegra continued to sip her; cocktail, but Stella observed that her hand was shaking! a little. “Why do you ask? You’re not usually so solicitous!”

  Stella eyed her with contempt. “How dare you say such a thing after what happened last night!”

  Allegra shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, that! I’m afraid, my dear, I’ve come to the conclusion that it was—as I suggested at the time—a rather clever frame-up on your part. You meant to scare me, and for a little while, I’ll admit, you succeeded.”

  “I wonder if you really mean that.” Stella’s voice was very quiet. “You’re such a born liar, Allegra, one just can’t tell.”

  “If you are going to be rude, I shall get up and walk into the lounge,” Allegra declared. “I don’t choose to be stuck here in this corner while you abuse me.” For a fraction of a second she met Stella’s steady look, and the expression that lurked in her eyes so belied her smooth tones and casual manner that Stella was startled; she would have sworn Allegra, for all her brave words, was very much afraid. But the next moment that impression was removed. A man—almost a stranger to Stella—came smiling across to them, and after greeting them pleasantly, asked Allegra whether she was all on her own that evening.

  Allegra shook her sleek brown head. “By no means! Roger’s been out of the station for a day or two, but he comes back this evening; he’s made a particular date with me because it’s his birthday.”

  Stella felt anger flaming up in her and bitter jealousy, too. That Allegra, who was proving, after all, to be void of that one spark of decency, should be calmly preparing to celebrate Roger’s birthday with him—while she, out in the cold altogether, had not even been aware that it was his birthday at all!

  And then Armand, seeing that the two girls were no longer engaged in a private conversation, strolled up to join them.

  “Do I hear talk of birthday celebrations?” he exclaimed genially. “That’s a very tame business. I’ve persuaded Stella to come and drink a toast or two to something far more exciting and unusual.”

  “Really?” Allegra flashed him an indulgent smile. “Are you going to tell us you’ve come into a fortune?”

  “Precisely that,” Armand declared urbanely. “Now what are you all going to have? Yours is a gin and lime, I suppose, Stella! What’s your tipple, Miss Glydd?”

  But Allegra was far too amazed at his calm answer to her teasing question to avail herself at once of his invitation.

  “You’re pulling our legs,” she asserted. “Snap out of it, my dear boy, and talk sense.”

  “I tell you nothing but the truth,” Armand protested. And Stella, unable to resist the temptation for sarcasm, observed sweetly, “Allegra’s always a doubting Thomas, you know; even if you show her positive proof, Armand, she probably won’t believe you.”

  “Then she must do the other thing.” Armand was smiling again. “I’m not going around to all the young ladies of Ghasirabad, showing them my private letters. Stella believes me; and if other people think I’m telling lies—well, it’s a dreadful reflection on their own veracity, that’s all I can say.”

  His pleasant manner took the sting from his words, but Allegra was not pleased, all the same. Before she could make a sweetly sharp rejoinder, however, Roger made his appearance, and she called out to him in a possessive tone that caused Stella yet another prick of jealousy.

  “Come along, Roger! Armand Verle is buying drinks all around. He says he’s suddenly become a millionaire—or something of the sort!”

  Looking rather red and embarrassed, Roger approached the group at the bar. “Congratulations, Verle,” he observed stiffly, after a brief interchange of greetings. And though he did not actually include Stella in the toast that he drank a minute or two later, she felt miserably certain that he was under the definite impression that she would soon be sharing Armand’s newfound wealth.

  Other members of the club, drifting in, were hailed by Armand and made to join in the celebrations; even they, Stella thought, seemed to take it for granted that she also was to be congratulated on the windfall. Nothing was put into words, but much was implied by smiles and gestures, and it was a relief to her when the party broke up. Her troubles, however, were not yet over. Armand, who had been drinking as much as he could carry, could not be persuaded to drive her back, there and then, to the rest house. In in answer to her reminders, which grew more and more urgent, that she ought to be back looking after Miss Jellings, he promised that he was “coming this minute, m’dear,” and promptly discovered some newcomer to whom he had not yet offered a drink. After nearly an hour of delays and postponements, Stella began to get really worried, but at last Armand, flushed and beaming and not too steady on his legs, declared that he was ready to take her immediately to wherever she wished to go—“even if it is to the other side of the jolly old world, darling!”

  It occurred to Stella then for the first time that he was hardly in a condition to drive her back, and visions of them both landing in a ditch, with the car on top of them; flooded into her brain.

  But while she looked at him dubiously, deliverance came, and from a totally unexpected quarter. Roger, who had been playing darts with Allegra and some other people, strolled up to her and Armand and, smiling at the Frenchman, suggested that if Miss Hantley was really in a hurry to get back, he could very well drive her. “I’m sure,” he said pleasantly, “you don’t want to tear yourself away fr
om the club just yet, Verle. Why not let me act as your deputy?”

  Armand hesitated, but the sight of two fresh faces was too much for him. “If you’re quite sure, old chap!” he began. “ ’S matter of fact, I’ve just spotted two fellows who haven’t had a drink with me yet, and—”

  “That’s all right,” Roger said quickly. And then turning to Stella, who was torn between irritation with Armand and agitation at the thought of a solitary drive with Roger, he asked evenly, “Is that all right by you?”

  And then Allegra intervened. She came floating up to them and remarked nonchalantly, “Personally I’m ready to leave, too, Roger. We could drop Stella on the way, couldn’t we!”

  “Of course.” Roger’s face was expressionless. And a few minutes later the three of them were in his car and on the road to the rest house.

  Characteristically Allegra had settled herself in the seat next to the driver’s, leaving Stella in solitary state at the back; but when they reached the rest house, Roger gave Stella the opportunity she wished for, of thanking him for his tact and consideration. He insisted on seeing her safely into the building, and when she stammered out her gratitude as they stood on the threshold, he gave her a wintry smile.

  “I felt much more like giving Verle the rough side of my tongue than soft-soaping him,” he said. “But I was afraid of getting him worked up into a paddy. He was just at that delicate stage when amiability might suddenly change into desire for a free fight. Anyway, I didn’t see why he should be allowed to run the risk of breaking your neck.”

  “It was awfully kind and generous of you,” Stella murmured.

  “Nothing of the sort. I’d have done the same for any girl,” he assured her brusquely. A second later he added in a gentler tone, “He’s quite a good chap, Verle, and you oughtn’t to feel too sore with him. Most of us would be tempted to lift the elbow a bit on the news we’d just come into a fortune.” And with that he gave a hasty goodbye and left her—to the torturing reflection that the idea of her linking her future to Armand’s no longer gave him, it seemed, the least cause for regret.