Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  She knew that the thought that Roger had ceased to care for her ought rightly to cause her a deep relief. If one really loved a man, she argued, one ought to put his happiness before everything else; there should be room for nothing but satisfaction in the knowledge that he was no longer suffering. But try as she might to rejoice in his apparent indifference, she could not bring herself to do so.

  I’m all kinds of a fool, she told herself fiercely as having seen Miss Jellings comfortably settled for the night, she undressed and went to bed. I set myself deliberately to make Roger stop loving me, and now that I’ve succeeded I’m in torment.

  As on so many occasions during the last few weeks, she tossed and turned, obsessed with the longing to leave Ghasirabad and India and to put behind her all the miseries, disappointments and disillusionments that this ill-fated tour had brought her. Why must she stay here to endure such torture? Was there to be no end to the cruel tricks fate was playing on her? When, oh, when was Jelly going to feel strong enough to make the move to Delhi—the first step toward the journey home?

  So badly did she sleep, and so restless did she feel, that she rose the next morning nearly two hours before her usual time, and slipping down to the servants’ quarters she told Muhammad Ali to have one of her horses saddled for her at once.

  “The memsahib will take a groom with her?” Muhammad Ali inquired—in tones that implied that in his opinion no self-respecting young lady would consider riding without an attendant.

  “Oh, very well, Muhammad Ali.” She tried not to sound impatient. “But tell him to keep the horses out here at the backhand we’ll ride out by the side entrance. I particularly don’t want to wake Miss Jellings up.”

  He nodded, pleased to have won his point. “It shall be as you say. And I will bring your early-tea within five minutes. You shall not have to wait at all.”

  Knowing the usual length of the servant’s five minutes, she would have infinitely preferred to forgo her early tea until her return from her ride; but to do anything so unorthodox would, she was aware, upset all Muhammad Ali’s notions of correct English behavior, and she curbed her restlessness as best she might. On this occasion, however, Muhammad Ali was reasonably speedy, and less than half an hour later she rode out into the fresh morning air, a sleepy groom following some twenty yards behind.

  She turned her horse’s head automatically in the direction of a flat, smooth stretch of ground known optimistically in the district as One Tree Meadow. It was a dry, dusty spot, but the best place for miles around for a good canter; and although there were at least half a dozen riders there every morning, she felt reasonably sure that at this hour she would have it to herself.

  To her disgust, however, she was not even the first arrival. Already, a horseman, galloping as though his life depended on it, was kicking up the dust, and her annoyance was by no means lessened when, as he came tearing along in her direction, she saw that it was Armand.

  He for his part was utterly delighted at the unexpected encounter, and as he reined in beside her-rather breathless from the exercise, he told her that it was “like a miracle” seeing her approaching.

  “I was thinking about you at that very moment,” he declared. “I was trying to frame a convincing apology for my really abominable behavior yesterday evening.”

  Stella looked at him coolly. “I should be sorry to think that worry on my account got you up at this unreasonable hour,” she observed.

  He gave a comical grin. “Alas, I cannot pretend that was the sole and only reason.” And then slapping his hand to his head, he continued dramatically, “If you only knew what a head I had after that—that carouse. At dawn this morning everything was still going around, and as soon as I dared, I got up and came out riding to see if I could put an end to the horrid business.”

  “And have you succeeded?” Stella asked dryly.

  “Ma foi, yes! Last night when I looked at you I saw triplets. I assure you, ravishingly beautiful triplets! Now I see—may I say it—the one and only woman.”

  For once in a way she did not smile at his sally. She said coldly, “I daresay you’ll think I’m a prig and a spoilsport, but you might have driven me back to the rest house and then returned to finish your orgy. I was very worried about Miss Jellings.”

  “I know, and that is why I have been trying so hard to make up a really good apology.” He was looking graver now, and the next moment he went on earnestly, “It was very decent of Fendish to butt in the way he did. I wasn’t too far gone to realize that. And what do you think? He actually turned up later at the club, dosed me with black coffee and took me back to the palace. And by the way, he did it, according to him, on your account; that’s what he said, anyway.”

  Feeling more wretched than ever at this confirmation of her fears that Roger actually welcomed the idea of her marriage to Armand, Stella found it difficult to make a reply that was even civil. Indeed, she asked rather sharply,

  ‘”And what did you say to that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Quite frankly, I can’t remember. I have some recollection of raving about you—your personality, your looks and everything else—but beyond that, I’m quite vague.” And then he continued with a note of appeal in his tone, “I hope you aren’t absolutely fed up with me, Stella. It’s not a habit of mine to get drunk. In fact, I don’t believe it’s ever happened to me before.”

  “Oh, it’s all right.” She still found it hard to control her irritation.

  A little aggrieved, Armand looked at her searchingly and then exclaimed, “I suppose you’re angry because I didn’t tell Roger that he was under a misapprehension—that there was nothing between us! But it was not for me to say that; in France, anyway, to deny an engagement is the lady’s privilege!”

  Taken aback by Armand’s attack, Stella said nothing, and he went on crossly. “I really can’t understand your extraordinary attitude to Fendish. If you wanted him, why wouldn’t you say so before he got entangled with Allegra? You would only have had to lift up a finger, and he would have been at your feet.”

  “You don’t quite appreciate my point of view,” Stella tried to recover her dignity. “It isn’t a question of Roger, in particular, being misinformed about me—I should feel the same whoever it was.”

  Armand lifted his eyebrows, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “It is also a French convention that a lady is always speaking the truth, no matter what strange remarks fall from her pretty lips,” he observed.

  “I think you’re being perfectly hateful,” Stella burst out, her cheeks scarlet and her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You may not realize it, but when you accuse Roger of falling for Allegra, you’re practically saying that he has no sense of honor. I may not know much about French traditions, but in England a man who tried to rob his brother of the woman to whom he is engaged is usually considered a cad.”

  “My dear, you’re being grossly unfair, and you know it.” Armand was becoming his normal, imperturbable self. “It’s common gossip that Roger is falling head over heels in love with Allegra, but everyone agrees that he hardly realizes it himself as yet.” He shook his head sagely. “Why, he probably imagines, poor boob, that when he trots around after her like a faithful watchdog, he’s looking after her for Jim’s sake; and if he wants to kiss her, he doubtless kids himself that what he feels is nothing more than brotherly affection for his dear sister-in-law-to-be. It’s amazing how far a fellow’s self-deception can go when he’s the upright type like Roger Fendish.”

  She struggled vainly for words, and he went on reflectively, “Of course, Allegra is perfectly well aware of what’s happening to Roger, and one can’t help wondering what the end of it will be. At the moment I don’t believe she knows herself which of the brothers she prefers.”

  “Personally I don’t want to hear another word about the Fendishes, nor about Allegra Glydd.” She found her tongue at last, but misery and vexation made her voice tremble so badly, she kne
w that he must notice it.

  “Fine, let’s forget them. And now—we’ve been walking our horses for the last ten minutes! What about a canter? Frankly, I came out here for exercise!”

  “So did I—and for solitude!” she countered sharply, and giving her horse a light flick with her riding crop she went flying across the plain, with Armand in close pursuit, and the groom following at a decorous distance.

  Her annoyance at the young Frenchman’s persistence knew no bounds. As though it were not enough to bring up a subject that he knew must distress her to discuss, he must now force his company on her. It was insufferable, considering how plain she had made it that she wished to be along.

  She determined that if she could not shake him off, she could at least refuse to enter into conversation with him; and when he caught up with her and tried to tease her into a good humor, she coolly and resolutely ignored him.

  Another man might have gone off in a huff, but not Armand. Finding that his remarks met with no response, he broke into song, waking the echoes now with snatches of sentimental ballads, now with gay and decidedly naughty chansons of the cabaret type, but always keeping close at her side.

  More and more angry did she feel with him when, after half an hour of this persecution, she saw Roger in the distance, riding along in their direction.

  “I’m going home now,” she exclaimed abruptly, adding vehemently, “and I only wish that going home meant starting for England. I’m sick of you and Roger and everyone else in Ghasirabad. I shall bless the day when I’m free to leave.”

  With a casual wave to Roger, she turned her horse’s head and started cantering toward the road, feeling certain now that Armand would drop out, but the next moment something happened that caused her to rein in her horse sharply. Roger was shouting to her, and at the same time Armand, who was between the two of them, called out in a tone tense with anxiety, “Stop Stella dear! Roger has bad news for you.”

  All the fury transmitted in a second to fear, and she waiting until the two men, riding together now, caught up with her.

  It was Roger who spoke first. He said, his face very troubled, “I’ve just met Muhammad Ali. He was out in the road near the rest house looking for you. Miss Jellings is not so well. Stella, you must go back at once.” And then he added, with a quick glance at Armand, “We’ll both come with you, if we may.”

  “Do you mean she has had a heart attack?” She was white to the lips when she asked the question.

  “It seems like it,” he answered steadily.

  “Good God! Then there’s not a minute to be lost.” And whipping her horse, she went galloping hell-bent-for-leather toward the road, with the two men close behind.

  But as soon as she reached the gate of the rest house she knew instinctively that all this mad speed was to no avail. Muhammad Ali was standing there, the tears trickling down his brown face, and in the distance, from the direction of the native city, a pariah dog howled and howled.

  “It was when I took in her early tea,” the servant blubbered. “I thought at first she was asleep, but when I looked again—”

  “Pull yourself together, Muhammad Ali!” Roger spoke firmly. “Miss Hantley doesn’t want to hang around at the gate, she wants to get inside.”

  Feeling utterly dazed and as though she had just been dealt a terrific blow on the head, Stella rode up with Roger and Armand to the front entrance, and dismounting, went at once and alone into Miss Jellings’ bedroom. One glance at the bed was enough, and sinking down onto the floor, she buried her face in the bedclothes, too stunned, too broken, for the easy relief of tears.

  She had ached—prayed, indeed—for the moment to come when she would be free to shake the dust of Ghasirabad from her feet. But little had she dreamed of the tragic, heartbreaking way in which that agonized prayer of hers would be answered.

  Jelly was dead, and Stella was the loneliest creature in all the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  During the next few hours it seemed to Stella that she was living in some strange, fantastic dream. Roger and Armand, feeling it kinder, no doubt, to leave her to her grief, took their departure with messages that they would return at any time should she send for them. And an hour or two later Mr. Blonson, the gentle old missionary, came jogging up in a shabby old tonga, and spoke to her with such sweetness and understanding that the tears came at last and washed away some of that burden of stony sorrow.

  Nor was his help limited to spiritual comfort. He told her first that he had seen Chawand Rao and had learned that His Highness had already dispatched a car for Dr. Erickson, with a view to obtaining the necessary death certificate—a formality, since Erickson had so recently attended the sick woman. And then he broke it to her that in accordance with the irrevocable law of the East the funeral would have to take place that same evening. It would be held in the little cemetery adjoining his church. There was a corner where a flame-o’-the-forest tree was growing, and Miss Jellings had said to him once that she wished she could have seen it in blossom.

  “I told her she would be back in England by then,” he said, “but now—well, I like to think it will shade the place where she lies, and that when its brief spell of blooming is over it will make a carpet for her of scarlet flowers. Dull old parson that I am, I appreciated to the full the perfume and color of her personality. She was a great little woman, and I for one shall always rejoice that I knew her.”

  After he had gone, there were other visitors for her. Kind women she had barely met came to see if they could help her—bringing great bunches of flowers and offering her, rather shyly, the loan of black garments. All of them were eager, too, to give her hospitality; she was urged to pack up and leave the rest house at once and to stay in this or that bungalow. She accepted the flowers with gratitude and even borrowed some of the dark clothes—though she knew that Jelly would have hated to think of her wearing mourning. But on the question of moving out of the rest house she was adamant. She would only be a few days longer at the outside in Ghasirabad, and this was all too short a time for sorting out her late employer’s papers and writing the necessary letters to England. She would infinitely prefer to stay where she was.

  Realizing that she meant what she said, they left her in peace; but one of them, the middle-aged wife of a railway engineer whom Stella had always vaguely liked, promised to call for her at six o’clock and drive her to the church.

  Afterward she remembered very little of that strange little ceremony—except the constantly recurring thought that in the flickering light of the oil lamps, it made a picture Jelly herself would have delighted in.

  She recalled, too, her faint sense of surprise at the number of English people who had turned up at the graveside to honor the memory of a woman who, though famous in her day, was to them nothing but a plain, plump little person with an eccentric manner and a deplorably dowdy taste in dress. Only one or two—Roger, Armand and Mr. Blonson himself—could really feel sorrow at her passing.

  The next day, too, held that queer, unreal quality. While she was still struggling with breakfast. Armand drove up and, with a kindliness that made her forgive him all his recent teasing, set about finding out how he could best be of use to her.

  “If you could help me with some of the necessary sorting, I’ll be more than grateful,” she told him wearily. “Poor old Jelly’s papers are in the most frightful mess—crochet patterns all mixed up with important business letters and cooking recipes folded inside publishers’ contracts; it makes me feel utterly dazed to look at them.”

  He smiled. “Filing is my strong point. My uncle always used to say—by way of reproach—that I had the makings of an excellent clerk.”

  “And there’s another thing. If you could arrange my ticket to Bombay, that would be a great weight off my mind.”

  “That’s easily done, the railway people here can put the whole thing through in no time.” He hesitated. “When do you want to travel?”

  She considered, frowning a little. “I
could be ready in two days’ time; Muhammad Ali will be traveling with me, and he is a seasoned campaigner. He’s got nothing to learn about looking after luggage and arranging meals on trains or at wayside stations.”

  “I know. Some of these servants are marvelous,” he agreed absently. And then he added abruptly, “Just one thing, Stella; are you all right for money?”

  She flushed. “I’ve plenty for the first part of my journey and for settling up anything that’s owing here—rent, for instance, and servants’ wages. His Highness gave me fifty pounds for nursing. Prithviraj, you see, and I haven’t touched that yet; and besides that, I have another ten pounds or so.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t go very far in getting you back to London. In any case you can’t land there without a bean. You need another hundred, at least, to be on the safe side.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t use any of Jelly’s traveler’s checks?”

  “I doubt if you’d be allowed to do that.” He drummed with his fingers on the table. “I’ll lend you the money like a shot, if you’ll take it. I haven’t a lot of ready cash as yet, but His Highness has seen various documents and declares he is perfectly willing to act as my banker.”

  “Perhaps he’ll do the same service for me,” Stella began eagerly, and then broke off, looking and feeling embarrassed.

  “I should have thought you would have preferred to borrow from a fellow European than from an Indian,” Armand observed stiffly, adding a moment later, in a gentler tone, “unless you’d like to go to the old rani! I know women don’t like taking loans from men, and a hundred or two is nothing to the queen: Besides, she’d probably jump at the chance of helping ‘my good friend, Miss Hantley,’ as she always terms you nowadays.”