Stella’s blue eyes widened. “Your Highness, is that because Armand Verle spoke to you?”
“By no means!” There was something of the old acerbity in the reedy voice. “Before Mr. Verle had mentioned your need to me, I had thought of it myself and had counted out the notes.” And then she added in a gentler tone, leading Stella toward the great pile of brightly colored cushions, “I wanted you to know that your rejection of my nephew’s suggestion—which after all is a bit steep, as you say in your slang—would make me no less anxious to help you. The first time you came to us in our need, you were tricked and forced into it; this time, it must be as a free agent. It must never be said that you took on this work at Bhindi because you were stranded here with no money for your passage to England.”
“I appreciate that more than I can say.” Stella pressed the clawlike hand.
“Well, I only hope the money is not stolen by now.” The grim smile returned to the wrinkled brown face. And then she looked up, listening. “But here they come!” she exclaimed, calling out almost in the same breath, “Jeythoo, bring the sherry wine for the doctor and the memsahib, and the sherbet for His Highness.”
A second later Stella, too, caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Soon the kindly Swedish doctor was holding her by both hands, assuring her comfortingly that nothing she could have done would have made any difference; that the chances of Miss Jellings’s recovery, even if she had rallied sufficiently, for the journey to Delhi, would have been remote in the extreme; that it would be an unkindness to wish her back to a life that could only hold sickness and inactivity.
For a short while they all sat around on cushions native fashion, sipping their drinks and making small talk. But presently they made a move to the raja’s apartment where a well-planned, well-cooked English dinner was served, to which only Stella, still deadly weary, failed to do justice. And then at last the subject of the hospital was broached.
It was Dr. Erickson who set the ball rolling, and he started off by describing in some detail the dream hospital that he and Chawand Rao planned to raise in Bhindi. Its beginnings were to be very modest; a small building was to be put up on a slight eminence a mile out of town and equipped for the treatment of women and children suffering from such common but dangerous illnesses as malignant malaria, dengue fever, typhoid and dysentery. In due course a wing would be built and staffed, and later on there would be provision for male patients and even, in time, for surgical cases.
“By that time, of course,” Dr. Erickson said, smiling, “the hospital will be so famous that doctors and nurses will be clamoring to come on the staff. It is now, before it is even in being, that we may have difficulty in finding helpers—men and women with limitless faith and limitless courage who believe that obstacles only exist to be overcome.”
The raja nodded, his face grave. “It is the people themselves, whom we are trying to save, who will hamper us most,” he declared. “The Brahmans will try to keep them bound in their fetters of ignorance and fear.”
The old rani gave her hard, metallic chuckle. “Nonsense! It is the elderly women who will make the most trouble. There are as many Mrs. Grundys in India as in England—and a great many more.” She helped herself plentifully to curried prawns. “I’m with them myself at heart; I loathe all this so-called Western progress. But unlike a good many of them I have a head as well as a heart, and since I’ve seen the way Miss Hantley nursed Prithviraj—and how she pulled Mr. Verle out of that ... that curious fainting attack of his—I’ve come to believe there must be something in these new European methods.”
Stella looked at the old woman steadily, finding it difficult not to smile at the barefaced reference to her drugging of Armand on the night of the Fire Festival.
“If Your Highness visited some of the patients and made it clear that if you yourself were ill, you would allow yourself to be tended in the hospital, the Mrs. Grundy difficulty would disappear in no time,” she observed.
Just for a second that old expression of anger and pride leaped into the hooded eyes and the thin lips curved contemptuously. “You suggest that I should be brought, in my sickness, to lie among the common people?”
“Oh, you could have a private room,” Stella retorted bluntly.
“In my country,” Erickson added quickly, “royal princesses make the same use of our modern hospitals as do their subjects. They learn, too, to nurse the sick.”‘
The grim smile returned to the queen’s face. “I could say I intended to be a patient, whether I meant it or not, and I could bully the younger women into accepting hospital treatment.”
And then she met Stella’s eyes again. “Your presence would do most of all to break down orthodox opposition,” she told her. “We Indians are emotional people and great hero-worshipers. Already songs are sung in the streets of Bhindi about the maiden with wheat-colored hair and eyes like the sky who fought and vanquished the demon that had lodged itself in the pain-racked body of Prithviraj.” She turned to the raja. “Is it not so, my nephew?”
“It is so,” he agreed soberly.
“That’s one of several reasons why we want you to come and help us with our scheme.” It was Dr. Erickson who was speaking now. “If for any cause you feel impelled to refuse, our plans will go on just the same; but with no one but strangers as nurses it may take us longer to gain the people’s confidence—even though those nurses may happen to possess far wider experience.” And then he smiled—that comforting, friendly smile of his. “But don’t look so worried, child. All we ask of you now—all it would be fair to ask of you indeed—is to stay in Kotpura a week longer and think the matter over. Will you do that?”
Conscious of three pairs of eyes watching her, Stella took a deep breath. “That much I’ll promise,” she said, and then before she knew what was happening, the exhaustion she had been striving so manfully to fight got the better of her. The big, light room grew black before her eyes, and there was a singing in her ears; and with a long sigh she slipped off her chair and onto the polished floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
And so it was that for the second time Stella found herself staying in an Indian palace. But in what different circumstances!
On recovering from her faint, her host and hostess, backed strongly by Dr. Erickson, had urged her to give up all idea of returning to the rest house; and she had been installed in a magnificent bedroom—one of the few in the Lake Palace that boasted European furniture and fittings—with instructions that she was to stay in bed until further notice.
Not until she was lying there, relaxed and at rest, did she realize how heavy a toll the nervous and physical strain of the last few weeks had taken of her splendid health and vitality. As weak as a baby, she made no further attempt to grapple with problems of any sort, and though she cried a little sometimes when she thought of Jelly and Roger, the two beings whom she loved so deeply and from whom she was irrevocably parted—from the one by death, from the other by life—she was too exhausted to feel the full force of her sorrow.
For four days she did little but eat and sleep—thereby carrying out the instructions that Dr. Erickson left with her before his departure—and then began to get up for a short while every day, to sit in the white marble pavilion that overhung the little lake, with Prithviraj and his small brothers playing around her—or even venturing onto the water in a flat-bottomed dinghy propelled by one of the palace, boatmen—who sang, as he rowed, age-old songs of a strange and haunting beauty, in rhythms that must surely have gone back to the very beginning of time.
To her surprise she saw nothing of Armand Verle during these quiet days at the Lake Palace; but presently she learned that he was spending a good deal of his time at Bhindi, packing up his belongings in preparation for his journey home to France, and that when he came to Ghasirabad he usually went straight to the club.“He’s not actually in my employ any longer,” Chawand Rao explained gravely, when she asked him about the young Frenchman. “And though he’s perfectly at l
iberty I to stay here whenever he is in Ghasirabad, he seems to prefer to be with his English friends.” And with that he changed the subject in such a determined manner she was forced to the conclusion that for some reason he did not wish to talk about his former tutor.
With great tact and delicacy, both the raja and the old rani refrained from thrusting their society upon her; and when, at her invitation, they came to sit with her, they both were scrupulously careful to avoid all mention of the hospital scheme. Indeed, when once or twice she herself tried to bring the matter up, they shook their heads smilingly and told her that for the time being the subject was taboo.
As she grew stronger they pressed her to invite any English friends she wished to see to come to tea with her at the palace; or if she preferred it she could, they said, be driven to the club at the cocktail time. But she told them that she had no desire for other company, and that the first trip she made should be to the rest house, where there was still a good deal of sorting to be done.
The old rani, who had already made one journey to the rest house to retrieve the bundle of notes, offered to come and help her; but she seemed relieved when Stella declined her assistance. She could be energetic on occasion, despite her age, but jobs that required method and precision were, as she admitted to Stella, anathema to her.
It was not until she had been at the palace ten days that Stella felt strong enough to carry out her wish, and. even then she was fit only for an hour’s sorting. But each successive day she was able to do a little more, and at the end of two weeks she had the satisfaction of knowing that her task was finished.
The only job that remained to be done was the distribution of one or two of Miss Jellings’s little treasures to friends in Ghasirabad; for the old lady, it seemed, made up her mind that she would never leave the place alive and had left a small pile of parcels wrapped in brown paper and addressed in her large untidy handwriting. Most of these appeared to contain books, and she decided that the best way to get them to their recipients would be to leave them at the club. Mr. Blonson’s she would take to his bungalow; but the others, including those for Roger and Armand, she would deposit with the club butler, a solemn old graybeard who would be meticulously careful that each package was handed over to its proper owner.
She was particularly anxious to avoid running into any of her English acquaintances when she went on this errand, and by dint of a real effort, managed to arrive at the club at five o’clock—a good hour before the bar opened. But to her vexation the butler had not yet returned from a shopping expedition to the bazaar; and after trying in vain to get some sense into and from an extremely stupid underling, she gave up the attempt in disgust and, ordering tea, went into the lounge to await his return.
The tea was a long time in coming, and to while away the minutes she picked up a pile of English papers and turned over the pages. But her attention wandered, and presently something happened to distract it completely. One or two men had come into the empty bar and, bored with waiting for it to open, were playing darts; and suddenly one of them began to speak of Allegra Glydd.
The noise of the darts, and the fact that the bar was some distance away, across a passage, made it impossible to hear with any distinctness. But a sentence caught her ears. “Oh, yes, she’s jilted him all right.” And then another phrase that made her go white to the lips. “Lord, yes! They’ve actually done a bunk together. He’d have stuck out if he could; but she had the poor chap twisted around her little finger.”
Although ashamed of herself for eavesdropping, she could not refrain from straining her ears to hear more. But the conversation suddenly shifted to the game; someone had scored a bull and two trebles, and for the moment Allegra was forgotten.
Tea was brought now, but she slumped in the big armchair, making no attempt to eat or drink. So it had come to this at last. Roger had found it impossible to stand out against Allegra’s attractions. The physical appeal of that slender little figure, that innocent, flowerlike face, had been too strong. To possess her he had cheated his favorite brother, thrown honor to the winds. Here, of course, was his reason for deciding to leave Kotpura and, if possible, India. In Ghasirabad he would scarcely have been able to hold his head up again.
I’ve been an utter fool, she told herself vehemently, racked with torment almost too great to be borne. What good have I done by trying to be decent and chivalrous? None! I’ve let Roger in for a life of misery, without making the slightest effort to show him the rottenness of this girl who was infatuating him.
She tried to tell herself that even if she had spoken of that long ago past, he might not have believed her; but still she could not rid herself of the conviction that she should, at least have made the attempt. It was common knowledge that he was falling hopelessly in love with her, she argued. I ought to have taken the chance.
Well, it was too late now, and since she had already thrust Roger out of her own life, it was futile to give way to this ghastly misery. Even if this last disaster had never happened, and Allegra had gone through with her marriage to Jim, she and Roger would never have come together. Their goodbyes had been said long ago.
Presently, as she sat there sick and dazed, the old butler came pattering in, full of apologies for having kept the memsahib waiting; and behind him strolled the two young men who had been playing darts.
Wishing fervently that she did not have to put up with an audience—for though the men seated themselves at the other side of the room, they were bound to hear every word that passed between herself and the butler—she began to hand over the parcels, only retaining the one addressed to Roger.
The servant took the first few packages with an understanding nod and smile, but when she came to Armand’s he looked at her in surprise and then shook his gray turbaned head.
“I can deliver nothing to Verle Sahib,” he declared. “Does not the memsahib know that he left yesterday for Europe—by special airplane?”
Stella stared back at him with an astonishment fully equal to his own. “Surely you must be mistaken,” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe he would go without saying goodbye. If he didn’t bother to tell me his plans, he would at least let His Highness know.”
The man’s expression became wooden. “His Highness is certainly aware that Verle Sahib has gone,” he said. “All Ghasirabad has been talking of it.”
Stella hesitated. What the man was saying sounded preposterous; yet he spoke with such certainty, it was difficult not to believe him.
“In that case I’ll keep the book,” she said shortly. “Please deliver the others as soon as you can.” And she slipped a coin into his hand.
When he had gone, one of the men who had been listening to the conversation came up to her. He was not a very prepossessing youth, and she had taken some trouble to avoid his acquaintance; but she found it impossible to snub him when he said with apparent diffidence, “If you’ll allow me, Miss Hantley, I’ll enlighten you on the subject of Mr. Verle’s hurried departure.”
“Thank you. I do find it rather surprising.”
“It’s more than surprising; it’s amazing,” the young man declared. “In fact it’s going to provide Ghasirabad with a fruitful theme of gossip for the next twelve months. He’s not gone to Europe alone; he’s taken Miss Glydd with him.”
If Stella was astonished before, she was thunderstruck now.
“Allegra Glydd! Do you mean that it’s Armand whom she’s eloped with?”
He laughed. “Who else? She made up her mind to get him the minute she decided that he was telling the truth about his uncle’s fortune. And was she a quick worker?” He glanced over his shoulder at his friend. “What do you say, Wally?”
“Yes sir! I never saw anything so amusing in my life. The poor boob kept running back to Bhindi—had to do his packing or something. But it was no good; he never had a chance.” He chuckled reminiscently. “I’ve seen some pretty work with a rod and fly in my time but never anything to heat the way that girl played her fish.”
>
Hardly knowing what she was doing, Stella dragged herself to her feet. She longed to get back to her room at the palace and digest this astonishing piece of news, for here in the presence of these strangers her brain refused to work; it was empty of every sensation but an overmastering relief. But the two men had not finished talking yet.
“It was bad luck for Fendish,” the first one was saying. “She led him up the garden path all right.”
His friend nodded. “I should say so. He’ll be fed up to the back teeth.”
Stella looked unsteadily from one to the other. “Any man would be upset if the girl he was engaged to—” she began haltingly.
She was interrupted by the first man’s laugh. “That’s another funny thing about this extraordinary affair. Jim Fendish may have been officially engaged to Miss Glydd, but he hadn’t counted for anything the last few weeks. It’s Roger Fendish who has taken the worst toss. They say he’s in the devil of a state about it: looks the most miserable soul on earth.”
“Good heavens!” Regardless of their looks of amazement, and caring nothing what they thought of her manners, she turned her back on them and swept out of the room. Her mind was in a whirl; as for her body, it seemed that every nerve, every pulse was throbbing.
Blindly she made her way out to the waiting car and, asked to be driven straight to the palace; then she sat back, huddled against the luxurious gray velvet upholstery, trying vainly to reduce to order the chaos of her brain.
At the gates of the club the chauffeur had to slow down; to give passage to an incoming car; and Stella, glancing, out, saw that it was Roger’s Riley, with Roger himself at the wheel. He did not apparently see her; but though she caught only the briefest glimpse of him it was enough to make her heart turn over in her breast. For his looks were not merely those of a man who was suffering—but of a man in torment.
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