Star of India by Alice Perrin (ereader ebook txt) 📗

hated the feeling that she was not in her husband's confidence, though she was guiltily alive to the truth that she did not exactly admit him to her own! Bother Sher Singh! He was a perpetual thorn in her flesh; she had never disliked the man more than when this evening she beheld him standing sentinel at the foot of the steep[Pg 130] steps that led up to the dwelling rooms on the fort walls. There he stood pompous, important, clothed in immaculate white with a smart blue belt and Robert's crest fashioned in silver fastening a band to match the belt across his big turban. She longed to get even with him, and when he started almost imperceptibly at sight of her she felt a vindictive satisfaction that for once she had eluded his vigilance. Clearly he had been ignorant of her excursion, had believed her to be sitting solitary above during the Sahib's absence. He salaamed low with what seemed to her mocking humility as she passed him, and with equally mocking disdain she ignored the salutation; not pausing to observe the effect of her insult, she went on up the steps miserably conscious that she had made a mistake.

Mrs. Antonio's assertion that Sher Singh ate opium did not disturb her unduly. She remembered vaguely to have heard that all natives took opium to a certain extent, just as most Europeans took alcohol, in moderation. She knew nothing about it, and therefore Mrs. Antonio's caution not to mention the matter to her husband seemed to her sound. But once in her bedroom the rest of the warning swung through her brain: "If he stays that man will do harm—make mischief," and panic possessed her.

It was useless to assure herself that she was making a mountain out of a mole-hill. Beneath all her defensive reasoning lay a dread apprehension that she was powerless to control. It was all so intangible, so exasperating, this heavy-hearted sense of foreboding without actual foundation. Despairingly she[Pg 131] sought refuge in making the worst of her headache; that, at least, was definite enough. She summoned Champa and prepared for bed, so that when Robert returned from his ride she might plead indisposition as an excuse for absenting herself from the dinner table.

Robert accepted the excuse in all good faith. He prescribed a dose of quinine and a glass of iced champagne, both of which she swallowed to please him, and when later he came to her room she lay still, with closed eyes, till he was safely asleep. Then she stole from her bed and went out on to the balcony. Yellow and parched the landscape lay before her, bathed in the strong Eastern moonlight, the little heaps of ruins in the foreground picked out with black shadows—relics of past power, dead echoes of ancient strife! On this spot where she stood, on the ramparts of the old Moghul fort, perhaps Emperors had stood also, unwitting of the future, of the coming downfall of their dynasty.

From Philip Flint she had learnt how the fort had been built by the great Akbar in the reign of his greater Western contemporary, Elizabeth; how it had lain with his descendants to uphold Moghul might and dominion, and how they had failed—failed before a power that was stronger in its spirit of self-sacrifice and honest purpose. 'Midst all her unease of mind she felt the magic and the marvel of the past; remembered George Thomas and his wide ambitions—a voice crying in the wilderness of turmoil and chaos and oppression of the helpless, a pioneer of the peace and protection to follow for this gorgeous[Pg 132] old country. Yet was the present order and prosperity doomed to pass in its turn, leaving even less traces of its influence than just ruins and remains and reminders? Would India seethe again with tyranny, murder, persecution, general insecurity of property and person, creed up against creed, custom against custom, avarice stalking the land to block and destroy all progress? Flint, she knew, feared for India's future, owing to the Western system of education that was being pursued without forethought, without judicious provision for employment that would guard against disaster. Sooner or later, he had said, there would come into power a faction that for the sake of unpractical theories and so-called "ideals" totally unsuited to the East, would liberate forces, dangerous forces already at work beneath the surface for personal gain, that would seek to oppress and intimidate the masses, render just administration impossible, degrade British rule into a farce. And then? Well then it would devolve into a choice between the withdrawal of British authority, leaving the country open to conquest from some stronger foreign nation, or a reversion to sane government, and the drastic suppression of sedition, conspiracy, and rebellion.

In face of these reflections Stella's own troubles seemed to fade into space; she felt lifted above them, indifferent to petty considerations, to the jealousy of Sher Singh, Robert's propensities and the limitations he sought to impose upon her. Now boldly, and without scruple, she permitted her imagination to run riot. Supposing she were Philip Flint's wife—how she would strive to help and encourage him, how she[Pg 133] would fling herself into his work and his aspirations, each of them doing their utmost, hand in hand, for the welfare of the country they both loved! Heart and brain afire she paced the broad balcony in a maze of fictitious delight; to-night there was little sound, no howling of beasts save in the far distance where jackals hunted in packs; and, near at hand, only the soft murmur of the city beyond the walls. Spellbound, as in a dream, she loitered; the heat was intense in the quiet, the desolation, the hard yellow light of the moon, but it seemed merely to caress her limbs, to encourage the intoxication of her fancies.

A sudden sound shattered the reverie; a dull thud as if something had fallen within the building from the roof to the foundations.... Again—this time it was less loud, less definite, rumbling away into silence. She listened, alert, her heart beating quickly; then came reassurance with the recollection of Mrs. Cuthell's conviction that strange echoes were caused by the occasional fall of masonry below in the underground ruins. Wrenched back to reality she returned to the darkened bedroom, once more a prey to restless depression. Robert lay sleeping profoundly, his deep, regular breathing, and the monotonous flap of the punkah frill, were the only sounds she could discern as she lay wide awake, her senses sharpened, her nerves overwrought. But just as a hint of drowsiness gave hope of repose for body and mind, again she heard something that this time could not be attributed to the falling of bricks or stones, since, of a certainty, it was within the room.[Pg 134] A light patter on the matting, a pause, hesitation, a faint whimper....

In sheer terror Stella leapt from her bed; could it be a ghost—the spirit of a helpless little child massacred with other victims of the great tragedy in this hateful house? Only by the strongest effort she refrained from shrieking aloud as a soft touch fell on her ankle; it was the warm, wet lick of a tongue. She was thankful she had raised no disturbance when by the dim radiance of the moon through the open doorways she saw no ghost, no child, but only Jacob!—Jacob with a broken strip of cord hanging to his collar, apologetic, unhappy, squirming at her feet in his dumb, pathetic attempts to explain his desertion of his master.

Stella consoled the little dog, let him lie by her side on the bed. His company brought a sense of comfort and security. Philip's servants must have imprisoned Jacob in some out-house so that his well-meant attentions should not disturb the sick man. She hoped it argued healing sleep for Philip—did not mean that he was worse. Meanwhile she must await daylight to ascertain the truth.

At last she fell asleep, Jacob's nose cuddled in the crook of her elbow, regardless of Robert's indignation when he should awake and discover the presence of "that damned dog."

[Pg 135]

CHAPTER XI

The sun poured upon the flat roof of the baking little rest-house, though the hour was yet early. Philip Flint lay limp and exhausted on a long chair in the veranda; the sharp "go" of fever had worn itself out for the time being, worn out its victim also. Through the night he had tossed and talked nonsense, shivered and burned by turns, with aching limbs and bursting head. Now the reaction seemed equally bad, if not worse, since, while the malady raged, he had at least been but vaguely aware of bodily distress; and, though harassed with hideous dreams, there had come interludes when he felt as if wafted to regions of bliss, his companion a being half goddess half mortal. One moment she floated beyond his reach in limitless space, remote as a star.... He had heard his own voice calling, entreating with a delirious confusion of words on his lips: "Stella—a star—Star of India——" Again she was close to him, held to his heart.

Blurred memories of these transports lingered in his mind as he lay gasping with the heat, and then came devastating doubts and warnings, sweeping the glamour away. He dared not shut his eyes to the danger, in truth he stood on the brink of a moral precipice; unless he could manœuvre a transfer from Rassih, unless in the meantime he could keep clear of the Commissioner's house, he was bound to find[Pg 136] himself desperately in love with the Commissioner's wife; and, without vanity, he foresaw that the situation must become equally perilous for her. What a fool he had been!—ensnared by the girl's beauty, by the tempting circumstance of her alliance with a man so much her senior for whom it was obvious she had no real affection, a man who was blind to the budding of her intellect, who merely valued her bright innocence as a whet to his senses. Yet apart from these odious reflections, apart from selfish perspective, Philip felt it was up to him now to call halt for her sake. So far they had exchanged no words that might not have been shouted from the housetops, but what price words when came mute understanding, when just a little more and they would find themselves in the grip of that eternal, immutable force called Love! And then? How should he bring himself to leave her desolate, unhappy, to face a future without hope because his own target in life was Success, fulfilment of ambition?

From the outset of his career one aim had possessed Philip Flint—to arrive, to reach the topmost rung of his particular ladder; and already his future was brilliant with promise, his progress sure, unless, through his own folly, he loosed his hold and fell back. Well he knew the power of Mother Grundy in Indian official circles, the need for avoidance of serious scandal in a country where moral standards and example must count for promotion among a community that, officially speaking, was composed of one class. In England it was possible for a man to hold high public office while his domestic belongings[Pg 137] socially could not be recognised; in India such a state of affairs would be wholly unworkable. Imagine a Chief Commissioner, a Lieutenant Governor, any representative of the Crown, not to mention a Viceroy, with a wife who could not be "received"! No; open scandal in India spelt failure. Therefore it was a choice for Philip Flint between heart and head; and now he asked himself grimly which was to prove the stronger?

The beat of a horse's hoofs outside scattered his thoughts. He raised himself on his elbow to see Colonel Crayfield dismounting, and a couple of peons ran forth with salaams to receive the important visitor.

Colonel Crayfield stumped up the veranda steps. "Hallo, Flint, sorry to hear you are sick," he threw his hat and whip on to a camp table, dragged a chair into convenient position and seated himself weightily. "Had a sharp bout of malaria? You look pretty well washed out!"

"Sharp and short, sir, I hope. I think I'm about over it now all right."

"Poof! the heat of this place!" the Commissioner looked about him with disgust. "Not fit for a dog. Talking of dogs, your terrier strayed up to our house last night; it worried the memsahib, because she took it into her head it must mean you were at the last gasp. I promised to come and find out if you were still alive!"

"Very kind," murmured Philip; "as usual I must apologise for Jacob, and I'm afraid he hasn't come back yet!"

[Pg 138]

"Oh, that's all right, never mind the dog. The question