Stella, still tortured with thoughts of Allegra, responded to his compliments with a mechanical smile. But suddenly meeting Roger’s eyes she caught an expression there that brought a swift flush to her cheeks: a look of such adoration, such passion, as to make the Frenchman’s admiration seem almost trivial. Roger’s face, too, reddened; he was discomposed, evidently, at being caught off his guard. And when, a second later, he suggested that they should go in to dinner, he was his usual genial self, and that fleeting moment might never have been.
During the meal talk was more interesting than the station gossip that Stella had so often encountered during this Indian tour with Miss Jellings. As a worker herself she was as keen to hear about the jobs that these three men were doing as they were to talk about them. Roger, in charge of the state electricity plant, was full of enthusiasm over the influence electricity would one day have on Indian society. Looking ahead through the years, he saw dirt and disease being swept away by this great natural force, saw light penetrating to the darkest corners where filth and ignorance now lurked unseen.
Mr. Blonson, shaking his head over the fancied benefits of what he called “Western materialism,” had the missionary’s point of view to expound.
Only Armand, eating his roast sand grouse with enjoyment, declared that he was in India for one purpose, and one only: to make as much money as possible in, the shortest time.
“Of course I’m out to enjoy myself, too,” he added. “And as I’m not in the least concerned about improving either the country or the people, I can get amusement from scenes that would probably scandalize the reformers.”
“But if you’re educating the raja’s children,” Stella began, smiling in spite of herself at his flippant frankness.
“I’m not educating anyone,” he assured her briskly. “I’m instructing them in the French language—quite a different matter. If anyone is acquiring an education it is myself.” And then, leaning across the table, he told Stella earnestly, “Just because you and Miss Jellings have come to a native state you think you are seeing the real India. But Ghasirabad is positively modern compared with Bhindi. If you want to step back a thousand, two thousand years, you must visit Bhindi. You can see a ceremonial dance there, this very week—”
“I hardly think—” Mr. Blonson began gently, and at the same time Roger interrupted with a more robust protest.
“It’s a rotten idea, Verle,” he said brusquely. “It’s been an understood thing for years that Englishwomen don’t go to Bhindi. I don’t want to say anything in front of Miss Hantley about what happened there once—”
“That was in the old raja’s time,” Armand broke in quickly. “The new man—not even a son, but a nephew—is quite different.”
“I’d need to be very sure of that before I encouraged any woman I liked to go near that palace,” was Roger’s grim retort. “When you have been in the East a little longer, my boy, you’ll realize that you don’t get to know an Indian potentate inside out in eighteen months.”
Armand shrugged his shoulders. “Personally I like Chawand Rao, and I think if Miss Hantley misses seeing Bhindi it will be a sin and a shame,” he said with urbane obstinacy. And then, in order to retain the last word on the subject, he deftly steered the conversation into other channels.
Had circumstances been different Stella would have thoroughly enjoyed that evening. There was always a thrill for her in being in Roger’s company, but apart from that the three men laid themselves out to entertain her, and the rubber of bridge that followed the well-planned and leisurely dinner was a lighthearted affair with no postmortems as its primary convention.
But try as she might she could not, for an instant, banish the thought of Allegra from her mind. When she looked across the table at Roger, Allegra’s lovely little flowerlike face rose up between them, with that ironic smile she so well remembered; when she tried to laugh at his small, foolish jokes Allegra’s rippling laughter echoed in her ears, mocking her.
How could fate be so cruel, she wondered passionately. She had thought to break every link with the old life when she turned to nursing as a career; and yet, after all the years of hard work and self-discipline, at the very moment when happiness beckoned her, the past had risen up in her push to bar her from the future.
Already, under her stage name, she was blackened in the eyes of Roger and his family, and her only means of defense was one that she could not use. It was unthinkable that she should try to expose Allegra to Roger and his brother. Even if they were to take her word against that of the other girl—which was problematical—what a miserable state of affairs must result. Family feuds, maybe; great unhappiness, certainly.
No! She must be brave, and surely, after all, it would not need great heroism to end a six-day friendship. She and Roger were strongly attracted to each other; there was no denying that fact. But a little coolness on her part now would soon chill his ardor. In spite of all that was said to the contrary, few men cared to pursue a woman in the face of rebuff.
She could not bring herself to be less friendly to him while she was a guest under his roof, but when the time came for breaking up the party, she found an opportunity to give him the first taste of discouragement. He had planned to drive her back to the rest house, as she well knew, but when Armand protested that it was quite unnecessary to get out his car as he himself had to pass the rest house on his way to the bungalow where he was staying, she expressed immediate agreement in such a decided way that Roger could do nothing but strive to hide his disappointment. It was misery to her to do it, but now that she had made up her mind on the course she was to follow, she was resolute. She must stop Roger from falling any further in love with her, and to make her task easier she must persuade Jelly to leave Ghasirabad at the first possible moment.
CHAPTER TWO
The chance to turn her back on Ghasirabad came more quickly than Stella had dared to hope. On the drive home that evening, Armand had returned with Gallic exuberance to the subject of Bhindi and its interest for sightseers willing to leave the beaten track. And the next morning he came hurrying around to the rest house to convert Miss Jellings to his point of view.
All his charm, all his vivacity were brought into play. And watching him Stella had to admit not only that he was good-looking, in his slim, rather boyish way, but that he possessed a distinctly attractive personality. A great many girls, she knew, would have had no time for a sobersides like Roger while Armand was in the offing.
Certainly Jelly was swept away by his witty and persuasive tongue. Although she was looking painfully tired, her plain old face soon began to light up as he spoke of dances and ceremonies so antique that their origins were lost in the mists of time. And before long she was announcing that whatever the difficulties of transport might be—for Armand had to confess that the road to Bhindi was little better than a bullock track—she was definitely going to fall in with his suggestion. As for her comfort when she arrived there, she did not believe, she declared a shade tartly, that any lodging could demand more stoical endurance than this so-called rest house.
Hearing that note of irritation in her voice, Stella felt suddenly anxious. Undeniably the rest house was not luxurious, but it was no worse—indeed in some respects it was better—than many of the quarters with which they had been provided during their Indian tour. Could it be that this weariness of Jelly’s deserved a more serious term? Was she herself forgetting, in her role of secretary-companion, that she had been engaged also as a nurse?
She dared not, in front of Armand, breathe a word about her employer’s health, for on this point Jelly was hypersensitive. But when the handsome young Frenchman, beaming with pleasure at the success of his mission, left them alone, she asked her patient a few incisive questions and as a result of the grudgingly given admissions, insisted on her lying down for the remainder of the day. She would have liked to stay within call, but the old lady would not hear of this. She had given way to the extent of resting far more than was necessary, but
she was not going to be fussed after as though she was an invalid. As soon as Stella had finished typing out that last chapter she must get out in the fresh air; and if she could find some nice man with whom to ride or play tennis—and here she gave Stella a faint, satiric grin—so much the better.
Stella, catching that teasing smile, pretended not to notice it—though she was quite unable to check a slight rise of color. Some day or another she might have to explain to Jelly that there was nothing, after all, in her friendship with Roger, but for the moment it was better to let the matter rest. On their return from Bhindi it would probably be necessary to move on at once to their next stopping place, and in the bustle of the journey, and the excitement of new scenes and fresh faces, Jelly might well forget that Roger Fendish had ever aroused any particular interest in her mind.
After lunch, pressed by Jelly’s adjurations, she sent for a tonga and drove to the city. The bazaar, with its narrow, twisting streets, thronged with dark-skinned folk in clothes of every brilliant hue was much like the many others that Stella had visited since coming to India. But she felt she would never tire of the color and noise, the unending variety of open-fronted shops where keen-eyed merchants squatted, scanning the crowds for likely customers and crying out vociferously in praise of their wares.
Presently she stopped the driver and, telling him to wait, got down and proceeded on foot. He called after her something that she did not catch, but imagining that he was anxious about his fare she repeated, in the best Hindustani she could muster, that she would return to the tonga in a few minutes’ time, and then set off at a leisurely pace.
She had been long enough in India to grow accustomed to the curious stares that the sight of a strange woman aroused among the populace, and for a short time sauntered along the busy street making small purchases here and there without the slightest misgiving. True, a few beggars were collecting, but there was nothing odd in that, in this land of mendicants. Nor did it trouble her when, here and there, she encountered the baleful glance of an ash-smeared fakir.
But presently she found that the street she had entered was changing its character. Shops and stalls were giving place to crude flower-garlanded shrines, and a short way ahead there loomed up a mass of masonry, rose red and carved all over with grotesque figures, that she recognized as a Hindu temple.
And now indeed she began to feel frightened and to wish that she had remained safely in the tonga, under the protection of the scrubby little driver. For down the temple steps there came rushing or hobbling a veritable horde of beggars, many of them in an indescribable state of dirt and disease, and all of them intent on claiming baksheesh from the stranger in their midst.
Whining voices echoed in her ears, skinny fingers clutched at her sleeves, and when she tried to retrace her steps she found herself encircled by the rapacious mob.
There’s nothing to get seriously scared about, she told herself firmly, but when she found that she could not pass—and when a scoffing remark by a passing Brahman priest brought a jeer from the crowd and renewed demands for money—it was all she could do to fight down her rising panic.
And then the sound of hooves reached her from the direction from which she herself had come, and the throng melted to reveal the figure of Roger Fendish cantering toward her.
In less than a minute he was at her side, dismounting. “What on earth are you doing here, Miss Hantley?” he demanded brusquely.
“I might ask you the same question,” she retorted, conscious that her heart was beating even more violently now than a moment earlier when she had been feeling so horribly scared.
“My answer’s simple enough,” he told her coldly. “I was passing the city gate just now when a tonga driver stopped me, almost in tears, to tell me that a memsahib whom he had been driving had persisted on going alone, on foot, through the Street of Shrines. He had warned her against doing so, he said, but she had refused to listen.”
Stella colored a little at his unfriendly tone. “I didn’t understand in the least what he was saying,” she explained stiffly. “I know a smattering of Hindustani, but—”
“Exactly,” he broke in impatiently. “Lord! If you globe-trotters would only learn the language properly, what a peck of trouble would be saved.”
Her color deepened. “I apologize for giving you any bother,” she began, and then, seeing his expression suddenly change, stopped abruptly.
“It’s for me to apologize for being so beastly to you,” he exclaimed, contritely. “But I guessed it was you the tonga driver meant, and I was feeling distinctly perturbed. Some of the priests who hang around that particular temple are pretty fanatical; and though you would not have come to any bodily harm, you might have been insulted—and even more badly frightened than you were!”
She did not answer; she was too afraid of betraying the emotion that, despite all her efforts, was flooding her being, as she heard the note of tenderness in his tone. And he went on eagerly, “What about wiping away this unpleasant memory by coming for a gallop with me this afternoon? You’ve told me you love riding, and I have a new mare that would just about suit you.”
“I’m afraid I can’t.” If only he could have known how cruelly hard it was to frame that brief sentence.
“Do you mean that?” His unmistakable disappointment made it more difficult than ever to persist in a refusal. There was something so simple, so straightforward, about this big man who, for good or ill, showed his feelings so plainly. It was wretched having to hurt him.
“Miss Jellings isn’t very well,” she explained, unable to resist softening the blow. “I don’t like leaving her for any length of time.”
His face cleared, and he nodded understandingly. “I see. In that case I must make the best of a bad job and content myself with escorting you home. And you might remember, Stella, dear,” he added, slipping his arm in hers and piloting her through the now decorous crowd, “that if you want to explore the native quarter again I’ll be very happy to act as bodyguard.”
She was afraid that her return to the rest house so soon after setting out would provoke some embarrassing questions from Miss Jellings, if not an actual scolding. But when she stole into her employer’s bedroom she found her in a heavy sleep. Bending over, her anxiously, she decided that she had been right to insist on her resting. Even asleep the old woman looked unutterably weary, and the thought came to Stella that their next move might well be to Bombay, en route for England, rather than to Bhindi.
Toward five o’clock Jelly woke up, and Muhammad Ali, the bearded servant who had accompanied them on their journeyings through India, brought in the tea tray. Usually this little meal was the liveliest of the day, but on this occasion Jelly was queerly silent, evidently plunged in deep thought.
Stella knew her too well to plague her with questions and it was not until the following morning—after having spent a very bad night—that the old lady spoke of what was in her mind.
“Would you be scared of going to Bhindi by yourself?” she demanded abruptly.
Stella hesitated, unable to prevent herself from conjuring up a vision of Roger’s horrified face. And Jelly went on calmly, “The truth is, Stella, I don’t believe my miserable old body would stand twenty miles jolting over a bullock track at the present moment; on the other hand, from what Armand Verle says, I’m inclined to think that to finish this book of mine, without any description of this famous fire dance, would be a fearful mistake.” She groaned and shifted restlessly in the hard, uncomfortable bed. “To think that Bhindi is barely twenty miles away—and that this particular dance is performed only once in as many years. It’s absolutely maddening.”
Still Stella made no answer, and at last her silence began to irritate the sick woman. “I know your beloved Roger Fendish won’t like the notion,” she observed testily. “And I daresay it’s natural. But he ought to realize that you are not just a tourist ... that you’re a serious worker. I’ll have another word with Armand Verle before he goes back to Bhindi tom
orrow, and if he promises faithfully to look after you—well, I shall ask you to think the matter over very seriously.”
And then, as always, her ill humor vanished as quickly as it had come. “You needn’t think I’m going to nag you over it all the same,” she declared. “If you refuse to go, there’ll be nothing said—and nothing thought!”
Stella found her voice at last. “I’m by no means sure I ought to be leaving you. I’m your nurse as well as your secretary, you know.”
“You needn’t worry about me. I shall simply stay in bed until you get back.” The old woman wore a resolute expression. “As a matter of fact, it will just give me nice time to pick up my strength before we start on the hundred-mile train journey to our next port of call—Rajdor. It’s a shame to separate you from your Roger,” she added more gently. “But if the pair of you are serious, you ought to be able to fix things up before we leave.”
An observation to which Stella, her heart surging with misery, could not even attempt to make a reply.
It seemed to Stella as she turned the project over in her mind that whether she shrank from it or not, it presented a cast-iron opportunity of breaking with Roger. He was a busy man, and the twenty miles of bad road would put an effectual barrier between them. Also his anger with her for embarking on what he believed to be a criminally foolish course would probably mean the end of his affection for her. He would feel that she had more faith in Armand’s judgment than in his own, and that, she was sure, would be too much for his quick temper and his pride.
If only, she thought wretchedly, I could tell him the truth about Allegra! Why should we both have to suffer on account of that little rotter! But as before she found herself shrinking in every fiber of her being from the idea of a showdown. It was useless to argue with herself that it might be her duty to save Roger’s favorite brother from marrying a worthless woman. How could she be sure that Allegra had not changed for the better—learned her lesson once and for all? Intervention would probably result in four people being made wretched, instead of two. Nor was there any hope of achieving happiness through a pact between herself and Allegra to keep silent about the past. How could she marry Roger and keep secret from him those years she had spent on the stage as Star Lefreyne? It was utterly unthinkable.
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