Nurse in India

by Juliet Armstrong

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.” Stella was grateful to Armand not only for the sensible suggestion but for the delicacy that prompted it. “I’d better go up and see her.”

  “Good, I’ll fix up a time for you.” And then he stopped short, glancing out of the long window. “Here’s another helper, your friend Fendish.”

  Stella’s heart missed a beat, and she wondered dimly whether there would ever come a day when the mere sound of his name would cease to have power to move her.

  “Come in, Roger,” she said quietly, and getting up, gave him her hand.

  He held it for the least space of time that courtesy demanded and, after nodding at Verle, said quickly, “I wondered if I could be of any assistance, but I see I’m not needed.”

  “It’s very good of you to look in,” Stella began, but before she could say any more, he made an observation that effectually silenced her.

  “I’ve really come on Allegra’s account,” he told her, a little awkwardly. “She asked me to apologize for not being at the church yesterday evening.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t notice her absence,” Stella said evenly. “Perhaps you’d assure her of that.”

  For a moment Roger seemed taken aback. Then he said clumsily, “You and Verle are busy; I won’t hold you up. But if there’s anything I can do for you, Stella, send that devoted servant of yours along with a message to either my office or my bungalow.”

  She thanked him, and at the same time Armand, looking at Fendish with a rather puzzled expression, asked abruptly, “Talking of devoted servants, what on earth has happened to that wonderful bearer of yours—Hussein or whatever his name is?”

  Roger shrugged his shoulders. “When he gave me notice, he merely informed me that the climate of Kotpura no longer suited his health,” he returned coolly. And then he gave a grim smile. “I wonder what he would have said if I had told him then that I, too, had decided to shift to another part of India. It would have put him in a nice fix, poor fellow.”

  “Are you leaving Kotpura then?” The question came simultaneously from Stella and Armand.

  “I’m planning to do so,” Roger said calmly. “I’ve grown to dislike the place, and it’s time I sought new pastures. I may even chuck India altogether and ship across to East Africa.”

  For a few seconds there was silence. Then Armand said smiling wryly, “Poor Chawand Rao’s marvelous club doesn’t seem to be producing the effects for which, he was hoping. His idea was to keep his European collaborators happy and settled, and instead of that, everyone seems to be leaving.”

  Stella, too, smiled a little then. “You and I can hardly claim to be doing much for Kotpura State, Armand,” she said dryly. “I’m a tourist, and you, as you’re continually saying, have stayed here only to earn a good salary. Roger is the only one who will be seriously missed.”

  “Oh, men of my qualifications are two a penny these days,” Roger retorted lightly. “Anyway I shall be just as useful in some other part of the globe.” And before any more could be said, he gave rather a strained smile and with a curt goodbye went hurrying off.

  Much to her relief Armand made no reference to Roger’s flying visit or to the news of his forthcoming departure. She had been horribly afraid that he would; touch her on the raw by suggesting that Allegra was at the bottom of Roger’s restlessness and his desire to leave, Ghasirabad.

  It’s probably true, but I don’t want to hear about it, she told herself miserably. He’s fallen for Allegra, but doesn‘t dream of taking her away from Jim; all he wants to do is clear out.

  She found it even more difficult now to concentrate on what she was doing and when, after nearly two hours of solid work Armand stretched himself and told her that he must be thinking of returning to the palace, she decided that she must and would have a brief rest.

  But before he went Armand said something that made her feel still more charitably disposed toward him.

  “I want to apologize with all my heart for the way I’ve teased and tormented you lately,” he observed contritely, “but your obstinacy roused a veritable little devil in me. I see now that it was a caddish thing to keep nagging at you to change your mind, and I won’t bother you again.”

  “You certainly made me furious with you,” she admitted.

  “I know, and I’m afraid I enjoyed it. I tried to make myself believe that anything was better than your indifference. I ought to have realized that it was your presumption on my part to think of you as my future wife. You’re far too good for me.”

  “Nonsense, Armand,” she exclaimed. But he would not let her continue.

  “And there’s far more to it than that,” he went on quickly. “Apart from my being a constant disappointment to you, I wouldn’t have been happy, either. No man wants to be conscious all the time of being inferior to his wife.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Armand,” she burst out, interrupting him again. “You make me feel an absolute prig! I’ve no pretensions to being better than you—”

  “But you are, all the same, my dear. And I know in my heart of hearts that I’ll be much happier with someone of my own level. You’re an idealist—unselfish, generous, chivalrous; while I’m simply out to have the pleasantest time I can, without worrying overmuch about the troubles and cares of other people.”

  “Rubbish. Look what you’ve been doing for me this very morning.” She made an eloquent gesture toward the neat piles of papers on the table.

  He gave an odd little laugh. “Oh, even reprobates like myself are ready to help folks they’re fond of.” And then, lifting one of her hands to his lips, he dropped a light kiss on it.

  “Au revoir, mam’selle. And don’t worry your pretty head about me anymore.”

  Alone again she made a further effort, against her better judgment, to concentrate on the many jobs that still awaited her attention. But she found it was utterly beyond her. Without the distraction of a companion, her thoughts persistently wandered, now to the dead woman, now to Roger, and in the effort to control her grief and refrain from crying, she found herself attacked by a violent headache.

  Obliged at last to abandon the remainder of the sorting, she went to her room to lie down. She had no hope of sleeping and was only aware of having dropped off when she heard in her dreams a low, insistent coughing—and woke to the consciousness that it was hours later and that Muhammad Ali was standing outside the doorway of her bedroom.

  “What is it?” she exclaimed.

  “Memsahib, His Highness Raja Chawand Rao is here and desires to speak with you.”

  She hesitated. “Very well. Tell him I will come at once.”

  “And shall I not bring in the tea tray just the same? You had no luncheon, and now it is four o’clock.”

  “Very well. And put on a second cup for His Highness.”

  A few minutes later, having done what she could to hide the traces of her grief, she went into the sitting room and was greeted in his usual courteous manner by Chawand Rao.

  “I hope you will forgive my intruding on you,” he said steadily, “but I have been having a word with Mr. Verle, and there is something I want to discuss with you. But first I must perform an errand for my aunt. She sends you this packet, which you are not to open she says, in my presence.” And he handed her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied untidily with red ribbon.

  She thanked him, then, feeling rather nervous, busied herself with the tea tray, and waited for him to go on.

  But Chawand Rao, having shot his preliminary bolt, seemed curiously diffident of coming to the point. It was not until they had finished their tea that he looked across at her and said very quietly, “Miss Hantley, Verle tells met you are intending to leave Kotpura State in two days’ time I have come to ask you to change your mind, to beg you to, make my poor country your permanent home.”

  And when, bewildered, she made no answer, he leaned forward and observed with an earnestness that touched her in spite of herself, “A dear friend has just been take
n from your side by death. Perhaps you are in the mood to listen with patience to a little history I would like to tell you—of the young wife I loved and lost.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Of course, Your Highness.” Although completely taken aback by his words, she spoke with a calm courtesy that matched his own.

  “She was a distant cousin of mine,” he said softly, “and we had been betrothed, after the custom of our race, since babyhood. But it was a love match for all that. She had been educated in a Christian school for Indian ladies of rank and, like myself, had imbibed a good many Western ideas, particularly on social questions; so you see, there was a mental companionship between us that is all too rare in Indian marriages.” He paused and raised his dark, melancholy eyes to her face. “Does this bore you? Because if so—”

  She shook her head, though wondering nervously where this story was leading. And he went on, still in that low voice, “She gave me three children, as you know: Prithviraj, of course, was the eldest. And then when she was still only nineteen and nursing her youngest, the rainy season brought an epidemic of dengue fever and malaria, and in five days she was dead.”

  “What a tragedy!” And then she shivered. “This India of yours strikes so swiftly—so relentlessly.”

  “But don’t you see, Miss Hantley—” he was speaking eagerly now “—disease in this country is all-powerful simply because there are so few people with the skill and knowledge to fight it! We need doctors and nurses from Europe in the hundreds, not only to tend our sick, but to train our own folk in modern methods.”

  He was silent for a moment, then went on quietly, “When my wife died, I made a vow—that for all time, I would give up the thought of remarriage. I had heirs enough to satisfy any doubts about the continuance of the dynasty and to perform the necessary rites when I myself should pass away. And I vowed at the same time that when I came to reign in my uncle’s place, I would do all in my power for the welfare of my people and to ensure that my subjects should not die, as my young wife had died, without even a sporting chance of pulling through.” He leaned forward. “Miss Hantley, I know you to be a clever and devoted nurse. Erickson and I are planning to start a small hospital for women and children at Bhindi, and we want you to come and help us.”

  If she had been taken aback before, she was utterly dumbfounded now. To think that all this time she—and others—had been suspecting Chawand Rao of amorous designs, when what he wanted of her was that she should lead a life of toil and asceticism, devoting herself to the cure of loathsome diseases and malignant fevers, training untaught Indian girls in the principles of elementary nursing and hygiene.

  “Does Dr. Erickson know that you are asking me to do this?” That was the first question that came to her lips.

  ‘Certainly. Does that surprise you?”

  “It does,” she returned frankly. “I should have thought he would have realized, even if you hadn’t Your Highness, that a girl of twenty-five couldn’t possibly cope with position of such responsibility. You want a competent, thoroughly experienced woman of forty or so.”

  His expression did not change. “We both foresaw that that would be your first reaction. And I admit that if you had had rather more experience, it would have been all to the good. Indeed, it was our original idea that after you returned to England with Miss Jellings, you should take a short course in tropical diseases at your old hospital—and then come back to us. As things have turned out, however—well, here you are, and here we should like you to stay. Erickson is ready to teach you all he can, and—”

  “But, Your Highness, you speak as though you had been in touch with Dr. Erickson since—since Miss Jellings died.”

  He nodded. “I had a long-distance telephone conversation with him that same morning; and by the way, I’m expecting him at the palace any moment. Perhaps you’d care to come up and see him; you’ll need to talk to him about the certificate, anyway.”

  “You think of everything, Your Highness,” she said warmly—finding it far easier to be spontaneous with him now that all fear of his making love to her was gone. “Mr. Verle told me you were sending for him.”

  “But I am still your debtor,” he said simply, “and if you grant me this tremendous favor that I’m asking of you, the debt will be increased a thousandfold.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid it’s too big a thing for me, Your Highness,” she told him. And then she asked, trying to speak casually, “Doesn’t it occur to you that I might want to lead a more ordinary life, to marry...?”

  He hesitated. “News and gossip travel on the wind, in India. I heard that you, like myself, had given up all thought of marriage.” And then he looked her full in the face, pityingly, for she had gone very white. “A hint came to me that you felt as I did—that if one might not have the beloved at one’s side for the journey through life, then no one else would do.”

  “You heard the truth.” Almost against her will the words forced themselves from her mouth. “But how it came to your ears is beyond me to guess.”

  “But I read it also in your face,” he said. “You have the lost look of one whose world has crashed around her—and this look was there long before Miss Jellings died.” He paused. “I am not a Christian, but I have a philosophy of life. I have learned through experience that the only cure for aching grief and loneliness is to get outside oneself and work for others.”

  “I know that, too. As I told you and the old rani once, I have been made very unhappy since I came to India. I meant to go back to London and teach myself to forget by working hard at my nursing career.”

  He made a little gesture of appeal. “In London there are so many nurses! In Bhindi there is no one with even the rudiments of medical knowledge.”

  “But it’s impossible,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been aching for weeks past to leave India—”

  “You haven’t given India a chance to show her real self to you,” he interrupted. “Naturally I don’t expect you to make up your mind at once. All I ask now is that you will think the matter over.” He glanced down at his wristwatch. “Suppose I leave you in peace for a couple of hours and then send a car to bring you to the palace. Erickson will be there by then, for certain, and my aunt wants to talk to you, I know.” And then he smiled. “We can even offer you an English dinner. Preparations have already been made for the good doctor.”

  She tried to return his smile. “I’ll come for a few minutes, anyway,” she said, “but I’m afraid I can give you no hope of the answer you want.”

  He left her then, and she pressed her hands to her throbbing forehead. How desperately tired she was! It wasn’t fair that she should be bothered and badgered like this. Had Chawand Rao and Dr. Erickson gone crazy? How could a raw girl of twenty-five set about the herculean task of organizing and equipping a modern hospital? Besides—hadn’t she been praying for the chance of escaping from Kotpura? Was it likely she would forge heavy chains to keep herself a prisoner here?

  But your main motive in wanting to leave this place is to get away from Roger Fendish, a small voice argued at the back of her brain. In a very short while he and Allegra—and even Armand—will be gone from here.

  She dragged her weary limbs up and down the room, turning the matter over and over in her mind. She had told Chawand Rao definitely that she could not accept his invitation, but was she right, after all, in rejecting it? She might feel herself to be young and ignorant, but with a man like Erickson at hand to guide and help her—and to believe in her—surely she could not fail completely. If she went back to London now, was it not possible that she would regret her lack of courage and self-confidence? Would she ever find any place, in all the world, where she was more sorely needed than at Bhindi?

  Two hours later when the car arrived to take her to the Lake Palace she was still in a state of indecision and quite exhausted by her efforts to think clearly. One moment she was telling herself that the idea was preposterous; at the next she was wondering whether, in a task
so difficult and laborious, she would not find the quickest cure for her terrible heartache. Jelly would have told me I was a fool even to consider the project, she reflected, but then she never understood the utter impossibility of my marrying anyone, if I couldn’t have Roger for my husband. Chawand Rao sees deeper than she did there.

  Another thought, too, came to her as she drove through the scented dusk. Only a few weeks ago she had shuddered with horror at the notion of being driven to the raja’s palace; only a few weeks ago she had feared death at the hands of the old rani—and not without reason. Yet here she was. going of her own free will to eat with them and to discuss their suggestion that she should spend the rest of her life in the service of their people.

  As on her previous visit to the Lake Palace, she was received by the raja’s retinue with the greatest warmth and deference. Indeed there was something in their glances and smiles that made her think they already knew what was being mooted between herself and their prince. Was it impossible, she wondered, to keep even the deepest secret of one’s heart from these alien folk of India? Had they some occult power to pierce the veil that should hide one’s thoughts from them? She remembered the old rani had pooh-poohed that idea. Yet surely there was something in it; surely they had an intuition denied to Europeans. Otherwise how had Chawand Rao, for instance, come by the knowledge of her thwarted love for Roger and her determination to take no other man for her husband?

  She was shown at once into the rani’s drawing room, and suddenly remembered, as the old lady got up from her cushions to greet her, that she had not yet opened the clumsy brown-paper package that Chawand Rao had brought her.

  “You will think me extremely rude and ungrateful, Your Highness,” she observed, when the old rani had finished her brief condolences, “but my mind has been so full of the raja’s surprising plan for me that I forgot to examine the gift you sent me.”

  The old rani gave a dry smile. “Let us hope, then, that your servants have more scruples about meddling with other people’s possessions than your friend, for the former rani of Kotpura. There are three thousand rupees in that parcel, my girl—about two hundred pounds of your English money.”