Tea in the drawing-room was over. Mrs. Carrington sat erect, motionless
as usual. Augusta and Ellen were pretending to knit; in reality their
whole attention was given to Colonel Crayfield, who perambulated about,
large and imposing, his hands in his pockets, a disturbance in the
old-world atmosphere. Augusta noticed with irritation how he scuffled up
the edge of the Persian rug spread in the centre of the room each time
he walked over it. Ellen suspected that he wanted to smoke, but she
dared not suggest the permission. The Carrington ancestor, gaily
indifferent, gazed down at the little conclave that was concerned with
the misdeeds of his young descendant.
"It is a difficult question," repeated Colonel Crayfield; he had said
the same thing already, several times.
"Would you recommend another school?" asked Augusta. "Some stricter
establishment, perhaps, if one could be found, that would receive a girl
under the painful circumstances?"
Colonel Crayfield halted beside a table. He picked up a long, narrow
scent-bottle, and appeared to examine it closely. Augusta hoped he would
not let it fall; the bottle had come from Delhi, was said to have been
the property of a Moghul princess, and once to have contained attar of
roses.
"Well, on the whole, no," he said presently. "We don't want to break
the child's spirit."
"Spirit!" echoed old Mrs. Carrington. "She has the evil spirit of her
mother, not the spirit of her father's people, which I foolishly
imagined might have counteracted failings inherited from the other
side."
To Augusta's relief, Colonel Crayfield replaced the precious
scent-bottle, and addressed himself to the three ladies. "If you will
pardon my plain speaking, I think you are making too much of this--this
indiscretion of Stella's. I had a talk with her this morning----"
"This morning?" cried Augusta and Ellen together, and the three pairs of
eyes were fixed on him in amazed curiosity.
"Yes; this morning, before breakfast," he confessed calmly, "and my
opinion is that Stella meant no harm. She is growing up, is no longer a
child, and she needs more outlet. School is hardly the place for her
now."
"But what would you suggest?" came faintly from Ellen.
Mrs. Carrington shot a quick glance at him. She was recalling their
conversation on the terrace the previous afternoon; he had said, "If I
were not a bachelor, and could offer her a chance in India----" Then he
had strolled in the garden with Ellen, and had enjoyed Ellen's music
after dinner. Was it in his mind to seek the hand and the heart of her
younger daughter?
"A plan has occurred to me," he continued, with caution; "but I am not
at all sure--in fact, subject to your permission," he bowed slightly to
the trio, "I should prefer to wait a little before saying anything
further."
Mrs. Carrington smiled, and at the moment she resembled a hawk more than
a sea-gull. With a gracious gesture of assent she rose. "Augusta, my
dear," she said suavely, "will you assist me upstairs? I feel rather
fatigued. This discussion has been trying, and I think"--again she shot
a sharp glance at Colonel Crayfield--"we may leave the solution of our
unhappy difficulty with every confidence to our poor dear Charles's old
friend."
Augusta dutifully supported her mother from the room; but, to Mrs.
Carrington's exasperation, the tiresome Ellen must needs come too,
instead of allowing Colonel Crayfield this obvious opportunity of paying
his addresses.
Therefore Colonel Crayfield found himself alone in the drawing-room, and
he was only too thankful for the relief. Now he could think connectedly.
In no way had he committed himself, so far, to any suggestion. Should he
ultimately decide that to marry the girl was too serious a step to take,
he could still advise something quite different from the idea that was
so strongly seductive.... He might suggest that Stella should be sent to
some Anglo-Indian friends of his own in London as a paying guest, he
being financially responsible; or he could offer to find some family in
India, when he returned there, who would be willing to take charge of a
girl as a matter of business, he, as her godfather, paying expenses. The
money was nothing.
As he roamed round the room, doubtful, undecided, his eyes fell on the
group of coloured clay models of Indian servants set out on a
papier-mâché bracket, and he paused, for they recalled the existence of
Sher Singh, his Hindu bearer, who for the past twenty-five years had
been his right hand and chief of his domestic staff, and who perhaps
knew more about Robert Crayfield than any other living being. Sher Singh
would not welcome a memsahib. At the same time, the fellow would hardly
be such a fool as to jeopardise his own valuable position by making
trouble; the almighty rupee would soon settle Sher Singh's objections,
and Stella must be made to understand that interference with the head
servant's authority in the household could not be permitted.... Thus the
Commissioner of Rassih endeavoured to exorcise the inopportune vision of
his confidential retainer, who, he was aware, bore a faint, fantastic
likeness to himself. People would sometimes remark, laughing, "Like
master, like man."
He looked out of the window to see Stella crossing the lawn, a basket on
her arm; and he noted afresh the splendid promise of her young form, the
grace of her proportions, the perfection of feature and colouring. Truly
she was well worth a drastic upheaval of his mode of life, a price that
was hardly too high, all things considered. Involuntarily as he watched
her, he began to make plans for the future. The big bedroom that
overlooked the gardens at Rassih? No, it was not so cool in the hot
weather as the one he had hitherto occupied himself, which gave on to
the vast desert area at the back of the house. True, his present room
held tragic associations; his predecessor in the appointment had
committed suicide from the balcony, throwing himself over the parapet
down on to the rubbish and scrub far below, where in the night time
hyenas and jackals yelled and fought and made diabolical merriment....
And then there was the bathroom door, scarred with sabre cuts and bullet
holes, hideous reminders of a mutiny massacre where women and
children---- But that all belonged to the past. Stella need never be
told of such horrors, nor of the stories of footsteps, and cries, and
unaccountable noises--servants' superstitious nonsense that, of course,
he scoffed at and suppressed, though sometimes, when the heat kept him
awake at night, he had even imagined that he heard them himself.... The
drawing-room should be renovated; he had never used it; he would order a
piano from Calcutta.
Stella disappeared round the corner of the house, and Colonel Crayfield
realised with a sense of mingled triumph and incredulity that he had
actually made up his mind, that he had done with all hesitation. And
when Robert Crayfield once made up his mind he did not alter it.
A timid cough in the doorway disturbed his reflections. It was Ellen
Carrington, driven back to the drawing-room by her mother under pretext
that good manners did not permit of a guest being left solitary,
unentertained. She fluttered to a seat, prepared to make polite,
impersonal conversation; but Colonel Crayfield trampled on the
intention.
"Well, and what do you think of it all, Miss Ellen?" he inquired
confidentially; at any rate, she seemed to him the most human of the
three females. His tone gave her a nice little sense of importance.
"I expect you are right. We may have taken things too seriously. But
Stella's conduct did seem very--rather----"
He broke in abruptly. "Can you keep a secret?" And as his companion
looked up alarmed, he added, smiling, "Only for a short time?"
"I--I hope I can." She had so little experience of secrets, and the very
word "secret" savoured of deceit!
"Well, it's this. I intend to take Stella back with me to India. I
intend to marry her."
Ellen gasped. Totally unprepared as she was for such a disclosure, it
left her dumbfounded, also vaguely shocked. To her maidenly mind there
was something indelicate in the notion of _Stella_, who was little more
than a child, _married_, and to a man so very much her senior. Oh, dear!
In all her bewilderment Colonel Crayfield's voice sounded oddly distant.
"I'm so--so surprised!" she faltered.
"I admit that she is young enough to be my daughter, but surely the
drawback goes for nothing if I am prepared to accept it. Consider the
advantage for Stella!"
It was beyond Ellen's power to voice her feelings. She was only aware of
a nebulous resentment that she could not define even to herself, much
less aloud to the man who had caused it.
"As my wife," he went on, glad to give utterance to his arguments, "she
will have an assured position, she will be suitably provided for, _and_
she will be well looked after--I can promise you _that_!"
The last sentence sounded to Ellen more like a threat than a promise.
Her silence puzzled Colonel Crayfield, annoyed him. He had anticipated
expressions of delight, of gratitude; he felt he had every reason to
expect them; yet this limp, bloodless old maid appeared totally
unimpressed by the benefits he proposed to shower upon her niece, seemed
even to disapprove of the whole business. He brushed from his mind the
impatience her odd behaviour had aroused.
"I am in no doubt as to Stella's reception of my purpose," he could not
resist telling her, with pointed satisfaction; and had Miss Ellen been
capable of such vulgarity she would have sworn that she saw him lick his
lips.... She shrank, instinctively disgusted, and gathered up her
knitting with trembling hands.
"Will you excuse me?" she stammered; even her mother's orders could keep
her no longer in the room; she felt as if Colonel Crayfield had suddenly
turned into a sort of ogre. "I--I have a letter to write that must catch
the post." And with this, one of the few lies she had ever told in her
life, she sidled past him to the door.
He looked after her in contemptuous wonderment; then stepped out of the
window in search of his future bride. Probably she was eating
gooseberries, and the kitchen garden had this advantage, that it was
not overlooked by windows, though it was hardly the spot he would have
chosen for love-making. But Stella was nowhere to be found, and
returning at last to the house, he had no better luck: the place seemed
deserted. Where had they all hidden themselves?
He could not know that Stella was an unwilling prisoner upstairs,
helping Aunt Augusta to sort household linen; that Mrs. Carrington,
still resting, believed him to be enjoying the society of Ellen, whereas
Ellen had locked herself into her bedroom, helplessly perturbed.
Only just before dinner did he have the chance of speaking to Stella
without being overheard. "I saw you come back," he said to her, a tender
inflection in his voice. "Were you tired? Was the basket heavy?"
"Oh, no," she replied mischievously; "I only felt overburdened with
virtue. A handsome young man wanted to carry the basket for me, and I
would not let him!"
"Thought you might be found out?" he suggested with a chuckle.
"That was about it!" she said, recklessly candid. "Oh, _do_ tell me: was
anything settled this afternoon? I know you were all talking me over. Am
I to stay here for the rest of my life?"
"Have a little patience," he teased, finding a subtle pleasure in her
obvious disappointment with his reply.
That evening, after dinner, he discovered that Stella had a voice. She
sang a little song, something about a star, to Aunt Ellen's
accompaniment, and though Stella herself was clearly bored by the words
of the song, and despite lack of training and feeling, her voice was
deep and sweet--well worth cultivation, as he quickly decided. She
should have singing lessons before they sailed for India.
The song ended, he found an opportunity to whisper: "That was
delightful. Stella--a star! Some day perhaps a star of India?"
"But that's a decoration, isn't it?" she asked, pleased and eager. "And
not for women? Have you got it?"
He looked at her intently, narrowing his eyes. "No, I haven't got my
star--_yet_."
"But you will have it--soon?"
"Yes, very soon."
Stella felt mystified. Had she said the wrong thing? Perhaps it was a
sore point with him that he had not received the distinction earlier?
"Can you sing?" she inquired quickly, to change the subject.
"Well, I used to," he admitted.
"Oh, do let us see if we have any songs you know. Aunt Ellen, Colonel
Crayfield will sing if we can find something he knows."
There followed much turning over of music, but without success. Then
Stella lifted the lid of the small ottoman that served as a piano-stool,
disclosing several bound books of music; she dragged them forth; beneath
them lay a number of songs in manuscript. Ellen intervened.
"You will find nothing among those; they are so old," she said hastily,
as again her niece delved, and produced "Wings," "Adieu," "The Arab's
Farewell to His Favourite Steed."
Colonel Crayfield shook his head at them all, but he laid his hand on
the next sheet of music that, in spite of Aunt Ellen's unaccountable
obstruction, was excavated by Stella.
"That!" he exclaimed, mingled recognition and reluctance in his tone.
Forthwith Stella placed it on the stand and began to read the
accompaniment, that might have been transcribed with a pin.
"Now?" She looked up at her godfather, gaily insistent.
And Colonel Crayfield, with an air of amused capitulation, sang in a
good bass voice that was not so very rusty:
"I gave my love a little rose,
A little rose of red and white,
Because her colour comes and goes
Whene'er I dawn upon her sight.
I gave my love a little key,
A little key of yellow gold,
Because she locks her sweets from me,
And will not her dear heart unfold.
I gave my love a little dove,
Around its neck a feathery ring,
Because a ring betokens love,
And love to my sweet love I bring.
And in return what gave my love
Of all the precious gifts that be?
No rose, nor key, nor ring-necked dove--
She gave but her sweet self to me!"
Mrs. Carrington and Augusta murmured polite applause, though they
thoroughly disapproved of the words. They said they had heard the song
before, though they could not recall when, or by whom, it had been sung.
Ellen could have told them. Poor Ellen! The gay young cousin had sung
it, sung it to _her_ in those far-off days that now were as a faint,
impossible dream. She herself had copied the music and the words with an
etching pen, and purposely had buried the manuscript at the bottom of
the ottoman where for so long she had guarded it jealously. Only on the
rare occasions when she was alone in the house did she take it out and
tinkle the accompaniment, whispering the words. It seemed a sort of
sacrilege to Ellen that the song should have been exhumed by the
careless Stella to be sung with zest in a loud voice that destroyed the
echo of the beautiful tenor, the remembrance of which caused her heart
to ache and brought tears to her eyes.
Stella, with girlish enthusiasm, pronounced the song to be "perfectly
sweet," and proceeded to hunt through the rest of the pile. Colonel
Crayfield watched her lithe movements; he was well satisfied with his
own performance, and he smiled to himself as he recollected the last
occasion on which he had sung this song--to a pretty young married
woman with whom at that time he was pleasantly philandering; the lady
had burst into tears at the piano, an affecting scene had ensued, and
the husband had all but surprised them; it had been just touch-and-go, a
Providential escape. What on earth was her name? He could only remember
that her hair was golden and her eyes like forget-me-nots!
Never mind, it did not matter; all that mattered to him was this
exquisite child who was to learn the facts and the meaning of marriage
from him and from him alone.... If only the three tiresome old women
were out of the room--the two spinsters, scraggy and genteel; the old
mother, austere and cold; and to add to his provocation, when Mrs.
Carrington beckoned Stella to her side that she might kiss her
good-night, he heard the old lady forbid her to go out before breakfast
next morning. No reason was given, only the order. What tyranny! Was it
any wonder that, apart from everything else, Stella should yearn to
escape from The Chestnuts? Stella glanced at him ruefully over her
grandmother's head; he returned her a nod of sympathetic understanding.
Next day it should all be different. He enjoyed the prospect of
astounding the old martinet.
The following morning Mrs. Carrington was not so easy to corner. When
she appeared Ellen was in close attendance, and Stella was on duty with
Augusta, occupied with household tasks that seemed to involve strenuous
attacks on cupboards, and perpetual visits to the kitchen, whence came
hot, sweet whiffs of jam-making. Colonel Crayfield wandered aimlessly
in the garden, consoling himself with plans for the immediate future.
The marriage must take place as soon as possible--he supposed it would
have to be in the village church--but a special licence would expedite
matters. In little more than a couple of months his leave would be
up--it would allow only just time for Stella to have riding lessons,
singing lessons, to collect the right sort of outfit, for which, of
course, he would be responsible. No village dressmaker, no ready-made
garments for _his_ wife. His own particular star should shine in every
detail.
At last; there was the old lady, alone on the terrace, settled in a big
basket chair, a mushroom-shaped hat tied on with a broad ribbon, her
ebony stick handy, a small table at her side on which lay spectacles, a
handkerchief, and the paper which arrived at midday. Colonel Crayfield
approached her; formal greetings were exchanged, then he took an
uncomfortable little garden chair from its resting-place against the
wall and applied himself to business.
"Now," he said briskly, "I am ready to tell you what I propose should be
done about Stella."
Mrs. Carrington pouched her cheeks, and intimated silently that she also
was ready--to listen. He trusted she would not have a stroke when she
heard what he was about to propose!
"It may seem a very sudden decision on my part, Mrs. Carrington," he
began; "but I wish to take Stella into my own keeping----"
At once Mrs. Carrington was all gracious acquiescence. (Ellen! He had
spoken to Ellen?)
"Perhaps I can guess the means by which you intend to bring about such
an excellent solution of our difficulties," she remarked, with an arch
expression that struck him as grotesque; and before he could continue,
she added: "I may tell you that I had my suspicions ten years ago!"
(Good heavens! What could she mean?) "I may also say that in my opinion
nothing could be more suitable."
"I am afraid we are at cross purposes," said Colonel Crayfield
carefully. From his own standpoint he felt that the marriage could
hardly be termed "suitable," though the gain for the girl was
undeniable.
"Then will you kindly explain?" demanded Mrs. Carrington.
"Certainly. It is my intention to marry your granddaughter."
Grandmamma stared at him. Then she grabbed her stick and struck it
sharply on the ground. "My good man, are you in your senses?" she cried.
"Do you realise that Stella is not only a child, but that she has bad
blood in her veins? That such an unnatural union could only result in
disaster? Now, if it had been Ellen, her aunt----"
The old lady's natural reserve had been blown, as by a volcano, sky
high.
So that was the idea! Colonel Crayfield only just saved himself from
laughing aloud.
"But you see," he said lightly, "it is not Miss Ellen--fortunately for
me, since I fear she would hardly welcome me as a suitor."
Mrs. Carrington ignored this playful attitude. "It is a preposterous
idea! You are not a young man. Have you considered the cost and the
risk?" Her voice was severe.
"Why," he argued judicially, "should there be any 'risk,' as you call
it? After all, I am not such a Methuselah, and surely you can trust me
to safeguard my wife's honour and happiness as well as my own?"
"In the present, no doubt. But what about the end of it all? In ten,
even twenty years' time, Stella will still be a young woman, while
you----" Her pause was cruelly pointed.
Colonel Crayfield glowered. Confound the old devil; there must be an end
to this croaking, these distasteful forebodings. Assuming indifference,
he stretched out his legs. The chair wobbled ominously, and rising with
precautionary haste, he began to pace backwards and forwards before his
aged adversary. Her opposition was so unexpected!
"It seems to me," he said, keeping his temper with an effort, "that
Stella would be infinitely better off as my wife than if she stayed
here, perhaps to marry beneath her, perhaps never to marry at all? I
can't take her to India as my ward or as my adopted daughter. I'm not
quite old enough for _that_!"
"How old are you?" inquired grandmamma spitefully.
"Not much over fifty," he told her, with disarming readiness, "and I
flatter myself that I am young for my age. I am well off; I am willing
to make suitable provision for my widow. What more can you want?" He
spoke now with truculence.
"Well, I suppose you must cut your own throat, if you are so minded,"
said grandmamma; "but perhaps Stella may not care to marry a man old
enough to be her father--even, to stretch a point, her grandfather!"
"We shall see!" was his confident answer.
The old lady sat silent. She was deeply disappointed, so convinced had
she felt that it was Ellen he was after, and that Stella would be going
to India beneath Ellen's safe wing. It was so seldom her wishes were
thwarted, so seldom her disapproval of anything bore no weight.
Presently she said, "And when do you suggest that this extraordinary
marriage should take place?"
"Just as soon as it can all be arranged. I may say that I wish to be
responsible for Stella's outfit--indeed, for all expenses."
Mrs. Carrington's expression became a little less disagreeable. Money
was not plentiful at The Chestnuts. After all, no one could deny that in
a way it was a good enough chance for the child. But settlements must be
certain. If Stella got into trouble, there must be no returning her,
penniless, to her people, disgraced into the bargain.
"I can only give my consent provided that Stella will be perfectly
secure, financially, whatever happens in the future."
Colonel Crayfield smiled; it was, as Mrs. Carrington felt, a smile that
was covertly insulting. "When I have spoken to Stella," he said slowly,
"I shall return to London and make proper arrangements with my lawyer.
My intentions will be submitted to you, and I hardly imagine you will
find fault with them."
"Very well, then; there is no more to be said at present. But do not
forget that I have warned you."
"I appreciate your concern on my behalf, Mrs. Carrington; but, believe
me, I think you are unduly apprehensive."
"Let us hope so," said Mrs. Carrington grimly; and it was a relief to
them both when, at this moment, Augusta stepped out of the drawing-room
to remind her mother that luncheon would soon be on the table, to
suggest that the sun was rather powerful, and would it not be wiser for
mamma to come indoors?