The Cuthells' successor was reported to be a bachelor. Of course, Mrs.
Piggott professed to have knowledge of his history even before he
arrived in the station. She told Mrs. Crayfield he was a very rising
civilian who was considered far too brilliant to be wasted on ordinary
district administration, and therefore it was intended that he should
merely mark time at Rassih pending his elevation to some important
appointment.
"And one can just fancy," she added spitefully, "what a conceited prig
he must be, what airs he will give himself, and how he will despise us
all! I haven't a doubt he's about five foot high, with short sight and a
head too big for his body, can't ride or shoot, and is probably the son
of a shopkeeper at Tooting or some equally refined locality. The sort of
creature who gets into the Civil Service by cramming to the last ounce.
They'll be the ruin of India, because the right kind of natives know
they aren't 'sahibs' and hate them accordingly, while the wrong sort
take advantage of their weak points. I hope you'll sit on him well, Mrs.
Crayfield."
Stella felt a faint curiosity to view a sample of the competitive system
so condemned by Mrs. Piggott. She had also heard her husband deplore the
modern measures that permitted Messrs. Brown, Jones and Robinson to
help govern the most aristocratic country in the world. But one morning,
within the orthodox and inconvenient hours decreed for first calls in
the East (one of the few relics of old John Company customs), when the
visiting card of Mr. Philip Ferguson Flint was brought to her, it was
followed by no under-sized, top-heavy specimen such as Mrs. Piggott had
described, but by a good-looking fellow not much over thirty, with
friendly blue eyes, and no trace of "airs" in his bearing, unless a
certain well-bred self-confidence could be imputed to conceit.
Philip Flint was taken aback in his turn. If he had thought about his
chief's wife at all, save as a personage to be called upon without delay
as in duty bound, he had certainly foreseen an amiable, middle-aged
memsahib who would perhaps rescue him good-naturedly from the
discomforts of the Government rest house until he could find suitable
quarters for himself. Here, instead, was one of the prettiest girls he
had ever beheld, incredibly young, unless indeed she was the daughter,
not the wife, of the Commissioner.
As he entered she was standing in the centre of the big room, a slim,
white-gowned figure beneath the slow-swaying punkah, and its movement
stirred gently the bright little curls on her forehead--adorable curls.
And what eyes, with thick, feathery lashes upcurved at the tips. Great
Cæsar! what luck, after all, that Rassih should have been his portion.
And to think how he had grumbled at the prospect of such exile even for
a few months!
"Miss Crayfield?" he said tentatively, and at the same moment he caught
sight of her wedding ring, the only ring she was wearing. "I
mean"--correcting himself hastily, with a sense of acute
disappointment--"Mrs. Crayfield." Solemnly they shook hands. Then their
eyes met and they both laughed. That mutual, spontaneous laughter sealed
an instinctive friendship. Stella waved him to a chair and took one
herself. Previous to his arrival she had been feeling so languid, so
dull; now everything was different; the very atmosphere became cheerful,
the heat less oppressive.
"You must forgive my mistake," he said, and his blue eyes twinkled, "but
it was your fault. You don't look quite like a Mrs. Commissioner, at
least, not the kind I am accustomed to."
"Oh, you're not the first person to reproach me for being young," Stella
told him, thinking of Mrs. Cuthell. "I really shall have to do something
if the hot weather refuses to turn my hair grey."
"What did the other people say?" he inquired lightly, though in truth he
felt curious to know if these same other people had been men who, like
himself, were nonplussed by the sight of her beauty and youth.
"Nothing at all nice, so perhaps we'd better talk about something else.
Tell me, what do you think of Rassih?"
"Until this morning I thought it a God-forsaken hole!"
She blushed, divining the bold insinuation. He watched the bright
colour creep into her cheeks, delighting in her moment of embarrassment.
Then he came to her aid with commonplace remarks as to the climate, the
surroundings, the new railway line.
"It doesn't strike a new-comer as a tempting spot, but it must be
interesting for anyone with a weakness for Indian history."
"Oh, _don't_ begin about the mutiny and this dreadful old house!"
protested Stella.
He glanced at her, puzzled. "But I wasn't thinking so much of the
mutiny. Did you never hear of George Thomas?"
"George Thomas! Who was he?"
"One of the old military adventurers who paved the way for the British
occupation of India. He very nearly conquered the Punjab, and
established himself in this district, coining his own rupees, and
manufacturing his own arms and ammunition, and he was always for his
King and country. But he failed, beaten by the French under Perron, and
through treachery among his native followers; also partly, I'm afraid,
because at critical moments he was generally drunk!"
"Oh, poor dear!" Stella's eyes shone with interest. "And what happened
to him?"
"He died on his way down country with his wife and family,
broken-hearted, more or less a fugitive, but still, it is said, having
certain possessions in the shape of money and jewels and shawls. His
tomb has never been found, nor is it known what became of his
descendants. I often wonder if any of them are living to-day. There is
a story that on one occasion, when he was looking at a map of India, in
which British territory was then, as now, coloured red, he ran his hand
over the whole of the map and said, 'All this ought to be red.' That was
the real spirit of his ambitions. I'll lend you a book about him if you
like."
"_Like!_ Please let me have it to-day--to-morrow."
He laughed at her enthusiasm. "Very well, directly my things are
unpacked. His career would make a fine subject for a romance."
"Why don't you write it?"
He paused reflectively.
"_Are_ you writing it? Do tell me," urged Stella.
"No, but I should like to try. Will you help me?"
"How on earth could _I_ help you?"
"By allowing me to read you my efforts as they go along. There is
nothing so stimulating to a would-be author as a long-suffering
listener."
Wily Philip Ferguson Flint! Mentally he congratulated himself on having
hit on a subtle device whereby he might secure a delightful intimacy
with this captivating young person. He pictured long hours alone in her
company countenanced by a reasonable excuse. The romance should be
started immediately. Blessings on the memory of poor, stout-hearted,
tipsy George Thomas!
"I should be only too delighted. There would be nothing long-suffering
about it." Then doubt crept into her mind as to how Robert would regard
such a plan. Probably he would grudge her this pleasure as he grudged
her all others, with the exception of riding and petty occupations.
Well, if he did she must contrive to hoodwink him somehow. For this
morning at least she could enjoy Mr. Flint's society. He seemed in no
hurry to go, and she told him all about the Carringtons, and her regret
that, being a girl, she could not follow in their footsteps; confided to
him how she had craved to reach India, disclosed, perhaps unconsciously,
the vague dissatisfaction she felt with her daily life now that her wish
was accomplished.
"Why did _you_ choose to come to India?" she asked him with frank
curiosity, and was thrilled sympathetically when he told her that he too
had been born with an hereditary call in his blood for the East.
"I come of an old Anglo-Indian stock myself. I'm the fifth generation of
my family to serve the Indian Government. It seemed somehow inevitable
that I should come out here. I passed high enough for the English Civil,
but I chose India without hesitation. Apart from family links with the
country, I didn't fancy being mewed up in an office from morning till
night, with little prospect of getting to the top of the ladder, and not
enough money for sport and the kind of amusements I like. Dances and
dinners and tea-parties are not in my line. Out here I can afford a good
horse and unlimited cartridges, and I know I can be useful to India in
my small way. I mean to end up with a Lieutenant-Governorship at least."
"You are very ambitious," exclaimed Stella; but it was as if she cried
"Hear, hear."
"Call it a passion for success," he said, smiling; and Stella felt that
deep determination lay beneath the smile and in his nature, and with her
whole being she applauded his aspirations.
"You will get the Star of India," she said, hardly knowing why the
particular reward should suddenly have recurred to her.
"A star worth striving for," he said seriously, "even if it should burn
one's wings."
"Oh, how I envy you!" Tears rose to her eyes. "And I, who love India
too, can do nothing--can never be useful!"
"Who knows? Your chance may come."
"If it does you may be sure I shall take it." Just then Stella looked
up, to see Sher Singh standing in the doorway, and she realised that for
the last few moments the man had been coughing gently to attract her
attention. Was she never to be free from this perpetual spying and
watching?
"What is it?" she asked impatiently in Hindustani.
"Your highness"--with a low salaam--"the sahib has sent a message. Will
Fer-lint Sahib go to the office? The Commissioner-Sahib desires his
presence."
Mr. Flint rose. "Well, good-bye, Mrs. Crayfield. Needs must when
official devildom drives. I will tell you when the George Thomas romance
is well started."
"Don't forget the book about him you promised to lend me," said Stella
eagerly. But when he had gone she gave herself over to a frenzy of
suspicion. Had Sher Singh told Robert that she was laughing and talking
with "Fer-lint Sahib"? and had the message been sent with a purpose? She
dreaded yet looked for Robert's return, so that she might know where she
stood in regard to Mr. Flint's visit. Perhaps it was all her
imagination. The summons might have been perfectly free from intrigue on
the part of Sher Singh; yet she was uneasy, and she wandered from room
to room, a victim to apprehension, her condition aggravated by the
knowledge that she had found such pleasure in this new friendship,
fearful as she was that it might be denied her.
To her astonished relief, when Robert appeared for the midday breakfast
he was accompanied by Mr. Flint, and the two seemed already to be on
excellent terms.
"I've persuaded Mr. Flint to join us at breakfast," Robert explained to
her pompously; but after this he took no notice of his wife, talking
"shop" persistently with his new subordinate--all about revenue, and
boundaries, and agricultural prospects, of the danger of famine should
the monsoon fail or be fatally late. Stella listened with interest,
though perforce she was excluded from the conversation, and
instinctively she understood why Mr. Flint made no attempt to draw her
into it. Mr. Flint was setting himself to please his superior, for which
intention she felt thankful to him; also she was dimly aware that his
object was two-fold, that he meant to make friends with Robert in order
that he might the more easily be permitted to make friends with her. She
effaced herself purposely, and welcomed the sudden intrusion of an
excited fox terrier, who rushed into the room wildly in quest of his
master.
"I must apologise for Jacob," said Mr. Flint, as the dog leapt upon him
with yelps of joy. "I thought I had left him safely tied up."
Robert endured the interruption with good enough grace. He did not like
dogs, would not keep any himself--to Stella's disappointment. But the
disturbance was trivial. He made no comment when his wife enticed Jacob
to her side with succulent scraps from her plate, and soon had him
seated contentedly on her lap, lolling a red tongue, casting
affectionate glances at his master across the table. To Philip this
seemed a good omen. Jacob as a rule was not fond of ladies, except of
his own species, and his wholesale acceptance of Mrs. Crayfield's
attentions was somewhat surprising. Flint was careful to ignore Jacob,
much as Colonel Crayfield ignored his wife, and he was secretly
entertained when, the meal over, and Mrs. Crayfield rose from the table,
Jacob trotted after her into the drawing-room, leaving his master to
smoke and continue his talk with the Commissioner. Master Jacob was no
fool; he knew when he had found an entrancing companion.
The morning had been a success, but Philip took his dog back to the Rest
House that afternoon with feelings divided. To him the situation in
regard to the Crayfields was now clear enough--an elderly man married
to a young and beautiful wife whose heart was still whole, the husband
loftily secure in his authority, his ownership. There was danger in
prospect unless he could be certain of keeping his head; and as he
thought of the girl's beauty, her youth, her attractions, and her
obvious interest in himself, he feared for his own strength of mind. It
might be more than wise to abandon all schemes for meetings that were
not inevitable; but the temptation was strong, and he knew very well
that to a certain extent he should yield to it. All the same, he would
have to walk warily. An entanglement at this stage of his career might
be fatal to his advancement. Colonel Crayfield was hardly the type of a
complacent husband, and he had known cases during his service when
appearances only had brought about irrevocable disaster to foolish,
flirtatious couples who in deed as well as in purpose were innocent of
actual harm.
After all, with the cynicism of circumstances, it was Colonel Crayfield
himself who made matters easy. He had taken a fancy to his new
assistant, invited him frequently to singles at tennis, and never
suspected that Flint let him win, or beat him by such a small margin
that the defeat had a stimulating effect. Stella sat by and watched
these games, Jacob reposing on the edge of her skirt, or more often on
her lap. Robert bore with the presence of Jacob, unless he ran after the
balls or barked piercingly at squirrels. Then the Commissioner shouted
abuse at "that damned dog," and Flint administered chastisement,
ostensibly severe, in reality mild, that caused Jacob to retire
affronted beneath Stella's chair.
When the swift Indian dusk descended, Robert, who perspired abnormally
under exertion, would hasten indoors for a bath and a change, with Sher
Singh in attendance, unwitting of the fact that his wife and young Flint
invariably sat on side by side in the hot, scented darkness as happy
companions, their fellowship ripening dangerously with each hour they
could compass alone one with the other. Skilfully Flint had brought the
George Thomas romance into play. He talked of it openly before Colonel
Crayfield, and one night, when he was dining with the Crayfields, he
confessed he had brought one or two chapters with him that he proposed,
with their consent, to inflict after dinner on his host and hostess.
Robert grunted contemptuously, Stella had the acumen to agree with
polite indifference, and when the reading began Robert at once went to
sleep and snored. The chapters were short, and, truth to tell, of little
literary value, though written in easy style with a talented pen,
costing the author no effort. But Stella was deeply impressed and
interested. She longed to hear more of the hero, the young man of high
birth who had got into such a scrape at home that he was forced to flee
the country, and found himself in the service of a treacherous old
native lady, the Begum Somru, whose commander-in-chief at the time was
an Irish adventurer, one George Thomas. And while Robert slept and
snored, Philip read and Stella listened. Then, the manuscript laid
aside, they talked India in subdued voices to their hearts' content.
This programme was repeated more than once, until Robert turned restive.
"Bother the boy!" he said. "Why does he want to write all this
rubbish--wasting his time!"
"It's his way of amusing himself," Stella suggested carelessly, "like me
with my painting and fancy work."
"Well, it doesn't amuse me to hear it, or you either, I should imagine."
"I confess I'm rather interested in the story. I feel I want to know
what happens next."
"Then let him spout it at some other time, when I'm not present. I
suppose there'll be no peace till it's finished. Give him a gentle
hint."
"I'll try. But won't it hurt his feelings?"
"Not any more than my going to sleep directly he starts reading, I
should think."
Therefore, on the next occasion, before the manuscript could be
unfolded, Stella went to the piano.
"No reading to-night, Mr. Flint. We're going to have some music. I want
you to hear how my husband can sing. Come along, Robert." Her fingers
rippled lightly over the keys, and Robert sang readily, lustily, song
after song, much to his own enjoyment, and presumably to that of the
guest, who applauded with tact, and requested encores till the
performer, in high good humour, declared he was hoarse and could sing no
more. Then Mrs. Crayfield continued the concert, and Philip sat gazing
his fill at the vision she presented, the light from the wall-lamp
behind her gilding her hair, her voice sweet and true, causing his heart
to ache with ominous yearning. He felt confident she found pleasure in
his friendship, yet to-night he was puzzled by her attitude until, the
music put away and the piano closed, she said with an assumption of
matronly indulgence: "I'm afraid we haven't considered poor George
Thomas. How is he getting on?"
"Oh, pretty well, thank you."
"Has the slave girl escaped?"
"Not yet; it's rather difficult; but I mustn't bore you any more with my
attempts at fiction." Purposely he spoke in a tone of humble
discouragement; he was feeling his way.
"Bring the stuff over to-morrow before we play tennis," suggested Robert
magnanimously, "and the memsahib will listen; stories amuse her."
"Oh, may I? But," turning to Stella, "won't it interfere with your
afternoon siesta?"
"Not a bit," Mrs. Crayfield assured him. "I never can sleep in the
daytime, but Robert must have a rest. I tell him he works far too hard."
"Young bully, aren't you?" was Colonel Crayfield's playful retort,
laying his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Take my advice, Flint, and when
you marry don't choose a wife from the schoolroom."
"Judging by your example, sir," chaffed Philip, "one might do worse."
"Well, all things considered, I suppose I've been lucky. Good night. I
shall expect to lick you to-morrow at tennis after you've exhausted
yourself and my wife with your intellectual exertions."
"Not if I can help it," said Philip, diplomatically defiant.