The disappearance of the pearls caused general commotion throughout the
Commissioner's establishment. Perforce the police were called in to make
investigations, and Mr. Piggott being absent from the station on duty,
the chief native subordinate took command of the compound and set up a
species of martial law. The servants, in terror of secret extortion
under threat of false proof or suspicion, seemed to lose their wits, and
either blundered idiotically over their duties or forgot them
altogether. Champa collapsed, distraught with agitation, and refused to
stir from her quarters.
Robert talked of little else but the loss.
"Such a thing has never happened before in _my_ household," he kept
repeating, as they sat at an uncomfortable meal next midday. "You are
perfectly certain, Stella, that you haven't mislaid the necklace or
dropped it anywhere?"
And each time he asked the question Stella replied wearily, "I am
perfectly certain," until she felt tempted at last to declare that she
had thrown away the pearls of deliberate intention. Her nerves were on
edge, and she found it hard to control her temper. Mercifully, breakfast
was now practically over.
"What about that man of yours, Flint? How long have you had him?"
"Five years, and he's certainly not the thief, if that's what you mean.
He's a respectable, simple-minded old fellow with a long record of good
service to his credit."
Robert grunted incredulously and lit a cheroot. "That ayah knows
something," he suggested to his wife, "or why hasn't she turned up this
morning?"
"She's ill," said Stella, "ill with fright, I should think."
"A guilty conscience more likely."
"I'm quite sure she had nothing to do with it."
Annoying as Champa had been, Stella was convinced of the woman's
honesty.
"How can you be sure? Don't talk nonsense."
"Well, wasn't she engaged by Sher Singh?" She felt she had scored, and
emboldened by the advantage, added recklessly: "If it comes to that, I
would sooner believe that Sher Singh----"
"Sher Singh," interrupted Robert angrily. "On the contrary, if he had
been here the thing wouldn't have happened. Some rascal took the
opportunity of his absence."
"Then, unless it was all prearranged, the thief must have acted pretty
promptly," argued Stella, who had arrived at a pitch of provocation that
rendered her indifferent to Robert's displeasure. "Perhaps the telegram
was bogus?" she continued ironically; "sent to lure the unsuspecting
Sher Singh from his post." And with an effort she quelled a ridiculous
impulse to add that possibly Sher Singh had borrowed the necklace in
order that some member of his family might wear it at the relative's
funeral. She came dangerously near to laughter in picturing the scene
that such a suggestion would evoke. As it was, her sly attack on the
good name of Sher Singh led to mixed consequences.
Robert rose impatiently. "Sher Singh must come back. If a wire goes at
once he ought to be here to-night."
Stella repented her imprudence; on the other hand, as Robert strode from
the room to fulfil his intention, there was comfort in the fact that at
last she and Philip were safely alone for a space. The table servants,
at work in the pantry, were well out of hearing; the punkah coolie at
his post could not see them.
Philip said breathlessly: "Stella, what are we to do?"
The moments were precious; she answered with haste, though her voice was
calm. "One of us must go away. It's the only thing to do. Sher
Singh----"
"What has Sher Singh to do with it?"
"He knows, he has been watching us. He would do anything to harm me.
Anyway, we couldn't go on like this----"
"It's all my fault," he said wretchedly. "What a selfish beast I have
been. I ought to have held my tongue."
"What difference would it have made? We both _knew_!"
He was amazed at her fortitude. No longer was she the helpless, unhappy
child weighed down by relentless fate, but a woman determined to grapple
with the future. The Carrington spirit of pluck and endurance still
lived in the last of the line.
A little cloud of masculine grievance gathered in his mind, rose
between them. His was the blame for the whole situation, and he was
prepared to sacrifice all for her sake, to take her away that they might
live for themselves alone. Since his outburst on the balcony wild
schemes had invaded his brain, though as yet, without practical plan;
now it chafed him to feel that she might not be ready to follow his lead
in joyful appreciation of his purpose. The realisation fanned his
passion, strong as it was already.
"Are you thinking of yourself or of me?" he asked bitterly.
"Oh, how can you!" she cried, pained beyond further expression of
reproach; yet she understood that his cruelty arose from the very
strength of his feelings, and while with feminine instinct she divined
his love-selfishness she cared for him none the less.
"Look here," she said firmly, "I belong to Robert. You belong to India.
And we've both got to remember----"
"Oh, I know what you're going to say--remember our duty. Duty be
damned," he retorted, beside himself. "You can't love me as I love you
or you wouldn't talk like this. What do I matter to India?--I'm only a
fly on the wheel. What do you matter to Crayfield, any more than if you
were--well, a pearl necklace, for instance!"
"I know my value to Robert exactly," she told him with a wry little
smile; "but I married him for what he could give me, and he has given
it. I don't agree with you as to your value to India. India depends on
men like you; and if you are flies on the wheel, the wheel wouldn't go
round without you."
It was true, and he knew it. All the same, he felt that Stella meant
more to him now than his duty to India and all his ambition.
"We belong to each other, and to no one and nothing else," he maintained
doggedly. "You can't go on living with one man when you know you love
another. It's not right."
"Perhaps not, from one point of view, but I don't take that view. We
can't think of ourselves. I shall ask Robert to let me go to the
Cuthells, even if I have to pretend to be ill. If he won't let me go,
then you must apply for leave, or get away somehow from Rassih."
"Stella, are you made of stone?" He drew his chair nearer to hers, laid
his hand on her arm, rejoiced as he felt how her pulses responded to his
touch. "Think what the separation would mean. We could go to England,"
he urged. "I would work for you, slave for you, darling."
"And that would mean your giving up India?"
"Not necessarily. I can take leave on urgent private affairs for six
months. Furlough is due to me, too, but that takes time to arrange. I
could get it tacked on afterwards, and then--then we could be married
and come out together. It would all have blown over."
But even as he spoke there came visions, strive as he would to ignore
them, of obscure little stations, promotion tardy, other men passing
over his head for the rest of his service.
"And suppose Robert wouldn't--supposing we couldn't be married?"
This possibility had not entered his mind. He hesitated, then added
quickly: "He couldn't be such a brute! If he was, I'd retire; we would
live quietly somewhere out of the world, just for each other. Don't you
care for me enough to take the risk?"
She did not answer, because she feared if she spoke at the moment she
might burst into tears. He misunderstood her silence.
"I tell you," he went on impetuously, "I tell you again, as I told you
yesterday morning, that nothing matters to me in the world but your
love. It means more to me than my work and my aims, my life itself.
Without you, success in the Service would simply be dust and ashes. I'd
sooner live on a desert island with you than be Viceroy of India. Are
you afraid to trust yourself to me?"
She struggled for self-control. His eyes were pleading, his face looked
drawn. She longed to give in, to tell him she asked nothing better than
to be with him for always, at whatever the price or the punishment. Yet
surrender at best must mean greater sacrifice for Philip than she on her
side could offer, and she meant to hold out even should it all end in a
parting that left Philip with the impression that she valued her worldly
well-being beyond his love. Her thoughts were simple, direct; but she
felt if she tried to explain, urged the fact that she cared too much for
him to become a drag on his life, would find compensation in knowing he
was free to go forward untrammelled, she might only appear to be
setting herself up on a pedestal of self-righteousness at his expense.
She temporised.
"Let us think it over," she entreated; "let us give ourselves time, by
one of us going away, at any rate for the present."
"Time would make no difference as far as _I_ am concerned. It would only
be the same thing all over again! But if you think it would help you to
forget, then of course I must agree."
"Oh, it isn't that," she protested, tortured beyond endurance. She cast
about in her mind for further argument. "Do you remember one day when I
told you how I regretted I wasn't a man to do what little I could for
India, and you said my chance might come?"
"Oh, you sweet, silly child!" he scoffed. "Do you honestly imagine that
India would crumble to pieces without me?" He laughed as he seized her
in his arms, kissing her madly. She wrenched herself free, stood
swaying, confused, overcome with the force of his passion, the thrill of
his embrace. Then came the sound of Robert's returning footsteps, and
she held up a warning hand, bent over the bowl of flowers on the table
as though to rearrange them. Philip moved his chair back to its original
position and busied himself with his cigarette case, but he could have
wished that Crayfield had surprised them; then there would have been an
end to all subterfuge, of all Stella's doubts and scruples. He felt a
cur because he did not stand up and proclaim the truth there and then,
so setting her free from the onus of decision.
"That's done!" said Robert. "Now, when Sher Singh comes back, perhaps
we shall get to the bottom of this pearl business. Are you ready, Flint?
We ought to be off again if we're to see to that farther chain of
villages. It looks like more rain, thank goodness. Stella, you'd better
go and lie down; you look like a ghost."
"I feel like one, too," she answered, and as he turned to leave the room
she followed him quickly. "Robert, wait a moment." She caught his elbow.
"Come into my room, I want to speak to you."
He acquiesced, though with impatience. "Well, what is it?"
"I must have a change," she began volubly; "I can't stand the heat any
longer. I believe I shall die if I don't get away from it. You can't
think how awful I feel."
He looked at her in astonishment, with which concern, vexation, and a
shade of indefinite suspicion were mingled.
"You want to go away? You know perfectly well I can't ask for leave with
all this distress in the district, even if the rains break freely in the
next few days."
"But I could go alone," she pleaded. "Mrs. Cuthell would have me, I know
she would. I'd come down again directly I felt better. It isn't gaiety I
want, only to feel better."
"Antonio must come and have a look at you. Perhaps----"
"No, no," cried Stella. "It's not that!" She almost wished it were, that
she might have stronger excuse for flight. The idea even crossed her
mind to feign doubt in order to gain her purpose, and though she
dismissed it with horror she clung ignominiously to the straw that
floated detached from definite deception.
"If I could only get strong," she hinted shamefacedly, "it might make a
difference. I feel such a wreck, Robert. I'm so sorry, but I can't help
it."
It was all true, she told herself wildly. She did feel a wreck; she was
sure she would be seriously ill if she stayed on at Rassih,
unless--unless Philip would go instead.
"Well, wait till this evening," said Robert, "and we'll see. I must be
off now; Flint is waiting, and we've a long afternoon's work to get
through." He advised her to rest, and kissed her in kindly, if
perfunctory, farewell.
When he had gone, Philip with him, a hot muggy silence descended upon
the premises. The servants went off to their quarters in the compound
for the customary midday meal and sleep, save for a couple of peons on
duty who snoozed in the front veranda, and the ever present shift of
punkah pullers. Since the downpour of rain the west wind had ceased to
roar and rage over the land; Nature seemed motionless, as though waiting
in patient expectance for the swollen clouds to discharge their burden
of water.
Stella, torn with emotion, wandered from room to room, unable to rest,
Jacob pattering at her heels. She found herself longing for the peace
and security of The Chestnuts, for the home of her childhood that in her
young arrogance she had despised, rebelling against its restrictions.
Now she visualised the old house and garden bathed in serene summer
sunlight, the village, the common, the cornfields; remembered with
regret the small vexations, her ignorant, stupid little grievances that
were as grains of sand compared with the mountain of trouble before her.
She wept with self-pity, with terror of the future. The word "disgrace"
rang in her ears, disgrace for herself and for Philip unless she had
strength to resist him; and yet if she remained steadfast, what of the
long empty years that lay ahead like a limitless desert? Even to face
them with courage--for Philip, that Philip might go forward unshackled
by fetters riveted in shame--seemed more than she had power to
undertake. Could she tell Robert the truth, entreat him to help her, to
let her leave Rassih for a time? No; such a scheme was unworkable. She
knew him well enough to feel sure she might as well throw in her lot
with Philip at once. Robert would never forgive, understand; and could
she think that he might, she herself had rendered such a course
impossible by her way of deception--allowing him to believe that she
loved him, leading him to assume that she but tolerated Philip's
companionship. Even from Philip there was no hope for such help as would
support her in her struggle.
The room grew dark. At first she fancied that the gloom must be of her
own mental making; then came a dull roll of thunder, followed by a
close, threatening pause, full of portent. A little breeze rose and
whispered through the house, stirring the curtains, like a scout feeling
its way in advance of the attack to come. She went out on the balcony,
to see huge purple clouds, rent with forked lightning, rolling up
rapidly from the horizon. The air was full of dust; birds were wheeling
and crying against the sinister background. Jacob cowered, trembling, at
her feet. A drop of rain fell like a bullet on the balustrade, another,
and another.... In a few seconds a rush of wind drove her indoors, and
with a mighty tumult of sound the rain fell in one solid, relentless
sheet as if giant buckets were being emptied from above.
Stella threw herself on a sofa in the drawing-room, Jacob cuddled at her
side. She ceased to think, was conscious only of the noise and the
darkness that seemed to continue for hours, until, exhausted body and
soul, she fell asleep.
Robert and Philip returned late in the evening, drenched. Robert,
despite his wetting, was cheerful over the fact that, to all
appearances, the rains had arrived to stay, though he grumbled because
there was no further news of the necklace, and because Sher Singh had
not yet arrived. Philip looked white and ill as they sat down to a
belated dinner; once or twice he shivered, and he ate little or nothing.
Stella watched him in anxious concern; a return of malaria was only to
be expected after his long ride in wet clothes. By this time the
downpour had slackened, and from without came the clamour of
frogs--"Croak, croak, co-ax, co-ax"--in regular rhythmical chorus. The
temperature had fallen, punkahs were almost unwelcome; the reaction was
depressing. A damp mist crept into the great room; little black insects
gathered in multitudes around the lamps on the walls; lizards darted
among them, enjoying the feast they provided. Stella could have cried
with dejection, and, to add to it all, as they passed from the
dining-room they encountered Sher Singh, salaaming, full of important
concern. He had heard of the robbery, understood why he had been
recalled, though he explained humbly that in any case it had been his
intention to return next morning. The Sahib's telegram had, of course,
hastened his departure. The matter of the necklace, he added miserably,
was to him terrible, a disgrace to the household; he, the slave of the
Sahib and Memsahib, would neither sleep nor eat till the thief was
discovered, the pearls restored; until then his face, as chief servant,
was blackened.... He showed signs of prostrating himself at his master's
feet, and Robert, to escape a scene, bade him go and do his best to
clear up the mystery, thus tactfully dismissing him.
Philip, with Stella's warning in his mind, had regarded the man closely
during this interview. Stella was right; he felt certain Sher Singh was
up to no good, that his leave had been part of some treacherous scheme,
and he made up his mind to remain in the house till he knew what it was.
If Sher Singh meant to make mischief, to arouse his master's suspicions
in regard to his mistress, he, Philip, must be at hand to see Stella
through; it might even bring matters to a crisis, help to decide for
them both. He had a presentiment that, whatever Sher Singh's intention,
something would happen that night, and, ill as he felt, he assumed
liveliness, made conversation with Crayfield, discussing results should
the rain prove to be merely local, the effect that severe distress would
have on the various areas under their control. Robert, lured from the
subject of the pearls, talked freely, held forth on his experiences in a
famine that had occurred early in his own service, and how abominably he
had been treated, his efforts ignored by the Government.
"It's always been the same," he complained; "the fellows who do the real
work may die in harness, literally driven to death, and get no credit;
while those who have done nothing but talk and write, are smothered in
decorations and shoved up to the top of the tree. Thank goodness I could
retire to-morrow, if I felt so inclined, and snap my fingers at the lot
of them."
He cited instances of his contemporaries in the Service, who, without a
quarter of his own claim to distinction, had been given the C.I.E. and
the K.C.I.E., the C.S.I. and the K.C.S.I., until Stella felt that the
alphabet, as well as the Government, must be to blame for failing to
recognise Robert's meritorious achievements; and her memory turned to
the evening at The Chestnuts when she had wondered if he were sore
because no Order had yet been bestowed upon him. Since then she had not
thought of it, but now she suspected that the omission rankled in his
mind, and her sympathy with his possible disappointment went out to him.
She knew how he worked, and even if he worked without enthusiasm, surely
that was even more to his credit than if he were spurred by romantic
inspiration? She wished he had confided in her, allowed her to share his
feelings; but she knew that to him she was of small account
intellectually; the disparity of years stood between them. And even had
he admitted her to his confidence, what could she have done save
endeavour to console him with understanding? It was not as if he were
young, like Philip, with the world of India before him.
But the very fact of this disadvantage helped her determination to fight
against her love for Philip. For Robert's sake in the present she could
only refrain from adding to his sense of failure in life; for Philip's
sake in the future she must stick to her post; and for her own
sake--well, at least she could feel she was doing right, whatever
Philip, in his desperation, might argue. Peace of mind would come,
though at best a dull, empty peace, with the knowledge that she had
nothing to fear, that she had brought trouble to no one. Then again
round and round swung the question on which hung her chief difficulty:
if Robert refused to let her go to the Cuthells--if Philip could not, or
would not, get leave or a transfer from Rassih, what was she to do? In
such a situation she saw little chance of true peace of mind. It would
mean one continual effort to avoid Philip by every manoeuvre in her
power, to pretend, pretend, pretend, both to him and to Robert.
She sank into a sort of lethargy; her brain felt numbed, and the voices
of the two men sounded hardly nearer than the ceaseless song of the
frogs outside. A figure came into the room, stood for a moment by
Robert. It was Sher Singh--always Sher Singh! How she loathed the
creature. Robert rose, and went away; Sher Singh too. She roused herself
with an effort; Philip was asking her something:
"Did you hear what he said? Were you asleep?"
"No, I don't think so; I don't know." She sat upright, passed her hand
over her eyes. "What did he say?"
"He said the pearls had been found."
So the tiresome pearls had been found! It seemed to Stella that the news
had barely reached her understanding before Robert was back. He crossed
the room reflectively, with measured tread, the pearls gleaming white in
his big hand; the contrast struck Philip as painfully symbolical: just
as pure and as perfect was his dear love in the man's coarse keeping.
Crayfield paused, dandling the pearls. When he spoke he addressed
himself to Flint in a voice that was devoid of all expression. He said:
"My wife's necklace was found in your room."
For a moment Philip gazed at him dumbfounded. Then, as with the shock of
a flashlight, he understood. Sher Singh! Sher Singh had either put the
necklace in his room, or pretended to find it there, not with the object
of fastening false suspicion of theft upon anyone, but in order to
compromise the mistress he so hated. What a fool as well as a devil the
fellow must be! How could he imagine that such an obvious piece of spite
was likely to succeed? Yet, what was the meaning of Colonel Crayfield's
curious attitude? Was it possible that he believed---- Swiftly Flint's
mind pounced on the opportunity: he might refrain from defence, allow
the "find" to speak for itself. But what about Stella? Would she realise
the situation? Already she had risen, trembling and white with
indignation.
"Robert! What do you mean? Surely you don't--you _can't_ suggest that
_Mr. Flint_ took the pearls?"
Philip glanced at her hopelessly. Her simplicity was almost
unbelievable; her innocence, all too obvious, had lost them their chance
of freedom.
"Philip!" she cried involuntarily, and made a quick movement towards
him. Crayfield moved also, just a couple of interceptory steps. He
laughed, and put the pearls in his pocket.
"That's all I wanted to know," he said coolly, an ugly glint in his
eyes. "Out you go, my boy! You didn't steal the pearls, of course; but
you've been doing your damnedest to steal something else, and you
haven't succeeded."
"You may think what you like!" interposed Philip hotly; but he felt he
was blustering, that Colonel Crayfield, his senior in years and
authority, had the whip hand of him, perceiving the truth. The trap had
been cleverly laid.
"Thank you! Then I like to think this: you have been making love to my
wife under my roof, taking advantage of her youth and inexperience; but
mercifully you've been caught in time. Now go and pack your belongings
and clear out. Consider yourself on leave. I want no scandal. Slink
off--quick! You young hound!"
Stella had sunk into a chair. Her husband stood before her; Philip
could not see her face. He was racked with humiliation, with helpless
rage; his pride, his self-respect lay in the dust, since he could not
but recognise the fundamental justice of his chief's accusation.... Must
he leave Stella without comfort, without reassurance of his fealty and
love? Driven to desperation, he tried to push Crayfield aside; he might
as well have endeavoured to move a mountain.
"Stella!" he called hoarsely; but for answer to his cry came only the
sound of stifled, terrified sobbing.