The tables were crowded with a chattering throng garbed in a variety of

fantastic costumes, a host of masqueraders. He beheld a devil complete

with horns and tail; a red Indian; an aerial being all wings and

gossamer; figures enveloped in dominoes; others painted, patched,

bewigged--all laughing and talking and eating. He felt like a sparrow

that had strayed into an aviary of tropical birds. Humbly he slipped

into an empty seat beside a stout youth draped in a leopard skin, with a

wreath on his brow! "Bacchus," or whatever mythological character this

individual imagined he represented, made way for the stranger

good-naturedly.

"Got up just in time for the ball!" he shouted, as though it were a

matter for the heartiest congratulation.

"Is there a ball?" inquired Philip, dismayed. What a superfluous

question!

"Rather! _The_ fancy ball of the season. Every soul in the place will

be at it. Know many people up here?"

"Nobody--that I am aware of."

"Soon cure that complaint! Keen on dancing?"

"Not particularly; and dancing hasn't been exactly encouraged where I

come from!" He thought grimly of desolate camps, of relief works, bare

plains and stricken villages, of all the stress and the strain of the

last year. What could be farther from festivity!

"Some beastly little station, I suppose," assumed his companion

sympathetically. "If it wasn't for places like Surima we should all rot

and die. I come from a hole sixty miles off the railway; only seven of

us all told including the women; just a small hell upon earth. I put in

for 'three months' urgent private affairs,' my only chance," he grinned.

"Luckily they asked no awkward questions. Next week my leave's up, worse

luck!"

He fell to eating dejectedly, but soon added in a hopeful tone: "Anyway,

I'm going to enjoy my last hours. Now, if you want introductions

remember I'm your man. No dog-in-the-manger about J. D. Horniblow!" He

looked round the room. "Plenty to choose from if you're not over

particular."

"Thanks, don't bother about me," said Philip indifferently. "Bed is more

in my line than a ball to-night."

"Oh! but you _must_ see what we can produce in the way of beauty, even

if you don't want to dance. All this lot here are nothing compared

with----" He began to reel off names with impudent comments on each.

Philip paid small attention, till he became aware that the chatterbox

was describing with enthusiasm the charms of a particular lady, over

whom, he asserted, the whole place was crazy; the name came to his ears

with the effect of a pistol shot....

He stammered out: "Who--who did you say--Mrs.--Mrs. Crayfield?"

"Yes, Mrs. Crayfield. She's the rage, absolutely divine. She and her

friend Mrs. Matthews carry everything before them; not that Mrs. M. can

compare with Mrs. C., though little Mrs. M. is fetching enough in her

own way. I _might_ manage to introduce you. I'll try, if you like, but

they're in the General's set, and that's rather a close preserve. The

old boy fancies himself no end with Mrs. C.; and young Nash, his

aide-de-camp, poodles for Mrs. Matthews, so it's very convenient all

round."

Flint writhed in silence. Was there another Mrs. Crayfield? Soon he

would know, and he tried to be deaf to the rattle of this jackanapes.

Joining the tail of the crowd that surged into the ballroom after

dinner, he took up a position against the whitewashed wall that was

decorated with flimsy festoons of pink and blue muslin, and watched the

revellers filling their programmes, chaffing, laughing. What fools they

looked! How could grown-up people be so idiotic.... Yet, in justice, he

reminded himself that the majority of them must have endured the

hardships inseparable from exile, trials of climate, and sickness, and

separation, even actual danger to life and person; that they would go

back to these conditions, grumbling no doubt, but refreshed and

strengthened to endure them again by such frivolities, this pathetic

aping of "smart society" that would be regarded with contemptuous

amusement by its superior prototype at home. How Dorothy Baker would

have censured the scene, simply because it was laid in India, where, of

course, none of her compatriots deserved, or should desire, frivolous

recreation! Not one of these merrymakers but would face death without

hesitation should the necessity arise; and in a community all more or

less of one class there was bound to be scandal, with far less reason

very often than in their own country, where wickedness could be hidden

successfully.... He almost forgave the harmless enough gossip he had

heard at the dinner table, even endeavoured to tolerate his would-be

friend who buzzed round him, so important as "one in the know," still

offering introductions.

"Little Miss Green, now--that girl over there dressed as a butterfly?

Not much to look at, I grant you. With her figure she ought to have gone

as a blue-bottle, but she can dance, and first go-off in a place like

this you have to take what you can get. She and her sisters rely on the

new-comers, thankful for any kind of partners; sensible girls! Easy

enough to drop them when you get into the swim. Or there's Mrs. Bray;

only her husband's jealous. Of course they're known as the donkeys. He

won't let her dance with anyone more than once. There was a row at the

last Cinderella----"

Flint bestirred himself. "Please don't trouble. I don't want to dance.

I'll just look on for a bit." He nodded a polite but determined

dismissal, and was turning away when his tormentor exclaimed:

"Ah! Here we are! Now look. Here she comes, the General in tow, of

course, and half a dozen other adorers. She's a fine hand at driving a

team!"

Flint held his breath, his heart seemed to rise in his throat as the

crowd parted slightly and a group came through one of the doorways. To

the swing of a waltz he saw Stella--yes, Stella--advancing down the

long, shining floor of the ballroom, radiant, light-hearted, attended by

a little court of men mostly in uniform. He could not have told how she

was dressed, he merely had an impression of floating pink drapery,

gleams of silver; she looked to him taller, less girlish, in a way

changed; her bearing held a gay confidence.... How different from his

last sight of her--a wan, despairing figure, huddled weeping in a chair!

She had forgotten him; their love had been but an episode in her young

life, while for his part how he had suffered!--sacrificed so much. He

ought to have expected it, should have realised that, child as she was,

her heart must heal quickly from a wound that, though painful enough no

doubt at the time, had not gone deep. Youth had asserted its claim;

pleasure, social success, admiration, had consoled her successfully. He

strove for her sake to feel glad, to stem the storm of rage and

self-pity that seized him. Devil take the handsome, elderly satyr who

was speaking in her ear.... She was smiling at him; it was unbearable.

Now she was hidden by the whirling, throng. He waited, morose and

miserable, planning to leave the bright scene before she should

discover his presence, to clear out of Surima at dawn, and go where he

could assert his claim to advancement, pick up the threads of ambition,

push and trample and fight his way fiercely to the top. It was not too

late, the way was still open....

Yet, unable to tear himself away, he stood, a stiff, black figure

against the wall, his eyes scanning the dancers, until presently she

passed him in the arms of her distinguished-looking partner, the scarlet

of whose coat clashed harshly with the rose-colour of her gown. As they

danced they were talking and laughing. In his mind Philip called to her:

"Stella! Stella!"; he felt as if the whole room must hear him.... The

pair halted at the opposite side of the room. The man was bending his

iron-grey head towards her; there was force, personality in the well

set-up figure and the bold features that but just escaped coarseness. He

was taking Stella's fan from her hand with a familiar, proprietary air

that to Philip was maddening; he lost hold of his high intentions and

crossed the room deliberately, making his way among the dancers

regardless of their indignant protests, the collisions he caused; as far

as he was concerned they might all have been phantoms--he simply walked

through them.

Then he stood before Stella, before the woman he loved, bowed like any

casual acquaintance, and heard himself saying:

"Mrs. Crayfield, have you forgotten me? My name is Flint."

Startled, she looked up, and he saw the colour drain from her lips and

cheeks. The General stiffened, clearly resenting the intrusion.

"I've just got up from the plains," continued Philip pleasantly, though

he found it hard to steady his voice. "I had no idea you were at Surima.

It's a long time since we last met, isn't it?"

"Yes," she said faintly, not looking at him; "a long time----"

He knew that for the moment, at any rate, he was being a kill-joy, a

ghost at the feast, calling up the past, spoiling her pleasure. Yet the

consciousness was mingled with a sense of revengeful satisfaction that

he could not control. Her passing vexation of spirit was as nothing

compared with the tortures of his own.

"Come along, Mrs. Crayfield," the General was moving his feet, impatient

to be off again, "we shall miss the last part of the waltz." He made as

if to place his arm about her waist.

Philip turned aside, not waiting for her to look at or speak to him

further. Blindly he made his way from the ballroom, his thoughts, his

sensations in confusion, only to find himself in the midst of a babbling

concourse of natives outside, bearers of the canoe-shaped conveyances in

which ladies, and even a few men, were borne to the dance; neighing

ponies were clustered by the railings; it was all jostle and noise. He

walked round to the side of the hotel and discovered an empty veranda, a

quiet refuge where he could smoke and attempt to think calmly. As he

leaned on the railing his racked nerves welcomed the cold night air, the

star-lit peace, the scent and the faint stir of the pine trees. Beneath

the ramshackle building sloped the wooded hill-side; far, far below lay

the wide plains, dark and boundless as an ocean. Right and left in

endless majesty stretched the mountains, and back in ever-rising ranges

to the snow peaks, "the home of the gods." His thoughts went loosely

adrift; that little crowd of human beings dancing, philandering in the

ballroom, intent on their enjoyment, their fleeting loves and hates;

whose lives were less than infinitesimal fractions of seconds compared

with the ages! Who could grudge them their "little day" while it lasted?

Nature had no pity, no sympathy for the struggles, the temptations, the

sorrows, the pleasures of the ever-passing multitude of human insects

loving and dancing and fighting through their short moments of darkness

or sunshine.... What was love, what was sin? What difference could it

make whether any of them failed or succeeded, did what seemed to them

right or wrong! Nothing really mattered.... Should the human race be

swept from the face of the earth, the hills and the plains, the seas and

the sun, the moon and the stars, would go on to the end of Time....

Footsteps and voices broke in on Flint's wild, if hardly original,

reflections. He recognised that a couple intent on privacy were groping

their way into the dark retreat. He heard the grating of chairs on the

stone floor, caught snatches of talk as he hid himself instinctively in

the shadow of a pillar.

"All right?" the man's tone was full of tender concern. "You won't feel

cold? Now listen--give me your hand, your dear little hand! I must tell

you. I can't wait any longer. You _know_, don't you, darling?"

There came a tearful, agitated response. "Yes, but there will be such a

row. Mother and father will never understand----"

"Oh! they will, when they see we're determined. Don't be frightened.

We've only got to stick to it, hold on. You do love me, sweetheart,

don't you?"

Philip slunk round the pillar and left the lovers to themselves. How he

envied the two young creatures!--their path clear before them save for

the frail barrier of parental prudence, which, of course, in the end

would break down. It was all so idyllic, so natural. What a contrast to

his own dark outlook where love was concerned.... In bitter envy he

loitered on the pathway outside, beset by a longing to return to the

ballroom that he might catch just one more glimpse of Stella, whatever

the cost, before turning his back on Surima at dawn.

In a few moments he was standing among a group of spectators in one of

the doorways, his eyes anxiously searching the crowd of dancers. But in

vain; she was not in the ballroom.

"Hullo! This is luck. Thought you'd gone bye-bye!" His importunate

acquaintance of the dinner-table was pushing a way to his side. "Flint

_is_ your name, isn't it?"

Philip nodded absently.

"Well, Mrs. Matthews would like me to introduce you; she says she knows

all about you. Dark horse, _you_ are! You never let on when I mentioned

her at dinner. It was only when she got hold of me just now and said:

'Mr. Horniblow, you know everybody, can you point me out a new arrival

whose name is Mr. Flint,' that I smelt a rat, and of course I made

straight for _you_. There she is. Come on now, quick, or we shall miss

her."

He grabbed Philip's coat sleeve and dragged him forward. Before he could

resist he was being presented to a lively-looking little lady all

sequins and red and gold tissue, and a tambourine.

"That was very clever of you, Mr. Horniblow," she said brightly to the

triumphant go-between. "Thank you so much."

She turned in pretty apology to Philip. "Don't think me too bold," she

seemed to be pitching her voice high of intention, "perhaps you've

forgotten me? But _I_ remember _you_!" She shot him a meaning glance,

and he could not but take the hint.

He feigned pleasure. "This is a surprise! But when we last met you

weren't a gypsy, or--or a Spanish dancer--which must be my excuse for

not recognising you at once." He offered her his arm.

With a charming smile she waved away her late partner, a diffident young

soldier easily shelved for the moment; and talking gaily of the dance,

of the dresses, of anything, she guided Philip to the platform, of which

the front seats were filled with chaperones and partnerless girls. Well

at the back, screened by this rampart of female forms, stood a sofa,

safe from listening ears. They took possession of it.

"Neatly done!" exclaimed Mrs. Matthews, sinking to her seat.

"Very," returned Philip, "but I don't quite understand----"

"You _are_ Mr. Flint, Mr. Philip Flint?"

"Certainly. That is my name."

"Well, Mrs. Crayfield has gone home."

"Oh? Wasn't she feeling fit?" he inquired, apparently unmoved.

She glanced at him in rather resentful surprise. "Now don't be

tiresome," she said quickly. "I know all about it, and we haven't much

time to talk. I can't throw over any more partners. Stella was worried,

upset, at seeing you so unexpectedly. I said I'd find you and explain.

She's staying with me; we were girls together, you know. I dare say

Stella has told you about me, Maud Verrall?"

"Yes, of course." Of course he knew about Maud Verrall, and The Court

and The Chestnuts, and Grandmamma and the Aunts; had any detail of

Stella's childhood, imparted to him by her, faded from his mind!

"We only got into touch with each other again at the beginning of this

hot weather; somehow we'd stopped writing. But when I settled to come up

here I wrote and asked if I could break my journey with the Crayfields

for a few days. What an awful hole Rassih is! I found Stella half dead.

That old brute, Colonel Crayfield, ought to be shot, and his horrible

servant too. Between them they had nearly killed the poor girl."

Philip moved uneasily, and drew in his breath. "Do you----" he began,

but he was not allowed to finish his question; Mrs. Matthews took it up.

"Do I know everything? Of course Stella told me, and the silly row

about the pearls that gave the show away. She had a perfectly poisonous

time after you left; I don't know how she got through it, and I'm sure

she doesn't know either. When I turned up, old Crayfield was getting

rather sick of her always being seedy; and I diddled him into letting

her come with me. He took a fancy to me, and I let him--any port in a

storm! We've lived in terror that he would come up on leave, but luckily

he hasn't been able to get away. Stella was awfully ill for the first

few weeks after we arrived----"

"She looks very well now," said Philip coldly, "and happy," he added.

His companion smote him sharply on the knee with her fan.

"My good man, you ought to be thankful, both for your own sake and for

hers!"

"I am; and for that reason don't you think I'd better go without seeing

her again?"

Mrs. Matthews hesitated; and Philip waited, hoping for some crumb of

comfort, for the smallest encouragement to stay.

The answer came slowly. "I think you ought to go. You see--you see

Stella has found out the power of her beauty and her charm, and it's a

sort of consolation to her. She'll never get into mischief, not

seriously, I mean, with anyone else, and as you and she can't come

together again without the risk of a lot of bother and trouble, you'd

much better let her alone. You can't blame her if she takes what she can

get out of life under the circumstances----"

"I don't," he said shortly. "If she can put the past behind her I can

but try to do the same."

"Wise man! Oh! look at this creature making for me; I shall have to go,

the dance has begun."

A cowboy had climbed the daïs in pursuit of Mrs. Matthews, and further

hope of confidential conversation was blocked. Philip rose and held out

his hand.

"Good-bye, then--and thank you for your advice. I will take it. I

recognise that you are right."

As they parted he saw sympathy in her bright eyes, and was grudgingly,

miserably grateful.

CHAPTER VI

"Oh! How slack I feel. Dances are the devil!" Maud Matthews yawned and

stretched amid a nest of cushions in a long chair. "I'm sure I must look

about sixty. Do I, Stella?"

She appealed to her friend who at that moment joined her in the veranda

of the Swiss Chalet-like habitation perched on the hill-side. Clear

midday sunshine blazed over the terraced garden thick with dahlias,

crimson and purple, orange-red, yellow, a wild, luxuriant growth. Pots

of chrysanthemums fringed the veranda steps, an autumn odour pervaded

the atmosphere, a smell of ferns and moss and pungent evaporation. The

sky was like pale blue glass, and far, far away, beyond valleys and

rising ranges, glittered and sparkled the everlasting snows.

Outside, on the narrow pathway, young Richard was asserting himself in a

perambulator, attended by the long-suffering ayah who every few minutes

retrieved a woolly toy, handing it back to the small tyrant with

indulgent remonstrance. "Hai-yai! What is to be done with such a

malefactor! Must not throw; it is forbidden."

"Beat him," his mother advised lazily. "Beat him with a big stick."

"Dost harken?" warned the ayah. "One more throw, and see what will

befall!"

Instantly the woolly toy was again hurtled down among the dahlias, and

the child shrieked with mischievous glee.

"Aree! Narty!" the ayah picked up her petticoats and plunged into the

foliage.

Unperturbed by her son's misdemeanours, Mrs. Matthews turned once more

to her guest and began to patter nonsense. Truth to tell she was

nervously delaying the moment when Stella's questions must be answered.

"If possible, dear thing, you look even more dreadful than I do, though

you went home so early last night. I got back at some disreputable hour

and peeped into your room, but you were asleep. Really, to look at you,

one would imagine _your_ husband was coming up on leave next week

instead of mine. What on earth shall I do with Dick! He'll hate all my

men friends, and be rude to them, and expect me to break all my

engagements. I suppose we shall go to bed early and have long walks

before breakfast, and devote ourselves to young Richard with intervals

for arguments over domestic affairs----"

"Oh! to hear you," interrupted Stella with exasperation, "one would

think you didn't care one snap for Dick or that imp in the perambulator.

Why humbug with me of all people?"

"Yes, I know," in hasty apology. "I know I am lucky. Yet you have your

compensations. You are ever so much better looking than I am, and your

looks are of the sort that will last. Your nose, for example; it's a

nose for a lifetime! _You_ can amuse yourself with a clear conscience,

without feeling a pig, as I do when I flirt till all's blue. How I am to

suppress Bobbie Nash when Dick appears on the scene is a problem, and I

can't give the young owl a hint beforehand; that would be a bit too low!

Now, you and your old play-boy--even Dick couldn't make a fuss if it was

the General instead of Bobbie Nash!"

"Oh, Maud, do stop!" cried Stella, at the end of her endurance. Maud's

little excitements and intrigues were so trivial; no misery, no

heartache, lay beneath the surface of her frivolity. Stella knew well

enough that Maud loved her husband, and that once he was on the spot she

would be happy in his company, though in his absence the attentions of a

herd of irresponsible young men was as the breath of her nostrils. "How

can you go on gabbling like this when you know what I am longing to

hear?"

Last night she had fled from the ballroom, distraught by the sudden,

unexpected meeting with Philip. It had been beyond her to remain as if

nothing had happened. She was at a loss to interpret his demeanour, so

distant, so formal; did he intend her to understand that his feelings

had changed? She had relied upon Maud to find out; for hours she had

lain awake listening for Maud's return till, from sheer exhaustion, she

had fallen asleep, and, after all, Maud had not awakened her. Both of

them had slept late into the morning, and now Maud would only drivel

about her own silly affairs. The suspense was intolerable; she could

bear it no longer.

"Aren't you going to tell me _anything_?" she demanded furiously.

"Wait a moment." Mrs. Matthews rose from her long chair and went to kiss

her obstreperous offspring in the perambulator, gave some directions to

the ayah and banished the pair to another quarter of the garden out of

sight and hearing. Then she returned to her seat and faced Stella with

reluctance.

"It's rather difficult to tell you," she began. "That was why I was

putting it off. He has gone."

Stella flushed and paled. "Gone? Gone away from Surima--from--from me?"

Maud nodded. "Now, dear thing, be sensible. I assure you he hopes you

may have got over that unfortunate business between you. He wants to get

over it too. I don't say he has, any more than you have, altogether, but

you both will, given the chance. Isn't it best? You can't deny it,

Stella."

"Oh, Maud, what have you done?" Stella's voice rang sharp with pain and

reproach. Her disappointment was poignant. She had expected some

message, she hardly knew what, but something of solace and reassurance,

at the least that Philip wanted to see her alone. She had never dreamed

that he would not wish to see her.

"I haven't done anything," declared Maud defensively. "He saw for

himself that you weren't exactly pining away without him, and if you do

still care about him you ought to be thankful that he has gone off like

this without making further trouble for you or for himself. After all,

you wouldn't bolt with him when you had the chance, and quite right too!

And now you shouldn't want him to be a martyr any more than he wants you

to mope for the rest of your life."

Stella gazed at her blankly. Staunch friend though Maud was, how little

she understood. Oh, why had she not stayed on at the ball? She might

have got at the truth for herself. Instead, she had behaved like a fool,

like a coward; and so Philip had gone!

She burst out: "Tell me what he said, what you said. Tell me exactly.

Don't dare to keep anything from me."

"My dear girl, keep calm. You can't expect me to remember every single

word we uttered. I'm not trying to make mischief and muddles, like

people in stories. I simply told him how I had got you away from Rassih

and how ill you were, and he simply said that as you looked very happy

and well he thought the best thing he could do was to clear out, and I

agreed with him. I pointed out that you had learnt to enjoy yourself,

and that he couldn't blame you. He said he didn't. I must say I don't

wonder you fell in love with him, especially at Rassih. He is an awfully

good sort; but you know if he had stayed here now the whole thing would

have begun all over again, and been worse than ever. Buck up, Stella!

You had a lucky escape. I dare say I might have persuaded him to stay,

but I knew it was best not to. When you have thought it all over you'll

say I was right and be grateful, instead of looking as if you would like

to poke my eyes out!"

Stella sat miserably silent. There was nothing further to be said. It

would hardly be fair to accuse Maud of having done her an ill turn, but

at present she certainly could not bring herself to feel grateful. Sore

and wretched, she rose.

"I'm going for a walk before tiffin," she said abruptly.

"Keep out of the sun, then," advised Maud, "or you'll have a headache.

Remember it's the General's garden party this afternoon, and the club

dinner and theatricals to-night. Just put out the 'Not at home box,'

will you? I'm not fit to be seen this morning, and can't be bothered

with callers."

A little later Stella strolled along the pathway. She hung the

protective card-box on the trunk of the pine tree that guarded the small

domain; then she wandered up the steep incline towards an upper road

little frequented by the English community. It led to the back of the

hill, where as yet no bungalows had been erected, dwindling eventually

to a mere bridle path used by the hill people from far distant villages.

Once away from all sound of the station, she seated herself on a

moss-covered boulder and gazed gloomily over the blue valleys and the

opposite mountains that in the rarefied atmosphere looked so unnaturally

near. Jungle fowl were calling, crickets sang lustily among the ferns

that fringed the tree branches; a family of black monkeys crossed the

path and went crashing and chattering down the wooded precipice below;

round the shoulder of the hill trudged a stalwart hill-woman, a load of

charcoal on her back in a conical-shaped basket. She had a flat

Mongolian countenance, red colour in her brown cheeks, and her eyes were

like green agates; a heavy turquoise necklace hung round her neck. She

grinned a friendly greeting as she passed the forlorn figure seated by

the wayside, and Stella envied her. How contented and independent she

looked, though probably she had two or three husbands and led a hard

life of toil. At any rate, she was neither desolate nor oppressed. The

sound of her stately tramping died away, and at last, influenced

unconsciously by the solitude, the grand beauty of the landscape, the

purity of the air, Stella began to think more coherently, to think of

all she would have told Philip had he been beside her asking for her

confidence, anxious to know all that had befallen her since their

parting at Rassih. Then, though she had thought he was going out of her

life, the distress and the terror had been leavened by the conviction

that he loved her. This time he had gone of his own free will, ready to

forget her, wishing to forget her. It seemed years since he had called

to her that night in the big drawing-room. She seemed to hear his voice

now, charged with love and despair. And the memory of the time

intervening until Maud's arrival was like a long nightmare, followed at

Surima by a blank that, ill as she was, came as a dreamless, refreshing

sleep from which she had awakened to a world of diversion.

With returning health and the stimulation of Maud's company she had

begun to find solace in her freedom, in the power of her beauty, which

slowly she had learn to value. At first the attention she attracted came

to her as a genuine surprise, and all the dances, the parties, the

light-hearted gatherings proved a welcome refuge from depressing

thought. Finally she had plunged into the gay whirl with a will,

encouraged by Maud, living solely in the agreeable, intoxicating

present, banishing as far as possible the past from her mind, refusing

to look forward.

And in one second all the false ramparts she had erected around her had

crumbled to dust. One moment she had been laughing, free from care, the

next she had looked up in the midst of some careless banter to see

Philip--but what a different Philip, cold and callous and hard! Stella

did not doubt Maud's version of the conversation that had passed between

the two. It seemed clear enough that Philip shrank from renewal of the

past, and was it any wonder? She tried to be just to him, yet a feeling

of bitter resentment fought with her sense of fair play. Why, when she

had discovered that, given the opportunity, life could be enjoyed,

should he have come to disturb and distress her? Where, all this time,

had he been, what had he been doing? No word concerning him had reached

her. Of course, she understood that he had not known she was at Surima;

yet why, if he did not wish to meet her again, had he come up to her in

the ball-room? Surely it would have been simple enough to leave Surima

without allowing her to know he had been there at all. Was it partly for

her sake that he had, to quote Maud, "cleared out," or was it entirely

because he feared she might expect him to lay his heart at her feet once

more? Whatever the reason the result was the same. He had gone without a

word or a message that would have left her in possession of the truth.

Passionately she wished she had the power to wipe the whole incident

from her mind. Maud was right; she had her compensations; but of what

value would they be to her once she was back at Rassih? In another month

or less she must return to Robert, to the horrible old house, to Sher

Singh, and the loneliness, the dull round of petty happenings repeated

day after day.... A fierce defiance seized her; at least she had this

month before her; she could but make the best of it. Her heart hardened.

She looked up at the clear blue sky, watched an eagle soaring over the

valley, became conscious of the vast, sunny peace around her, drew in

long breaths of the wonderful air.... After all, she was young, she was

well; and when she returned to Rassih she would endeavour to recover her

influence with Robert. Once reassured of her loyalty he might allow her

to invite friends to stay with her, friends she had made at Surima,

might permit her to pay visits in return. Next year she would manoeuvre

to take a house of her own at Surima for the hot-weather months. With

such a prospect the coming winter could be endured. She realised that

Robert, on his part, had a grievance against her; undoubtedly she had

been a disappointment to him. She owed him some consideration; in his

way he had not been ungenerous; all this time at Surima he had kept her

well supplied with money, and if he had been glad to get rid of her was

it not only natural?

Well, she would continue to enjoy herself now, and then she would go

back and wheedle and coax and work upon Robert's weaknesses until she

could induce him to grant her liberty when occasion should arise. Let

Philip go hang. If he wished to forget her let him do so; she could play

the same game, and play it she would! Resolutely she turned her mind to

coming dissipations; the General's garden party this afternoon--she was

fully aware that the station regarded her as the special "favourite" of

Sir George Rolt. Subalterns made up to her with the idea that she held

the ear of the Chief; not only subalterns either, but more senior

aspirants to favour and promotion. The sense of prestige and power fed

the worst side of her nature, and, in addition, she liked Sir George

Rolt, whose free admiration raised her to a pinnacle of importance,

rendered her an object of envy among all the other women of a certain

type in the place who possessed any claim to attractions. To-night there

would be the Club dinner, with theatricals to follow; at both gatherings

she knew she would be the best looking, best dressed woman of the

throng, and her sore spirit took comfort in the conviction.

Stella wandered back to the little bungalow on the side of the hill

feeling as though she had drunk deep of some draught that stilled

trouble and pain for the time, however pernicious its after-effects.

CHAPTER VII

The Swan Song of the Surima season took the form of a picnic--a truly

ambitious entertainment given by a moneyed merchant from Calcutta, whose

ideas of hospitality had apparently no boundaries. A banquet was

prepared in the vicinity of a famous waterfall some two miles below the

station; champagne vied with the waterfall itself in its volume and

flow; there was a band; Badminton nets had been erected on a convenient

plateau, and covetable prizes had been provided for the winners of an

improvised tournament of two a side; in addition every lady present was

to receive a gift--chocolates, scent, pretty, expensive trifles. High

spirits prevailed, and amid the gay, well-dressed assemblage of women

Mrs. Crayfield was pre-eminent.

Stella had won the first prize in the tournament, a jewelled bangle;

animated, flushed, she stood the centre of attention receiving

congratulations, protesting that her success was due only to her

handicap, and to the exertions of her partner in the game. "You all know

I can't play a bit!" she said laughing, radiant; the bangle was lovely,

everyone was so nice, nobody seemed to grudge her the little triumph; it

was all delightful.

"Never mind--you have won, no matter how!" chaffed the General. "Now

aren't you tired?" he added, lowering his voice. "Come for a stroll, to

get an appetite for tea!"

Adroitly he detached her from the crowd that had already begun to

disperse in groups and pairs. As Stella and Sir George moved off

together Maud and her husband went by; Dick Matthews had arrived at

Surima the previous evening, and Bobbie Nash, as some wag had remarked,

was nursing his nose in the background for the time being; the only

individual, perhaps, who was not altogether enjoying the picnic.

"Don't attempt to follow us!" called Maud as she passed Stella and the

General, and she looked back at them over her shoulder, pulled down her

mouth, cast up her eyes, then tucked her arm into Dick's and stepped out

beside him with an air of exaggerated virtue.

"Little cat!" exclaimed the General, highly entertained with her antics,

"as if we should want to follow them!" He glanced about, scanning

various directions in which they might hope to find privacy; and

presently they were climbing the slope of the mountain above the

waterfall to seat themselves on the trunk of a fallen tree screened by a

tangle of ferns, saplings, feathery bamboos, beneath the shade of the

oaks that rose densely behind them.

Sir George took out his cigarette case. "Well," he said with a resigned

sigh, "it's sad to think we shall all be scattered during the next ten

days. I wonder when and where you and I will meet again!"

"Goodness knows!" Privately Stella did not particularly care. "Don't let

us look forward."

Yet his words gave her a sense of depression after all the gaiety and

the glamour of the picnic luncheon and the surface excitement of the

tournament. She was tired, conscious of reaction; her spirits fell. She

would have preferred to sit silent, listening to the music of the

waterfall, the cheerful chirrup of the crickets, to be soothed by the

scenery and the soft evening sunshine, the peace and the remoteness of

the surroundings.

"Not look forward to our meeting again?" Reproachful astonishment was in

the General's tone as he leaned forward to look into her eyes. "Do you

mean to forget me, little girl?"

She was aware of a certain magic in his bold, strong face, in his

maturity, and experience of women and of the world. Stella felt

helpless, ensnared, yet the ensnarement was enticing, held a baleful

fascination. So often during these months at Surima she had felt it,

felt at the same time that it meant nothing serious; it was just a game,

but a game that Sir George knew so much better than she did how to play

without fear of disastrous result. More than once had he led her, as it

were, to the edge of the volcano; just a peep over and a timely

withdrawal into safety.

"Why don't you answer?" he laid his hand on hers; she moved her hand

quickly, yet, as before, not altogether unwilling to dally with the

moment that held a little thrill of excitement.

"Of course," she said demurely, "I don't want to forget you. Why should

I?"

"Well then, give me something to remember--that we can both remember to

the end of our days!"

His arm went round her; his face, his hard, handsome face, was close to

hers! he meant to kiss her, meant business this time--because it was

the last opportunity? And of a sudden Stella thought of Philip, of how

Philip had held her in his arms, had pressed his lips to hers....

"Don't!" she cried desperately, "don't! You can't understand--it's

impossible----"

"Why?" he inquired, intrigued. "Is there someone else?"

She let herself go, turned to him in her distress, with an instinct that

he would comprehend if he had but an inkling of her plight. "Yes," she

said tremulously, "there is, there was, someone else, and it's all so

hopeless, and miserable!"

He held out his hand, this time with friendly, almost fatherly

intention. "There! Poor child, how was I to know? Forgive me; I dare say

I've been a beast, but I meant no real harm. Tell me all about it, eh?"

Sir George felt as much curiosity as interest to hear the little story.

Surely she was too young, too inexperienced, to have had any serious

love affair; he was prepared to be secretly amused, as well as to show

adequate sympathy. Probably it was just some boy and girl romance, and

her parents had married her suitably to put an end to it.

"I can't talk about it," said Stella.

"Did it happen before, or after you were married?" he persisted.

She did not answer.

"Then it was after!"

She nodded reluctantly.

"And shall you see him again?" Clearly it was no one at Surima, since

he himself had been the favoured one of all her adorers.

"No, never!" said Stella vehemently.

"Well then, listen to my words of wisdom. Don't imagine at your age that

you won't fall in love again, but when you do remember to keep your head

if you can't keep your heart. The world is never well lost for any man's

sake, whatever the poets may say. If I'm not mistaken you have plenty of

grit; so don't allow circumstances to get the better of you. Take what

you can get out of life without losing your place in the ranks of the

righteous, or you'll be trampled into the dust. Love as much as you

like, but love wisely. Bide your time, Stella, my child; you'll forget

this lover, whoever he is, and there'll be plenty more. Break hearts all

over the place, they'll mend soon enough, and you'll have had your

amusement without paying for it. But don't make false steps and imagine

you can't suffer for them at the hands of the world. It's not good

enough, believe me!"

From one point of view Stella felt he was right; from another, and a

higher point, that his advocations were false. Had he told her to

remember her marriage vows, to be faithful in thought as well as in deed

to her husband, to shrink with shame from all thought of extracting

consolation by devious methods.... She almost laughed as she imagined

Sir George preaching such practice. Yet in substance his counsel was not

far removed from the course she had mapped out for herself that morning

on the hill side after her meeting with Philip in the ball-room; and

Maud had often said much the same thing, though not quite so plainly

perhaps. Truly she was between the devil and the deep sea; but which was

which? To do her duty by Robert honestly, squarely, meant a sort of

death in life--the deep sea? To play a part while seeking underhand

compensations--the devil?

"Look here," went on Sir George kindly. "Come and stay with me for the

race meeting at my headquarters this November. You shall have the time

of your life. A big party, all the prettiest women in the Province, and

you'll be the prettiest. You shall do hostess if you like. People might

talk, no doubt they do now, but that doesn't matter as long as they've

nothing to lay hold of. Is it a bargain?"

It was an alluring invitation. But could she accept it with any hope of

fulfilment? Perhaps--if she carried out her programme of false

conciliation where Robert was concerned.

"I'm not sure if I could get away," she said doubtfully.

"The husband?" queried Sir George smiling. "Aren't you clever enough to

get round him?"

Stella felt reckless. "Anyway, I'll try," she declared; and she

determined, if humanly possible, to succeed.

"Very well, leave it at that, and let us hope for the best. Count on me

to send you the right kind of letter, and we'll pull it off somehow.

Cheer up, my dear, never say die!" He patted her hand, and lit his

cigarette, persuaded her to take one too, and Stella felt comforted,

almost convinced that he and Maud were right--that in time she might

forget Philip; she had all her life before her in which to do so!

Someone was shouting below them; it was the summons to tea. Figures

emerged from all quarters, the valley resounded with voices, privacy was

at an end. Stella rose readily. "We must go," she said, glad of the

interruption; and they scrambled and slipped their way back to the

meeting place. At sunset a procession started toward the station--a

phalanx of dandies and ponies and more Spartan pedestrians who felt

equal to the climb. It was almost dark when Stella and her friends

reached their perch on the hill side, tired yet cheerful, ready for a

rest if hardly for dinner after the superabundance of fare they had

lately enjoyed. Maud rushed to the nursery, Dick hung about, smoking, in

the veranda; Stella was making for her bedroom when one of the servants

accosted her with a salver in his hand on which lay a yellow envelope.

"Telegram, Memsahib," he said stolidly; she opened it with a qualm of

foreboding. It was signed "Antonio," and she read:

"_Come down Colonel Crayfield ill._"

CHAPTER VIII

"Diagnosis difficult," said Dr. Antonio pompously professional, yet

clearly puzzled and disturbed.

Stella stood with him in the big drawing-room that looked dusty and

neglected in the dim lamplight, trying to gather what had happened, what

was likely to happen. From across the hall came a monotonous sound, a

loud, delirious voice repeating some sentence over and over again. On

her arrival, soon after midnight, she had scarcely been able to realise

that it was indeed Robert who lay on his bed, so strangely altered,

talking incoherently, paying no heed to her presence. Mrs. Antonio was

there as well as the doctor; apparently the good couple had not left the

house for the past twenty-four hours.

"Is it typhoid, do you think?" Stella asked helplessly.

"No, not typhoid, some kind of poison."

"Something he had eaten?"

"How can I say? One day quite well, playing tennis, then feeling ill,

sending for me; and all at once very high fever, delirious. As yet not

yielding to treatment. Typhoid, smallpox, cholera, malaria," he ticked

off the diseases on his fingers, "none of them. I have grave suspicion,

Mrs. Crayfield!"

"You mean you think someone has tried to _poison_ my husband?"

"Yes, that is what I think."

"But who could it be? The servants have all been with him for

years----"

"That is so. But where is that bearer, that Sher Singh?"

Mystified, Stella stared at the old man. "Isn't Sher Singh here?" In all

the distraction of her arrival she had not noted Sher Singh's absence,

had not thought of him.

"Not here! He has----" Dr. Antonio paused as though searching for a

word, "he has _bunked_."

"But surely----"

He shrugged his shoulders, spread out his hands. "_Afim_-wallah, you

know!" he said significantly.

"_Afim_-wallah?"

"Yes, opium-eater."

"I don't understand. Dr. Antonio, do speak plainly. Is it your opinion

that Sher Singh has been trying to poison my husband? But Sher Singh was

so devoted to him!"

"That is just it. Jealousy, and you coming as bride, and the woman, his

relation, sent away. Now, brain upset with opium, and you coming back

again soon."

"Sher Singh's relation? What relation?" She thought impatiently that the

old doctor's imagination had run away with him; then, from the back of

her mind, called up by the mention of opium in conjunction with Sher

Singh, came the recollection of all Mrs. Antonio had said that hot

afternoon long ago in her stuffy, hookah-smelling drawing-room. She

visualised the untidy form clad in a grotesque dressing-gown; the bath

towel tied over the grey hair, the mysterious nods, and: "Knowing too

many secrets!" What was behind it all? The idea that Sher Singh had

tried to poison Robert seemed to her too melodramatic and impossible to

be accepted, whatever his provocation or mental condition; yet,

according to Dr. Antonio, Sher Singh had disappeared, "bunked!" Why?

"What relation?" she repeated.

Dr. Antonio puffed, and fidgeted his feet. "Oh, no use going over old

stories. All done with," he said evasively. "Only, putting two and two

together, it is my suspicion that Sher Singh has done harm. But these

things are not easy to bring home; at present we have just to think of

curing."

He took out a large gold watch, for the clock in the room had stopped.

"Will you rest now, Mrs. Crayfield? Not much change likely just yet. My

wife, she must go home and get sleep, but I will remain."

"I am not tired," declared Stella, though she ached all over after the

long journey. "It is you who ought to rest," and indeed the old man's

fatigue was patent. "Let me sit with my husband while you lie down;

there is a bed in the dressing-room, and I would call you at once if

necessary."

Just then Mrs. Antonio joined them. She also looked well nigh worn out.

"He is dozing now!" she said hopefully; and Stella became aware that the

sound in the bedroom had ceased.

A little later she was seated by Robert's bedside, and from the

dressing-room came long-drawn, regular snores which told her that Dr.

Antonio was already enjoying his well-deserved rest.

Robert lay quiet, save for his quick, uneven breathing, and now and then

a moaning sigh. The punkah had been stopped by Dr. Antonio's orders

because, as he had explained to her, it had seemed to worry the patient;

it was hardly needed now that the nights were growing cooler except to

keep off mosquitoes, and Stella could do that with the palm-leaf fan

Mrs. Antonio had handed over to her before her departure.

For an hour she sat fanning the mottled, swollen face on the pillow; the

lights were turned low, and the long door-windows stood open. It was a

bright starlit night; except for the cry of some restless bird, and the

intermittent squabbling of animals at the base of the fort walls, there

was little sound.... Stella tried not to think, she did not want to

think; and to keep her mind quiescent she repeated to herself verses,

songs, anything she could recall mechanically, but always with

irritating persistency the words of the hymn that seemed to have been

the starting point of her real life kept recurring, ousting all else:

I dare not choose my lot

I would not if I might....

Strive as she would she could not get away from the refrain, the very

movements of the fan beat time to the words and the tune.

Not mine, not mine the choice....

But she had chosen, she had dared; and what had been the result?

In things or great or small....

Supposing she had made a different choice; for example--on that other

occasion, when Philip would so gladly have taken her away to live, if

need be as he had said, "just for each other." At that time she had

honestly put her own longing aside that his future, his work, his

ambitions might not suffer. Supposing she had yielded, failed to "walk

aright" according to her own conception, how soon would Philip have

discovered his mistake? He owed her much! And she had done her little

bit for India--not that India counted any longer with her now; India was

to blame for everything, she told herself petulantly, illogically. She

did not care what happened to India!... Suddenly Robert began to talk,

and her whole attention became concentrated upon him. Gradually his

voice grew clearer, though it was a curious, unnatural voice as if some

stranger were speaking through his lips. Now and then he laughed, a hard

self-satisfied little laugh.

"There they all go!" he waved his hand in a mocking welcome. "What a

pretty procession! Not a bad record! No trouble, with a little

precaution. Ah, Susie, you young devil--ran off with that fellow to

spite me, did you? What was his name, now? Couldn't have done anything

to suit me better.... Not a patch on the little Eurasian girl; look at

her! Cost a pretty penny to get her married to that black railway boy.

A fortune for him, anyway. Good child, run along; you're all right....

How many more? Where are you all going--to Hell?" He sang hoarsely:

No rose nor key, nor ring-necked dove,

She gave but her sweet self to me!

"Yes, eyes like forget-me-nots. That was a lesson, a near shave. Nearly

gave me away too, as well as herself. Well out of _that_! Something

safer, easier to shunt. Sher Singh knows which side his bread's buttered

... faithful fellow Sher Singh...." The voice dropped again to an

indistinct mutter.

Stella sat aghast. Was it all true, or just the delusions of a

disordered brain? She felt in her bones that it was all true. Yet what

did it matter? Robert's past life was nothing to her. Only, when he got

well, could she forget these revelations, would it not be harder still

to face life with him, however she might contrive to go her own way by

means of subterfuge--and "precaution"! All shred of consideration and

pity for Robert fell away from her as she sat patiently waving the fan.

She, also, seemed to vision the "pretty procession" of his victims; they

mocked her with their eyes as one of themselves. A nausea seized her of

his cruelty, his pitiless sensuality; she felt she could almost applaud

Sher Singh if indeed the man had actually tried to poison his master.

Then, without warning, Robert sat upright. Words came tumbling in

confusion from his lips; something about the balcony, about someone who

had thrown himself from the balcony.... He was getting out of bed! She

tried to push him back, called loudly for Dr. Antonio, but the long

snores from the dressing-room went on.... Now clinging to Robert's arm

she was being dragged by the great bulky figure towards the open door

that gave on to the balcony, and all the time she called and screamed,

not daring to let go. They were out on the balcony; the stars had

disappeared, and a faint yellow light was stealing over the sky like the

reflection of some vast conflagration unseen in the distance. From below

rose a sudden clamour, beasts fighting among themselves over carrion.

Robert moved on, unconscious of her frantic efforts to stop him; she was

powerless as she felt herself being drawn to the balustrade, still

calling, clinging. His hands were on the stonework, he was climbing up,

raising her with him. Then all at once he paused, turned his head,

looked down on her; his face was terrible. Next moment he had taken her

by the shoulders and flung her violently from him, and as she reeled

giddily she saw something leap into the dawnlight, something that was

like a gigantic bird with wings outstretched. She fell forward, striking

her head heavily against the balustrade.

Stella lay semi-conscious, weakly pondering. What a queer smell; she

knew the smell, yet could put no name to it; the room seemed unfamiliar,

and she found she could see only a portion of it as if the rest were in

darkness. What had happened? Where was she? Not that it signified--she

felt too ill to care. When she tried to raise her hand it was heavy as

lead--how funny! When she tried to speak she could not remember what she

wanted to say. Her hat was too tight, it hurt her head, and she could

not take it off. Why was she lying in bed with her hat on? That was

funny too! She heard a little feeble laugh--who had laughed? She was

very thirsty.... Ah, that was nice and cold.

"Thank you," she managed to say politely, as some iced liquid trickled

down her throat. Then as her senses slowly awoke she found herself

looking into Mrs. Antonio's homely brown face. Kind Mrs. Antonio, who

was giving her a delicious drink. Mrs. Antonio would take off the hat

that was hurting her forehead. Now she knew the name of the smell that

pervaded the room; it was hookah! The successful recollection brought a

sense of triumph. She smiled sweetly at Mrs. Antonio....

It was some days before Stella's memory grew clear, before she could

recall what had happened up to the moment when she had fallen against

the stone balustrade. Now she knew that she was in the Antonios' house,

that she had been there for nearly three weeks hovering at death's door;

she knew that Robert had been buried in the little European cemetery,

and that a new Commissioner had arrived who, according to Mrs. Antonio,

was "a very kind man and attending to all business" until Mrs. Crayfield

should have recovered sufficiently to do her share; everybody in the

station had been "helping and good, there was no hurry about anything,

no need to bother." Stella knew also that there was injury to one side

of her head, but to what extent she had not yet thought to ask. Her mind

had been too exercised with the realisation of Robert's tragic end, with

mingled compassion for him and, she could not pretend to deny it, relief

for herself; any effort to look forward was as yet almost beyond her

strength.

One morning later, when the bandages had been finally removed and she

found she could see with both eyes, she asked Mrs. Antonio to bring her

a hand mirror; she said lightly: "I want to see what I look like. I

expect I'm an awful fright, but I'm well enough now to bear any shock!"

"Better go through your letters," suggested Mrs. Antonio, laying a

little heap of accumulated correspondence on the table beside the bed.

"I have to run away just now and see to the fowls and the goats."

She left the room hastily, and Stella fingered the envelopes with

reluctance, dreading the condolences and the sympathy she might find

within them. First she skimmed the English letters apprehensively; it

was possible that the news had been telegraphed home to the papers. No;

evidently when last they wrote Grandmamma and the aunts had known

nothing. There was a letter, of course, from Maud; one from Sir George

Rolt, others from friends she had made at Surima; Mrs. Cuthell had

written. All contained stereotyped phrases; difficult letters to write!

She hardly read them, because there was one she had put aside as yet

unopened--one from Philip Flint! She knew the clear, small handwriting

from seeing the manuscript of the George Thomas romance. How curious

that she should receive her first letter from him in such circumstances.

What had he written? Just "deep sympathy," no doubt, like all the

others! Her hand went out to the letter; she felt faint as at last she

forced herself to tear it open. For a few moments the words danced

before her eyes. There were very few words; no formal beginning--only

this:

"I have seen what has happened, and I write to tell you that I am

the same, always the same. If you want me I will come anywhere and

at any time. But if you do not write I shall understand.--PHILIP."

She sank back on her pillows. Philip was the same, always the same! She

must have known it all along in her heart; how could she ever have

doubted him! "Philip," she breathed, "Philip!"

The stuffy, hookah-smelling room was glorified, full of a celestial

light. How quickly she would get well; she was well already--all the

dark days were over. Happiness lay ahead, such happiness! She would send

him just one little line to tell him she had his letter, that she would

write; she composed it in her mind. Or should she telegraph, do both?...

When and where they would meet did not trouble her; time was nothing;

whatever interval was necessary would pass like a dream.

Mrs. Antonio, returning from her ministrations to the goats and the

fowls, found the patient sitting up in bed, a pencil in her hand,

writing on half-sheets of paper.

"Now, now," scolded Mrs. Antonio, shaking her forefinger, "doing too

much!"

"I am quite well," said Stella. "I feel I could get up and do anything."

"To-morrow, perhaps, out of bed on the sofa. And Pussy will read to you.

Such a nice book she has got, called 'Wide, Wide World.' Shall she come

just now?"

"Not to-day, dear Mrs. Antonio. I have had some good news in my letters,

and I can't think of anything else. I should like to do my hair when I

have finished writing, and then have some of your nice tea. And will you

send my letter and a telegram for me to the post office presently?"

"Doing hair! Writing letters! Sending telegrams!" exclaimed Mrs.

Antonio. "You are wanting to run before walking!"

"Well, do let me run; I promise not to fall down. There, my letter is

ready, and the telegram. Now do give me a looking-glass, and a brush and

comb, there's a good soul. I feel I want to smarten myself up!"

"I think the doctor will be coming in just now. Better to wait and ask

what he says. Listen!" she cocked her ears. "That is him coming back

from the bazaar dispensary. I hear the trap. Wait a moment, Mrs.

Crayfield dear----"

She was gone; and Stella, elated, defiant, rose from her bed and

tottered across the room. She was determined to see herself in the glass

before Mrs. Antonio came back. If she was a scarecrow she would know how

long to postpone her meeting with Philip; she must be looking all right

when she met Philip again.... Clinging to the furniture, she made her

way to the dressing-table. Had she any legs, or hadn't she? If she felt

she was walking on air, was it any wonder after Philip's letter! Now she

had reached her goal. She bent forward; and in the mirror she beheld a

sight that froze her blood. The whole of one side of her face was

disfigured, hideous, grotesque; a great, puckered red scar ran from her

forehead to her chin, shortening the contour, lifting the edge of her

mouth.... She was revolting! That was why Mrs. Antonio had evaded her

request for a hand glass.... Clutching the edge of the table, she stood

gazing at the wreck of her beauty. Everything was gone; she could never

let Philip see her; and she was so young, so young!

A few minutes later she had groped her way blindly back to the bed. She

tore up the letter and the telegram she had written, tore up Philip's

letter also. "_If you do not write I shall understand._" She could never

write; Robert's legacy of punishment was complete.

CHAPTER IX

Lady Lane-Johnson looked about her handsome drawing-room with critical

gaze. She moved a bowl of roses to a more effective position, loosened a

sheaf of Madonna lilies in a crystal vase. The atmosphere was fragrant

with the perfume of costly flowers; the whole room betokened prosperity

combined with good taste, from the excellent examples of modern Art on

the brocade-hung walls to the Aubusson carpet and the silk curtains that

subdued the sound of traffic through the open windows. And Philip

Flint's sister harmonised with her surroundings, an elegant, well-bred

looking woman in a Paris gown, diamonds in her hair, round her neck, at

her breast.

She consulted her list of expected guests; the pairing for this dinner

party had entailed an unusual amount of consideration. In such

undertakings John was of no use whatever; he would rush in at the last

moment, and unless she took care would probably seize absentmindedly on

the first lady he saw and hurry her down to dinner. Even now he had not

returned; if she heard him on the stairs before the arrivals began she

must catch him and remind him that he was to take in old Lady Bawe

(though he always declared her name ought to be spelt Bore). She herself

must put up with Lord Redgate, disagreeable creature, but the laws of

etiquette forbade any other arrangement; anyway she would have Carmine

Lake, the fashionable portrait painter, on her other side, and he was

good company. Her own parents were rather on her mind; her father never

considered the political feelings of his neighbours, and invariably

suspected her literary and artistic friends of being Radicals.

Concerning Lord Redgate's opinions there could be no question of

anything so mild as "suspicion," and she had therefore placed the two

gentlemen as far apart at the dinner table as possible. She knew her

mother felt "out of it" among actors and painters, and authors, and

John's distinguished professional colleagues with their wives who were

always busy over public meetings and charity entertainments patronised

by Royalty.

As a rule she did not invite her old-fashioned parents to her dinner

parties; they preferred to come quietly, when she had an evening to

spare, but to-night their presence was unavoidable, because Philip had

just arrived from India (she had not even seen him yet), and she

particularly wanted him and "the old people" to meet Lord Redgate and

his daughter Dorothy, who had known Philip in India two years ago; and

if she, Grace, were not greatly mistaken the young lady would like to

meet him again as often as possible! Lord Redgate would not have said

"Thank you" had she bidden him to a quiet family gathering; that would

have to come later if matters shaped as she hoped they might. It would

be such an excellent marriage for Philip; Lord Redgate had so much

influence, his son-in-law would be pushed on regardless of obstacles,

however glaring the "job"; his one weakness was his self-willed,

impulsive daughter, who publicly boasted that she could turn her father

round her little finger!

Grace knew from Dorothy that she and Philip had kept up a desultory

correspondence since their parting in India. She wondered if she would

have time to pump Philip in the matter of his feelings towards the girl

if he and the old people arrived early, as she had told them to do. She

hoped Philip would not look too "Indian." His clothes were sure to be

all wrong, seeing that he had arrived only three days ago, during her

absence in the country for a week-end visit. The dinner party had been

hastily convened, with apologies and explanations for the short notice,

directly his telegram came from Marseilles.

Was that John on the stairs? She flew to the door and saw her husband

ascending leisurely.

"Make haste, darling," she called, "and remember you are to take in Lady

Bawe."

"Why, is there a dinner party?" He blinked at her dreamily; his scanty

hair was ruffled, he looked tried, over-strained. That afternoon he had

been engaged on a stupendous operation, and the reaction of success was

still upon him.

"Yes, yes, I told you! Go along quickly and dress."

"You look wonderful," he said, smiling at her.

She knew he was proud of her, that he grudged her nothing in the world,

that the money he made gave him pleasure principally for her sake, yet

sometimes he provoked her almost past bearing, his forgetfulness, his

blindness to the value of her social triumphs that were undoubtedly an

indirect asset to him in his calling. His calling came first with him,

she came second; and there were no children, nothing to fill her life

beyond the eternal round of engagements and social successes, which

during the last ten years had become a sort of second nature to her. Now

she looked forward to match-making on her brother's behalf.

The front door bell rang. "There!" She waved her husband up the stairs.

"Don't be longer than you can help, and whatever you do, remember Lady

Bawe."

"Lady Bawe," he repeated, and quickened his steps obediently.

Presently Sir Philip and Lady Flint, and Mr. Flint, were announced.

"Well, mother--well, father." Grace kissed her parents, then turned to

embrace her brother. "Philip," she cried, "how you have altered! Is it

really you?"

She could hardly believe that this sun-baked, middle-aged man, growing

rather bald, with the set face and grave eyes, was Philip. Her

remembrance of him last time he was on furlough was so different. Then

he had looked almost boyish, full of spirits, enjoying every moment of

his leave, yet enthusiastic over his prospects when he should return to

his work. Now he looked as if nothing would ever arouse his enthusiasm

or high spirits again. He even showed little pleasure at seeing her, and

they had been such pals in the old days! Grace supposed it was the want

of rest and change that ailed him. He ought to have come home two years

ago, after all his hard work over the famine, instead of being tempted

to stay on in a responsible position that, whatever it might lead to,

could hardly be worth the sacrifice of health. She thought he looked far

from well as she drew him aside and whispered:

"Who do you think is coming to-night on purpose to meet you again?"

"Tell me," he said indifferently.

"Dorothy Baker."

It was a relief to see his face light up with a certain amount of

interest. "Dorothy Baker! Just fancy! And when I last saw her----"

His memory turned to an Indian junction and a native-crowded platform, a

dimly lit railway carriage, and Dorothy Baker with all her wild ideas,

her conceit and her flashes of humility, her freckled face and slim,

long figure. "Then she knows I am at home? I'm afraid I didn't write and

tell her I was coming."

"Yes, she knows, and presently she and her father will be here. This

party is in your honour, dear old boy."

"Very kind of you." There was no more than politeness in his tone, but

his sister observed that he looked towards the door as though watching

for the arrival of Dorothy Baker.

Mr. Carmine Lake was announced, and Lady Lane-Johnson welcomed him with

effusion. Sir Philip Flint glared disapproval of the celebrated artist's

abundant locks and soft, tucked shirt, glared more fiercely still on the

couple that followed, whose name was well known in Liberal circles,

though the gentleman present was only a relative of the real culprit.

The room filled quickly. Lord Redgate and his daughter were the last to

arrive.

Dorothy entered swiftly, eager, animated, dressed as usual, simply but

expensively. Her gown was of a soft shade of green that suited her tawny

colouring. Lady Lane-Johnson thought she had never seen the girl look

better--quite _pretty_, in spite of her strong resemblance to her

father, whose irregular features and ruddy complexion she had inherited

in a refined and more kindly form. Lord Redgate was an ugly man, but no

one could say that his daughter was ugly or even plain.

As Lady Lane-Johnson greeted the pair Philip came forward. He was glad

to see Miss Baker again, and Miss Baker made no concealment of her own

delight. Her evident pleasure, though it could hardly fail to flatter

his vanity, caused Philip a slight feeling of embarrassment. He had

never realised that the girl liked him to such an extent; in fact, he

remembered that at the time of their parting she had appeared almost

indifferent to him. Her heart must have grown fonder with absence.

"Pater," she said, turning to her father, "this is Mr. Flint, who was so

kind to me in India, you remember."

Lord Redgate shook hands without speaking. Philip encountered a

searching gaze from beneath the shaggy red eyebrows. He felt he was

being "sized up."

"You will take Miss Baker down to dinner," Grace told her brother, "and

you must put up with me, Lord Redgate, though"--with an engaging

smile--"I can't talk about labour troubles, and 'back to the land,' or

anything of that kind, you know."

He grunted. Certainly Lord Redgate's strong point was not "manners."

"Now we are all here," went on Lady Lane-Johnson, not at all

disconcerted--she had expected nothing else from her distinguished

guest, peer of the realm with unlimited riches though he was--"except

John, of course." Consulting her list, she went in and out among the

company allotting partners, while Miss Baker chattered with a sort of

nervous excitement to Philip.

"And how is India? It seems more like twenty years to me instead of only

two since I was out there. I shall never rest till I can get back. How

long are you home for?"

"Six months, unless I take an extension."

"Good! You will come and see us? I've such heaps to talk about; and you

must stay with us in the country. Your sister has told me how splendidly

you have got on--Simla and Calcutta, and no end of importance. The next

thing will be 'The Star,' of course."

Just then Sir John hurried in, and the little disturbance that ensued as

he went round shaking hands, to be successfully anchored by his wife to

Lady Bawe, parted them for the moment. But when, with Dorothy on his

arm, Philip found himself descending the staircase, carefully avoiding

the train of the lady in front of them, it was of Stella Crayfield that

he was thinking. Miss Baker had innocently started the aching,

regretful memory. The one star he really desired was not for him, would

never be his. Where was Stella at this moment? What had become of her?

The letter he had written to her after her husband's death was never

answered, and, true to his promise, he had "understood," had accepted

and respected her silence with bitter resignation, extracting what

solace he could from his work and his rapid advancement, though his

success brought him little solid satisfaction.

Now they were all seated at the dinner table, with slices of musky melon

before them; and fantastically the notion struck him that Miss Baker was

rather like a slice of melon herself--all curves and rich golden hues,

delectable but just as unsatisfying.

"What about the book?" he inquired with an interest that was not wholly

simulated. "If it has appeared, why didn't you send me a copy?"

Her face fell. "Oh, that was a dreadful blow!" She looked up at him with

a pathetic demand for sympathy in her fine eyes. "No one would publish

the book unless all expenses were guaranteed by the author, and though,

of course, there would have been no difficulty about that----"

"You wanted it to come out on its own merits?"

"Yes, that was how I felt. Pater said it was very stupid of me."

"I think it was very honest of you."

"Do you really? I often wanted to ask you, but it seemed such a

confession of failure, and you know you always made me feel a failure

when I was with you in India!"

"Did I? I assure you it was quite unintentional."

She laughed a little self-consciously. "Oh, I'm sure it was very good

for me, and perhaps it helped me to realise that my object in writing a

book at all was not so much to give my experiences and opinions to the

public as to impress my friends with my cleverness and superiority.

Really _you_ are to blame for the non-appearance of the book."

"What an unkind accusation!"

"Not quite so unkind perhaps as it might appear," she said softly; then,

as though to edge away from a too intimate topic, she began to ask

questions about his last appointment, about his voyage home. What had he

done with Jacob? Had he sold the chestnut pony? And they talked and

talked as course succeeded course, until the wine and the wonderfully

cooked food, and the girl's unaffected interest in himself and his

doings chased the cloud from Philip's spirit, lifted his depression, and

he felt, as the women streamed from the dining-room at the conclusion of

the meal, that perchance life need not be quite so dreary, so empty,

after all.

Someone plumped down in the vacant chair beside him. It was Dorothy's

parent, a glass of port in his hand, purpose in his bearing. Philip

prepared himself for an argument as to the claims of India to Home Rule.

He felt ready to go farther than his own convictions in order to confute

the ignorant and arrogant assertions he anticipated from this man, who

seemed to him a traitor to his own class, and equally a traitor to the

class into which he had shoved himself by means of his tongue and his

wealth.

Instead, equally to his annoyance, he found himself being catechised as

to his pay and prospects in the Indian service. When would his pension

be due? What would it amount to? Did he expect any special recognition

for his work during the famine? Philip scowled and answered shortly,

said in conclusion that he expected no recognition of his famine

services, it was all in the day's work. He endeavoured to change the

subject, but his inquisitor, for some reason of his own (if he had any,

as Philip queried, beyond vulgar curiosity), was not to be snubbed. "Let

me see, what are the Indian decorations? C.I.E.'s one of them?"

Philip interposed flippantly: "Which means A.S.S. very often!" But the

pleasantry was lost on Lord Redgate, who either ignored or did not

perceive it.

"Now I recollect," he continued. "And C.S.I., the Star of India; but I'm

blessed if I know which is the more important."

"The Star, of course," snapped Philip. Why in the world should he be

haunted this evening by the word that was so closely associated with all

that had gone wrong in his life?

Lord Redgate produced a gold pencil-case and made a note on his shirt

cuff. Philip watched him, wondering moodily what he was writing; then

Lord Redgate looked up, and the eyes of the two men met.

"You were very good to my girl in India," he said unexpectedly, and the

rugged face softened.

Philip flushed, repenting his antagonism, but he could not bring

himself to like Lord Redgate any better. "I did nothing," he protested

awkwardly.

"She told me how you looked after her. My girl and I understand each

other; there are no secrets between us."

"There was very little to tell. I was glad to be of use."

A pause followed, and Philip rose. "If you will excuse me, I want to

have a few words with my brother-in-law." And he made his way round the

table to where Sir John was sitting silent, not attempting to make

conversation. His wife was perhaps right when she declared that John was

the worst host in the world; but his wine was excellent if his company

was not, and his guests were contented with the former.

Meanwhile in the drawing-room Miss Baker had attached herself to the

guileless Lady Flint, who was willingly drawn into confidences

respecting her son's boyhood. Here was a nice, unaffected girl; it was

no effort to talk to her, especially as she was anxious to talk about

Philip, and had seen Philip in India, had seen how he lived and how hard

he worked.

"It must be so lovely for you to have him at home again," said this

charming young lady.

"Yes, my dear, it is a great comfort and pleasure, but I don't feel

quite happy about him. He has changed a good deal."

"Well, it's a long time since you last saw him, isn't it?"

"I don't think he looks well."

"Neither do I, but he will soon be all the better for the change to

England."

"He was a delicate child though he grew up quite strong. You see, he was

born in India, and I couldn't bring him home till he was nearly seven

years old." The old lady prattled on, and Miss Baker listened with such

encouraging interest that Lady Flint plunged deep into the subject of

Philip's childish ailments, the difficulties over his education, the

agonies of parting with him just when she felt he most needed her care.

"We Indian mothers have always that trial to meet--separation from

either husband or children, and it never seems to be taken into account

by those at home who don't have to face it. Personally we were lucky in

finding a nice place for Philip and Grace till they were old enough to

go to school, but then the holidays were always on my mind; relations

are sometimes so injudicious. Fortunately the children had character,

both of them, and as my husband rose in the service I was able to come

home more frequently to see them. Dear Philip was such a clever boy!"

"He is a very clever man!" quoth Miss Baker emphatically, "and how well

he has got on!"

"He was always ambitious; he mapped out his own career from the very

first--got a scholarship for his public school and again at Oxford, and

passed very high for the Civil Service. He could have stayed at home,

but he preferred to take India, and his father and I were very glad.

Life in an office would not have suited him; he was a sportsman at heart

as well as a student."

"No wonder you are proud of him----"

Lady Flint dropped her fan; Miss Baker picked it up, deferentially, and

as she restored it Lady Flint thought the girl's hair very pretty,

though it was a pity, in her opinion, that she wore it cut short. A

possibility crept into her mind that was not altogether distasteful: was

there likely to be "anything" between Miss Baker and her beloved son?

Though Miss Baker had no connection with India beyond her brief visit to

the country, she seemed a warm-hearted, sensible child, and certainly

she appreciated Philip! Lady Flint was aware that Lord Redgate was a

very rich man, which might be a barrier; if not of course it would be

nice to feel that Philip and his wife need never be worried over money

matters; in the case of Grace's marriage that had been a satisfactory

element, who could deny it?--though she would not have had either of her

children influenced in the least degree by worldly advantages.

She felt her way gently. "How would you like to live in India?" she

inquired, and she saw the girl flush as she answered decidedly: "I

should simply love it!"

"Perhaps your father will take you there again for a visit some day?"

"I went alone, you know--that time. And if I ever go again it will not

be on a visit; I shall go to stay."

Lady Flint looked a little puzzled. "But what would your father say to

that?"

"My father never interferes with anything I want to do."

"Dear me!" said Lady Flint.

The door opened and the men came into the room. Philip made straight for

his mother and Miss Baker, who whispered hurriedly: "Lady Flint, may I

come and see you?"

"Do, my dear, I am always at home on Sundays. I shall be very pleased to

see you. Come next Sunday if you can." And she made a mental note to

keep Philip at home next Sunday afternoon. If the two young people were

mutually attracted she would help on the courtship to the best of her

powers; but she rather wished Miss Baker were not a rich man's daughter,

and not an Honourable--it would mean that Philip, like Grace, might be

absorbed into a world she did not understand.

"I have been hearing all about you!" exclaimed Dorothy, looking up at

Philip as he stood beside them. "How tiresome and naughty you were, and

how you wouldn't work, and gave such a lot of trouble after you grew

up!"

They all laughed, and Philip glanced affectionately at his mother, a

glance that endeared him the more to the long-limbed girl in the green

gown....

Then a well-known pianist who was of the party consented to play, and

silence was enforced on the audience. Once at the piano the musician

continued to give unlimited samples of his own compositions, and Philip,

though he thought the fellow made an unconscionable noise, welcomed the

respite from conversation. Again he felt depressed, inert, unreasonably

impatient with the well-fed, well-dressed throng that had met together

merely to eat and drink and to impress each other with their own

importance. They were all so self-satisfied in their several ways! He

made up his mind that he would get away from London as soon as he could

do so without hurting his parents' feelings; go somewhere to fish by

himself; he had no use for crowds like this.

"You will come and see us?" repeated Miss Baker when at last farewells

became general. "Come and dine quite quietly, just ourselves. When will

you come?"

He could hardly plead a press of engagements, yet he was seized with the

reluctance to tie himself that so often attacks the newly returned

Anglo-Indian; everyone was in such a hurry at home, he wanted to feel

free, but evasion was impossible, and a near date was decided upon.

Going home with his father and mother in the hired brougham he said: "I

wonder how Grace can stick that kind of life!"

"So do I," agreed the General.

"But her friends are all so clever," protested Lady Flint; she had never

before felt so well disposed towards Grace's world; "and most of them do

something."

"Nothing that really matters, except the doctor lot," growled Sir

Philip, puffing at one of his son-in-law's excellent cigars. "Upon my

word, I felt thankful I was a bit deaf when that music master, or

whatever he calls himself, began hammering on the piano. And as for that

fellow Redgate--all I can say is that if he made himself, as he boasts,

he made a mistake."

"Well, dear, his daughter seems a very nice girl. You think she is

nice, don't you, Philip?"

Philip answered casually: "Oh, she's all right, as long as she gets her

own way."

Lady Flint ventured to announce that Miss Baker was probably coming to

tea on Sunday, and Sir Philip said he hoped her father was not coming

too. "If he is," he added truculently, "I shall go out."

How tiresome they both were, thought poor Lady Flint; perhaps the dinner

had something to do with it, certainly it had been very rich, and far

too much of it. The General was sure to have eaten all the things that

he knew disagreed with him, and of course Philip was not accustomed to

such elaborate feasts.

CHAPTER X

Philip did not carry out his intention of leaving London as soon as

escape could be accomplished without hurt to his parents' feelings. He

felt as though helpless in the grip of some mysterious conspiracy that

from day to day left him with hardly an hour that he could call his own.

"London is an awful place," he complained to his mother; "the smallest

errand runs away with the best part of a day, buying socks and shirts

for example, not to speak of boots and the tailor! Trades-people seem to

take a delight in obstructing one at every turn. If you wish to buy a

pair of gloves in comfort you have to be prepared to spend hours over

it, what with going and coming and hunting about for what you really

want!"

"Dearest boy, how you do exaggerate!" argued Lady Flint, fondly. "But I

know what you mean. I always felt the same for the first month after I

got home from India. Life is so different out there; plenty of space and

no trouble over trifles, though one hardly calls setting oneself up in

necessaries exactly a trifle anywhere. You ought to go to the dentist,

too, and see a doctor, and have your eyes tested. Don't leave all that

to the end of your leave, or the last month will be worse than the

first. And your father thinks you ought to attend a levee."

"My teeth are all right, I'm not ill, and I can see perfectly well;

also I am not going to attend a levee," he assured her firmly; he could

not have explained his condition of mind to his mother even had he

desired to do so; he could hardly account for it to himself. He felt

restless and listless at the same time; he hated the crowds in the

streets and the shops, the appointments to see relations that his mother

cajoled him into making, the little luncheons and teas with aunts and

cousins who were all so much more delighted to see him than he was to

see them; and Grace was a nuisance; she dragged him hither and thither,

tied him down to engagements without his permission, told him, when he

protested, that he wanted "waking up." Miss Baker, to his surprise, was

ever ready to aid and abet Grace in making up theatre and supper

parties--always something--Sandown, Ranelagh, the Park, endless

"tamashas"; Miss Baker appeared to have forgotten all her unworldly

theories, and to be as keen on gaiety as the rest of them; and wherever

they went he found himself at her side. Philip began to suspect his

sister of match-making; the suspicion became a certainty one evening

when he had accompanied her unwillingly to a great "crush" in Carlton

House Terrace, which, to him, was just a kaleidoscope of colour and

jewels, and a pushing, chattering throng.

The blaze of light, the crowd, and the scents, and the closeness of the

atmosphere, despite blocks of ice and electric fans, confused and

depressed him; he stood moody and resentful as Grace greeted her

friends, kept introducing him: "My brother from India," and he had to

listen and reply to vapid remarks about heat and snakes, and how

interesting it must be to live in India, and so on; till at length, in

desperation, he interrupted a conversation his sister was holding with a

being whose coat-front was bespattered with orders, to tell her he meant

to go home.

"This is more than I can stand," he said with suppressed impatience;

"I'm off!"

"Oh, Philip, do wait; Dorothy is sure to be here presently, and then

you'll be all right." Her eyes roved round the brilliant scene. "She was

to meet us here, you know. You can't disappoint her."

"She won't be disappointed."

"Of course she will be. Philip," she added, with serious intention,

"don't be a fool!"

"What do you mean?" he began hotly, but just then they were swept

asunder by new arrivals, and as he turned to flee he encountered Miss

Baker at the head of the stairs. He felt that a web was being woven

around him; now he understood what they were all driving at--Grace, and

his mother, and yes, Dorothy herself!--for as he met her eyes shining

with welcome he realised that she, with everyone else, awaited but one

outcome of their friendship. How blind he had been; he cursed his own

denseness.

As a matter of course she attached herself to him. "Where shall we go?

It's too early for supper, and I don't feel inclined to sit and listen

to music. Let's find some comfortable corner where we can talk in

peace."

"I am making for a comfortable corner farther away," he said

petulantly; "I'm going home!"

"Oh!" her dismay was patent, "and when I've only just come? I've got

something to tell you, something thrilling! Look here, I know this house

well. Come along, follow me!"

What else could he do? Morosely he followed her, feeling rather as if he

were walking in his sleep, through a door, along a passage, up a few

steps, and they were alone in a pretty boudoir that was cool and quiet,

fragrant with flowers, away from the crowd and the noise.

"Now we are safe! Give me a cigarette." Dorothy settled herself in a

deep chair; the gleam of her hair against a pile of purple cushions, her

long white arms and slender outline presented a striking picture, as

Philip could not but note as he stood before her on the hearthrug. Had

it not been for the disturbing idea that had taken definite shape in his

mind this evening he would have felt soothed, contented, very much at

home with her. As it was, he began to distrust his own powers of

resistance. Either he must get out of London at once, or he would be

forced seriously to consider the question of asking Lord Redgate's

daughter to be his wife. If, as he could not help assuming, she expected

him to propose to her sooner or later, opposition from her father was

not to be anticipated. Dorothy would have her own way--given the chance.

The fact that he was now actually contemplating the possibility startled

him. What a mean brute he must be! He could never love the girl as a man

should love the woman he married; if it became necessary he must tell

her the truth, and put an end to all thought of anything but

friendship....

"You are very glum to-night," she remarked, gazing at him through a

cloud of smoke. "What is the matter?"

"Probably the usual curse of the Anglo-Indian--liver!" he replied, with

an effort to speak lightly. "I've been eating and drinking too much ever

since I got home. It's time I went in for the simple life, somewhere out

of all this. It doesn't suit my peculiar constitution!"

"It doesn't suit me either," she said reflectively.

"You seem to thrive on it, anyway!"

"Oh! I am one of those chameleon people who can adapt themselves to any

surroundings. I could be happy anywhere, on a desert island, in the

Indian jungle--more particularly in the Indian jungle, provided----"

She paused and flicked some cigarette ash on to the carpet.

He took a little china saucer from the mantelpiece and placed it on a

table beside her. "You must learn to be tidy wherever you are!" he said

with mock severity, and added: "What was it you had to tell me?"

"A secret! Such a nice one, though soon it will be a secret no longer."

"Oh! Are you going to be married in spite of your contempt for my sex?"

She drew in her breath sharply, as though something had hurt her. "Why

do you remind me of my silly ideas? Don't you think I have the sense to

see when I have been wrong?"

He evaded reply to the question. "Well, out with this wonderful secret.

Don't keep me in suspense."

"It's this--you are to have the C.S.I.!" she told him triumphantly. "The

Star of India! Doesn't it sound splendid--glittering, glorious, grand!"

He stared at her stupidly, stammered: "How--how do you know?"

"Pater told me to-night, just as I was starting to come here," and she

added naïvely: "to come and meet _you_. Good old Pater, he is arranging

it all. Now, what do you say to that for a piece of news?"

"It is extremely kind of him, but I don't want it, I don't deserve it!"

he cried in desperation. "You must tell him--it must be stopped----"

"What on earth are you talking about? If you don't deserve it, who does?

Anyway, it's to be yours, whether you feel you deserve it or not, and I

can't tell you how proud I feel that in a kind of way you will have got

it through _me_!"

Through her! and through her, if he chose to say the word, he could have

all that, to the world, would appear to make life well worth the living.

For the moment the temptation was strong, almost overwhelming. Here, for

the asking, was the devotion of a clever, capable girl who had the

makings of a true comrade, who would revive his ambitions, enter

wholeheartedly into his career; he saw himself honoured, successful,

beyond his dreams; a power in the country that he loved to serve, with

every advantage, officially and socially, in his grasp. Why should he

hesitate? Here was his chance! he stood at the turning-point of his

existence that meant "fortune" without struggle or delay if he went

boldly forward....

Then, all at once, sweeping aside the temptation, the brilliant outlook,

came the thought of Stella, the true Star of his life and his heart; and

dimly he felt that to barter the memory of that other star, however far

from his reach, for tangible gain would be infamous, contemptible. The

shadow was more to him than the substance; he could not do this thing

and feel that his purpose was clean!

"I suppose you will think I am mad," he said slowly, with difficulty,

"but there is something--something that stands in the way----"

The girl paled, dropped the end of her cigarette into the saucer, and he

saw her hands grip the arms of the chair. "Is it--is it because----" she

lost her self-control. "Oh! don't look at me like that! Can't you

see--what does anything matter! Don't be so proud. Nothing can be too

good for you--Philip!"

She rose, held her hands out to him, firm, square hands; he took them

gently, reverently, and she swayed as she recognised the lack of passion

in his touch.

Haltingly, as best he could, he tried to tell her the truth, but it all

sounded so elusive, so unsubstantial, he felt he could hardly expect her

to comprehend. Silence fell between them; he turned from her in painful

regret.

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Philip, don't you trust me? Do you

think I can't know how you feel? If I can't help you in one way I can in

another perhaps, by giving you all my sympathy and understanding. I hope

if I had been placed as you are that I should have done exactly the

same. I see--I realise----" she faltered pitifully, "that as things are

you can't take the Star, you can't owe it to _me_ in the least degree. I

will explain somehow to my father; leave it to me, it isn't too late,

and some day you will have it--earn it yourself entirely--and--it may be

the other one too, I hope so, I do indeed! if she is worthy of you. But

oh! how could she, how could she leave your letter unanswered! There may

have been some mistake, it may come all right, don't give up hope. The

most wonderful things happen. And I--I shall always be your friend----"

She stopped, breathing fast; she had spoken so rapidly, under such

stress of emotion. As he met her strained, wide-open eyes she looked

almost unreal. A mist clouded his vision; he felt choked as he tried to

answer, to thank her; speech seemed so futile; for him the whole thing

was beyond words; he knew he was failing hopelessly to express himself.

She gave a tremulous laugh that was half a sob. "It's all right, don't

say anything, don't try. We both _know_. Let's get back to the crowd,"

and moving to the door she turned out the lights. Quickly she went

before him, down the steps and along the narrow passage. He saw her

mingle with the throng, her head held high, talking and laughing, a

bright, conspicuous figure, a brave, noble-hearted girl! He wished

honestly that he could have loved her; wished it quite apart from the

solid advantages she could have brought him as his wife.

CHAPTER XI

A day or two later when Philip, preparatory to his departure from

London, was choosing a fishing-rod in a well-known shop devoted to the

requirements of anglers, a little lady dressed in the height of fashion

rustled over to him from the farther end of the showroom where she had

been standing in company with an elderly, distinguished-looking man.

"Is it Mr. Flint?" she inquired gaily; and as he looked at her in

puzzled politeness a vague memory returned to him of someone trigged out

in sequins and tinsel, with a tambourine....

"You don't remember me? This time I'm not pretending. We really have met

before! My name is Matthews--Maud Verrall, you know, Stella Crayfield's

friend. How history repeats itself. Fancy my having to introduce myself

again, and all among fishing-rods and tackle and things, instead of in a

ball-room full of dressed-up idiots in India!"

"Why, of course--of course, how are you?" he said, gathering his wits

together, battling with an impulse to attack her on the spot as to

Stella's whereabouts, to ask her all about her. If anyone knew it would

be this wonderfully garbed little person, who now proceeded to beckon to

her deserted companion.

"Here's another old friend of Stella's, Sir George Rolt; you saw him at

that horrible ball, if you remember----"

The shop assistant stood by in patient resentment as the male customers

neglected their object, and the lady chattered of everything but

fishing-rods.

"I'm taking Sir George down with me to my old home in the country

to-morrow for a visit," she told Mr. Flint; "he and my husband are going

to fish from morning till night. So dull for me! but I shall have Stella

to talk to, and she will be thankful. She's at The Chestnuts, you know.

'Grandmamma and the Aunts'," she added with a mischievous "moue," then

she sighed "Poor Stella!" and she looked at him searchingly. "That was a

terrible business, wasn't it?"

Philip composed himself with an effort. "Her husband's death, you mean?

Yes, I suppose it was. I have heard nothing of her since it happened. I

hope she is well, have you seen her lately?"

"Quite lately; I've only been in town for a flying visit, just to get

clothes."

There was an awkward pause. Philip became aware that Sir George was

regarding him with particular attention. Was the man Stella's future

husband? The possibility filled him with helpless rage.

Mrs. Matthews coughed artificially and glanced from one man to the

other. "Sir George, dear," she said sweetly, "you'd better go back to

that kind gentleman who was giving you such good advice about

fishing-rods, or someone else will snap him up. I want to talk secrets

with Mr. Flint, if he's not in too great a hurry."

Sir George smiled and moved away compliantly. Mrs. Matthews apologised

to Philip's assistant. "I'm so sorry to interrupt, but I haven't seen

this friend of mine for such ages. Presently he will buy _heaps_ of

things, don't wait for him now if you are busy. I will see that he

doesn't run away!"

The young man succumbed to her blandishments, and Mrs. Matthews piloted

Philip to a corner of the shop where she annexed a couple of chairs.

"This is a funny place for a private conversation!" she remarked, "but

I'm not going to lose such a chance now I've got it. Fancy our meeting

like this; what a piece of luck! Now listen to me and answer my

questions." She scrutinised him closely. "You look struck all of a

heap!"

"I feel it," said Philip briefly.

"Why? because you want to hear news of Stella, or because you don't?"

"Because it's the one thing in the world I wish for," he answered, his

heart beating fast.

Her face cleared. "That's all right; one step forward! Now tell me--do

you know why Stella never answered your letter?"

"There could be only one reason. I told her in my letter that if I did

not hear from her I should understand." He fixed his eyes on a stuffed

salmon in a glass case, he could not bring himself to meet Mrs.

Matthews' inquisitive gaze.

"You silly fool!" said Stella's friend vigorously. "Couldn't you have

guessed that she must have had some desperate reason?"

"I thought----"

"You thought everything that was wrong, of course. Men always do. Sir

George Rolt thinks he is devoted to me at present, dear old thing, and

that I am equally 'gone' on him, but he's mistaken, though it's great

fun for us both while it lasts. Can you stand a shock, Mr. Philip

Flint?"

"I can stand anything," said Philip doggedly, "except----"

"I know what you were going to say--except to hear that Stella never

wants to see you again?"

"Exactly."

"Would it make any difference if you found her altered in another way?"

"How do you mean?" he asked, mystified.

Then Mrs. Matthews 'set to' as she would herself have expressed it, and

for the space of five minutes she talked breathlessly, uninterrupted by

Philip, who listened to her in greedy silence.

"There," she concluded at last. "Now, do you see?"

"Not altogether, I must confess. I don't see why Stella should have

concluded that her appearance would have made the smallest difference to

me, after my letter. It was very unfair to me!"

"Don't talk such trash. It was perfectly natural. She was too hideous

for words until she got home; we came home together, and I made her put

herself into the hands of an expert. Massage and treatment did wonders,

but, all the same, poor dear, she will never be beautiful again!"

"Good heavens, as if that would matter to me. Whatever she looks

like----" he paused, overcome by his feelings.

"Well, I will believe you, though one never knows! Anyway she's not so

bad, it's only one side of her face."

"Mrs. Matthews, for goodness' sake don't talk like this; I can't bear

it. Just tell me, once for all--does Stella care for me still?"

"Yes, darling, she does; and the best thing you can do is to come down

with me and Sir George to-morrow, fishing-rods and all, to The Court,

and make her tell you so herself. Will you?"

"Will I?" he scoffed ecstatically. "Mrs. Matthews, you are an angel!"

"Not yet," she assured him. "I don't mean to die young."

* * * * * *

Philip Flint walked up the short drive to The Chestnuts. The air was

filled with the peace and the scent of the summer's evening; and as he

viewed the old house with its little paved terrace, the lawn sloping

down to the stream, the cedar tree, the red wall of the kitchen garden,

he felt that it was all familiar to him.

An old lady was seated on the terrace flags--that would be "Grandmamma";

and an austere-looking female emerged from one of the French windows to

speak to the old lady--was that Aunt Augusta, or Aunt Ellen? His heart

warmed towards them. And as he hesitated, hardly daring to go forward,

he caught sight of a form stretched on a long chair beneath the cedar

tree.

Boldly he took a short cut through the shrubs. At the sound of his

footsteps she looked up, gave a little cry, hid her dear, maimed face in

her hands. Stella--his beloved, his star, his Star of India!

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