THE FIRST GLIMMER
It was from the Colonel himself that Stella heard of Everard's
retirement.
He walked back from the Mess that night with Tommy and asked to see her
for a few minutes alone. He was always kinder to her in his wife's
absence.
She was busy installing the new _ayah_ whom Peter with the air of a
magician who has but to wave his wand had presented to her half an hour
before. The woman was old and bent and closely veiled--so closely that
Stella strongly suspected her disfigurement to be of a very ghastly
nature, but her low voice and capable manner inspired her with
instinctive confidence. She realized with relief from the very outset
that her faithful Peter had not made a mistake. She was sure that the
new-comer had nursed sickly English children before. She went to the
Colonel, leaving the strange woman in charge of her baby and Peter
hovering reassuringly in the background.
His first greeting of her had a touch of diffidence, but when he saw
the weary suffering of her eyes this was swallowed up in pity. He took
her hands and held them.
"My poor girl!" he said.
She smiled at him. Pity from an outsider did not penetrate to the depths
of her. "Thank you for coming," she said.
He coughed and cleared his throat. "I hope it isn't an intrusion," he
said.
"But of course not!" she made answer. "How could it be? Won't you sit
down?"
He led her to a chair; but he did not sit down himself. He stood before
her with something of the air of a man making a confession.
"Mrs. Monck," he said, "I think I ought to tell you that it was by my
advice that your husband resigned his commission."
Her brows drew together a little as if at a momentary dart of pain. "Has
he resigned it?" she said.
"Yes. Didn't he tell you?" He frowned. "Haven't you seen him? Don't you
know where he is?"
She shook her head. "I can only think of my baby just now," she said.
He swung round abruptly upon his heel and paced the room. "Oh yes, of
course. I know that. Ralston told me. I am very sorry for you, Mrs.
Monck,--very, very sorry."
"Thank you," she said.
He continued to tramp to and fro. "You haven't much to thank me for. I
had to think of the Regiment; but I considered the step very carefully
before I took it. He had rendered invaluable service--especially over
this Khanmulla trial. He would have been decorated for it if--" he
pulled up with a jerk--"if things had been different. I know Sir
Reginald Bassett thought very highly of him, was prepared to give him an
appointment on his personal staff. And no doubt eventually he would have
climbed to the top of the tree. But--this affair has destroyed him." He
paused a moment, but he did not look at her. "He has had every chance,"
he said then. "I kept an open mind. I wouldn't condemn him unheard
until--well until he refused flatly to speak on his own behalf. I went
over to Khanmulla and talked to him--talked half the night. I couldn't
move him. And if a man won't take the trouble to defend his own honour,
it isn't worth--that!" He snapped his fingers with a bitter gesture;
then abruptly wheeled and came back to her. "I didn't come here to
distress you," he said, looking down at her again. "I know your cup is
full already. And it's a thankless task to persuade any woman that her
husband is unworthy of her, besides being an impertinence. But what I
must say to you is this. There is nothing left to wait for, and it would
be sheer madness to stay on any longer. The Rajah has been deeply
incriminated and is in hiding. The Government will of course take over
the direction of affairs, but there is certain--absolutely certain--to
be a disturbance when Ermsted's murderer is executed. I hope an adequate
force will soon be at our disposal to cope with it, but it has not yet
been provided. Therefore I cannot possibly permit you to stay here any
longer. As Monck's wife, it is more than likely that you might be made
an object of vengeance. I can't risk it. You and the child must go. I
will send an escort in the morning."
He stopped at last, partly for lack of breath, partly because from her
unmoved expression he fancied that she was not taking in his warning
words. She sat looking straight before her as one rapt in reverie. It
was almost as though she had forgotten him, suffered some more absorbing
matter to crowd him out of her thoughts.
"You do follow me?" he questioned at length as she did not speak.
She lifted her eyes to him again though he felt it was with a great
effort. "Oh, yes," she said. "I quite understand you, Colonel Mansfield.
And--I am quite grateful to you. But I am not staying here for my
husband's sake at all. I--do not suppose we shall ever see each other
any more. All that is over."
He started. "What! You have given him up?" he said, uttering the words
almost involuntarily, so quiet was she in her despair.
She bent her head. "Yes, I have given him up. I do not know where he
is--or anything about him. I am staying here now--I must stay here
now--for my baby's sake. He is too ill to bear a journey."
She lifted her face again with the words, and in its pale resolution he
saw that he would spend himself upon further argument in vain. Moreover,
he was for the moment too staggered by the low-spoken information to
concentrate his attention upon persuasion. Her utter quietness silenced
him.
He stood for a moment or two looking down at her, then abruptly bent and
took her hand. "You're a very brave woman," he said, a quick touch of
feeling in his voice. "You've had a fiendish time of it out here from
start to finish. It'll be a good thing for you when you can get out of
it and go Home. You're young; you'll start again."
It was clumsy consolation, but his hand-grip was fatherly. She smiled
again at him, and got up.
"Thank you very much, Colonel. You have always been kind. Please don't
bother about me any more. I am really not a bit afraid. I have too much
to think about. And really I don't think I am important enough to be in
any real danger. You will excuse me now, won't you? I have just got a
new _ayah_, and they always need superintending. Perhaps you will join
my brother-in-law. I know he will be delighted."
She extricated herself with a gentle aloofness more difficult to combat
than any open opposition, and he went away to express himself more
strongly to Bernard Monck from whom he was sure at least of receiving
sympathy if not support.
Stella returned to her baby with a stunned feeling of having been
struck, and yet without consciousness of pain. Perhaps she had suffered
so much that her faculties were getting numbed. She knew that the
Colonel was surprised that his news concerning Everard had affected her
so little. She was in a fashion surprised herself. Was she then so
absorbed that she had no room for him in her thoughts? And yet only the
previous night how she had yearned for him!
It was the end of everything for him--the end of his ambition, of his
career, of all his cherished hopes. He was a broken man and he would
drop out as other men had dropped out. His love for her had been his
ruin. And yet her brain seemed incapable of grasping the meaning of the
catastrophe. The bearing of her burden occupied the whole of her
strength.
The rest of the Colonel's news scarcely touched her at all, save that
the thought flashed upon her once that if the danger were indeed so
great Everard would certainly come to her. That sent a strange glow
through her that died as swiftly as it was born. She did not really
believe in the danger, and Everard was probably far away already.
She went back to her baby and the _ayah_, Hanani, over whom Peter was
mounting guard with a queer mixture of patronage and respect. For though
he had procured the woman and obviously thought highly of her, he
seemed to think that none but himself could be regarded as fully
qualified to have the care of his _mem-sahib's_ fondly cherished _baba_.
Stella heard him giving some low-toned directions as she entered, and
she wondered if the new _ayah_ would resent his lordly attitude. But the
veiled head bent over the child expressed nothing but complete docility.
She answered Peter in few words, but with the utmost meekness.
Her quietness was a great relief to Stella. There was a self-reliance
about it that gave her confidence. And presently, tenderly urged by
Peter, she went to the adjoining room to rest, on the understanding that
she should be called immediately if occasion arose. And that was the
first night of many that she passed in undisturbed repose.
In the early morning, entering, she found Peter in sole possession and
very triumphant. They had divided the night, he said, and Hanani had
gone to rest in her turn. All had gone well. He had slept on the
threshold and knew. And now his _mem-sahib_ would sleep through every
night and have no fear.
She smiled at his solicitude though it touched her almost to tears, and
gathered in silence to her breast the little frail body that every day
now seemed to feel lighter and smaller. It would not be for very
long--their planning and contriving. Very soon now she would be
free--quite free--to sleep as long as she would. But her tired heart
warmed to Peter and to that silent _ayah_ whom he had enlisted in her
service. Through the dark night of her grief the love of her friends
shone with a radiance that penetrated even the deepest shadows. Was this
the lamp in the desert of which Bernard had spoken so confidently--the
Lamp that God had lighted to guide her halting feet? Was it by this that
she would come at last into the Presence of God Himself, and realize
that the wanderers in the wilderness are ever His especial care?
Certainly, as Peter had intimated, she knew her baby to be safe in their
joint charge. As the days slipped by, it seemed to her that Peter had
imbued the _ayah_ with something of his own devotion, for, though it was
proffered almost silently, she was aware of it at every turn. At any
other time her sympathy for the woman would have fired her interest and
led her to attempt to draw her confidence. But the slender thread of
life they guarded, though it bound them with a tie that was almost
friendship, seemed so to fill their minds that they never spoke of
anything else. Stella knew that Hanani loved her and considered her in
every way, but she gave Peter most of the credit for it, Peter and the
little dying baby she rocked so constantly against her heart. She knew
that many an _ayah_ would lay down her life for her charge. Peter had
chosen well.
Later--when this time of waiting and watching was over, when she was
left childless and alone--she would try to find out something of the
woman's history, help her if she could, reward her certainly. It was
evident that she was growing old. She had the stoop and the deliberation
of age. Probably, she would not have obtained an _ayah's_ post under any
other circumstances. But, notwithstanding these drawbacks, she had a
wonderful endurance, and she was never startled or at a loss. Stella
often told herself that she would not have exchanged her for another
woman--even a white woman--out of the whole of India had the chance
offered. Hanani, grave, silent, capable, met every need.