Nurse in India (22 page)

Jelly was dead, and Stella was the loneliest creature in all the world.

CHAPTER
TWENTY

During the next few hours
it seemed to Stella that she was living in some strange, fantastic dream. Roger and Armand, feeling it kinder, no doubt, to leave her to her grief, took their departure with messages that they would return at any time should she send for them. And an hour or two later Mr. Blonson, the gentle old missionary, came jogging up in a shabby old tonga, and spoke to her with such sweetness and understanding that the tears came at last and washed away some of that burden of stony sorrow.

Nor was his help limited to spiritual
c
omfort. He told her first that he had seen Chawand Rao and had learned that His Highness had already dispatched a car for Dr. Erickson, with a view to obtaining the necessary death certificate—a formality, since Erickson had so recently attended the sick woman. And then he broke it to her that in accordance with the irrevocable law of the East the funeral would have to take place that same evening. It would be held in the little cemetery adjoining his church. There was a corner where a flame-o
’
-the-forest tree was growing, and Miss Jellings had said to him once that she wished she could have seen it in blossom.

“I told her she would be back in England by then,” he said, “but now—well, I like to think it will shade the place where she lies, and that when its brief spell of blooming is over it will make a carpet for her of scarlet flowers. Dull old parson that I am, I appreciated to the full the perfume and color of her personality. She was a great little woman, and I for one shall always rejoice that I knew her.”

After he had gone, there were other visitors for her. Kind women she had barely met came to see if they could help her—bringing great bunches of flowers and offering her, rather shyly, the loan of black garments. All of them were eager, too, to give her hospitality; she was urged to pack up and leave the rest house at once and to stay in this or that bungalow. She accepted the flowers with gratitude and even borrowed some of the dark clothes—though she knew that Jelly would have hated to think of her wearing mourning. But on the question of moving out of the rest house she was adamant. She would only be a few days longer at the outside in Ghasirabad, and this was all too short a time for sorting out her late employer
’
s papers and writing the necessary letters to England. She would infinitely prefer to stay where she
w
as.

Realizing that she meant what she said, they left her in peace; but one of them, the middle-aged wife of a railway engineer whom Stella had always vaguely liked, promised to call for her at six o
’
clock and drive her to the church.

Afterward she remembered very little of that strange little ceremony—except the constantly recurring thought that in the flickering light of the oil lamps, it made a picture Jelly herself would have delighted in.

She recalled, too, her faint sense of surprise at the number of English people who had turned up at the graveside to honor the memory of a woman who, though famous in her day, was to them nothing but a plain, plump little person with an eccentric manner and a deplorably dowdy taste in dress. Only one or two—Roger, Armand and Mr. Blonson himself—could really feel sorrow at her passing.

The next day, too, held that queer, unreal quality. While she was still struggling with breakfast. Armand drove up and, with a kindliness that made her forgive him all his recent teasing, set about finding out how he could best be of use to her.

“If you could help me with some of the necessary sorting, I
’
ll be more than grateful,” she
told him wearily. “Poor old Jelly
’
s papers are in the most frightful mess
—
crochet patterns all mixed up with important business letters and cooking recipes folded inside publishers
’
contracts; it makes me feel utterly dazed to look at t
h
em.”

He smiled. “Filing is my strong point. My uncle always used to say—by way of reproach—that I had the makings of an excellent clerk.”

“And there
’
s another thing. If you could arrange my ticket to Bombay,
that would be a great weight off my mind.”

“That
’
s easily done, the railway people here can put the whole thing through in no time.” He hesitated. “When do you want to travel?
”

She considered, frowning a little. “I could be ready in two days
’
time; Muhammad Ali will be traveling with me, and he is a seasoned campaigner. He
’
s got nothing to learn about looking after luggage and arranging meals on trains or at wayside stations.”

“I know. Some of these servants are marvelous,” he agreed absently. And then he added abruptly, “Just one thing, Stella; are you all right for money?
”

She flushed. “I
’
ve plenty for the first part of my journey and for settling up anything that
’
s owing here—rent, for instance, and servants
’
wages. His Highness gave me fifty pounds for nursing. Prithviraj, you see, and I haven
’
t touched that yet; and besides that, I have another ten pounds or so.”

He shook his head. “That won
’
t go very far in getting you back to London. In any case you can
’
t land there without a bean. You need another hundred, at least, to be on the safe side.”

“I suppose I shouldn
’
t use any of Jelly
’
s traveler
’
s checks?”

“I doubt if you
’
d be allowed to do that.” He drummed with his fingers on the table. “I
’
ll lend you the money like a shot, if you
’
ll take it. I haven
’
t a lot of ready cash as yet, but His Highness has seen various documents and declares he is perfectly willing to act as my banker.”

“Perhaps he
’
ll do the same service for me,” Stella began eagerly, and then broke off, looking and feeling embarrassed.

“I should have thought you would have preferred to borrow from a fellow European than from an Indian,” Armand observed stiffly, adding a moment later, in a gentler tone, “unless you
’
d like to go to the old rani! I know women don
’
t like taking loans from men, and a hundred or two is nothing to the queen: Besides, she
’
d probably jump at the chance of helping
‘
my good friend, Miss Hantley,
’
as she always terms you nowadays.”

“I think that
’
s an excellent idea.” Stella was grateful to Armand not only for the sensible suggestion but for the delicacy that prompted it. “I
’
d better go up and see her.”

“Good, I
’
ll fix up a time for you.” And then he stopped short, glancing out of the long window. “Here
’
s another helper, your friend Fendish.
”

Stella
’
s heart missed a beat, and she wondered dimly whether there would ever come a day when the mere sound of his name would cease to have power to move her.

“Come in, Roger,” she said quietly, and getting up, gave him her hand.

He held it for the least space of time that courtesy demanded and, after nodding at Verle, said quickly, “I wondered if I could be of any assistance, but I see I
’
m not needed.”

“It
’
s very good of you to look in,” Stella began, but before she could say any more, he made an observation that effectually silenced her.

“I
’
ve really come on Allegra
’
s account,” he told her, a little awkwardly. “She asked me to apologize for not being at the church yesterday evening.”

“I
’
m afraid I didn
’
t notice her absence,” Stella said evenly. “Perhaps you
’
d assure her of that.”

For a moment Roger seemed taken aback. Then he said clumsily, “You and Verle are busy; I won
’
t hold you up. But if there
’
s anything I can do for you, Stella, send that devoted servant of yours along with a message to either my office or my bungalow.
”

She thanked him, and at the same time Armand, looking at Fendish with a rather puzzled expression, asked abruptly, “Talking of devoted servants, what on earth has happened to that wonderful bearer of yours—Hussein or whatever his name is?”

Roger shrugged his shoulders. “When he gave me notice, he merely informed me that the climate of Kotpura no longer suited his health,” he returned coolly. And then he gave a grim smile. “I wonder what he would have said if
I
had told him then that I, too, had decided to shift to another part of India. It would have put him in a nice fix, poor fellow.”

“Are you leaving Kotpura then?” The question came simultaneously from Stella and Armand.

“I
’
m planning to do so,” Roger said calmly. “I
’
ve grown to dislike the place, and it
’
s time I sought new
pastures. I may even chuck India altogether and ship across to East Africa.”

For a few seconds there was silence. Then Armand said smiling wryly, “Poor Chawand Rao
’
s marvelous club doesn
’
t seem to be producing the effects for which, he was hoping. His idea was to keep his European collaborators happy and settled, and instead of that, everyone seems to be leaving.”

Stella, too, smiled a little then. “You and I can hardly claim to be doing much for Kotpura State, Armand,” she said dryly. “I
’
m a tourist, and you, as you
’
re continually saying, have stayed here only to earn a good salary. Roger is the only one who will be seriously missed.”

“Oh, men of my qualifications are two a penny these days,” Roger retorted lightly. “Anyway I shall be just as useful in some other part of the globe.” And before any more could be said, he gave rather a strained smile and with a curt goodbye went hurrying off.

Much to her relief Armand made no reference to Roger
’
s flying visit or to the news of his forthcoming departure. She had been horribly afraid that he would; touch her on the raw by suggesting that Allegra was at the bottom of Roger
’
s restlessness and his desire to leave, Ghasirabad.

It
’
s probably true, but I don
’
t want to hear about it,
she told herself miserably.
He
’
s fallen for Allegra, but doesn
‘
t dream of taking her away from Jim; all he wants to do is clear out.

She found it even more difficult now to concentrate on what she was doing and when, after nearly two hours of solid work Armand stretched himself and told her that he must be thinking of returning to the palace, she decided that she must and would have a brief rest.

But before he went Armand said something that made her feel still more charitably disposed toward him.

“I want to apologize with a
ll
my heart for the way I
’
ve teased and tormented you lately,” he observed contritely, “but your obstinacy roused a veritable little devil in me. I see now that it was a caddish thing to keep nagging at you to change your mind, and I won
’
t bother you again.”

“You certainly made me furious with you,” she admitted.

“I know, and I
’
m afraid I enjoyed it. I tried to make myself believe that anything was better than your indifference. I ought to have realized that it was your presumption on my part to think of you as my future wife. You
’
re far too good for me.”

“Nonsense, Armand,” she exclaimed. But he would not let her continue.

“And there
’
s far more to it than that,” he went on quickly. “Apart from my being a constant disappointment to you, I wouldn
’
t have been happy, either. No man wants to be conscious all the time of being inferior to his wife.”

“That
’
s ridiculous, Armand,” she burst out, interrupting him again. “You make me feel an absolute prig! I
’
ve no pretensions to being better than you—”

“But you are, all the same, my dear. And I know in my heart of hearts that I
’
ll be much happier with someone of my own level. You
’
re an idealist—unselfish, generous, chivalrous; while I
’
m simply out to have the pleasantest time I can, without worrying overmuch about the troubles and cares of other people.
”

“Rubbish. Look what you
’
ve been doing for me this very morning.” She made an eloquent gesture toward the neat piles of papers on the table.

He gave an odd little laugh. “Oh, even reprobates like myself are ready to help folks they
’
re fond of.” And then, lifting one of her hands to his lips, he dropped a
li
ght kiss on it.

“
Au revoir, mam
’
selle.
And don
’
t worry your pretty head about me anymore.”

Alone again she made a further effort, against her better judgment, to concentrate on the many jobs that still awaited her attention. But she found it was utterly beyond her. Without the distraction of a companion, her thoughts persistently wandered, now to the dead woman, now to Roger, and in the effort to control her grief and refrain from crying, she found herself attacked by a violent headache.

Obliged at last to abandon the remainder of the sorting, she went to her room to lie down. She had no hope of sleeping and was only aware of having dropped off when she heard in her dreams a low, insistent coughing—and woke to the consciousness that it was hours later and
that Muhammad Ali was standing outside the doorway of her bedroom.

“What is it?” she exclaimed.

“
Memsahib
, His Highness Raja Chawand Rao is here and desires to speak with you.”

S
he hesitated. “Very well. Tell him I will come at once.”

“And shall I not bring in the tea tray just the same? You had no luncheon, and now it is four o
’
clock.”

“Very well. And put on a second cup for His Highness.”

A few minutes later, having done what she could to hide the traces of her grief, she went into the sitting room and
was greeted in his usual courteous manner by Chawand Rao.

“I hope you will forgive my intruding on you,” he said steadily, “but I have been having a word with Mr. Verle, and there is something I want to discuss with you. But first I must perform an errand for my aunt. She sends you this packet, which you are not to open she says, in my presence.” And he handed her a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied untidily with red ribbon.

She thanked him, then, feeling rather nervous, busied herself with the tea tray, and waited for him to go on.

But Chawand Rao, having shot his preliminary bolt, seemed curiously diffident of coming to the point. It was not until they had finished their tea that he looked across at her and said very quietly,
“Miss Hantley, Verle tells met you are intending to leave Kotpura State in two days
’
time I have come to ask you to change your mind, to beg you to, make my poor country your permanent home.”

And when, bewildered, she made no answer, he leaned forward and observed with an earnestness that touched he
r
in spite of herself, “A dear friend has just been taken from your side by death. Perhaps you are
i
n the mood to listen with patience to a little history I would like to tell you—of the young wife I loved and lost.”