Star of India, Alice Perrin [best ereader for manga .txt] 📗

sinking into soft powdery soil, now jerking against clods of earth, hard as iron. They left the works and the camps behind them, and headed for the grand trunk road marked by an avenue of great trees in the distance; passed through a village that was silent, deserted; most of the inhabitants had sought refuge on the relief works. On the outskirts they encountered an ash-smeared figure, practically naked, with long, matted hair and upraised arms, who called after them—cursings or blessings, what matter which!

The comparatively smooth surface of the grand trunk road came as a blessed relief, and they spun along swiftly, between the rows of giant trees, avoiding sleepy carts that crawled in the middle of the highway, passing silent, plodding little bands of foot travellers. Neither of them felt inclined for conversation; the hot, still air through which they clove, the rhythmical beat of the pony's hoofs, lulled their senses; even Jacob had long since ceased to fidget and demand attention.... As in a dream they arrived at the junction that with its satellites of ugly square buildings appeared to have been dropped without purpose on to a barren plain, and found themselves in the midst of a clamouring throng of humanity; every caste seemed to be represented, from the shaven, high-featured Brahmin priest to the humblest, uncleanest outsider. A proof, so often quoted by the inexperienced observer, of the power of progress! Yet, while the "twice-born" would journey cheek by jowl with the pariah, making use[Pg 236] of the railway for his own convenience, in reality it brought them no nearer to bridging the gulf. A few oblations, ceremonial ablutions, a liberal religious offering, and the high-caste traveller would feel cleansed, soul and body, from the evil effect of such contamination....

The interior of the station was suffocating. Philip shouldered a way for his companion through the crowd to a waiting-room reserved for "Europeans only," where they found a family of Eurasians already installed, bundles innumerable, a pack of fretful children, a litter of domestic belongings spread over the floor.

Philip backed hastily from the entrance. "This won't do," he said. "We must try the refreshment-room."

It was scarcely more inviting, but at least they had the place to themselves, save for a couple of slovenly-looking servants who were flicking crumbs and dead flies from the table laid with dirty appointments. A dingy punkah began to wave jerkily, moving the ill-smelling air. Nauseated, weary, miserable because she was about to part from the only man who had ever appealed to her heart as well as to her mind, Dorothy Baker sat staring at the pretentious electroplated epergne set in the middle of the table, coloured tissue paper ruffled about its base.

How sordid it all was! She dared not look at Philip Flint for fear she should lose her self-control; the lump in her throat was almost strangling....

[Pg 237]

To Philip her silence, her depression, merely indicated that she was pitifully tired, worn out with the trying events of the day, and no wonder, poor girl! He felt helpless, at his wits' end to know what more he could do for her.

"It won't be long now," he said in hopeful desperation, looking at his watch. "The train ought to be here in a few moments."

"In a few moments," she echoed mechanically.

Then, from outside, came the clangour of metal striking a suspended length of rail, the Indian equivalent of the station bell, announcing the train's arrival.

"Here she is!" Philip rose, half relieved, half reluctant. They plunged into the yelling throng on the platform. Flint's old bearer spread the Miss-sahib's bedding on an empty seat in the ladies' compartment that had only one other occupant, a mummy-like form, fast asleep.

"Now you're all right." Philip looked into the carriage. "You'd better get in and settle yourself for the night."

She held out her hand. "Please don't wait," she said formally, avoiding his gaze. "Good-byes are so horrid, and they say it's unlucky to see the last of a traveller!"

"Unlucky for me to see the last of you. I shall miss you."

"Oh, no, you won't," she said sharply. "Good-bye, and very many thanks for all your kindness."

[Pg 238]

She got into the train. Through the window he saw her busying herself with her bag. She did not even look up as the train passed out of the station. Chilled and puzzled he turned away. What an odd girl! Her curious behaviour, her grey eyes and freckled eager face filled his thoughts as he drove back to his camp in the hot moonlight.

[Pg 239]

CHAPTER V

Slowly, monotonously for Philip the months dragged on, unmarked by any special events of a personal character. At intervals he heard from Miss Baker. First she reported her safe arrival at the Mission headquarters, having considered it "only right" to go there rather than take advantage of the more comfortable hospitality offered by the Magistrate and his wife. But apparently this meritorious attitude was not fully understood or appreciated by her hardworking hosts, for Miss Baker complained that though the Mission people were always desperately busy themselves they made no real use of the services she was so ready to render; one of them had actually advocated her joining the Station Club that she might obtain some distraction! The next letter came from the Magistrate's bungalow, where Miss Baker was being nursed over an attack, her first attack, of malarial fever; at the Mission House, it seemed, no one had time to look after a white patient! The Magistrate's wife had most opportunely come to the rescue.... As soon as a passage could be secured Miss Baker intended to go home. On the whole, she confessed, she felt that her visit to India had not been quite the success she had anticipated. Wherever she went she seemed only to get in the way—and she had meant to be so useful! English people in India wasted their energies over things that did not greatly[Pg 240] matter, and in consequence had no time for more vital questions. Later on, perhaps, she might come back, and with better results; in any case she had gathered ample material for her book, which she would begin on the voyage.... She wrote to Philip from board ship, and again from her father's house in Mayfair. The letters still contained criticisms aimed at British administration in India, but through them all there ran a pathetic little undercurrent of self-distrust that reached Philip's sympathy; and her never-failing remembrance of their brief companionship touched him—always her love to Jacob, and how was the chestnut pony, and the old bearer, and did he recollect this, that, and the other? Also when was he coming home? A few mails later (great excitement) she had met Lady Lane-Johnson, his sister, at a big literary gathering, quite by accident; they had begun to talk about India, and then of course had discovered, etc., etc.

These letters, though Philip sometimes felt it an effort to answer them, were welcome during the dreary routine of duty, as inspection followed inspection, journey upon journey, by road or by rail, from one famine-smitten area to another. The battle with death and want continued through the long, hot days and nights, until, as though with belated compassion, nature at last stepped in, and a strong monsoon swept up from the coast, allaying epidemics, washing away disease and dirt, reviving energy and hope; and if the work was still as strenuous in its way, it was at least work that was spurred by relief and thankfulness in place of dread and despair.

[Pg 241]

With the cessation of the rains Flint felt free to take a breathing-space. His leave granted for September, he sought a popular station, that, not being the headquarters of a Provincial Government, was in a measure exempt from official etiquette and certain irksome observances that prevailed in the more important health resorts. Surima, its dwellings perched like a flock of white birds on the slopes of the high hills, was notorious for its gaiety and its gregarious gatherings. Here assembled merchants from the great ports, lonely ladies whose health and spirits suffered from the heat and the dullness of the plains, subalterns intent on "a good time," holiday-makers of every service and calling, and an abundance of pretty girls....

Philip selected Surima for his leave because he felt it might be possible to lose his identity for the time being in such a motley crowd. He need make no calls; Government House with a visitors' book and commands to social functions was non-existent. His presence would not be noted. He intended to loaf, to spend long hours in the life-giving air on the hill-sides, perhaps do a little shooting—jungle fowl, a bear or two, possibly a leopard. He would have ease and leisure in which to make up his mind whether to sink back to the level of humdrum district administration until his first pension was due and he could leave India altogether, or set himself to regain his position in the front ranks of competitors for high office. He realised that he was overworked, that his mental outlook was hardly to be trusted at present, deranged as it had been by the distressing affair at[Pg 242] Rassih. Given time and rest he might manage, in a measure, to make a fresh start and to put the past behind him....

To his disgust the Club chambers at Surima were full, and he was forced to find temporary quarters in a fashionable hotel that occupied a central position. It was close on the dinner hour when he arrived, and as he changed into evening clothes he found it difficult to realise that for a full month he would be master of his time, able to follow his own inclinations. With a sense of personal freedom he strolled into the dining-room only to be confronted by a scene that, at first glance, made him query—was he, by any chance, in a lunatic asylum instead of a hotel?

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!

[Pg 243]

"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[Pg 244] 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