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

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[Pg 245] 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[Pg 246] 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[Pg 247] 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[Pg 248] 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[Pg 249] 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.[Pg 250] 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[Pg 251] 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.

[Pg 252]

"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