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!"