"Of course not, why should you? I quite understand. But it's easy enough to think of now—eh?"
Her hesitation inflamed him further; he hungered to kiss her, to hold her in his arms—the first, and as long as he lived, the last man to do so. Next moment his lips were on hers; she was enfolded, crushed to his big body, almost suffocated, and to his intense satisfaction she made no resistance....
To Stella it was like all she had heard about drowning, when a multitude of impressions and memories were said to invade the mind in a miraculously short space of time: Maud Verrall and her love adventures and engagement; the spotty youth outside the Greystones gate; young Capper the farmer; the lumber room at The Chestnuts, and her thirst for India; and oddly, above all, the words of the familiar hymn that of a sudden had exasperated her those many Sundays ago seemed to beat time to the recollections:
I dare not choose my lot,
I would not if I might.
She was barely conscious of the present, hardly even of the determined embrace that held her fast; only the past seemed real, and it was the past that won. When he released her, flushed and breathless, she knew she had dared to choose her lot once and for all; she was in the grip of a wild excitement; she, Stella Carrington, was to be married, like Maud Verrall, and she was going to India, to India! The doorway of life was unlocked at last, presenting a wondrous vista, entrancing, irresistible.... Then, blocking the doorway, she saw Colonel Crayfield, bulky, triumphant, a masterful smile on his face.
"Well, isn't it all right?" And again he drew her to him, this time gently, protectively, and with his arm about her they sauntered among the vegetables and fruit bushes, while he held forth concerning the future, Stella hearkening as in a dream. She knew he was speaking of his position, of horses and clothes, of a piano, and a pearl necklace; but it was of India she was thinking as she hung on his arm in childlike gratitude. Was he not granting her the desire of her heart?
"You are a sort of fairy godfather!" she told him, laughing; "perhaps not exactly a fairy—more of a Santa Claus. I think I must call you Santa-Sahib."
"Call me what you like; but doesn't it spell Satan as well?"