Stella murmured her gratitude. She divined Mrs. Cuthell's self-reproach, and realised the wisdom of her advice not to allow her mind to dwell on the information so thoughtlessly imparted. After all, if Mrs. Cuthell had not divulged the history of the house, someone else would have done so sooner or later; it was only a wonder she had not heard it all before now. She freely forgave Mrs. Cuthell, and was sorry to see the last of her. Had Robert allowed her to make a friend she would have chosen Mrs. Cuthell, who at least was simple and true. Stella did not trust Mrs. Piggott. Mrs. Antonio and Pussy were out of the question as intimates. She had nothing in common with Mrs. Beard, and she had seen little of the other ladies. None of them had made friendly advances beyond their first calls, and a self-interested attendance at Mrs. Crayfield's weekly "at homes," when they were assured of good tennis and refreshments and an enjoyable afternoon.
Nevertheless, Stella had Mrs. Cuthell to thank for a sleepless night, that was followed at intervals by many others. She lay awake visualising horrors, listening with dread for "extraordinary sounds," though she heard nothing more startling than the usual chorus of jackals and hyenas outside, the snores of a servant in one of the verandas, and the coughing and murmuring of the night guard. She made no confession of her fears to Robert. For one thing she suspected that his silence concerning the stories and associations of the place had been due not so much to consideration for her peace of mind as for his own convenience, and she could well understand his motive. A wife with "nerves," despondent, anxious to escape, would not be at all to his taste. But her efforts to conceal her apprehensions and her antipathy to the house only added to the strain.
CHAPTER IX
The Cuthells' successor was reported to be a bachelor. Of course, Mrs. Piggott professed to have knowledge of his history even before he arrived in the station. She told Mrs. Crayfield he was a very rising civilian who was considered far too brilliant to be wasted on ordinary district administration, and therefore it was intended that he should merely mark time at Rassih pending his elevation to some important appointment.
"And one can just fancy," she added spitefully, "what a conceited prig he must be, what airs he will give himself, and how he will despise us all! I haven't a doubt he's about five foot high, with short sight and a head too big for his body, can't ride or shoot, and is probably the son of a shopkeeper at Tooting or some equally refined locality. The sort of creature who gets into the Civil Service by cramming to the last ounce. They'll be the ruin of India, because the right kind of natives know they aren't 'sahibs' and hate them accordingly, while the wrong sort take advantage of their weak points. I hope you'll sit on him well, Mrs. Crayfield."
Stella felt a faint curiosity to view a sample of the competitive system so condemned by Mrs. Piggott. She had also heard her husband deplore the modern measures that permitted Messrs. Brown, Jones and Robinson to help govern the most aristocratic country in the world. But one morning, within the orthodox and inconvenient hours decreed for first calls in the East (one of the few relics of old John Company customs), when the visiting card of Mr. Philip Ferguson Flint was brought to her, it was followed by no under-sized, top-heavy specimen such as Mrs. Piggott had described, but by a good-looking fellow not much over thirty, with friendly blue eyes, and no trace of "airs" in his bearing, unless a certain well-bred self-confidence could be imputed to conceit.
Philip Flint was taken aback in his turn. If he had thought about his chief's wife at all, save as a personage to be called upon without delay as in duty bound, he had certainly foreseen an amiable, middle-aged memsahib who would perhaps rescue him good-naturedly from the discomforts of the Government rest house until he could find suitable quarters for himself. Here, instead, was one of the prettiest girls he had ever beheld, incredibly young, unless indeed she was the daughter, not the wife, of the Commissioner.
As he entered she was standing in the centre of the big room, a slim, white-gowned figure beneath the slow-swaying punkah, and its movement stirred gently the bright little curls on her forehead—adorable curls. And what eyes, with thick, feathery lashes upcurved at the tips. Great Cæsar! what luck, after all, that Rassih should have been his portion. And to think how he had grumbled at the prospect of such exile even for a few months!