Robert accepted the excuse in all good faith. He prescribed a dose of quinine and a glass of iced champagne, both of which she swallowed to please him, and when later he came to her room she lay still, with closed eyes, till he was safely asleep. Then she stole from her bed and went out on to the balcony. Yellow and parched the landscape lay before her, bathed in the strong Eastern moonlight, the little heaps of ruins in the foreground picked out with black shadows—relics of past power, dead echoes of ancient strife! On this spot where she stood, on the ramparts of the old Moghul fort, perhaps Emperors had stood also, unwitting of the future, of the coming downfall of their dynasty.
From Philip Flint she had learnt how the fort had been built by the great Akbar in the reign of his greater Western contemporary, Elizabeth; how it had lain with his descendants to uphold Moghul might and dominion, and how they had failed—failed before a power that was stronger in its spirit of self-sacrifice and honest purpose. 'Midst all her unease of mind she felt the magic and the marvel of the past; remembered George Thomas and his wide ambitions—a voice crying in the wilderness of turmoil and chaos and oppression of the helpless, a pioneer of the peace and protection to follow for this gorgeous old country. Yet was the present order and prosperity doomed to pass in its turn, leaving even less traces of its influence than just ruins and remains and reminders? Would India seethe again with tyranny, murder, persecution, general insecurity of property and person, creed up against creed, custom against custom, avarice stalking the land to block and destroy all progress? Flint, she knew, feared for India's future, owing to the Western system of education that was being pursued without forethought, without judicious provision for employment that would guard against disaster. Sooner or later, he had said, there would come into power a faction that for the sake of unpractical theories and so-called "ideals" totally unsuited to the East, would liberate forces, dangerous forces already at work beneath the surface for personal gain, that would seek to oppress and intimidate the masses, render just administration impossible, degrade British rule into a farce. And then? Well then it would devolve into a choice between the withdrawal of British authority, leaving the country open to conquest from some stronger foreign nation, or a reversion to sane government, and the drastic suppression of sedition, conspiracy, and rebellion.
In face of these reflections Stella's own troubles seemed to fade into space; she felt lifted above them, indifferent to petty considerations, to the jealousy of Sher Singh, Robert's propensities and the limitations he sought to impose upon her. Now boldly, and without scruple, she permitted her imagination to run riot. Supposing she were Philip Flint's wife—how she would strive to help and encourage him, how she would fling herself into his work and his aspirations, each of them doing their utmost, hand in hand, for the welfare of the country they both loved! Heart and brain afire she paced the broad balcony in a maze of fictitious delight; to-night there was little sound, no howling of beasts save in the far distance where jackals hunted in packs; and, near at hand, only the soft murmur of the city beyond the walls. Spellbound, as in a dream, she loitered; the heat was intense in the quiet, the desolation, the hard yellow light of the moon, but it seemed merely to caress her limbs, to encourage the intoxication of her fancies.
A sudden sound shattered the reverie; a dull thud as if something had fallen within the building from the roof to the foundations.... Again—this time it was less loud, less definite, rumbling away into silence. She listened, alert, her heart beating quickly; then came reassurance with the recollection of Mrs. Cuthell's conviction that strange echoes were caused by the occasional fall of masonry below in the underground ruins. Wrenched back to reality she returned to the darkened bedroom, once more a prey to restless depression. Robert lay sleeping profoundly, his deep, regular breathing, and the monotonous flap of the punkah frill, were the only sounds she could discern as she lay wide awake, her senses sharpened, her nerves overwrought. But just as a hint of drowsiness gave hope of repose for body and mind, again she heard something that this time could not be attributed to the falling of bricks or stones, since, of a certainty, it was within the room. A light patter on the matting, a pause, hesitation, a faint whimper....
In sheer terror Stella leapt from her bed; could it be a ghost—the spirit of a helpless little child massacred with other victims of the great tragedy in this hateful house? Only by the strongest effort she refrained from shrieking aloud as a soft touch fell on her ankle; it was the warm, wet lick of a tongue. She was thankful she had raised no disturbance when by the dim radiance of the moon through the open doorways she saw no ghost, no child, but only Jacob!—Jacob with a broken strip of cord hanging to his collar, apologetic, unhappy, squirming at her feet in his dumb, pathetic attempts to explain his desertion of his master.
Stella consoled the little dog, let him lie by her side on the bed. His company brought a sense of comfort and security. Philip's servants must have imprisoned Jacob in some out-house so that his well-meant attentions should not disturb the sick man. She hoped it argued healing sleep for Philip—did not mean that he was worse. Meanwhile she must await daylight to ascertain the truth.
At last she fell asleep, Jacob's nose cuddled in the crook of her elbow, regardless of Robert's indignation when he should awake and discover the presence of "that damned dog."