Stella looked up. There was Philip in flannels; his expression was sad, dispirited, as though he too had been ground in the mill of mental perplexity during the last two or three hours. There came a singing in her ears, a mist clouded her vision. How horrible for them both to be forced to play a part—a part so ignoble, opposed to her whole nature, and, she felt assured, to his also.
"Enter Mr. Flint!" declaimed Robert with jovial intonation. "The memsahib and I were just talking about you, my son."
"What were you saying? Nothing nasty, I hope?" He avoided Stella's eyes as he seated himself and took the cup she held out to him.
"Quite the contrary," puffed Robert. "We were planning to persuade you to stay on with us, especially as my bearer has demanded short leave, and yours, with your permission, might fill the gap for the time being!"
Stella noted a slight flicker of Philip's eyelids, and her ear caught the echo of self-control in his voice as he answered: "You are very kind—and of course if my man can be of the slightest use——"
"Very well then, that's settled." Robert attacked the eatables, talking the while of rain and crops and the uncertainty of the outlook. "Unless things improve pretty soon there is a difficult time ahead," he predicted.
And Stella repeated the foreboding in her heart, though from a very different standpoint.
Tennis, after all, proved impossible. The courts were a swamp, and as Robert clamoured for exercise the three set off eventually for a late and, to Stella, a tedious ride. She was too troubled even to find pleasure in the after-effect of the rain upon the scenery, though she could not but observe the wondrous vermilion and purple of the sky, the great clouds massed on the horizon like some angry army awaiting the word to press forward, or to retire; the colour reflections on the long streaks of water that still lay upon the earth's hard surface; the rows of birds gathered on the edges of the miniature lakes, suggesting, in the distance, broken borders of white stones. The trees were washed of their drab veiling of dust, and foliage shone in the light of the sinking sun; an odour of earth refreshed rose in the thick, hot air.... But the mighty magnificence above, the glow flung over the flat, interminable landscape, served but to increase her sense of helpless despondence.
There seemed so little hope of safe conference with Philip, and, though the strain of his presence held for her as much happiness as fear, it was imperative that some plan of separation should be devised unless they were to embark on a course of intrigue and deception that, even apart from any question of conscience, must involve risk of disaster.... Bewildered, unbalanced, as she rode between her husband and the man she loved, she felt that her life was broken and stained already.
Next day the two men were out in the district on duty from morning to evening. Stella passed the period of their absence in a state bordering on stupefaction; each hour that went by, devoid of an opportunity for clear understanding with Philip, seemed to widen the zone of danger. That night as she dressed for dinner the reflection of her face in the mirror appalled her—what a scarecrow, how white and haggard and hideous! Limp though she felt from the moist heat, oppressed as she was with her tribulation of mind, she made a brave effort to amend her appearance—rearranged her hair, bade Champa get out a becoming pink frock, stockings and shoes to go with it, opened her jewel-box, meaning to wear her pearl necklace....