Stella's spirit supported her, but nothing could deaden the heartache; there was nothing to relieve the burden of her time, nothing to ease the struggle to control her ever-growing abhorrence of Robert and his demands on her outward docility.
All that winter they toured in tents. The scarcity, though not so severe in the Rassih division as in other adjacent areas, meant much extra work for the Commissioner, and occasionally Stella would be left in the camp for two or three days while Robert and his satellites went off on side inspections by rail. At such times Robert would commandeer some lady, whose husband happened to be on duty with him, to keep Mrs. Crayfield company. Stella would have preferred to be alone; it seemed to her that she had lost the capacity for making friends; but at least Robert was absent, at least she was freed from the strain of his presence, and for that she gave thanks while enduring the companionship of an unwelcome visitor who she knew was an unconscious watchdog.
Only these little periods of peace, the tonic of the cold-weather climate, the frequent change of locality kept her going; but when they returned to Rassih her vitality sank, the effort to keep up appearances became harder, and she felt that the fight could not continue much longer. Constant attacks of low fever laid hold of her, and Robert was annoyed because she could not eat, could not sleep, because, he declared, she would make no attempt to exert herself, because the medicines prescribed by Dr. Antonio did her no good.
Gradually his impatience changed to indifference. He ceased to scold and advise, or to insist on her company; paid little attention to her. She knew he was bored with her sickliness, her altered appearance. She only prayed that he might send her home.
Relief came from quite an unexpected quarter. The English mail arrived one evening while Robert was out riding: the usual consignment of papers for him—he seldom received anything else beyond business communications—a letter for Stella from Aunt Augusta, and one with an Indian postmark; the handwriting on this envelope stirred her memory, but she laid it aside till she had read Aunt Augusta's letter. The little chronicles from The Chestnuts were precious to her now. She read greedily of small happenings, how old Betty had been so troubled with rheumatism that further help was needed from the village; how grandmamma had dropped her handkerchief in church last Sunday, and little Isaac Orchard, the blacksmith's son, had picked it up and run after them, and grandmamma had given him a penny. (Stella could see her bestowing the reward with the air of a potentate; doubtless they had talked of the incident all through luncheon.) The potatoes were disappointing: so many of them were diseased this year. Canon and Mrs. Grass had been to tea; poor Mrs. Grass's health did not improve, but she had been none the worse for the outing. Aunt Ellen had embroidered such a very pretty cushion cover as a birthday present for grandmamma, and so on. The letter concluded with the usual messages from all at The Chestnuts to dear Stella and Robert, and the hope that they were both keeping fairly well.
Stella then opened the other envelope. Maud Matthews! What a surprise! Only once had Maud written since her arrival in India as a bride, and Stella had long since assumed that she had dropped out of Maud's thoughts. The letter was like a refreshing little breeze to its dejected recipient:
"My dear Stella,—
"I know I'm a pigandadevil (that's Dick's word) not to have written all this time, but unless I make myself answer a letter the moment it comes I somehow get so that I simply can't answer it at all. Anyway, you'll have to answer this, because I want to know if I can break my journey up country at Rassih with you and your good man. Don't you hate that expression? In most cases I'm sure 'bad man' would be nearer the mark. I've got a baby—such a grand excuse for going to the hills! And I've taken a small house at Surima, a long journey from here, but it's such a jolly place, and no one bothers what you do. My old Dick will be as right as rain by himself, and he'll come up on leave later on. Rassih isn't much out of my way, and I must stop somewhere to take breath. It would be such fun to meet again and have a talk and a laugh. Are you going away for the hot weather, or are you one of those saintly wives who never desert their husbands? Have you got a baby? If not, don't; they are a scourge, though I admit mine might be worse now he's here, and I refrain from infanticide because he does me such credit. He's not a bit like Dick. Now may we come? Send me a wire, because we must start in a few days, and, anyway, wiring is easier than writing a letter!
"Ever yours,
"Maud Matthews."
Stella dropped the letter in her lap, and sighed with mingled hope and foreboding. Would Robert consent to her friend's visit? What a blessed break it would make in the monotony of her days. Her courage rose. She decided to send the telegram now, before Robert's return. He could hardly insist that she should cancel it, once it had gone; whereas, if she waited to ask his permission he might raise objections, though what reason could he advance for refusing to receive Mrs. Matthews and her baby for a few days on their way to the hills?
Hastily she wrote out a telegram, called a peon, and dispatched him with it to the post office. Mercifully, Sher Singh was not lurking about, else the message would certainly have been withheld until his master's return; such was her bondage to the servant who ruled!