Stella was careful to conceal from Robert the pleasure she found in her lessons with the white-bearded, horn-spectacled patriarch appointed her tutor. Having attained her desire through guile, she did not intend to risk deprivation through candour. Now and then, as a precaution, she would allude jokingly to her studies, sometimes feigned to be weary of them, implying that only a determination not to be baffled by a self-imposed task caused her to persevere; and Robert, who regarded the matter as a whim that would pass, made no further obstruction. During the hours while he was safely at office she worked zealously, and the progress she made surprised her, unconscious as she was of her own mental ability. Soon she could carry on simple conversations with the old teacher, and she forbade Champa to speak to her in English, greatly to the disgust of that accomplished female, who feared that her prestige in the compound as interpreter to the memsahib might suffer.

Champa sulked, and in some mysterious fashion seemed to join forces with Sher Singh in creating an atmosphere of espionage that to Stella was intensely exasperating. Did she give an order on her own account, it was caught up at once and repeated elaborately by the ayah; if she wandered in the garden Sher Singh would follow, and when she made objections both servants professed to misunderstand what she said. She felt she was being harried, and was unable to discover the reason. Never could she succeed in exploring the servants' quarters, for Sher Singh was always at hand; and as Robert had bidden her keep away from the low line of dwellings that swarmed with people, like a species of human ant-heap, disobedience might be reported by Sher Singh to his master either with or without intentional spite. Sometimes Mrs. Cuthell came to see her, also Mrs. Piggott and Mrs. Antonio, and during their visits Champa lurked and peeped, or Sher Singh hung about the doorways.

These ladies invited Mrs. Crayfield informally to tea or to tiffin, but Robert discouraged acceptance, said it was better not to start intimacies, as if he were jealous of her possible friendships; and although no real sacrifice was entailed, Stella made capital out of her refusals—pretended she was foregoing a pleasure for the sole reason that she wished to follow Santa-Sahib's will. She told herself she was growing sinfully deceitful; but her apprehension lest her study of the language should be stopped if she opposed Robert's prejudices in any other direction was stronger than her conscience. Anything to keep him amiable. Sometimes she wondered if she had any conscience left. Therefore Crayfield remained complacently convinced of his young wife's devotion. She gave him no trouble, was apparently content to leave the household control to Sher Singh, always looked lovely and fresh and sweet-tempered, and he desired no more. Wit and wisdom, intelligent conversation on her part would merely have bored him, rendered him vaguely suspicious. In his opinion women were better without education, which, all the same, was not to be confounded with what he regarded as "accomplishments." He liked her to sing pretty ballads and play waltzes; he enjoyed singing to her sympathetic accompaniment; and when she attempted to paint flowers and kingfishers and storks, or embroider strips of "crash" with intricate patterns in coloured cottons, on the lines of Mrs. Daw's remembered achievements, he criticised the results with patronising encouragement.

Thus the days passed smoothly. Rides in the late afternoon, a few formal dinners to "the station," the weekly "at homes," music in the evenings, until, shortly before Christmas, they went into camp on a tour of inspection. This meant double sets of tents, quantities of folding furniture, camels and carts and followers innumerable; it was a kind of royal progress. They passed from district to district, joining camps with various officials who came within the Commissioner's jurisdiction, friendly people to be entertained by their chief, entertaining him and his pretty wife in return. Stella revelled in the long marches on horseback, in the brilliant "cold weather," the small game shooting parties in the evenings when work was over, and the ever interesting background of villages, crops and cattle. She felt that such compensations made it worth while to be Santa-Sahib's plaything, especially as her lessons could be continued with the old munshi, who had somehow provided himself with a tent like a candle extinguisher and a small cow-hocked pony at Government expense. From him Stella gathered much local lore, curious stories of native village life. He expounded to her the system of self-government, old as the East. She caught glimpses of an ingrained faith in the power of spells and charms that all went back to the worship of Nature, though their origins had long been lost sight of, obscured by time.

It was with genuine regret that she returned to the station to "settle down," according to Robert, for the hot weather months. Rassih looked dusty and drear after the groves and cultivation of the district, the house felt more vast and oppressive, the outlook over the desert was one endless yellow haze. Preparations proceeded for the fierce heat that was at hand. Punkahs were hung from the ceilings, clumsy machines called "thermantidotes" made their appearance for the purpose of pumping cooled air into the rooms when the moment should arrive, screens of sweet-scented grass lay piled in the verandas, to be erected in the doorways and kept damp when the west wind should sweep and swirl over the land by day, and often by night as well.

The only change that threatened the social community was the coming departure of the Cuthells. The transfer took place shortly after the Crayfields' return to the station, and Mrs. Cuthell paid her farewell respects to the Commissioner's wife bursting with satisfaction, her broad face one beam of rejoicing and excitement.

"I can't describe to you how thankful we are to be leaving this dreadful place, Mrs. Crayfield, especially just as the hot weather is beginning. Only wait till it is in full blast, my dear, and then won't you wish you were out of it too! Rassih is one of the hottest stations in India, and this house, for all its height and space, can be a veritable oven. It's such luck that we are going to the hills on duty. You must ask your husband to let you come up to us for a visit. You will lose your bright complexion and good spirits, and get fever and prickly heat and all the rest of it if you stay here too long."

"It is very kind of you," rejoined Stella, unperturbed by these awful forebodings, "but I'm really rather looking forward to the experience."

Mrs. Cuthell glanced round the great drawing-room, that certainly of late had undergone much improvement, but all the same she gave a little shudder.

"Well, of course you can but try it," she croaked; "but in addition to definite drawbacks, I always feel that this house is so creepy. I suppose on account of its history—all those poor women and children being murdered here at the time of the mutiny. It seems so horrible to think of the officers cut down on parade, and then their families hiding here on the roof. They say the mutineers did not think of looking for them on the roof, and were just leaving the compound when one woman peeped over the parapet and they saw her. Of course, it was all up with the poor creatures; they were dragged down and murdered. It is difficult to realise that it all happened less than forty years ago."

She paused abruptly at the sight of Stella's white face and horror-stricken eyes. "Oh, didn't you know?" she inquired with remorse. "I'm so sorry I spoke of it, but I never dreamt——"

Stella gulped down her horror, but for the moment all her enthusiasm for India turned to revulsion. That dark page of history had hitherto seemed so remote, so unreal, like some tragedy of the Middle Ages long since forgotten and forgiven. Now the fact of its comparative recency, the vision of those defenceless women and children dragged down from the actual roof that was above her head, to be butchered without mercy in these very rooms, affected her acutely. How could she exist month after month in a dwelling that must be saturated with such agonising memories?

"Now, if anyone tells you that extraordinary noises are sometimes heard during the hot weather," continued Mrs. Cuthell with the best intentions, "don't take any notice. I have never believed in ghosts myself, and probably if there are noises they come from the underground ruins—falling of masonry, and so on."

"The underground ruins!" repeated Stella. What was she to hear next?

"Yes. You know, one of the old Moghul emperors—I forget his name—was supposed to have dug himself a subterranean living-place, because he was blind—ophthalmia, no doubt, like so many natives. Anyway, all underneath the house and compound there are said to be tunnels and chambers, and an oil tank and treasure, and goodness knows what. The emperor went to war with some neighbouring enemy and got killed, so that he and his followers never came back, and what they left underground nobody knows."

"And has nobody ever tried to find out?" asked Stella, her curiosity aflame.

"I believe your husband's predecessor in the appointment got leave to dig. He used the prisoners from the jail, but so many accidents happened—men fell into holes and broke their limbs, or died from the bad air, and were bitten by snakes, and in the middle of it all the Commissioner went mad and committed suicide by jumping over the parapet at the back of the house. Of course, the natives said the digging had brought bad luck——" Again Mrs. Cuthell feared she had been indiscreet. "But you mustn't think of these things," she added cheerfully. "There is hardly an old house in India that hasn't some unpleasant story, and I'm sure you are far too sensible to let your mind dwell on anything that may have happened in the past."

It had been far from Mrs. Cuthell's intention to leave a legacy of apprehension and disquietude to the Commissioner's young wife, though she had never quite forgiven the usurpation of her throne as chief memsahib of the station by one so much her junior. With all her shallow outlook, Mrs. Cuthell owned a well-meaning disposition, and now she sincerely regretted that in her selfish elation and glee she should have alarmed and depressed the poor girl, however unwittingly, as she could not fail to perceive had been the result of her chatter.

"Now do remember," she said with an affectionately repentant farewell, "if you find you can't stand the heat you have only to write and say you are coming to us, and we shall be truly delighted to put you up for as long as you like. I mean it."

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.