FATE
Travers had correctly described the new Marut club-house as a fine
building on which the paint had been laid with a generous hand. The
original modest design had been rejected as unworthy, and Nehal Singh
had ordered the erection of a miniature copy of his own palace, the
ball-room being line for line a reproduction of the Great Hall, save
that the decorations, which in the palace were inimitable, had been
carried out with dignified simplicity, and that some necessary
modernization had been added. Gold and white predominated, where in
the original, precious stones glistened; the brackets for the torches
were transformed into small artistic lamps which had been ordered from
Madras; and from the ceiling a heavy chandelier added brilliancy to
the shaded light. The central floor had been left free for dancing,
but the slender pillars ranged on either side formed separate little
alcoves banked with flowers and plants. It was in one of these refuges
from the whirr and confusion of gay dresses and white uniforms that
Stafford took up his watch. He had arrived late, thanks to Travers,
who had detained him at his bungalow in a long and earnest
conversation. The two men had subsequently driven together to the
club, and had further been hindered on their way by a curious
accident. Just where the road passed an unprotected ravine, a native
had sprung out from some bushes and, having waved his arms wildly,
disappeared. The horse had immediately taken fright, and for a moment
the car and its occupants stood in danger of being flung headlong down
the precipice. Stafford's strength and nerve had saved the situation,
but the incident had effectually put an end to their conversation, and
now for the first time Stafford found himself alone and at liberty to
bring some order into his troubled thoughts.
He was not, as Marut supposed, a conscience-stricken man, but a man
with a diseased conscience, his sense of duty and responsibility
developed to abnormities which left him no clear judgment. He had
broken with Lois because he loved her and because there seemed no
other way of shielding her from the most terrible blow that could fall
upon any human life--judging by the only standard he knew, which was
his own. He had asked Beatrice to be his wife because it cut the last
link and because he knew--Travers had told him--that the Station had
long since coupled their names together in a way that cast a deeper
shadow about Beatrice's reputation.
"It's no one's fault, old fellow," Travers had said sympathetically.
"You meant no harm, but you were often with her, and that old fiend,
Mrs. Cary, has told every one that you 'were as good as--' And then
you know what the people are here. When they see that things are at an
end between you and Lois they will dig their knives deeper into Miss
Cary, without giving her the credit of having won her game. She is
fairly at every one's mercy here. I am sorry for Lois, but the other
is worse off, according to my lights."
Stafford had said nothing. Goaded by Travers' words and blinded by the
catastrophe which had broken upon him, he had acted without thought,
without consideration, for the first time in his life obeying the
behests of a headlong impulse. He had asked Beatrice to be his wife,
and to-night was to put the final seal upon their alliance. Again it
was Travers who had spoken the decisive word.
"A secret engagement is a piece of folly," he said, "and Miss Cary is
mad to wish it. For your sake as well as hers, everything must be
above-board. Or are you shirking?"
Stafford had made a hot retort. It was not in the scope of his
character to turn back on a road which he had marked out for himself,
and he waited now for Beatrice with the unshaken resolution of a man
who believes absolutely in himself and his own code. He waited even
with a certain impatience. Shortly before he had seen her standing at
the Rajah's side, a fair and beautiful contrast to his eastern
splendor, and, somehow, in that moment, he had understood Travers'
warning as he had not understood it before. She was to be his wife,
she was to bear his name, and it was his duty to protect her if need
be from herself. He was about to leave the alcove to go in search of
her when she pushed aside the hangings and entered. The suddenness of
her appearance and something in her expression startled him. He did
not notice how radiantly beautiful she was nor the taste and richness
of her dress. He saw only that there was a curious look of pain and
fear in her eyes which warmed his friendship and aroused in him afresh
the desire to shield her from the malice of the eyes that watched
them.
"Have I been a long time coming?" she asked, taking the chair he
offered her. "I am so sorry. The Rajah kept me."
Her voice sounded breathless and there was a forced lightness in her
tone which did not escape him. He bent a little over her.
"It does not matter," he said. "You look troubled. Is there anything
wrong?"
She laughed.
"Nothing."
He hesitated, and then went on slowly:
"There is one matter I want to speak to you about, Beatrice. It is the
matter of--our engagement. I think you are wrong to wish it kept
secret. I think it can only bring trouble and misunderstanding. Will
you not allow me to tell every one?"
The white satin slipper stopped its regular tattoo on the rugged
floor. She lifted her face to his and looked him full in the eyes.
"You think it was foolish and unreasonable to wish no one to know? But
I had my reasons--very good reasons. I wanted the retreat kept clear
for you."
"Retreat--for me?"
"Yes, for you. Captain Stafford, why did you ask me to be your wife?"
He drew himself stiffly erect.
"I told you at the time," he said sternly. "I was quite honest. I told
you that the best a man can bring the woman he marries is not in my
power to give you. It was--shipwrecked some time ago."
"Not so very long ago," she corrected.
"That does not matter. The point is that I believe it in my power to
make you happy--at any rate, it would always be my ambition to see you
so; and therein I should no doubt regain a great deal that I have
lost--"
"But you do not love me, Captain Stafford?"
"I have just said that I have lost the power of loving."
For a moment she was silent, her jeweled hands resting wearily on the
arms of her chair, her eyes sunk to the ground.
"You made me an honorable proposal, Captain Stafford," she said at
last. "You are an honorable man and inspire me with the desire to be
honorable also. Won't you take back your freedom while there is yet
time?"
"No."
"There are others--good women among whom you would find one who would
love you as you deserve. I do not love you. All I can bring is a
certain respect and friendship--that is all."
"I am grateful for so much," he said. He was thinking of Lois, and his
voice sounded hard and compressed.
"If I marry you it will be because I must."
He nodded.
"Yes, I am aware of that."
"Aware of that?" she said, looking up into his haggard face. "How
should you be 'aware of that?' Is my private life so public then?"
"You misunderstand me," he said, striving to cover up what he felt to
have been a wanton piece of brutality. "I only mean, you must for the
same reason that I must--because circumstances have linked us
inseparably together, and because--"
He broke off. The tall figure of the Rajah had passed the alcove and
he had seen Beatrice sink back in her chair. As the figure moved on
she broke into one of her harsh, jarring laughs.
"Good heavens, Captain Stafford," she exclaimed, "your arguments
haven't a leg to stand on! What are you marrying me for?"
"I have tried to explain," he said, swinging himself clumsily up to
the great lie of his life--"because I need you--and I hope you will
come to need me."
"You mean I _do_ need you? Well, perhaps I do!" She sprang to her feet
and held out her hand to him. "There! I seal the bargain. I warned you
but you would not be warned. _Vogue la galere!_ Tell the whole
world--it is better so."
He took the small firm hand and pressed it. At the same moment he saw
the Rajah approaching for a second time.
"I will leave you now," he said in a low, earnest whisper. "I fancy
the Rajah wishes to speak with you. It would be a good opportunity to
tell him that we are engaged."
She drew back her hand hastily.
"Yes--of course I shall tell him."
Stafford bowed ceremoniously, making way for Nehal Singh. As he did
so, he saw Lois enter the hall at Mrs. Carmichael's side. The two
women bowed to him, the elder in a way which he had learned to
understand. He drew aside out of their path, avoiding the genuine
kindness which Lois' eyes expressed for him.
"Pray God you believe the worst of me!" was the thought that flashed
through his mind. "Pray God I have taught you to forget!"
Nehal Singh had meanwhile taken Stafford's place at Beatrice's side.
As he had entered the alcove she had made an effort to pass out, but
her eyes had met his, and the look in them had held her rooted to the
ground. The color died and deepened by turns in her cheeks, and the
hand that clasped the ivory fan shook as it had never shaken before in
the course of a life full of risks and dangers. But then no man had
ever looked at her as this man did. She had outstared insolence and
snubbed sentimentality. She had never had to face such an honest,
pure-hearted worship as this young prince brought and laid silently at
her feet. No need for him to tell her that she embodied every virtue
and every perfection of which human nature is capable. She knew it,
and the knowledge broke the very backbone of her daring and stirred to
life in her sickened soul emotions which she could scarcely recognize
as her own.
He stood quite close to her, but he did not touch her. In all their
acquaintance he had never, except when he had taken her hand in
farewell, made any attempt to draw nearer to her than the strictest
etiquette allowed. Other men--men whom she hardly knew--had taken the
opportunity which a ride or drive offered to kiss her, and had been
offended and surprised at her contemptuous rebuff. (What girl in Marut
objected to being kissed?) This man had treated her as though she were
holy, an object to be respected and protected, not to be handled as a
common plaything; and her heart had gone out to him in gratitude and
admiration. But tonight his very respect was painful to her. For a
moment she would have given the best years of her life to know that he
despised her and that all was over between them; and then came the
revulsion, the wild longing to hold him to her as though his trust in
her were her one salvation.
"Lakshmi!" he said, in a voice broken with feeling. "Lakshmi, you are
the most perfect woman God ever sent to earth. Every hour I grow to
know you better I feel how pale and empty of all true beauty my life
was until you came. How can I thank you for all you have given me?"
"Hush!" she said. "You must not talk to me like that. You must not."
"Why should I not tell you what is true?"
"Because--oh, don't you see?"--she gave a short, unsteady laugh--"we
English don't tell people everything that is true. A man does not say
that sort of thing to a woman--"
"To one woman!" he said.
"Yes, to one woman, perhaps. But I--I--" She hesitated, the truth
struggling feebly to her lips. She felt herself turn sick and faint as
she looked into his earnest face. She knew what answer he had ready
for her, and though it would have brought the end for which she was
praying, she sought with all her strength to keep it back. All the
brutality in her character, her indifference to the feelings and
opinions of others, failed. She dreaded the change that would come
into his eyes; she did not believe that she could bear it. Tomorrow
would be time enough. But was it any longer in her power to determine
when it would be time enough? There was an expression in Nehal Singh's
face which told her that he had already decided, and that the reins
had suddenly slipped from her hands into his.
"Rajah--" she began, wildly seeking for some inspiration which would
give her back control over herself and him. But the triviality died on
her lips as the truth had died. A shrill cry broke above the dying
waltz, and the Rajah and Beatrice, startled by its piercing appeal,
turned from each other and confronted a catastrophe which
overshadowed, and for the moment obliterated, their own threatening
fate.
The dancers had already retired to the sitting-out alcoves. Only one
figure occupied the floor, and that figure was Stafford's. He was
crossing the room and had reached the center when the cry had been
uttered. The amazed and startled watchers saw Lois rush toward him and
with an incredible strength and rapidity thrust him to one side. A
second later--it scarcely seemed a second--the immense golden
chandelier crashed with a sound like thunder on to the very spot where
he had been standing. A moment's uproar and horrified confusion
ensued. The place, plunged in a half-darkness, seemed filled with dust
and flying fragments, and people hurrying backward and forward,
scarcely knowing what had happened or what had been the extent of the
accident. Stafford's voice was the first to bring reassurance to the
startled crowd.
"It's all right!" he shouted. "We are both safe, thank God!"
They saw that he was deadly pale, though otherwise calm and collected.
In the first moment of alarm he had instinctively caught Lois in his
arms, as though to shield her from some fresh danger, but immediately
afterward he had let her go, and she stood apart amidst the debris of
the wrecked chandelier, trembling slightly, but firmly refusing all
assistance.
"I owe my life to you," Stafford said to her, with awkward gratitude.
"You do not need to thank me," she answered at once. "I did what any
one else would have done in my place. I saw it coming."
"How did it happen?" The question came from Nehal Singh, who had
forced his way to her side. "I can not understand how such an accident
was possible."
There was an anxiety in his manner which seemed to increase during
Lois' brief hesitation.
"I hardly like to say," she said at last, in a troubled voice. "I
could not believe my eyes, and even now it seems like a dream. Or a
shadow might have deceived me. I don't know--"
"Please tell me what you saw, or thought you saw!" the Rajah begged
earnestly.
"I seemed to see the chandelier being lowered," she said, with an
irrepressible shudder, "and then from a dark hole in the ceiling a
hand appeared--a black hand with a knife--"
One of the women moaned, and there was afterward a silence in which a
wave of formless fear surged over the closed circle. The men exchanged
questioning glances, to which no one had an answer.
"That's just the way," Beatrice heard some one behind her say. "We
dance on the crust of a volcano or under a threatening avalanche.
Sooner or later the one gives way or the other falls. There is no real
safety from these devils."
Meanwhile Nehal Singh had approached the wreckage and was examining
the crown, to which a piece of gilded rope and chain were still
attached. One or two of the men were engaged in stamping out the
candles, which still sputtered feebly on the floor. The rest stood
about uncomfortably, hypnotized by an indefinable alarm.
"I fear you did not dream, Miss Caruthers," the Rajah said at last.
"The rope has been cut--the chain unlinked. Some wicked harm was
intended to us all."
"Not to us all," Stafford observed coolly. "I think you will admit,
Rajah, that whoever the murderer was, he would have chosen a more
advantageous moment if he had intended general damage. My life was the
one aimed at, and I am all the more convinced that I am right, because
this is the third time within twenty-four hours that I have escaped by
a miracle from accidents which were not accidental."
The Rajah started sharply around.
"How?--what do you mean?" he demanded.
"Yesterday my boat on the river was plugged. To-day a native tried to
frighten my horse over the ravine. This"--pointing to the
chandelier--"is the third attempt."
"Do you know of any one who could have a grudge against you?"
"No."
"Or against--your family?"
There was a slight hesitation in Stafford's manner. He frowned as a
man does who has been pressed with an unpleasant question.
"That is more possible," he admitted.
Nehal Singh made no further remark. He stood staring straight ahead
into the half-darkness, and every eye in that uneasy assembly fixed
itself on his face, as though striving to read from his expression the
conclusion to which his mind was groping. For his exclamation after
Stafford's first announcement had betrayed that a sudden suspicion had
flashed before him, and they waited for him to take them into his
confidence. But they waited in vain. He seemed to have forgotten their
existence, and the silence grew tense and painful. All at once, Mrs.
Berry, who was clinging to her husband's arm, uttered a scream, which
acted like a shock of electricity on the overstrained nerves of those
who stood about her.
"Look! Look!" she cried. "Miss Caruthers is on fire! Oh, help! Help!"
She turned and rushed like a frightened sheep to the back of the hall,
crying incoherent warnings to those who tried to bar her headlong
flight. It was a catastrophe upon catastrophe. How it happened no one
knew--possibly some half-extinct candle had done the work. In an
instant Lois' white silk dress had become a sheet of flame which
mounted with furious rapidity to her horror-stricken face. In such
disasters it is only the question of a fraction of a second as to who
recovers his wits first. Almost on the top of Mrs. Berry's heedless
scream Beatrice had sprung toward the doomed girl--with what intention
she hardly knew--but before she was in reach of danger Adam Nicholson
thrust her to one side and, folding Lois in his arms, flung her to the
ground.
"A rug--a shawl--anything!" he shouted.
Mrs. Carmichael tore the long wrap from her shoulders, and a dozen
willing hands lent what assistance first occurred to them. But
Nicholson fought his enemy alone.
"Stand back!" he commanded. "Stand back!"
They obeyed him instinctively, and stood helpless, watching the short,
desperate struggle between life and death. Scarcely a moment elapsed
before the flames died down--one last tight drawing together of Mrs.
Carmichael's wrap, and they were extinct. Nicholson stumbled to his
feet, the frail, unconscious burden in his arms.
"Please make way," he said. "I do not think she is badly hurt, but she
must be taken home at once. Stafford, go and see if the carriage is
there."
His own face was singed, and one of his hands badly burnt, but he did
not seem to notice his own injuries. Colonel Carmichael, who had
entered the hall with him at the moment of the accident, helped to
clear the road. His features in the half-light were grey with the fear
of those last few moments.
"You have saved our little girl!" he said brokenly to Nicholson. "You
have saved her life. God bless you for it, Adam!"
"That's all right," was the cheerful answer. "You know, Colonel, Lois
and I were always helping each other out of scrapes, and I expect it
was my turn." He looked down at the pale face against his shoulder,
and there was an unconscious tenderness in his expression which
touched the shaken old man's heart.
"She will be glad to hear it was you, Adam," he said. "You were always
her favorite."
They had reached the great doors, which the Rajah himself had flung
wide open, when Travers sprang up the steps to meet them. He was
dishevelled, breathless, and exhausted as though with hard running,
and his eyes, as they flashed from one to the other of the little
procession, were those of a madman.
"What has happened?" he demanded frantically. "I was outside with
Webb. What has happened?--Oh!" He caught sight of Lois in Nicholson's
arms, and his cry was high and hysterical, like a frightened woman's.
Stafford seized him by the shoulder and dragged him back into the now
empty hall.
"Control yourself!" he said roughly. "Don't behave like a fool. She is
all right, but they won't want you interfering, especially if you
can't keep your head."
"They won't want me!" Travers exclaimed, staring at him. He then broke
into a discordant laugh. "Why, my good Stafford, they'll have to have
me, whether they want me or no. Lois is mine--mine, I tell you; and
that fellow, Nicholson, had better look to himself--"
"You are beside yourself, Travers. Nicholson saved her life. What do
you mean by saying she is yours?"
"She is to be my wife. Who can have more right to her than I have?"
The two men stared at each other through the semi-darkness. One by one
the lights at the side of the hall were extinguished by the
softly-moving servants. The hushed voices of the departing guests died
away in the distance.
"Your wife!" Stafford repeated slowly. "Since when is that, Travers?"
"Since this afternoon. Let me pass!"
Stafford made no effort to detain him. He stood on one side, and
Travers hurried down the steps. A minute later he was driving his trap
down the avenue at a pace which boded danger for himself and for any
who dared to cross his path.