On the following afternoon Major Fletcher called, but he was not
admitted. Beryl was receiving no one that day, and sent him an
uncompromising message to that effect. He lingered to inquire after her
health, and, on being told that she had overtired herself and was
resting, expressed his polite regret and withdrew.
After that, somewhat to Beryl's surprise, he came no more to the
bungalow.
She remained in seclusion for several days after her adventure, so that
fully a week passed before they met.
It was while out riding one morning with Mrs. Ellis that she first
encountered him. The meeting was unexpected, and, conscious of a sudden
rush of blood to her cheeks, she bestowed upon him her haughtiest bow.
His grave acknowledgment thereof was wholly without effrontery, and he
made no attempt to speak to her.
"Have you quarrelled with the Major?" asked Nina, as they rode on.
"Of course not," Beryl answered, with a hint of impatience.
But she knew that if she wished to appear at her ease she must not be
too icy. She felt a very decided reluctance to take her friend into her
confidence with regard to the Farabad episode. There were times when she
wondered herself if she were altogether justified in condemning Major
Fletcher unheard, in spite of the evidence against him. But she had no
intention of giving him an opportunity to vindicate himself if she could
possibly avoid doing so.
In this, however, circumstances proved too strong for her. They were
bound to meet sooner or later, and Fate ordained that when this should
occur she should be more or less at his mercy.
The occasion was an affair of some importance, being a reception at the
palace of the native prince who dwelt at Farabad. It promised to be a
function of supreme magnificence; it was, in fact, the chief event of
the season, and the Anglo-Indian society of Kundaghat attended it in
force.
Beryl went with the Commissioner and his wife, but in the crowd of
acquaintances that surrounded her almost from the moment of her arrival
she very speedily drifted away from them. One after another claimed her
attention, and almost before she knew it she found herself moving
unattached through the throng.
She was keenly interested in the brilliant scene about her. Flashing
jewels and gorgeous costumes made a glittering wonderland, through which
she moved as one beneath a spell. The magic of the East was everywhere;
it filled the atmosphere as with a heavy fragrance.
She had withdrawn a little from the stream of guests, and was standing
slightly apart, watching the gorgeous spectacle in the splendidly
lighted hall, when a tall figure, dressed in regimentals, came quietly
up and stood beside her.
With a start she recognised Fletcher. He bent towards her instantly, and
spoke.
"I trust that you have now quite recovered from your fatigue, Mrs.
Denvers."
She controlled her flush before it had time to overwhelm her.
"Quite, thank you," she replied, speaking stiffly because she could not
at the moment bring herself to do otherwise.
He stood beside her for a space in silence, and she wondered greatly
what was passing in his mind.
At length, "May I take you to have some supper?" he asked. "Or would you
care to go outside? The gardens are worth a visit."
Beryl hesitated momentarily. To have supper with him meant a prolonged
_tete-a-tete_, whereas merely to go outside for a few minutes among a
host of people could not involve her in any serious embarrassment. She
could leave him at any moment if she desired. She was sure to see some
of her acquaintances. Moreover, to seem to avoid him would make him
think she was afraid of him, and her pride would not permit this
possibility.
"Let us go outside for a little, then," she said.
He offered her his arm, and the next moment was leading her through a
long, thickly carpeted passage to a flight of marble steps that led
downwards into the palace-garden.
He did not speak at all; and she, without glancing at him, was aware of
a very decided constraint in his silence. She would not be disconcerted
by it. She was determined to maintain a calm attitude; but her heart
quickened a little in spite of her. She saw that he had chosen an exit
that would lead them away from the crowd.
Dumbly they descended the steps, Fletcher unhesitatingly drawing her
forward. The garden was a marvel of many-coloured lights, intricate and
bewildering as a maze. Its paths were all carpeted, and their feet made
no sound. It was like a dream-world.
Here and there were nooks and glades of deepest shadow. Through one of
these, without a pause, Fletcher led her, emerging at length into a
wonderful fairyland where all was blue--a twilight haunt, where
countless tiny globes of light nestled like sapphires upon every shrub
and tree, and a slender fountain rose and fell tinkling in a shallow
basin of blue stone.
A small arbour, domed and pillared like a temple, stood beside the
fountain, and as they ascended its marble steps a strong scent of
sandalwood fell like a haze of incense upon Beryl's senses.
There was no light within the arbour, and on the threshold instinctively
she stopped short. They were as much alone as if miles instead of yards
separated them from the buzzing crowds about the palace.
Instantly Fletcher spoke.
"Go in, won't you? It isn't really dark. There is probably a couch with
rugs and cushions."
There was, and she sat down upon it, sinking so low in downy luxuriance
that she found herself resting not far from the floor. But, looking out
through the marble latticework into the blue twilight, she was somewhat
reassured. Though thick foliage obscured the stars, it was not really
dark, as he had said.
Fletcher seated himself upon the top step, almost touching her. He
seemed in no hurry to speak.
The only sound that broke the stillness was the babble of the fountain,
and from far away the fitful strains of a band of stringed instruments.
Slowly at length he turned his head, just as his silence was becoming
too oppressive to be borne.
"Mrs. Denvers," he said, his voice very deliberate and even, "I want to
know what happened that day at Farabad to make you decide that I was not
a fit escort for you."
It had come, then. He meant to have a reckoning with her. A sharp tingle
of dismay went through her as she realised it. She made a quick effort
to avert his suspicion.
"I wandered, and lost my way," she said. "And then I met an old native,
who showed me a short cut. I ought, perhaps, to have written and
explained."
"That was not all that happened," Fletcher responded gravely. "Of
course, you can refuse to tell me any more. I am absolutely at your
mercy. But I do not think you will refuse. It isn't treating me quite
fairly, is it, to keep me in the dark?"
She saw at once that to fence with him further was out of the question.
Quite plainly he meant to bring her to book. But she felt painfully
unequal to the ordeal before her. She was conscious of an almost
physical sense of shrinking.
Nevertheless, as he waited, she nerved herself at length to speak.
"What makes you think that something happened?"
"It is fairly obvious, is it not?" he returned quietly. "I could not
very easily think otherwise. If you will allow me to say so, your device
was not quite subtle enough to pass muster. Even had you dropped that
bangle by inadvertence--which you did not--you would not, in the
ordinary course of things, have sent me off post haste to recover it."
"No?" she questioned, with a faint attempt to laugh.
"No," he rejoined, and this time she heard a note of anger, deep and
unmistakable, in his voice.
She drew herself together as it reached her. It was to be a battle,
then, and instinctively she knew that she would need all her strength.
"Well," she said finally, affecting an assurance she was far from
feeling, "I have no objection to your knowing what happened since you
have asked. In fact, perhaps,--as you suggest,--it is scarcely fair that
you should not know."
"Thank you," he responded, with a hint of irony.
But she found it difficult to begin, and she could not hide it from him,
for he was closely watching her.
He softened a little as he perceived this.
"Pray don't be agitated," he said. "I do not for a moment question that
your reason for what you did was a good one. I am only asking you to
tell me what it was."
"I know," she answered. "But it will make you angry, and that is why I
hesitate."
He leaned towards her slightly.
"Can it matter to you whether I am angry or not?"
She shivered a little.
"I never offend any one if I can help it. I think it is a mistake.
However, you have asked for it. What happened was this. It was when you
left me to get some water. An old man, a native, came and spoke to me.
Perhaps I was foolish to listen, but I could scarcely have done
otherwise. And he told me--he told me that the accident to the dog-cart
was not--not--" She paused, searching for a word.
"Genuine," suggested Fletcher very quietly.
She accepted the word. The narration was making her very nervous.
"Yes, genuine. He told me that the _saice_ had cracked the shaft
beforehand, that there was no possibility of getting it repaired at
Farabad, that he would have to return to Kundaghat and might not,
probably would not, come back for us before the following morning."
Haltingly, rather breathlessly, the story came from her lips. It sounded
monstrous as she uttered it. She could not look at Fletcher, but she
knew that he was angry; something in the intense stillness of his
attitude told her this.
"Please go on," he said, as she paused. "You undertook to tell me the
whole truth, remember."
With difficulty she continued.
"He told me that the mare was frightened by a trick, that you chose the
hill-road because it was lonely and difficult. He told me exactly what
you would say when you came back. And--and you said it."
"And that decided you to play a trick upon me and escape?" questioned
Fletcher. "Your friend's suggestion, I presume?"
His words fell with cold precision; they sounded as if they came through
his teeth.
She assented almost inaudibly. He made her feel contemptible.
"And afterwards?" he asked relentlessly.
She made a final effort; there was that in his manner that frightened
her.
"Afterwards, he gave a signal--it was the cry of a jay--for me to
follow. And he led me over the hill to a stream where he waited for me.
We crossed it together, and very soon after he pointed out the
valley-road below us, and left me."
"You rewarded him?" demanded Fletcher swiftly.
"No; I--I was prepared to do so, but he disappeared."
"What was he like?"
She hesitated.
"Mrs. Denvers!" His tone was peremptory.
"I do not feel bound to tell you that," she said, in a low voice.
"I have a right to know it," he responded firmly.
And after a moment she gave in. The man was probably far away by this
time. She knew that the fair was over.
"It was--the old snake-charmer."
"The man we saw at Farabad?"
"Yes."
Fletcher received the information in silence, and several seconds
dragged away while he digested it. She even began to wonder if he meant
to say anything further, almost expecting him to get up and stalk away,
too furious for speech.
But at length, very unexpectedly and very quietly, he spoke.
"Would it be of any use for me to protest my innocence?"
She did not know how to answer him.
He proceeded with scarcely a pause:
"It seems to me that my guilt has been taken for granted in such a
fashion that any attempt on my part to clear myself would be so much
wasted effort. It simply remains for you to pass sentence."
She lifted her head for the first time, startled out of all composure.
His cool treatment of the matter was more disconcerting than any
vehement protestations. It was almost as though he acknowledged the
offence and swept it aside with the same breath as of no account. Yet it
was incredible, this view of the case. There must be some explanation.
He would never dare to insult her thus.
Impulsively she rose, inaction becoming unendurable. He stood up
instantly, and they faced one another in the weird blue twilight.
"I think I have misunderstood you!" she said breathlessly, and there
stopped dead, for something--something in his face arrested her.
The words froze upon her lips. She drew back with a swift, instinctive
movement. In one flashing second of revelation unmistakable she knew
that she had done him no injustice. Her eyes had met his, and had sunk
dismayed before the fierce passion that had flamed back at her.
In the pause that followed she heard her own heartbeats, quick and hard,
like the flying feet of a hunted animal. Then--for she was a woman, and
instinct guided her--she covered up her sudden fear, and faced him with
stately courage.
"Let us go back," she said.
"You have nothing to say to me?" he asked.
She shook her head in silence, and made as if to depart.
But he stood before her, hemming her in. He did not appear to notice her
gesture.
"But I have something to say to you!" he said. And in his voice, for all
its quietness, was a note that made her tremble. "Something to which I
claim it as my right that you should listen."
She faced him proudly, though she was white to the lips.
"I thought you had refused to plead your innocence," she said.
"I have," he returned. "I do. But yet----"
"Then I will not hear another word," she broke in. "Let me pass!"
She was splendid as she stood there confronting him, perhaps more
splendid than she had ever been before. She had reached the ripe beauty
of her womanhood. She would never be more magnificent than she was at
that moment. The magic of her went to the man's head like wine. Till
that instant he had to a great extent controlled himself, but that was
the turning-point. She dazzled him, she intoxicated him, she maddened
him.
The savagery in him flared into a red blaze of passion. Without another
word he caught her suddenly to him, and before she could begin to
realise his intention he had kissed her fiercely upon the lips.