THE GARDEN
Edith had never been quite so happy as the night of the Maharaja's
ball. Major Fraser-Carnie had announced that Arthur Rand was near
Srinagar--the mail tonga had come in a few hours ago and its driver
brought the tidings.
Relieved and excited at the news, the girl had donned the gown that was
her father's favorite, the blue-gray ball dress she had worn at Quebec.
The pleasure of the coming occasion added its glow to her cheeks and
her eyes sparkled.
"Ripping! Oh, I say, you're absolutely splendiferous, and--all that,
you know." Fraser-Carnie, who had blossomed forth in dress uniform,
added his compliments to the purring approval of her aunt, at the
carriage. Rawul Singh strutted behind his beautiful charge, supremely
unconscious of the envy of the other house servants.
Edith smiled at the major joyously as the carriage rolled forward
between the poplar avenues, following a line of European carriages of
visiting native potentates.
Sultan after sultan with his pomp
Abode his destined hour and went his way--
Miss Rand murmured the quotation.
"Quite so." The surgeon's ruddy face reflected a shade of anxiety.
Almost to himself he quoted another couplet, but Edith's quick ear
caught the words:
The Sultan rises and the dark Ferrash
Strikes--and prepares it for another guest.
The flush of evening lay again upon Srinagar; the sky was flaming from
the gateway of the departing sun. Mists were gathering in the hollows
and creeping together along the plain, as if tenuous spirit hands were
gripping each other.
The mists half concealed a caravan of animals winding along a path
outside the city. Edith could see only the heads of horses and the
cloaked forms of riders. It was as if beasts and men were swimming in a
gray sea in the evening calm.
Like an echo from another world, she heard the faint sound of tinkling
bells wafted from the caravan--the _hoa-hoa_ of drivers. A hooded wagon
rumbled in the mist. Barely could the girl see the moving shapes, so
swiftly did the wings of evening fall.
She wondered briefly if the cavalcade included the tonga of her father.
Then she reflected that he would approach Srinagar from another
quarter. She looked up. Her aunt had neither seen nor heard the caravan.
Edith glanced back at the path in the mist. The riders and horses were
almost invisible. Dimly the hood of the _ekka_[1] moved along jerkily.
Then her own carriage swerved into a drive, and the Afghan servant and
Rawul Singh shouted as they almost collided with a vehicle coming from
the other direction.
Through the garden the bulk of the sprawling, ill-designed palace
confronted them. Edith was claimed joyously at the entrance by
her new friends, the young subalterns. Fraser-Carnie expostulated
good-naturedly and they all laughed.
[Footnote 1: Two-wheeled native cart.]
Whole-heartedly, she threw herself into the tide of the evening.
Dances were begged and allotted; Fraser-Carnie insisted on the first
waltz--although reminded by his brother officers that he had not danced
in public for half a decade. Edith was presented briefly to her host--a
sallow-faced, smiling little man in evening clothes that did not quite
fit.
"It's so good of you," whispered the girl, "to do all this."
She gave the officer's hand a quick pat, and he glowed. He managed the
maneuvers of the waltz much as he would the evolutions of dress parade.
Edith, however, was too much interested in the spectacle of the native
dignitaries, the watching British matrons, the active junior officers,
to care.
Her eager eyes danced as they took in the vista of the moving throng
on the polished floor, the arched corridors decorated with immense
festoons of acacias and honeysuckle, the great divans where hill chiefs
in native dress sat painfully erect with their retinues behind them.
She hummed lightly in the air of the orchestra--a favorite British
cavalry quickstep.
"It's glorious," she exclaimed. "I do hope Daddy comes in time."
Major Fraser-Carnie halted precisely at the end of the music, his ruddy
face a shade redder and perspiration on his bald forehead. He bowed.
"Your wish, Miss Rand," he observed, "is my pleasure to fulfill. I go
to make inquiries----"
Time passed. Partners came and went--to return again. Edith had
not seen Monsey yet. A young subaltern escorted her to a balcony
overlooking the garden of roses where the dark surface of a round lake
glimmered faintly.
Perching on the stone railing, a scarf flung over the flimsy ball gown,
she stared out at the sentinel-like trees rising against the sky. It
was chilly and a fresh wind was lifting the branches of the trees below
her, setting the tiny globes of the lanterns to dancing.
The last thing Edith wanted was to be left alone. She listened
sympathetically while the young subaltern described the miraculous
floating gardens of Akbar, the pleasure palace of the dead emperors.
She liked the witchery of the darkening garden, she liked the
subaltern, and the music----
"My dance, I believe, Miss Rand."
At the first strains of the music beginning anew, Monsey had appeared
behind them. Instinctively Edith yearned to restrain her former partner
who now bowed, preparing to leave. Then she rose quietly. After all,
she had promised.
So she walked back to the ballroom, her hand on Monsey's arm. It would
soon be over. Then she could enjoy the evening.
Monsey had placed his arm lightly on her waist, and she swayed to the
rhythm of the music, when a voice spoke at her side.
"_Mem_-sahib, pardon!"
Edith turned inquiringly, to see Rawul Singh stiffly at attention.
Monsey wheeled on the Garhwali, his lean face dark.
"It is the order of the major-sahib," Rawul Singh bowed apologetically.
"He has sent a message."
Monsey would have spoken angrily, but the girl was before him. The
appearance of the orderly made her heart leap. "My father--he is here?"
Rawul Singh shook his head.
"This is the message, my _mem_-sahib. The major begs the _mem_-sahib to
come to the bungalow. There your father waits. He has come in a tonga,
and he asks for you."
Placidly, the orderly met the glance of Monsey. Both men waited for the
response of the girl. Edith had a swift impulse of alarm. Why had not
the major and Arthur Rand come to the palace? Why had they delayed in
summoning her? And why had not Fraser-Carnie come for her in person?
The uncertainty passed quickly. Her father was tired after the journey.
He had never cared for entertainments. Fraser-Carnie had remained at
the bungalow to keep his guest company until she should come. That was
it.
"My father is well?"
Anxious to be reassured, she asked the question of Rawul Singh,
forgetting that the orderly had not left the palace.
"_Mem_-sahib, I do not know. I have not seen him."
Of course! She ran to where she had left her scarf and snatched it up,
anxious only to be gone. There was no reason for her to be alarmed on
behalf of Arthur Rand. But, womanlike, she wanted to assure herself of
that at once. She did not even wait to speak to her aunt.
It was a slight matter. But this eagerness of Edith to see her father,
and her failure to tell Miss Rand, had in reality an important bearing
on what followed. With the scarf in her possession, she was turning
back from the balcony when Monsey confronted her.
"Your promise?" he inquired evenly. "You must finish your dance with
me. Rawul Singh can wait."
Edith met his glance fairly.
"It will be over in a minute," he urged, "and I will take you to the
bungalow in my carriage." She hesitated, and he resumed impatiently,
"Rawul Singh can accompany us--if you wish."
"But my father is waiting, Mr. Monsey."
"And I have waited. Since--Quebec."
Monsey's hand stretched out for the scarf. The girl drew it closer over
her bare shoulders.
"You will not deny me the dance?"
"Yes--for the present."
"Then I will escort you to the bungalow." Swiftly, he shifted his
ground. "Surely you will not refuse that, Miss Rand?"
His words were ironical, challenging. But Edith lifted her head
purposefully. "My father has sent for me, Mr. Monsey----"
"And you----"
"I am going to the bungalow--with Rawul Singh."
He drew back, his dark eyes gleaming. Edith passed from the room,
followed by the orderly. At the stairs she glanced back. Monsey was no
longer to be seen.
She would not wait for Rawul Singh to find the carriage and bring it
to the main entrance. Instead she accompanied the orderly out upon
the drive, where groups of native servants and drivers stood about
lanterns. A puff of wind smote at the bushes beside the road, chilling
the girl who had come without sufficient covering.
"Hurry, Rawul Singh," she urged, "find the carriage."
He ran ahead shouting among the idlers. She pressed after, not wishing
to lose sight of him. They were nearing the outbuildings where the
palace stables were located. Figures of natives gave back respectfully
at her approach. She heard voices, in the darkness, almost drowned by
the rising wind.
A lantern, held by a bearded Kashmiri, flashed in her face. She could
no longer make out the form of the orderly, and paused, uncertain. The
rumble of wheels sounded in front of her.
Two horses trotted out of the gloom. The lantern flickered away from
the girl, not before she had seen the bulk of a wagon and the white
tunic of its driver.
Then powerful hands grasped her from behind. She was lifted bodily from
the ground. A deep voice grunted a command, at her ear.
Other hands groped for her from above. Startled, the girl cried out.
"Rawul Singh!" And again: "Rawul Singh!"
There was no answer. The wind had ceased abruptly, and the night was
still. Edith felt herself drawn into the vehicle. She struggled,
knowing that this could not be the Fraser-Carnie carriage. A hand,
rough and odorous, pressed over her mouth, and she was laid swiftly on
some yielding substance.
Again the voice spoke angrily. A whip snapped. Edith was conscious
that the wagon lurched forward, gathering speed. She heard the beat of
hoofs, and struggled again, violently, in the hands that held her.
The cart shook from side to side. Edith was dumbly surprised that it
should be so dark--until she heard tree branches brush over a covering
of some kind, near her head. Her blunted senses told her that she was
held firmly, a man's powerful knee prisoning her legs.
By now the wagon must have attained swift headway. It jolted and
bounced painfully.
Then, slowly, at first, came a scattered rustle on the roof of the
vehicle. It increased to a rattle--grew deafening. A damp breath of air
swept her face. Across her vision flashed a veiled gleam, followed by
the rumble of thunder almost overhead.
The thunderstorm had broken.