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She had withdrawn a little from the stream of guests, and was standing slightly apart, watching the gorgeous spectacle in the splendidly lighted hall, when a tall figure,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.