The Swindler, Ethel May Dell [distant reading TXT] 📗

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.


IX

The moments that followed were like a ghastly nightmare to Beryl, for, struggle as she might, she knew herself to be helpless. Having once passed the bounds of civilisation, he gave full rein to his savagery. And again and yet again, holding her crushed to him, he kissed her shrinking face. He was as a man possessed, and once he laughed--a devilish laugh--at the weakness of her resistance.
And then quite suddenly she felt his grip relax. He let her go abruptly, so that she tottered and almost fell, only saving herself by one of the pillars of the arbour.
A great surging was in her brain, a surging that nearly deafened her. She was too spent, too near to swooning, to realise what it was that had wrought her deliverance. She could only cling gasping and quivering to her support while the tumult within her gradually subsided.
It was several seconds later that she began to be aware of something happening, of some commotion very near to her, of trampling to and fro, and now and again of a voice that cursed. These things quickly goaded her to a fuller consciousness. Exhausted though she was, she managed to collect her senses and look down upon the spectacle below her.
There, on the edge of the fountain, two figures swayed and fought. One of them she saw at a glance was Fletcher. She had a glimpse of his face in the uncanny gloom, and it was set and devilish, bestial in its cruelty. The other--the other--she stared and gasped and stared again--the other, beyond all possibility of doubt, was the ancient snake-charmer of Farabad.
Yet it was he who cursed--and cursed in excellent English--with a fluency that none but English lips could possibly have achieved. And the reason for his eloquence was not far to seek. For he was being thrashed, thrashed scientifically, mercilessly, and absolutely thoroughly--by the man whom he had dared to thwart.
He was draped as before in his long native garment--and this, though it hung in tatters, hampered his movements, and must have placed him at a hopeless disadvantage even had he not been completely outmatched in the first place.
Standing on the steps above them, Beryl took in the whole situation, and in a trice her own weakness was a thing of the past. Amazed, incredulous, bewildered as she was, the urgent need for action drove all questioning from her mind. There was no time for that. With a cry, she sprang downwards.
And in that instant Fletcher delivered a smashing blow with the whole of his strength, and struck his opponent down.
He fell with a thud, striking his head against the marble of the fountain, and to Beryl's horror he did not rise again. He simply lay as he had fallen, with arms flung wide and face upturned, motionless, inanimate as a thing of stone.
In an agony she dropped upon her knees beside him.
"You brute!" she cried to Fletcher. "Oh, you brute!"
She heard him laugh in answer, a fierce and cruel laugh, but she paid no further heed to him. She was trying to raise the fallen man, dabbing the blood that ran from a cut on his temple, lifting his head to lie in the hollow of her arm. Her incredulity had wholly passed. She knew him now beyond all question. He would never manage to deceive her again.
"Speak