The House of the Falcon/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI
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.
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 flapped. 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 an 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.
- ↑ Two-wheeled native cart