"
"Why should I not? I love you."
"You must not love me. I--I am to be Captain Stafford's wife."
"Beatrice!" His cry of incredulous pain drove her to frantic measures.
"It is true. I swear it."
Then it was all over. He made no protest. He rode by her side as
though he had been turned to stone, rigidly upright, his hand hanging
lifeless at his side, his face expressionless. She felt that she had
struck right at his life's vitality--that she had killed him. Yet it
was not remorse that blinded her till the white road became a
shimmering blur--it was a frightful personal pain which was hers and
hers alone. Neither spoke. They passed a crowd of natives returning to
the Bazaar. They salaamed, but Nehal Singh made no response, as was
his wont. He did not seem to see them. Mechanically he guided his
horse through the bowing crowd. The silence became unbearable. She had
flippantly told herself that as long as he did not make a "scene" she
would be satisfied. He had not made a "scene." From the moment that
she had made her final declaration he had not spoken, and now she was
praying that he would say something to her--anything, she did not care
what, only not that terrible accusatory silence. At last, in
desperation, she began to make it up with him as she had planned--in
an incoherent, helpless way.
"I have hurt you," she stammered. "Forgive me--I did not mean to. It
has all been a cruel mistake.
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