PAGE 18
The Nonentity
by
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 to me! Oh, do speak to me!” she entreated. “Ronald, open your eyes! Please open your eyes!”
“He is only stunned.” It was Fletcher’s voice above her. “Leave him alone. He will soon come to his senses. Serves him right for acting the clown in this get-up.”
She looked up sharply at that and a perfect tempest of indignation took possession of her, banishing all fear.
“What he did,” she said, in a voice that shook uncontrollably, “was for my sake alone, that he might be able to protect me from cads and blackguards. I refuse to leave him like this, but the sooner you go, the better. I will never–never as long as I live–speak to you again!”
Her blazing eyes, and the positive fury of her voice, must have carried conviction to the most obtuse, and this Fletcher certainly was not. He stood a moment, looking down at her with an insolence that might have frightened her a little earlier, but which now she met with a new strength that he felt himself powerless to dominate. She was not thinking of herself at all just then, and perhaps that was the secret of her ascendancy. His own brute force crumbled to nothing before it, and he knew that he was beaten.
Without a word he bowed to her, smiling ironically, and turned upon his heel.
She drew a great breath of relief as she saw him go. She felt as though a horrible oppression had passed out of the atmosphere. That fairy haunt with its bubbling fountain and sapphire lamps was no longer an evil place.
She bent again over her senseless companion.
“Ronald!” she whispered. “My dear, my dear, can’t you hear me? Oh, if only you would open your eyes!”
She soaked her handkerchief in the water and held it to the wound upon his forehead. Even as she did it, she felt him stir, and the next moment his eyes were open, gazing straight up into her own.
“Damn the brute!” said Lord Ronald faintly.
“You are better?” she whispered thankfully.
His hand came upwards gropingly, and took the soaked handkerchief from her. He dabbed his face with it, and slowly, with her assistance, sat up.
“Where is he?” he asked.