Frederick soon began to feel as if he were a member of the colonel's family. The old gentleman treated him like a son, and was never tired of introducing him to all his friends and acquaintances. One morning he proposed that they should call together on a Hindoo lady, the widow of a great dignitary, and whose wealth was enormous. Being free of control and of advanced notions, she was fond of frequenting good European society, and would, so the colonel declared, be delighted to make Count von Waldberg's acquaintance. The opportunities of entering the house of a lady of great fortune and high caste in India are exceedingly rare, for the rules of the Zenana are so strict and so full of deeply rooted prejudices that even widows, proverbially forward, seldom dare to break through them. Frederick, therefore, declared in reply that he would be much pleased to avail himself of the colonel's offer.
The widow received them in a magnificently decorated room. Her face was partly vailed by a rose-colored silk scarf, and her dress was literally ablaze with diamonds, rubies, and gold. She was a woman of between forty and fifty years of age, very dark, and with piercing coal-black eyes. When the colonel and his young friend entered, she quickly rose from the divan, and having shaken hands with them both in European fashion, invited them to take seats on either side of her. She began by thanking Colonel Fitzpatrick for having brought Count von Waldberg to see her, and then, turning to the latter, added graciously that she would be “at home” to him whenever he might deign to call for the purpose of cheering her lonely life by his welcome presence. Frederick assured her that he would frequently avail himself of her permission,and the conversation then turned to European topics and to social scandal both at home and abroad, concerning which the widow appeared to know much more than might reasonably have been expected from a Hindoo lady living in the seclusion of a Baroda Zenana.
Frederick could not help noticing the very marked impression that he was producing on the widow. She addressed herself almost exclusively to him, and her piercing eyes hardly ever left his face. She insisted on their staying until nightfall, and when Frederick pleaded some urgent business appointment she prevailed on Frederick to allow the colonel to depart alone and to remain behind, at any rate until it was time for the city gates to close. The heat being intense indoors, the widow shortly afterward made a proposal that they should adjourn to the gardens of her palace, and conducted him along a winding path sheltered from the glare of the sun by the dense foliage of the sycamore trees to a fairy-like kiosk, built on a kind of rocky promontory, which seemed to hang out over the river. A gentle breeze made its way through the closed lattices of the windows, and a pink marble fountain perfumed the atmosphere with its jet of rose-water.
Frederick had entered this charming buen retiro a free man. When he left it he was enthralled by fetters which he would find it difficult to sever.
He had been about four months at Baroda when one morning as he was in the act of mounting his pony to ride over to pay his customary visit to the widow a diminutive black boy stealthily slipped a note into his hand. Hastily turning round Frederick recognized the grinning features of Florence's little page, who, after making a profound salaam, disappeared as fast as his legs would carry him. Putting his horse at a walk the young count opened the letter and read the following words:
“I will be this evening, at dusk, in the wood adjoining our bungalow, near the little temple of Jain. Meet me there. I must speak to you alone and without delay. I have a communication to make to you of such importance that our lives are endangered thereby. Oh, my love, my love! Why are you so cruel?”
With a stifled curse Frederick crushed the note in his hand and thrust it into one of the outside pockets of his jacket. Then, giving his unfortunate pony a vicious dig with his spurs, he started off at a sharp canter, and fifteen minutes later he alighted at the palace of the widow, who, having become insanely jealous, was making his life a perfect burden to him.
On that particular morning she was more than usually fractious and exacting, and it was only by playing the part of an enthusiastic and passionate lover that he could in any way pacify her. When at length he reached home he was in a state of exasperation bordering on frenzy. Flinging himself upon the couch in his room he gave way to a most violent fit of rage. Suddenly remembering Florence's note he put his hand into his pocket, with the object of reading it once more. The letter, however, was gone. It was in vain that he turned all his pockets inside out; the note had disappeared. This caused him a moment of anxiety, but on second thought he remembered that it bore neither signature nor address, and, taking it for granted that it had dropped from his pocket while riding, he dismissed the subject from his mind.
Shortly after sundown he started to walk through the wood to the little temple of Jain where Florence had requested him to meet her. It was a lovely and romantic spot. The small temple, built of delicately chiseled stone forming a kind of open trellis work, was surmounted by nine little carved domes and tiny fretted minarets. All round the building rose half-broken columns, the ruins of a mosque, while huge trees covered the spot with deep shade, and Barbary figs, cactuses and poisonous euphorbias enveloped the ancient stones. Thousands of parrots and humming birds dwelt in the branches of the sycamores and palms and flew off at the slightest sound. The place was very lonely, and as he approached it there was no sound save the babble of a brook whispering among tall rushes and lotus plants to be heard in the quiet evening air.
Florence, who had been sitting on the fragments of the basalt column, rose to her feet as she saw him coming, and advanced toward him with outstretched hands. She had been a very beautiful girl a few months previously, but the brilliant pink color, which was one of her chief charms, had now given place to a sickly pallor. Her cheeks were haggard and drawn and her soft brown eyes had a sad and hunted expression which was very painful to see in one so young and fair.