The Shadow Dance was even more beautiful than the Dance of the Statue,
but Stephen had lost pleasure in it. He was supersensitive in these
days, and he felt as if the girl had deliberately made game of him, in
order that he should make a fool of himself. Of course it was a pose of
hers to travel without chaperon or maid, and dress like a school girl
from a provincial town, in cheap serge, a sailor hat, and a plait of
hair looped up with ribbon. She was no doubt five or six years older
than she looked or admitted, and probably her manager shrewdly
prescribed the "line" she had taken up. Young women on the
stage--actresses, dancers, or singers, it didn't matter which--must do
something unusual, in order to be talked about, and get a good free
advertisement. Nowadays, when professionals vied with each other in the
expensiveness of their jewels, the size of their hats, or the smallness
of their waists, and the eccentricity of their costumes, it was perhaps
rather a new note to wear no jewels at all, and appear in ready-made
frocks bought in bargain-sales; while, as for the young woman's air of
childlike innocence and inexperience, it might be a tribute to her
cleverness as an actress, but it was not a tribute to his intelligence
as a man, that he should have been taken in by it. Always, he told
himself, he was being taken in by some woman. After the lesson he had
had, he ought to have learned wisdom, but it seemed that he was as
gullible as ever. And it was this romantic folly of his which vexed him
now; not the fact that a simple child over whose fate he had
sentimentalized, was a rich and popular stage-dancer. Miss Ray was
probably a good enough young woman according to her lights, and it was
not she who need be shamed by the success of the Channel boat comedy.
He had another day and night in Paris, where he did more sightseeing
than he had ever accomplished before in a dozen visits, and then
travelled on to Marseilles. The slight damage to the _Charles Quex_ had
been repaired, and at noon the ship was to sail. Stephen went on board
early, as he could think of nothing else which he preferred to do, and
he was repaid for his promptness. By the time he had seen his luggage
deposited in the cabin he had secured for himself alone, engaged a deck
chair, and taken a look over the ship--which was new, and as handsome as
much oak, fragrant cedar-wood, gilding, and green brocade could make
her--many other passengers were coming on board. Travelling first class
were several slim French officers, and stout Frenchmen of the commercial
class; a merry theatrical company going to act in Algiers and Tunis; an
English clergyman of grave aspect; invalids with their nurses, and two
or three dignified Arabs, evidently of good birth as well as fortune.
Arab merchants were returning from the Riviera, and a party of German
students were going second class.
Stephen was interested in the lively scene of embarkation, and glad to
be a part of it, though still more glad that there seemed to be nobody
on board whom he had ever met. He admired the harbour, and the shipping,
and felt pleasantly exhilarated. "I feel very young, or very old, I'm
not sure which," he said to himself as a faint thrill ran through his
nerves at the grinding groan of the anchor, slowly hauled out of the
deep green water.
It was as if he heard the creaking of a gate which opened into an
unknown garden, a garden where life would be new and changed. Nevill
Caird had once said that there was no sharp, dividing line between
phases of existence, except one's own moods, and Stephen had thought
this true; but now it seemed as if the sea which silvered the distance
was the dividing line for him, while all that lay beyond the horizon was
mysterious as a desert mirage.
He was not conscious of any joy at starting, yet he was excited, as if
something tremendous were about to happen to him. England, that he knew
so well, seemed suddenly less real than Africa, which he knew not at
all, and his senses were keenly alert for the first time in many days.
He saw Marseilles from a new point of view, and wondered why he had
never read anything fine written in praise of the ancient Phoenician
city. Though he had not been in the East, he imagined that the old part
of the town, seen from the sea, looked Eastern, as if the traffic
between east and west, going on for thousands of years, had imported an
Eastern taste in architecture.
The huge, mosque-like cathedral bubbled with domes, where fierce gleams
of gold were hammered out by strokes of the noonday sun. A background of
wild mountain ranges, whose tortured peaks shone opaline through long
rents in mist veils, lent an air of romance to the scene, and Notre Dame
de la Garde loomed nobly on her bleached and arid height. "Have no fear:
I keep watch and ward over land and sea," seemed to say the majestic
figure of gold on the tall tower, and Stephen half wished he were of the
Catholic faith, that he might take comfort from the assurance.
As the _Charles Quex_ steamed farther and farther away, the church on
the mountainous hill appeared to change in shape. Notre Dame de la Garde
looked no longer like a building made by man, but like a great sacred
swan crowned with gold, and nested on a mountain-top. There she sat,
with shining head erect on a long neck, seated on her nest, protecting
her young, and gazing far across the sea in search of danger. The sun
touched her golden crown, and dusky cloud-shadows grouped far beneath
her eyrie, like mourners kneeling below the height to pray. The
rock-shapes and island rocks that cut the blue glitter of the sea,
suggested splendid tales of Phoenician mariners and Saracenic pirates,
tales lost forever in the dim mists of time; and so Stephen wandered on
to thoughts of Dumas, wishing he had brought "Monte Cristo," dearly
loved when he was twelve. Probably not a soul on board had the book;
people were so stupid and prosaic nowadays. He turned from the rail on
which he had leaned to watch the fading land, and as he did so, his eyes
fell upon a bright red copy of the book for which he had been wishing.
There was the name in large gold lettering on a scarlet cover, very
conspicuous on the dark blue serge lap of a girl. It was the girl of the
Channel boat, and she wore the same dress, the same sailor hat tied on
with a blue veil, which she had worn that night crossing from England to
France.
While Stephen had been absorbed in admiration of Marseilles harbour, she
had come up on deck, and settled herself in a canvas chair. This time
she had a rug of her own, a thin navy blue rug which, like her frock,
might have been chosen for its cheapness. Although she held a volume of
"Monte Cristo," she was not reading, and as Stephen turned towards her,
their eyes met.
Hers lit up with a pleased smile, and the pink that sprang to her cheeks
was the colour of surprise, not of self-consciousness.
"I _thought_ your back looked like you, but I didn't suppose it would
turn out to be you," she said.
Stephen's slight, unreasonable irritation could not stand against the
azure of such eyes, and the youth in her friendly smile. Since the girl
seemed glad to see him, why shouldn't he be glad to see her? At least
she was not a link with England.
"I thought your statue looked like you," he retorted, standing near her
chair, "but I didn't suppose it would turn out to be you until your
shadow followed."
"Oh, you saw me dance! Did you like it?" She asked the question eagerly,
like a child who hangs upon grown-up judgment of its work.
"I thought both dances extremely beautiful and artistic," replied
Stephen, a little stiffly.
She looked at him questioningly, as if puzzled. "No, I don't think you
did like them, really," she said. "I oughtn't to have asked in that
blunt way, because of course you would hate to hurt my feelings by
saying no!"
Her manner was so unlike that of a spoiled stage darling, that Stephen
had to remind himself sharply of her "innocent pose," and his own
soft-hearted lack of discrimination where pretty women were concerned.
By doing this he kept himself armed against the clever little actress
laughing at him behind the blue eyes of a child. "You must know that
there can't be two opinions of your dancing," said he coolly. "You have
had years and years of flattery, of course; enough to make you sick of
it, if a woman ever----" He stopped, smiling.
"Why, I've been dancing professionally for only a few months!" she
exclaimed. "Didn't you know?"
"I'm ashamed to say I was ignorant," Stephen confessed. "But before the
dancing, there must have been something else equally clever.
Floating--or flying--or----"
She laughed. "Why don't you suggest fainting in coils? I'm certain you
would, if you'd ever read 'Alice.'"
"As a matter of fact, I was brought up on 'Alice,'" said Stephen. "Do
children of the present day still go down the rabbit hole?"
"I'm not sure about children of the _present_ day. Children of my day
went down," she replied with dignity. "I loved Alice dearly. I don't
know much about other children, though, for I never had a chance to make
friends as a child. But then I had my sister when I was a little girl,
so nothing else mattered."
"If you don't think me rude to say so," ventured Stephen, "you would
seem to me a little girl now, if I hadn't found out that you're an
accomplished star of the theatres, admired all over Europe."
"Now you're making fun of me," said the dancer. "Paris was only my third
engagement; and it's going to be my last, anyway for ever so long, I
hope."
This time Stephen was really surprised, and all his early interest in
the young creature woke again; the personal sort of interest which he
had partly lost on finding that she was of the theatrical world.
"Oh, I see!" he ejaculated, before stopping to reflect that he had no
right to put into words the idea which jumped into his mind.
"You see?" she echoed. "But how can you see, unless you know something
about me already?"
"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "It was only a thought. I----"
"A thought about my dancing?"
"Not exactly that. About your not dancing again."
"Then please tell me the thought."
"You may be angry. I rather think you'd have a right to be angry--not at
the thought, but the telling of it."
"I promise."
"Why," explained Stephen, "when a young and successful actress makes up
her mind to leave the stage, what is the usual reason?"
"I'm not an actress, so I can't imagine what you mean--unless you
suppose I've made a great fortune in a few months?"
"That too, perhaps--but I don't think a fortune would induce you to
leave the stage yet a while. You'd want to go on, not for the money
perhaps, but for the fun."
"I haven't been dancing for fun."
"Haven't you?"
"No. I began with a purpose. I'm leaving the stage for a purpose. And
you say you can guess what that is. If you know, you must have been
told."
"Since you insist, it occurred to me that you might be going to marry.
I thought maybe you were travelling to Africa to----"
She laughed. "Oh, you _are_ wrong! I don't believe there ever was a girl
who thinks less about marrying. I've never had time to think of such
things. I've always--ever since I was nine years old--looked to the one
goal, and aimed for it, studied for it, lived for it--at last, danced
towards it."
"You excite my curiosity immensely," said Stephen. And it was true. The
girl had begun to take him out of himself.
"There is lunch," she announced, as a bugle sounded.
Stephen longed to say, "Don't go yet. Stop and tell me all about the
'goal' you're working for." But he dared not. She was very frank, and
evidently willing, for some reason, to talk of her aims, even to a
comparative stranger; yet he knew that it would be impertinent to
suggest her sitting out on deck to chat with him, while the other
passengers lunched.
He asked if she were hungry, and she said she was. So was he, now that
he came to think of it; nevertheless he let her go in alone, and waited
deliberately for several minutes before following. He would have liked
to sit by Miss Ray at the table, but wished her to see that he did not
mean to presume upon any small right of acquaintanceship. As she was on
the stage, and extremely attractive, no doubt men often tried to take
such advantage, and he didn't intend to be one of them; therefore he
supposed that he had lost the chance of placing himself near her in the
dining-room. To his surprise, however, as he was about to slip into a
far-away chair, she beckoned from her table. "I kept this seat for you,"
she said. "I hoped you wouldn't mind."
"Mind!" He was on the point of repaying her kindness with a conventional
little compliment, but thought better of it, and expressed his meaning
in a smile.
The oak-panelled saloon was provided with a number of small tables, and
at the one where Victoria Ray sat, were places for four. Three were
already occupied when Stephen came; one by Victoria, the others by a
German bride and groom.
At the next table were two French officers of the Chasseurs d'Afrique,
the English clergyman Stephen had noticed on deck, and a remarkably
handsome Arab, elaborately dressed. He sat facing Victoria Ray and
Stephen Knight, and Stephen found it difficult not to stare at the
superb, pale brown person whose very high white turban, bound with light
grey cord, gave him a dignity beyond his years, and whose pale grey
burnous, over a gold-embroidered vest of dark rose-colour, added
picturesqueness which appeared theatrical in eyes unaccustomed to the
East.
Stephen had never seen an Arab of the aristocratic class until to-day;
and before, only a few such specimens as parade the Galerie Charles
Trois at Monte Carlo, selling prayer-rugs and draperies from Algeria.
This man's high birth and breeding were clear at first glance. He was
certainly a personage aware of his own attractions, though not
offensively self-conscious, and was unmistakably interested in the
beauty of the girl at the next table. He was too well-bred to make a
show of his admiration, but talked in almost perfect, slightly guttural
French, with the English clergyman, speaking occasionally also to the
officers in answer to some question. He glanced seldom at Miss Ray, but
when he did look across, in a guarded way, at her, there was a light of
ardent pleasure in his eyes, such as no eyes save those of East or South
ever betray. The look was respectful, despite its underlying passion.
Nevertheless, because the handsome face was some shades darker than his
own, it offended Stephen, who felt a sharp bite of dislike for the Arab.
He was glad the man was not at the same table with Miss Ray, and knew
that it would have vexed him intensely to see the girl drawn into
conversation. He wondered that the French officers should talk with the
Arab as with an equal, yet knew in his heart that such prejudice was
narrow-minded, especially at the moment when he was travelling to the
Arab's own country. He tried, though not very strenuously, to override
his conviction of superiority to the Eastern man, but triumphed only far
enough to admit that the fellow was handsome in a way. His skin was
hardly darker than old ivory: the aquiline nose delicate as a woman's,
with sensitive nostrils; and the black velvet eyes under arched brows,
that met in a thin, pencilled line, were long, and either dreamy or
calmly calculating. A prominent chin and a full mouth, so determined as
to suggest cruelty, certainly selfishness, preserved the face from
effeminacy at the sacrifice of artistic perfection. Stephen noticed with
mingled curiosity and disapproval that the Arab appeared to be vain of
his hands, on which he wore two or three rings that might have been
bought in Paris, or even given him by European women--for they looked
like a woman's rings. The brown fingers were slender, tapering to the
ends, and their reddened nails glittered. They played, as the man
talked, with a piece of bread, and often he glanced down at them, with
the long eyes which had a blue shadow underneath, like a faint smear of
kohl.
Stephen wondered what Victoria Ray thought of her _vis-à-vis_; but in
the presence of the staring bride and groom he could ask no questions,
and the expression of her face, as once she quietly regarded the Arab,
told nothing. It was even puzzling, as an expression for a young girl's
face to wear in looking at a handsome man so supremely conscious of sex
and of his own attraction. She was evidently thinking about him with
considerable interest, and it annoyed Stephen that she should look at
him at all. An Arab might misunderstand, not realizing that he was a
legitimate object of curiosity for eyes unused to Eastern men.
After luncheon Victoria went to her cabin. This was disappointing.
Stephen, hoping that she might come on deck again soon, and resume their
talk where it had broken off in the morning, paced up and down until he
felt drowsy, not having slept in the train the night before. To his
surprise and disgust, it was after five when he waked from a long nap,
in his stateroom; and going on deck he found Miss Ray in her chair once
more, this time apparently deep in "Monte Cristo."
V
He walked past, and she looked up with a smile, but did not ask him to
draw his chair near hers, though there was a vacant space. It was an
absurd and far-fetched idea, but he could not help asking himself if it
were possible that she had picked up any acquaintance on board, who had
told her he was a marked man, a foolish fellow who had spoiled his life
for a low-born, unscrupulous woman's sake. It was a morbid fancy, he
knew, but he was morbid now, and supposed that he should be for some
time to come, if not for the rest of his life. He imagined a difference
in the girl's manner. Maybe she had read that hateful interview in some
paper, when she was in London, and now remembered having seen his
photograph with Margot Lorenzi's. He hated the thought, not because he
deliberately wished to keep his engagement secret, but because the
newspaper interview had made him seem a fool, and somehow he did not
want to be despised by this dancing girl whom he should never see again
after to-morrow. Just why her opinion of his character need matter to
him, it was difficult to say, but there was something extraordinary
about the girl. She did not seem in the least like other dancers he had
met. He had not that feeling of comfortable comradeship with her that a
man may feel with most unchaperoned, travelling actresses, no matter how
respectable. There was a sense of aloofness, as if she had been a young
princess, in spite of her simple and friendly ways.
Since it appeared that she had no intention of picking up the dropped
threads of their conversation, Stephen thought of the smoking-room; but
his wish to know whether she really had changed towards him became so
pressing that he was impelled to speak again. It was an impulse unlike
himself, at any rate the old self with which he was familiar, as with a
friend or an intimate enemy.
"I hoped you would tell me the rest," he blurted out.
"The rest?"
"That you were beginning to tell."
The girl blushed. "I was afraid afterwards, you might have been bored,
or anyway surprised. You probably thought it 'very American' of me to
talk about my own affairs to a stranger, and it _isn't_, you know. I
shouldn't like you to think Americans are less well brought up than
other girls, just because _I_ may do things that seem queer. I have to
do them. And I am quite different from others. You mustn't suppose I'm
not."
Stephen was curiously relieved. Suddenly he felt young and happy, as he
used to feel before knowing Margot Lorenzi. "I never met a brilliantly
successful person who was as modest as you," he said, laughing with
pleasure. "I was never less bored in my life. Will you talk to me
again--and let me talk to you?"
"I should like to ask your advice," she replied.
That gave permission for Stephen to draw his chair near to hers. "Have
you had tea?" he inquired, by way of a beginning.
"I'm too American to drink tea in the afternoon," she explained. "It's
only fashionable Americans who take it, and I'm not that kind, as you
can see. I come from the country--or almost the country."
"Weren't you drawn into any of our little ways in London?" He was
working up to a certain point.
"I was too busy."
"I'm sure you weren't too busy for one thing: reading the papers for
your notices."
Victoria shook her head, smiling. "There you're mistaken. The first
morning after I danced at the Palace Theatre, I asked to see the papers
they had in my boarding-house, because I hoped so much that English
people would like me, and I wanted to be a success. But afterwards I
didn't bother. I don't understand British politics, you see--how could
I?--and I hardly know any English people, so I wasn't very interested in
their papers."
Again Stephen was relieved. But he felt driven by one of his strange new
impulses to tell her his name, and watch her face while he told it.
"'Curiouser and curiouser,' as our friend Alice would say," he laughed.
"No newspaper paragraphs, and a boarding-house instead of a fashionable
hotel. What was your manager thinking about?"
"I had no manager of my very own," said Victoria. "I 'exploited' myself.
It costs less to do that. When people in America liked my dancing I got
an offer from London, and I accepted it and made all the arrangements
about going over. It was quite easy, you see, because there were only
costumes to carry. My scenery is so simple, they either had it in the
theatres or got something painted: and the statues in the studio scene,
and the sculptor, needed very few rehearsals. In Paris they had only
one. It was all I had time for, after I arrived. The lighting wasn't
difficult either, and though people told me at first there would be
trouble unless I had my own man, there never was any, really. In my
letters to the managers I gave the dates when I could come to their
theatres, how long I could stay, and all they must do to get things
ready. The Paris engagement was made only a little while beforehand. I
wanted to pass through there, so I was glad to accept the offer and earn
extra money which I thought I might need by and by."
"What a mercenary star!" Stephen spoke teasingly; but in truth he could
not make the girl out.
She took the accusation with a smile. "Yes, I am mercenary, I suppose,"
she confessed with unashamed frankness, "but not entirely for myself. I
shouldn't like to be that! I told you how I've been looking forward
always to one end. And now, just when that end may be near, how foolish
I should be to spend a cent on unnecessary things! Why, I'd have felt
_wicked_ living in an expensive hotel, and keeping a maid, when I could
be comfortable in a Bloomsbury boarding-house on ten dollars a week. And
the dresser in the theater, who did everything very nicely, was
delighted with a present of twenty dollars when my London engagement was
over."
"No doubt she was," said Stephen. "But----"
"I suppose you're thinking that I must have made lots of money, and that
I'm a sort of little miseress: and so I have--and so I am. I earned
seven hundred and fifty dollars a week--isn't that a hundred and fifty
pounds?--for the six weeks, and I spent as little as possible; for I
didn't get as large a salary as that in America. I engaged to dance for
three hundred dollars a week there, which seemed perfectly wonderful to
me at first; so I had to keep my contract, though other managers would
have given me more. I wanted dreadfully to take their offers, because I
was in such a hurry to have enough money to begin my real work. But I
knew I shouldn't be blessed in my undertaking if I acted dishonourably.
Try as I might, I've only been able to save up ten thousand dollars,
counting the salary in Paris and all. Would you say that was enough to
_bribe_ a person, if necessary? Two thousand of your pounds."
"It depends upon how rich the person is."
"I don't know how rich he is. Could an Arab be _very_ rich?"
"I daresay there are still some rich ones. But maybe riches aren't the
same with them as with us. That fellow at lunch to-day looks as if he'd
plenty of money to spend on embroideries."
"Yes. And he looks important too--as if he might have travelled, and
known a great many people of all sorts. I wish it were proper for me to
talk to him."
"Good Heavens, why?" asked Stephen, startled. "It would be most
improper."
"Yes, I'm afraid so, and I won't, of course, unless I get to know him in
some way," went on Victoria. "Not that there's any chance of such a
thing."
"I should hope not," exclaimed Stephen, who was privately of opinion
that there was only too good a chance if the girl showed the Arab even
the faintest sign of willingness to know and be known. "I've no right to
ask it, of course, except that I'm much older than you and have seen
more of the world--but do promise not to look at that nigger. I don't
like his face."
"He isn't a nigger," objected Victoria. "But if he were, it wouldn't
matter--nor whether one liked his face or not. He might be able to help
me."
"To help you--in Algiers?"
"Yes, in the same way that you might be able to help me--or more,
because he's an Arab, and must know Arabs."
Stephen forgot to press his request for her promise. "How can I help
you?" he wanted to know.
"I'm not sure. Only, you're going to Algiers. I always ask everybody to
help, if there's the slightest chance they can."
Stephen felt disappointed and chilled. But she went on. "I should hate
you to think I _gush_ to strangers, and tell them all my affairs, just
because I'm silly enough to love talking. I must talk to strangers. I
_must_ get help where I can. And you were kind the other night.
Everybody is kind. Do you know many people in Algeria, or Tunisia?"
"Only one man. His name is Nevill Caird, and he lives in Algiers. My
name is Stephen Knight. I've been wanting to tell you--I seemed to have
an unfair advantage, knowing yours ever since Paris."
He watched her face almost furtively, but no change came over it, no
cloud in the blueness of her candid eyes. The name meant nothing to her.
"I'm sorry. It's hardly worth while my bothering you then."
Stephen wished to be bothered. "But Nevill Caird has lived in Algiers
for eight winters or so," he said. "He knows everybody, French and
English--Arab too, very likely, if there are Arabs worth knowing."
A bright colour sprang to the girl's cheeks and turned her extreme
prettiness into brilliant beauty. It seemed to Stephen that the name of
Ray suited her: she was dazzling as sunshine. "Oh, then, I will tell
you--if you'll listen," she said.
"If I had as many ears as a spear of wheat, they'd all want to listen."
His voice sounded young and eager. "Please begin at the beginning, as
the children say."
"Shall I really? But it's a long story. It begins when I was eight."
"All the better. It will be ten years long."
"I can skip lots of things. When I was eight, and my sister Saidee not
quite eighteen, we were in Paris with my stepmother. My father had been
dead just a year, but she was out of mourning. She wasn't old--only
about thirty, and handsome. She was jealous of Saidee, though, because
Saidee was so much younger and fresher, and because Saidee was
beautiful--Oh, you can't imagine how beautiful!"
"Yes, I can," said Stephen.
"You mean me to take that for a compliment. I know I'm quite pretty, but
I'm nothing to Saidee. She was a great beauty, though with the same
colouring I have, except that her eyes were brown, and her hair a little
more auburn. People turned to look after her in the street, and that
made our stepmother angry. _She_ wanted to be the one looked at. I knew,
even then! She wouldn't have travelled with us, only father had left her
his money, on condition that she gave Saidee and me the best of
educations, and allowed us a thousand dollars a year each, from the time
our schooling was finished until we married. She had a good deal of
influence over him, for he was ill a long time, and she was his
nurse--that was the way they got acquainted. And she persuaded him to
leave practically everything to her; but she couldn't prevent his making
some conditions. There was one which she hated. She was obliged to live
in the same town with us; so when she wanted to go and enjoy herself in
Paris after father died, she had to take us too. And she didn't care to
shut Saidee up, because if Saidee couldn't be seen, she couldn't be
married; and of course Mrs. Ray wanted her to be married. Then she would
have no bother, and no money to pay. I often heard Saidee say these
things, because she told me everything. She loved me a great deal, and I
adored her. My middle name is Cecilia, and she was generally called Say;
so she used to tell me that our secret names for each other must be 'Say
and Seal.' It made me feel very grown-up to have her confide so much in
me: and never being with children at all, gave me grown-up thoughts."
"Poor child!" said Stephen.
"Oh, I was very happy. It was only after--but that isn't the way to tell
the story. Our stepmother--whom we always called 'Mrs. Ray,' never
'mother'--liked officers, and we got acquainted with a good many French
ones. They used to come to the flat where we lived. Some of them were
introduced by our French governess, whose brother was in the army, but
they brought others, and Saidee and Mrs. Ray went to parties together,
though Mrs. Ray hated being chaperon. If poor Saidee were admired at a
dinner, or a dance, Mrs. Ray would be horrid all next day, and say
everything disagreeable she could think of. Then Saidee would cry when
we were alone, and tell me she was so miserable, she would have to marry
in self-defence. That made me cry too--but she promised to take me with
her if she went away.
"When we had been in Paris about two months, Saidee came to bed one
night after a ball, and waked me up. We slept in the same room. She was
excited and looked like an angel. I knew something had happened. She
told me she'd met a wonderful man, and every one was fascinated with
him. She had heard of him before, but this was the first time they'd
seen each other. He was in the French army, she said, a captain, and
older than most of the men she knew best, but very handsome, and rich as
well as clever. It was only at the last, after she'd praised the man a
great deal, that she mentioned his having Arab blood. Even then she
hurried on to say his mother was a Spanish woman, and he had been partly
educated in France, and spoke perfect French, and English too. They had
danced together, and Saidee had never met so interesting a man. She
thought he was like the hero of some romance; and she told me I would
see him, because he'd begged Mrs. Ray to be allowed to call. He had
asked Saidee lots of questions, and she'd told him even about me--so he
sent me his love. She seemed to think I ought to be pleased, but I
wasn't. I'd read the 'Arabian Nights', with pictures, and I knew Arabs
were dark people. I didn't look down on them particularly, but I
couldn't bear to have Say interested in an Arab. It didn't seem right
for her, somehow."
The girl stopped, and apparently forgot to go on. She had been speaking
with short pauses, as if she hardly realized that she was talking aloud.
Her eyebrows drew together, and she sighed. Stephen knew that some
memory pressed heavily upon her, but soon she began again.
"He came next day. He was handsome, as Saidee had said--as handsome as
the Arab on board this ship, but in a different way. He looked noble and
haughty--yet as if he might be very selfish and hard. Perhaps he was
about thirty-three or four, and that seemed old to me then--old even to
Saidee. But she was fascinated. He came often, and she saw him at other
houses. Everywhere she was going, he would find out, and go too. That
pleased her--for he was an important man somehow, and of good birth.
Besides, he was desperately in love--even a child could see that. He
never took his eyes off Saidee's face when she was with him. It was as
if he could eat her up; and if she flirted a little with the real French
officers, to amuse herself or tease him, it drove him half mad. She
liked that--it was exciting, she used to say. And I forgot to tell you,
he wore European dress, except for a fez--no turban, like this man's on
the boat, or I'm sure she couldn't have cared for him in the way she
did--he wouldn't have seemed _possible_, for a Christian girl. A man in
a turban! You understand, don't you?"
"Yes, I understand," Stephen said. He understood, too, how violently
such beauty as the girl described must have appealed to the dark man of
the East. "The same colouring that I have," Victoria Ray had said. If
he, an Englishman, accustomed to the fair loveliness of his
countrywomen, were a little dazzled by the radiance of this girl, what
compelling influence must not the more beautiful sister have exercised
upon the Arab?
"He made love to Saidee in a fierce sort of way that carried her off her
feet," went on Victoria. "She used to tell me things he said, and Mrs.
Ray did all she could to throw them together, because he was rich, and
lived a long way off--so she wouldn't have to do anything for Say if
they were married, or even see her again. He was only on leave in Paris.
He was a Spahi, stationed in Algiers, and he owned a house there."
"Ah, in Algiers!" Stephen began to see light--rather a lurid light.
"Yes. His name was Cassim ben Halim el Cheikh el Arab. Before he had
known Saidee two weeks, he proposed. She took a little while to think it
over, and I begged her to say 'no'--but one day when Mrs. Ray had been
crosser and more horrid than usual, she said 'yes'. Cassim ben Halim was
Mohammedan, of course, but he and Saidee were married according to
French law. They didn't go to church, because he couldn't do that
without showing disrespect to his own religion, but he promised he'd not
try to change hers. Altogether it seemed to Saidee that there was no
reason why they shouldn't be as happy as a Catholic girl marrying a
Protestant--or _vice versa_; and she hadn't any very strong convictions.
She was a Christian, but she wasn't fond of going to church."
"And her promise that she'd take you away with her?" Stephen reminded
the girl.
"She would have kept it, if Mrs. Ray had consented--though I'm sure
Cassim didn't want me, and only agreed to do what Saidee asked because
he was so deep in love, and feared to lose my sister if he refused her
anything. But Mrs. Ray was afraid to let me go, on account of the
condition in father's will that she should keep me near her while I was
being educated. There was an old friend of father's who'd threatened to
try and upset the will, for Saidee's sake and mine, so I suppose she
thought he might succeed if she disobeyed father's instructions. It
ended in Saidee and her husband going to Algiers without me, and Saidee
cried--but she couldn't help being happy, because she was in love, and
very excited about the strange new life, which Cassim told her would be
wonderful as some gorgeous dream of fairyland. He gave her quantities of
jewellery, and said they were nothing to what she should have when she
was in her own home with him. She should be covered from head to foot
with diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds, if she liked; and of
course she would like, for she loved jewels, poor darling."
"Why do you say 'poor?'" asked Stephen. "Are you going to tell me the
marriage wasn't a success?"
"I don't know," answered the girl. "I don't know any more about her than
if Cassim ben Halim had really carried my sister off to fairyland, and
shut the door behind them. You see, I was only eight years old. I
couldn't make my own life. After Saidee was married and taken to
Algiers, my stepmother began to imagine herself in love with an American
from Indiana, whom she met in Paris. He had an impressive sort of
manner, and made her think him rich and important. He was in business,
and had come over to rest, so he couldn't stay long abroad; and he urged
Mrs. Ray to go back to America on the same ship with him. Of course she
took me, and this Mr. Henry Potter told her about a boarding-school
where they taught quite little girls, not far from the town where he
lived. It had been a farmhouse once, and he said there were 'good
teachers and good air.' I can hear him saying it now. It was easy to
persuade her; and she engaged rooms at a hotel in the town near by,
which was called Potterston, after Mr. Potter's grandfather. By and by
they were married, but their marriage made no difference to me. It
wasn't a bad little old-fashioned school, and I was as happy as I could
be anywhere, parted from Saidee. There was an attic where I used to be
allowed to sit on Saturdays, and think thoughts, and write letters to my
sister; and there was one corner, where the sunlight came in through a
tiny window shaped like a crescent, without any glass, which I named
Algiers. I played that I went there to visit Saidee in the old Arab
palace she wrote me about. It was a splendid play--but I felt lonely
when I stopped playing it. I used to dance there, too, very softly in
stockinged feet, so nobody could hear--dances she and I made up together
out of stories she used to tell me. The Shadow Dance and the Statue
Dance which you saw, came out of those stories, and there are more you
didn't see, which I do sometimes--a butterfly dance, the dance of the
wheat, and two of the East, which were in stories she told me after we
knew Cassim ben Halim. They are the dance of the smoke wreath, and the
dance of the jewel-and-the-rose. I could dance quite well even in those
days, because I loved doing it. It came as natural to dance as to
breathe, and Saidee had always encouraged me, so when I was left alone
it made me think of her, to dance the dances of her stories."
"What about your teachers? Did they never find you out?" asked Stephen.
"Yes. One of the young teachers did at last. Not in the attic, but when
I was dancing for the big girls in their dormitory, at night--they'd
wake me up to get me to dance. But she wasn't much older than the
biggest of the big girls, so she laughed--I suppose I must have looked
quaint dancing in my nighty, with my long red hair. And though we were
all scolded afterwards, I was made to dance sometimes at the
entertainments we gave when school broke up in the summer. I was the
youngest scholar, you see, and stayed through the vacations, so I was a
kind of pet for the teachers. They were of one family, aunts and
nieces--Southern people, and of course good-natured. But all this isn't
really in the story I want to tell you. The interesting part's about
Saidee. For months I got letters from her, written from Algiers. At
first they were like fairy tales, but by and by--quite soon--they
stopped telling much about herself. It seemed as if Saidee were growing
more and more reserved, or else as if she were tired of writing to me,
and bored by it--almost as if she could hardly think of anything to say.
Then the letters stopped altogether. I wrote and wrote, but no answer
came--no answer ever came."
"You've never heard from your sister since then?" The thing appeared
incredible to Stephen.
"Never. Now you can guess what I've been growing up for, living for, all
these years. To find her."
"But surely," Stephen argued, "there must have been some way to----"
"Not any way that was in my power, till now. You see I was helpless. I
had no money, and I was a child. I'm not very old yet, but I'm older
than my years, because I had this thing to do. There I was, at a
farmhouse school in the country, two miles out of Potterston--and you
would think Potterston itself not much better than the backwoods, I'm
sure. When I was fourteen, my stepmother died suddenly--leaving all the
money which came from my father to her husband, except several thousand
dollars to finish my education and give me a start in life; but Mr.
Potter lost everything of his own and of mine too, in some wild
speculation about which the people in that part of Indiana went mad. The
crash came a year ago, and the Misses Jennings, who kept the school,
asked me to stay on as an under teacher--they were sorry for me, and so
kind. But even if nothing had happened, I should have left then, for I
felt old enough to set about my real work. Oh, I see you think I might
have got at my sister before, somehow, but I couldn't, indeed. I tried
everything. Not only did I write and write, but I begged the Misses
Jennings to help, and the minister of the church where we went on
Sundays. The Misses Jennings told the girls' parents and relations
whenever they came to visit, and they all promised, if they ever went to
Algiers, they would look for my sister's husband, Captain Cassim ben
Halim, of the Spahis. But they weren't the sort of people who ever do go
such journeys. And the minister wrote to the American Consul in Algiers
for me, but the only answer was that Cassim ben Halim had disappeared.
It seemed not even to be known that he had an American wife."
"Your stepmother ought to have gone herself," said Stephen.
"Oh--_ought_! I very seldom saw my stepmother after she married Mr.
Potter. Though she lived so near, she never asked me to her house, and
only came to call at the school once or twice a year, for form's sake.
But I ran away one evening and begged her to go and find Saidee. She
said it was nonsense; that if Saidee hadn't wanted to drop us, she would
have kept on writing, or else she was dead. But don't you think I should
have _known_ if Saidee were dead?"
"By instinct, you mean--telepathy, or something of that sort?"
"I don't know what I mean, but _I should have known_. I should have felt
her death, like a string snapping in my heart. Instead, I heard her
calling to me--I hear her always. She wants me. She needs me. I know it,
and nothing could make me believe otherwise. So now you understand how,
if anything were to be done, I had to do it myself. When I was quite
little, I thought by the time I should be sixteen or seventeen, and
allowed to leave school--or old enough to run away if necessary--I'd
have a little money of my own. But when my stepmother died I felt sure I
should never, never get anything from Mr. Potter."
"But that old friend you spoke of, who wanted to upset the will?
Couldn't he have done anything?" Stephen asked.
"If he had lived, everything might have been different; but he was a
very old man, and he died of pneumonia soon after Saidee married Cassim
ben Halim. There was no one else to help. So from the time I was
fourteen, I knew that somehow I must make money. Without money I could
never hope to get to Algiers and find Saidee. Even though she had
disappeared from there, it seemed to me that Algiers would be the place
to begin my search. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, Algiers is the place to begin," Stephen echoed. "There ought to be
a way of tracking her. _Some one_ must know what became of a more or
less important man such as your brother-in-law seems to have been. It's
incredible that he should have been able to vanish without leaving any
trace."
"He must have left a trace, and though nobody else, so far, has found
it, I shall find it," said the girl. "I did what I could before. I asked
everybody to help; and when I got to New York last year, I used to go to
Cook's office, to inquire for people travelling to Algiers. Then, if I
met any, I would at once speak of my sister, and give them my address,
to let me know if they should discover anything. They always seemed
interested, and said they would really do their best, but they must have
failed, or else they forgot. No news ever came back. It will be
different with me now, though. I shall find Saidee, and if she isn't
happy, I shall bring her away with me. If her husband is a bad man, and
if the reason he left Algiers is because he lost his money, as I
sometimes think, I may have to bribe him to let her go. But I have money
enough for everything, I hope--unless he's very greedy, or there are
difficulties I can't foresee. In that case, I shall dance again, and
make more money, you know--that's all there is about it."
"One thing I do know, is that you are wonderful," said Stephen, his
conscience pricking him because of certain unjust thoughts concerning
this child which he had harboured since learning that she was a dancer.
"You're the most wonderful girl I ever saw or heard of."
She laughed happily. "Oh no, I'm not wonderful at all. It's funny you
should think so. Perhaps none of the girls you know have had a big work
to do."
"I'm sure they never have," said Stephen, "and if they had, they
wouldn't have done it."
"Yes, they would. Anybody would--that is, if they wanted to, _enough_.
You can always do what you want to _enough_. I wanted to do this with
all my heart and soul, so I knew I should find the way. I just followed
my instinct, when people told me I was unreasonable, and of course it
led me right. Reason is only to depend on in scientific sorts of things,
isn't it? The other is higher, because instinct is your _You_."
"Isn't that what people say who preach New Thought, or whatever they
call it?" asked Stephen. "A lot of women I know had rather a craze about
that two or three years ago. They went to lectures given by an American
man they raved over--said he was 'too fascinating.' And they used their
'science' to win at bridge. I don't know whether it worked or not."
"I never heard any one talk of New Thought," said Victoria. "I've just
had my own thoughts about everything. The attic at school was a lovely
place to think thoughts in. Wonderful ones always came to me, if I
called to them--thoughts all glittering--like angels. They seemed to
bring me new ideas about things I'd been born knowing--beautiful things,
which I feel somehow have been handed down to me--in my blood."
"Why, that's the way my friends used to talk about 'waking their
race-consciousness.' But it only led to bridge, with them."
"Well, it's led me from Potterston here," said Victoria, "and it will
lead me on to the end, wherever that may be, I'm sure. Perhaps it will
lead me far, far off, into that mysterious golden silence, where in
dreams I often see Saidee watching for me: the strangest dream-place,
and I've no idea where it is! But I shall find out, if she is really
there."
"What supreme confidence you have in your star!" Stephen exclaimed,
admiringly, and half enviously.
"Of course. Haven't you, in yours?"
"I have no star."
She turned her eyes to his, quickly, as if grieved. And in his eyes she
saw the shadow of hopelessness which was there to see, and could not be
hidden from a clear gaze.
"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I don't know how I could have lived
without mine. I walk in its light, as if in a path. But yours must be
somewhere in the sky, and you can find it if you want to very much."
He could have found two in her eyes just then, but such stars were not
for him. "Perhaps I don't deserve a star," he said.
"I'm sure you do. You are the kind that does," the girl comforted him.
"Do have a star!"
"It would only make me unhappy, because I mightn't be able to walk in
its light, as you do."
"It would make you very happy, as mine does me. I'm always happy,
because the light helps me to do things. It helped me to dance: it
helped me to succeed."
"Tell me about your dancing," said Stephen, vaguely anxious to change
the subject, and escape from thoughts of Margot, the only star of his
future. "I should like to hear how you began, if you don't mind."
"That's kind of you," replied Victoria, gratefully.