A first glance, at such close quarters, would have told the least
instructed stranger that he was in the presence of two clashing
civilizations, both tenacious, one powerful.
In front, all along the shore, towered with confident effrontery a
massive line of buildings many stories high, great cubes of brick and
stone, having elaborate balconies that shadowed swarming offices with
dark, gaping vaults below. Along the broad, stone-paved street clanged
electric tramcars. There was a constant coming and going of men. Cloaked
and hooded white forms, or half-clad apparitions wrapped in what looked
like dirty bagging, mingled with commonplace figures in Western dress.
But huddled in elbow-high with this busy town of modern France (which
might have been Marseilles or Bordeaux) was something alien, something
remote in spirit; a ghostly band of white buildings, silent and pale in
the midst of colour and noise. Low houses with flat roofs or miniature
domes, small, secret doorways, tiny windows like eyes narrowed for
spying, and overhanging upper stories supported on close-set, projecting
sticks of mellow brown which meant great age. Minarets sprang up in mute
protest against the infidel, appealing to the sky. All that was left of
old Algiers tried to boast, in forced dumbness, of past glories, of
every charm the beautiful, fierce city of pirates must have possessed
before the French came to push it slowly but with deadly sureness back
from the sea. Now, silent and proud in the tragedy of failure, it stood
masked behind pretentious French houses, blocklike in ugliness, or
flauntingly ornate as many buildings in the Rue de Rivoli or Boulevard
Haussmann.
In those low-browed dwellings which thickly enamelled the hill with a
mosaic of pink and pearly whiteness, all the way up to the old fortress
castle, the Kasbah, the true life of African Algiers hid and whispered.
The modern French front along the fine street was but a gay veneer
concealing realities, an incrusted civilization imposed upon one
incredibly ancient, unspeakably different and ever unchanging.
Stephen remembered now that he had heard people decry Algiers,
pronouncing it spoiled and "completely Frenchified." But it occurred to
him that in this very process of spoiling, an impression of tragic
romance had been created which less "spoiled" towns might lack. Here
were clashing contrasts which, even at a glance, made the strangest
picture he had ever seen; and already he began to feel more and more
keenly, though not yet to understand, something of the magic of the
East. For this place, though not the East according to geographers, held
all the spirit of the East--was in essence truly the East.
Before the ship lay fairly in harbour, brown men had climbed on board
from little boats, demanding to be given charge of the passengers' small
luggage, which the stewards had brought on deck, and while one of these
was arguing in bad French with Stephen, a tall, dark youth beautifully
dressed in crimson and white, wearing a fez jauntily on one side,
stepped up with a smile. "_Pardon, monsieur_," he ventured. "_Je suis le
domestique de Monsieur Caird._" And then, in richly guttural accents, he
offered the information that he was charged to look after monsieur's
baggage; that it was best to avoid _tous ces Arabes là_, and that
Monsieur Caird impatiently awaited his friend on the wharf.
"But you--aren't you Arab?" asked Stephen, who knew no subtle
differences between those who wore the turban or fez. He saw that the
good-looking, merry-faced boy was no browner than many a Frenchman of
the south, and that his eyes were hazel; still, he did not know what he
might be, if not Arab.
"_Je suis Kabyle, monsieur; Kabyle des hauts plateaux_," replied the
youth with pride, and a look of contempt at the shouting porters, which
was returned with interest. They darted glances of scorn at his
gold-braided vest and jacket of crimson cloth, his light blue sash, and
his enormously full white trousers, beneath which showed a strip of pale
golden leg above the short white stockings, spurning the immaculate
smartness of his livery, preferring, or pretending to prefer, their own
soiled shabbiness and freedom. The Kabyle saw these glances, but,
completely satisfied with himself, evidently attributed them to envy.
Stephen turned towards Victoria, of whom he had lost sight for a moment.
He wished to offer the Kabyle boy's services, but already she had
accepted those of a very old Arab who looked thin and ostentatiously
pathetic. It was too late now. He saw by her face that she would refuse
help, rather than hurt the man's feelings. But she had told him the name
of the hotel where she had telegraphed to engage a room, and Stephen
meant at the instant of greeting his host, to ask if it were suitable
for a young girl travelling alone.
He caught sight of Caird, looking up and waiting for him, before he was
able to land. It was the face he remembered; boyish, with beautiful
bright eyes, a wide forehead, and curly light hair. The expression was
more mature, but the same quaintly angelic look was there, which had
earned for Nevill the nickname of "Choir Boy" and "Wings."
"Hullo, Legs!" called out Caird, waving his Panama.
"Hullo, Wings!" shouted Stephen, and was suddenly tremendously glad to
see the friend he had thought of seldom during the last eight or nine
years. In another moment he was introducing Nevill to Miss Ray and
hastily asking questions concerning her hotel, while a fantastic crowd
surged round all three. Brown, skurrying men in torn bagging, the
muscles of whose bare, hairless legs seemed carved in dark oak; shining
black men whose faces were ebony under the ivory white of their turbans;
pale, patient Kabyles of the plains bent under great sacks of flour
which drained through ill-sewn seams and floated on the air in white
smoke, making every one sneeze as the crowd swarmed past. Large grey
mules roared, miniature donkeys brayed, and half-naked children laughed
or howled, and darted under the heads of the horses, or fell against the
bright bonnets of waiting motor cars. There were smart victorias, shabby
cabs, hotel omnibuses, and huge carts; and, mingling with the floating
dust of the spilt flour was a heavy perfume of spices, of incense
perhaps blown from some far-off mosque, and ambergris mixed with grains
of musk in amulets which the Arabs wore round their necks, heated by
their sweating flesh as they worked or stalked about shouting guttural
orders. There was a salt tang of seaweed, too, like an undertone, a
foundation for all the other smells; and the air was warm with a hint of
summer, a softness that was not enervating.
As soon as the first greeting and the introduction to Miss Ray were
confusedly over, Caird cleverly extricated the newcomers from the thick
of the throng, sheltering them between his large yellow motor car and a
hotel omnibus waiting for passengers and luggage.
"Now you're safe," he said, in the young-sounding voice which pleasantly
matched his whole personality. He was several years older than Stephen,
but looked younger, for Stephen was nearly if not quite six feet in
height, and Nevill Caird was less in stature by at least four inches. He
was very slightly built, too, and his hair was as yellow as a child's.
His face was clean-shaven, like Stephen's, and though Stephen, living
mostly in London, was brown as if tanned by the sun, Nevill, out of
doors constantly and exposed to hot southern sunshine, had the
complexion of a girl. Nevertheless, thought Victoria--sensitive and
quick in forming impressions--he somehow contrived to look a thorough
man, passionate and ready to be violently in earnest, like one who would
love or hate in a fiery way. "He would make a splendid martyr," the girl
said to herself, giving him straight look for straight look, as he began
advising her against her chosen hotel. "But I think he would want his
best friends to come and look on while he burned. Mr. Knight would chase
everybody away."
"Don't go to any hotel," Nevill said. "Be my aunt's guest. It's a great
deal more her house than mine. There's lots of room in it--ever so much
more than we want. Just now there's no one staying with us, but often we
have a dozen or so. Sometimes my aunt invites people. Sometimes I do:
sometimes both together. Now I invite you, in her name. She's quite a
nice old lady. You'll like her. And we've got all kinds of
animals--everything, nearly, that will live in this climate, from
tortoises of Carthage, to white mice from Japan, and a baby panther from
Grand Kabylia. But they keep themselves to themselves. I promise you the
panther won't try to sit on your lap. And you'll be just in time to
christen him. We've been looking for a name."
"I should love to christen the panther, and you are more than kind to
say your aunt would like me to visit her; but I can't possibly, thank
you very much," answered Victoria in the old-fashioned, quaintly
provincial way which somehow intensified the effect of her brilliant
prettiness. "I have come to Algiers on--on business that's very
important to me. Mr. Knight will tell you all about it. I've asked him
to tell, and he's promised to beg for your help. When you know, you'll
see that it will be better for me not to be visiting anybody. I--I would
rather be in a hotel, in spite of your great kindness."
That settled the matter. Nevill Caird had too much tact to insist,
though he was far from being convinced. He said that his aunt, Lady
MacGregor, would write Miss Ray a note asking her to lunch next day, and
then they would have the panther-christening. Also by that time he
would know, from his friend, how his help might best be given. But in
any case he hoped that Miss Ray would allow his car to drop her at the
Hotel de la Kasbah, which had no omnibus and therefore did not send to
meet the boat. Her luggage might go up with the rest, and be left at the
hotel.
These offers Victoria accepted gratefully; and as Caird put her into the
fine yellow car, the handsome Arab who had been on the boat looked at
her with chastened curiosity as he passed. He must have seen that she
was with the Englishman who had talked to her on board the _Charles
Quex_, and that now there was another man, who seemed to be the owner of
the large automobile. The Arab had a servant with him, who had travelled
second class on the boat, a man much darker than himself, plainly
dressed, with a smaller turban bound by cheaper cord; but he was very
clean, and as dignified as his master. Stephen scarcely noticed the two
figures. The fine-looking Arab had ceased to be of importance since he
had left the ship, and would see no more of Victoria Ray.
The chauffeur who drove Nevill's car was an Algerian who looked as if he
might have a dash of dark blood in his veins. Beside him sat the Kabyle
servant, who, in his picturesque embroidered clothes, with his jaunty
fez, appeared amusingly out of place in the smart automobile, which
struck the last note of modernity. The chauffeur had a reckless, daring
face, with the smile of a mischievous boy; but he steered with caution
and skill through the crowded streets where open trams rushed by, filled
to overflowing with white-veiled Arab women of the lower classes, and
French girls in large hats, who sat crushed together on the same seats.
Arabs walked in the middle of the street, and disdained to quicken their
steps for motor cars and carriages. Tiny children with charming brown
faces and eyes like wells of light, darted out from the pavement, almost
in front of the motor, smiling and begging, absolutely, fearless and
engagingly impudent. It was all intensely interesting to Stephen, who
was, however, conscious enough of his past to be glad that he was able
to take so keen an interest. He had the sensation of a man who has been
partially paralyzed, and is delighted to find that he can feel a pinch.
The Hotel de la Kasbah, which Victoria frankly admitted she had chosen
because of its low prices, was, as its name indicated, close to the
mounting of the town, near the corner of a tortuous Arab street, narrow
and shadowy despite its thick coat of whitewash. The house was kept by
an extremely fat Algerian, married to a woman who called herself
Spanish, but was more than half Moorish; and the proprietor himself
being of mixed blood, all the servants except an Algerian maid or two,
were Kabyles or Arabs. They were cheap and easy to manage, since master
and mistress had no prejudices. Stephen did not like the look of the
place, which might suit commercial travellers or parties of economical
tourists who liked to rub shoulders with native life; but for a pretty
young girl travelling alone, it seemed to him that, though it was clean
enough, nothing could be less appropriate. Victoria had made up her mind
and engaged her room, however; and so as no definite objection could be
urged, he followed Caird's example, and held his tongue. As they bade
the girl good-bye in the tiled hall (a fearful combination of all that
was worst in Arab and European taste) Nevill begged her to let them know
if she were not comfortable. "You're coming to lunch to-morrow at
half-past one," he went on, "but if there's anything meanwhile, call us
up on the telephone. We can easily find you another hotel, or a pension,
if you're determined not to visit my aunt."
"If I need you, I promise that I will call," Victoria said. And though
she answered Caird, she looked at Stephen Knight.
Then they left her; and Stephen became rather thoughtful. But he tried
not to let Nevill see his preoccupation.