That night Stephen dreamed troubled dreams about Victoria. All sorts of
strange things were happening behind a locked door, he never quite knew
what, though he seemed forever trying to find out. In the morning,
before he was dressed, Mahommed brought a letter to his door; only one,
on a small tray. It was the first letter he had received since leaving
London--he, who had been used to sighing over the pile that heaped up
with every new post, and must presently be answered.
He recognized the handwriting at a glance, though he had seen it only
once, in a note written to Lady MacGregor. The letter was from Victoria,
and was addressed to "Mr. Stephen Knight," in American fashion--a
fashion unattractive to English eyes. But because it was Victoria's way,
it seemed to Stephen simple and unaffected, like herself. Besides, she
was not aware that he had any kind of handle to his name.
"Now I shall know where she was last night," he said to himself, and was
about to tear open the envelope, when suddenly the thought that she had
touched the paper made him tender in his usage of it. He found a
paper-knife and with careful precision cut the envelope along the top.
The slight delay whetted his eagerness to read what Victoria had to
tell. She had probably heard of the visit which she had missed, and had
written this letter before going to bed. It was a sweet thought of the
girl's to be so prompt in explaining her absence, guessing that he must
have suffered some anxiety.
"DEAR MR. KNIGHT,"
he read, the blood slowly mounting to his face as his eyes travelled
from line to line,
"I don't know what you will think of me when I have told you about
the thing I am going to do. But whatever you may think, don't think
me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I am not that. I hate to go away
without seeing you again, yet I must; and I can't even tell you
why, or where I am going--that is the worst. But if you could know
why, I'm almost sure you would feel that I am doing the right
thing, and the only thing possible. Before all and above all with
me, must be my sister's good. Everything else has to be sacrificed
to that, even things that I value very, very much.
"Don't imagine though, from what I say, that I'm making a great
sacrifice, so far as any danger to myself is concerned. The
sacrifice is, to risk being thought unkind, ungrateful, by you, and
of losing your friendship. This is the _only_ danger I am running,
really; so don't fear for me, and please forgive me if you can.
Just at the moment I must seem (as well as ungracious) a little
mysterious, not because I want to be mysterious, but because it is
forced on me by circumstances. I hate it, and soon I hope I shall
be able to be as frank and open with you as I was at first, when I
saw how good you were about taking an interest in my sister Saidee.
I think, as far as I can see ahead, I may write to you in a
fortnight. Then, I shall have news to tell, the _best of news_, I
hope; and I won't need to keep anything back. By that time I may
tell you all that has happened, since bidding you and Mr. Caird
good-bye, at the door of his beautiful house, and all that will
have happened by the time I can begin the letter. How I wish it
were now!
"There's just one more word I want to say, that I really can say
without doing harm to anybody or to any plan. It's this. I did feel
so guilty when you talked about your motoring with Mr. Caird to
Tlemcen. It was splendid of you both to be willing to go, and you
must have thought me cold and half-hearted about it. But I couldn't
tell you what was in my mind, even then. I didn't know what was
before me; but there was already a thing which I had to keep from
you. It was only a small thing. But now it has grown to be a very
big one.
"Good-bye, my dear friend Mr. Knight. I like to call you my friend,
and I shall always remember how good you were to me, if, for any
reason, we should never see each other again. It is very likely we
may not meet, for I don't know how long you are going to stay in
Africa, or how long I shall stay, so it may be that you will go
back to England soon. I don't suppose I shall go there. When I can
leave this country it will be to sail for America with my
sister--_never without her_. But I shall write, as I said, in a
fortnight, if all is well--indeed, I shall write whatever happens.
I shall be able to give you an address, too, I hope very much,
because I should like to hear from you. And I shall pray that you
may always be happy.
"I meant this to be quite a short letter, but after all it is a
long one! Good-bye again, and give my best remembrances to Lady
MacGregor and Mr. Caird, if they are not disgusted with me for the
way I am behaving. Gratefully your friend,
"VICTORIA RAY."
There was no room for any anger against the girl in Stephen's heart. He
was furious, but not with her. And he did not know with whom to be
angry. There was some one--there must be some one--who had persuaded her
to take this step in the dark, and this secret person deserved all his
anger and more. To persuade a young girl to turn from the only friends
she had who could protect her, was a crime. Stephen could imagine no
good purpose to be served by mystery, and he could imagine many bad
ones. The very thought of the best among them made him physically sick.
There was a throat somewhere in the world which his fingers were
tingling to choke; and he did not know where, or whose it was. It made
his head ache with a rush of beating blood not to know. And realizing
suddenly, with a shock like a blow in the face, the violence of his
desire to punish some person unknown, he saw how intimate a place the
girl had in his heart. The longing to protect her, to save her from harm
or treachery, was so intense as to give pain. He felt as if a lasso had
been thrown round his body, pressing his lungs, roping his arms to his
sides, holding him helpless; and for a moment the sensation was so
powerful that he was conscious of a severe effort, as if to break away
from the spell of a hypnotist.
It was only for a moment that he stood still, though a thousand thoughts
ran through his head, as in a dream--as in the dreams of last night,
which had seemed so interminable.
The thing to do was to find out at once what had become of Victoria,
whom she had seen, who had enticed her to leave the hotel. It would not
take long to find out these things. At most she could not have been gone
more than thirteen or fourteen hours.
At first, in his impatience, he forgot Nevill. In two or three minutes
he had finished dressing, and was ready to start out alone when the
thought of his friend flashed into his mind. He knew that Nevill Caird,
acquainted as he was with Algiers, would be able to suggest things that
he might not think of unaided. It would be better that they two should
set to work together, even though it might mean a delay of a few minutes
in the beginning.
He put Victoria's letter in his pocket, meaning to show it to Nevill as
the quickest way of explaining what had happened and what he wanted to
do; but before he had got to his friend's door, he knew that he could
not bear to show the letter. There was nothing in it which Nevill might
not see, nothing which Victoria might not have wished him to see.
Nevertheless it was now _his_ letter, and he could not have it read by
any one.
He knocked at the door, but Nevill did not answer. Then Stephen guessed
that his friend must be in the garden. One of the under-gardeners,
working near the house, had seen the master, and told the guest where to
go. Monsieur Caird was giving medicine to the white peacock, who was not
well, and in the stable-yard Nevill was found, in the act of pouring
something down the peacock's throat with a spoon.
When he heard what Stephen had to say, he looked very grave.
"I wish Miss Ray hadn't stopped at that hotel," he said.
"Why?" Stephen asked sharply. "You don't think the people there----"
"I don't know what to think. But I have a sort of idea the brutes knew
something last night and wouldn't tell."
"They'll have to tell!" exclaimed Stephen.
Nevill did not answer.
"I shall go down at once," Stephen went on.
"Of course I'll go with you," said his friend.
They had forgotten about breakfast. Stopping only to get their hats,
they started for the town.