There was no place for a guest in that part of the marabout's house
which had been allotted to Saidee. She had her bedroom and
reception-room, her roof terrace, and her garden court. On the ground
floor her negresses lived, and cooked for their mistress and themselves.
She did not wish to have Victoria with her, night and day, and so she
had quietly directed Noura to make up a bed in the room which would have
been her boudoir, if she had lived in Europe. When the sisters came down
from the roof, the bed was ready.
In the old time Victoria had slept with her sister; and her greatest
happiness as a child had been the "bed-talks," when Saidee had whispered
her secret joys or troubles, and confided in the little girl as if she
had been a "grown-up."
Hardly a night had passed since their parting, that Victoria had not
thought of those talks, and imagined herself again lying with her head
on Saidee's arm, listening to stories of Saidee's life. She had taken it
for granted that she would be put in her sister's room, and seeing the
bed made up, and her luggage unpacked in the room adjoining, was a blow.
She knew that Saidee must have given orders, or these arrangements would
not have been made, and again she felt the dreadful sinking of the heart
which had crushed her an hour ago. Saidee did not want her. Saidee was
sorry she had come, and meant to keep her as far off as possible. But
the girl encouraged herself once more. Saidee might think now that she
would rather have been left alone. But she was mistaken. By and by she
would find out the truth, and know that they needed each other.
"I thought you'd be more comfortable here, than crowded in with me,"
Saidee explained, blushing faintly.
"Yes, thank you, dear," said Victoria quietly. She did not show her
disappointment, and seemed to take the matter for granted, as if she had
expected nothing else; but the talk on the roof had brought back
something into Saidee's heart which she could not keep out, though she
did not wish to admit it there. She was sorry for Victoria, sorry for
herself, and more miserable than ever. Her nerves were rasped by an
intolerable irritation as she looked at the girl, and felt that her
thoughts were being read. She had a hideous feeling, almost an
impression, that her face had been lifted off like a mask, and that the
workings of her brain were open to her sister's eyes, like the exposed
mechanism of a clock.
"Noura has brought some food for you," she went on hastily. "You must
eat a little, before you go to bed--to please me."
"I will," Victoria assured her. "You mustn't worry about me at all."
"You'll go to sleep, won't you?--or would you rather talk--while you're
eating, perhaps?"
The girl looked at the woman, and saw that her nerves were racked; that
she wanted to go, but did not wish her sister to guess.
"You've talked too much already," Victoria said. "The surprise of my
coming gave you a shock. Now you must rest and get over it, so you can
be strong for to-morrow. Then we'll make up our minds about everything."
"There's only one way to make up our minds," Saidee insisted, dully.
Victoria did not protest. She kissed her sister good-night, and gently
refused help from Noura. Then Saidee went away, followed by the negress,
who softly closed the door between the two rooms. Her mistress had not
told her to do this, but when it was done, she did not say, "Open the
door." Saidee was glad that it was shut, because she felt that she could
think more freely. She could not bear the idea that her thoughts and
life were open to the criticism of those young, blue eyes, which the
years since childhood had not clouded. Nevertheless, when Noura had
undressed her, and she was alone, she saw Victoria's eyes looking at her
sweetly, sadly, with yearning, yet with no reproach. She saw them as
clearly as she had seen a man's face, a few hours earlier; and now his
was dim, as Victoria's face had been dim when his was clear.
It was dark in the room, except for the moon-rays which streamed through
the lacelike open-work of stucco, above the shuttered windows, making
jewelled patterns on the wall--pink, green, and golden, according to the
different colours of the glass. There was just enough light to reflect
these patterns faintly in the mirrors set in the closed door, opposite
which Saidee lay in bed; and to her imagination it was as if she could
see through the door, into a lighted place beyond. She wondered if
Victoria had gone to bed; if she were sleeping, or if she were crying
softly--crying her heart out with bitter grief and disappointment she
would never confess.
Victoria had always been like that, even as a little girl. If Saidee did
anything to hurt her, she made no moan. Sometimes Saidee had teased her
on purpose, or tried to make her jealous, just for fun.
As memories came crowding back, the woman buried her face in the pillow,
striving with all her might to shut them out. What was the use of making
herself wretched? Victoria ought to have come long, long ago, or not at
all.
But the blue eyes would look at her, even when her own were shut; and
always there was the faint light in the mirror, which seemed to come
through the door.
At last Saidee could not longer lie still. She had to get up and open
the door, to see what her sister was really doing. Very softly she
turned the handle, for she hoped that by this time Victoria was asleep;
but as she pulled the door noiselessly towards her, and peeped into the
next room, she saw that one of the lamps was burning. Victoria had not
yet gone to bed. She was kneeling beside it, saying her prayers, with
her back towards the door.
So absorbed was she in praying, and so little noise had Saidee made,
that the girl heard nothing. She remained motionless on her knees, not
knowing that Saidee was looking at her.
A sharp pain shot through the woman's heart. How many times had she
softly opened their bedroom door, coming home late after a dance, to
find her little sister praying, a small, childish form in a long white
nightgown, with quantities of curly red hair pouring over its shoulders!
Sometimes Victoria had gone to sleep on her knees, and Saidee had waked
her up with a kiss.
Just as she had looked then, so she looked now, except that the form in
the long, white nightgown was that of a young girl, not a child. But the
thick waves of falling hair made it seem childish.
"She is praying for me," Saidee thought; and dared not close the door
tightly, lest Victoria should hear. By and by it could be done, when the
light was out, and the girl dropped asleep.
Meanwhile, she tiptoed back to her bed, and sat on the edge of it, to
wait. At last the thread of light, fine as a red-gold hair, vanished
from the door; but as it disappeared a line of moonlight was drawn in
silver along the crack. Victoria must have left her windows wide open,
or there would not have been light enough to paint this gleaming streak.
Saidee sat on her bed for nearly half an hour, trying to concentrate her
thoughts on the present and future, yet unable to keep them from flying
back to the past, the long-ago past, which lately had seemed unreal, as
if she had dreamed it; the past when she and Victoria had been all the
world to each other.
There was no sound in the next room, and when Saidee was weary of her
strained position, she crossed the floor on tiptoe again, to shut the
door. But she could not resist a temptation to peep in.
It was as she had expected. Victoria had left the inlaid cedar-wood
shutters wide open, and through the lattice of old wrought-iron,
moonlight streamed. The room was bright with a silvery twilight, like a
mysterious dawn; but because the bed-linen and the embroidered silk
coverlet were white, the pale radiance focused round the girl, who lay
asleep in a halo of moonbeams.
"She looks like an angel," Saidee thought, and with a curious mingling
of reluctance and eagerness, moved softly toward the bed, her little
velvet slippers from Tunis making no sound on the thick rugs.
Very well the older woman remembered an engaging trick of the child's, a
way of sleeping with her cheek in her hand, and her hair spread out like
a golden coverlet for the pillow. Just so she was lying now; and in the
moonlight her face was a child's face, the face of the dear, little,
loving child of ten years ago. Like this Victoria had lain when her
sister crept into their bedroom in the Paris flat, the night before the
wedding, and Saidee had waked her by crying on her eyelids. Cassim's
unhappy wife recalled the clean, sweet, warm smell of the child's hair
when she had buried her face in it that last night together. It had
smelled like grape-leaves in the hot sun.
"If you don't come back to me, I'll follow you all across the world,"
the little girl had said. Now, she had kept her promise. Here she
was--and the sister to whom she had come, after a thousand sacrifices,
was wishing her back again at the other end of the world, was planning
to get rid of her.
Suddenly, it was as if the beating of Saidee's heart broke a tight band
of ice which had compressed it. A fountain of tears sprang from her
eyes. She fell on her knees beside the bed, crying bitterly.
"Childie, childie, comfort me, forgive me!" she sobbed.
Victoria woke instantly. She opened her eyes, and Saidee's wet face was
close to hers. The girl said not a word, but wrapped her arms round her
sister, drawing the bowed head on to her breast, and then she crooned
lovingly over it, with little foolish mumblings, as she used to do in
Paris when Mrs. Ray's unkindness had made Saidee cry.
"Can you forgive me?" the woman faltered, between sobs.
"Darling, as if there were anything to forgive!" The clasp of the girl's
arms tightened. "Now we're truly together again. How I love you! How
happy I am!"
"Don't--I don't deserve it," Saidee stammered. "Poor little Babe! I was
cruel to you. And you'd come so far."
"You weren't cruel!" Victoria contradicted her, almost fiercely.
"I was. I was jealous--jealous of you. You're so young and
beautiful--just what I was ten years ago, only better and prettier.
You're what I can never be again--what I'd give the next ten years to
be. Everything's over with me. I'm old--old!"
"You're not to say such things," cried Victoria, horrified. "You weren't
jealous. You----"
"I was. I am now. But I want to confess. You must let me confess, if
you're to help me."
"Dearest, tell me anything--everything you choose, but nothing you don't
choose. And nothing you say can make me love you less--only more."
"There's a great deal to tell," Saidee said, heavily "And I'm
tired--sick at heart. But I can't rest now, till I've told you."
"Wouldn't you come into bed?" pleaded Victoria humbly. "Then we could
talk, the way we used to talk."
Saidee staggered up from her knees, and the girl almost lifted her on to
the bed. Then she covered her with the thyme-scented linen sheet, and
the silk coverlet under which she herself lay. For a moment they were
quite still, Saidee lying with her head on Victoria's arm. But at last
she said, in a whisper, as if her lips were dry: "Did you know I was
sorry you'd come?"
"I knew you thought you were sorry," the girl answered. "Yet I hoped
that you'd find out you weren't, really. I prayed for you to find
out--soon."
"Did you guess why I was sorry?"
"Not--quite."
"I told you I--that it was for your sake."
"Yes."
"Didn't you believe it?"
"I--felt there was something else, beside."
"There was!" Saidee confessed. "You know now--at least you know part. I
was jealous. I am still--but I'm ashamed of myself. I'm sick with shame.
And I do love you!"
"Of course--of course you do, darling."
"But--there's somebody else I love. A man. And I couldn't bear to think
he might see you, because you're so much younger and fresher than I."
"You mean--Cassim?"
"No. Not Cassim."
Silence fell between the two. Victoria did not speak; and suddenly
Saidee was angry with her for not speaking.
"If you're shocked, I won't go on," she said. "You can't help me by
preaching."
"I'm not shocked," the girl protested. "Only sorry--so sorry. And even
if I wanted to preach, I don't know how."
"There's nothing to be shocked about," Saidee said, her tears dry, her
voice hard as it had been at first. "I've seen him three times. I've
talked with him just once. But we love each other. It's the first and
only real love of my life. I was too young to know, when I met Cassim.
That was a fascination. I was in love with romance. He carried me off my
feet, in spite of myself."
"Then, dearest Saidee, don't let yourself be carried off your feet a
second time."
"Why not?" Saidee asked, sharply. "What incentive have I to be true to
Cassim?"
"I'm not thinking about Cassim. I'm thinking of you. All one's world
goes to pieces so, if one isn't true to oneself."
"_He_ says I can't be true to myself if I stay here. He doesn't consider
that I'm Cassim's wife. I _thought_ myself married, but was I, when he
had a wife already? Would any lawyer, or even clergyman, say it was a
legal marriage?"
"Perhaps not," Victoria admitted. "But----"
"Just wait, before you go on arguing," Saidee broke in hotly, "until
I've told you something you haven't heard yet. Cassim has another wife
now--a lawful wife, according to his views, and the views of his people.
He's had her for a year. She's a girl of the Ouled Naïl tribe, brought
up to be a dancer. But Cassim saw her at Touggourt, where he'd gone on
one of his mysterious visits. He doesn't dream that I know the whole
history of the affair, but I do, and have known, since a few days after
the creature was brought here as his bride. She's as ignorant and silly
as a kitten, and only a child in years. She told her 'love story' to one
of her negresses, who told Noura--who repeated it to me. Perhaps I
oughtn't to have listened, but why not?"
Victoria did not answer. The clouds round Saidee and herself were dark,
but she was trying to see the blue beyond, and find the way into it,
with her sister.
"She's barely sixteen now, and she's been here a year," Saidee went on.
"She hadn't begun to dance yet, when Cassim saw her, and took her away
from Touggourt. Being a great saint is very convenient. A marabout can
do what he likes, you know. Mussulmans are forbidden to touch alcohol,
but if a marabout drinks wine, it turns to milk in his throat. He can
fly, if he wants to. He can even make French cannon useless, and
withdraw the bullets from French guns, in case of war, if the spirit of
Allah is with him. So by marrying a girl brought up for a dancer,
daughter of generations of dancing women, he washes all disgrace from
her blood, and makes her a female saint, worthy to live eternally. The
beautiful Miluda's a marabouta, if you please, and when her baby is
taken out by the negress who nurses it, silly, bigoted people kneel and
kiss its clothing."
"She has a baby!" murmured Victoria.
"Yes, only a girl, but better than nothing--and she hopes to be more
fortunate next time. She isn't jealous of me, because I've no children,
not even a girl, and because for that reason Cassim could repudiate me
if he chose. She little knows how desperately I wish he would. She
believes--Noura says--that he keeps me here only because I have no
people to go to, and he's too kind-hearted to turn me out alone in the
world, when my youth's past. You see--she thinks me already old--at
twenty-eight! Of course the real reason that Cassim shuts me up and
won't let me go, is because he knows I could ruin not only him, but the
hopes of his people. Miluda doesn't dream that I'm of so much importance
in his eyes. The only thing she's jealous of is the boy, Mohammed, who's
at school in the town of Oued Tolga, in charge of an uncle. Cassim
guesses how Miluda hates the child, and I believe that's the reason he
daren't have him here. He's afraid something might happen, although the
excuse he makes is, that he wants his boy to learn French, and know
something of French ways. That pleases the Government--and as for the
Arabs, no doubt he tells them it's only a trick to keep French eyes shut
to what's really going on, and to his secret plans. Now, do you still
say I ought to consider myself married to Cassim, and refuse to take any
happiness if I can get it?"
"The thing is, what would make you happy?" Victoria said, as if thinking
aloud.
"Love, and life. All that women in Europe have, and take for granted,"
Saidee answered passionately.
"How could it come to you?" the girl asked.
"I would go to it, and find it with the man who's ready to risk his life
to save me from this hateful prison, and carry me far away. Now, I've
told you everything, exactly as it stands. That's why I was sorry you
came, just when I was almost ready to risk the step. I was sure you'd be
horrified if you found out, and want to stop me. Besides, if he should
see you--but I won't say that again. I know you wouldn't try to take him
away from me, even if you tried to take me from him. I don't know why
I've told you, instead of keeping the whole thing secret as I made up my
mind to do at first. Nothing's changed. I can't save you from Maïeddine,
but--there's one difference. I _would_ save you if I could. Just at
first, I was so anxious for you to be out of the way of my
happiness--the chance of it--that the only thing I longed for was that
you should be gone."
Victoria choked back a sob that rose in her throat, but Saidee felt,
rather than heard it, as she lay with her burning head on the girl's
arm.
"I don't feel like that now," she said. "I peeped in and saw you
praying--perhaps for me--and you looked just as you used, when you were
a little girl. Then, when I came in, and you were asleep, I--I couldn't
stand it. I broke down. I love you, dear little Babe. The ice is gone
out of my heart. You've melted it. I'm a woman again; but just because
I'm a woman, I won't give up my other love to please you or any one. I
tell you that, honestly."
Victoria made no reply for a moment, though Saidee waited defiantly,
expecting a protest or an argument. Then, at last, the girl said: "Will
you tell me something about this man?"
Saidee was surprised to receive encouragement. It was a joy to speak of
the subject that occupied all her thoughts, and wonderful to have a
confidante.
"He's a captain in the Chasseurs d'Afrique," she said. "But he's not
with his regiment. He's an expert in making desert wells, and draining
marshes. That's the business which has brought him to the far South,
now. He's living at Oued Tolga--the town, I mean; not the Zaouïa. A well
had to be sunk in the village, and he was superintending. I watched him
from my roof, though it was too far off to see his face. I don't know
exactly what made me do it--I suppose it was Fate, for Cassim says we
all have our fate hung round our necks--but when I went to the Moorish
bath, between here and the village, I let my veil blow away from my face
as I passed close to him and his party of workers. No one else saw,
except he. It was only for a second or two, but we looked straight into
each other's eyes; and there was something in his that seemed to draw my
soul out of me. It was as if, in that instant, I told him with a look
the whole tragedy of my life. And his soul sprang to mine. There was
never anything like it. You can't imagine what I felt, Babe."
"Yes. I--think I can," Victoria whispered, but Saidee hardly heard, so
deeply was she absorbed in the one sweet memory of many years.
"It was in the morning," the elder woman went on, "but it was hot, and
the sun was fierce as it beat down on the sand. He had been working, and
his face was pale from the heat. It had a haggard look under brown
sunburn. But when our eyes met, a flush like a girl's rushed up to his
forehead. You never saw such a light in human eyes! They were
illuminated as if a fire from his heart was lit behind them. I knew he
had fallen in love with me--that something would happen: that my life
would never be the same again.
"The next time I went to the bath, he was there; and though I held my
veil, he looked at me with the same wonderful look, as if he could see
through it. I felt that he longed to speak, but of course he could not.
It would have meant my ruin.
"In the baths, there's an old woman named Bakta--an attendant. She
always comes to me when I go there. She's a great character--knows
everything that happens in every house, as if by magic; and loves to
talk. But she can keep secrets. She is a match-maker for all the
neighbourhood. When there's a young man of Oued Tolga, or of any village
round about, who wants a wife, she lets him know which girl who comes
to the baths is the youngest and most beautiful. Or if a wife is in love
with some one, Bakta contrives to bring letters from him, and smuggle
them to the young woman while she's at the Moorish bath. Well, that day
she gave me a letter--a beautiful letter.
"I didn't answer it; but next time I passed, I opened my veil and smiled
to show that I thanked him. Because he had laid his life at my feet. If
there was anything he could do for me, he would do it, without hope of
reward, even if it meant death. Then Bakta gave me another letter. I
couldn't resist answering, and so it's gone on, until I seem to know
this man, Honoré Sabine, better than any one in the world; though we've
only spoken together once."
"How did you manage it?" Victoria asked the question mechanically, for
she felt that Saidee expected it of her.
"Bakta managed, and Noura helped. He came dressed like an Arab woman,
and pretended to be old and lame, so that he could crouch down and use a
stick as he walked, to disguise his height. Bakta waited--and we had no
more than ten minutes to say everything. Ten hours wouldn't have been
enough!--but we were in danger every instant, and he was afraid of what
might happen to me, if we were spied upon. He begged me to go with him
then, but I dared not. I couldn't decide. Now he writes to me, and he's
making a cypher, so that if the letters should be intercepted, no one
could read them. Then he hopes to arrange a way of escape if--if I say
I'll do what he asks."
"Which, of course, you won't," broke in Victoria. "You couldn't, even
though it were only for his sake alone, if you really love him. You'd be
too unhappy afterwards, knowing that you'd ruined his career in the
army."
"I'm more to him than a thousand careers!" Saidee flung herself away
from the girl's arm. "I see now," she went on angrily, "what you were
leading up to, when you pretended to sympathize. You were waiting for a
chance to try and persuade me that I'm a selfish wretch. I may be
selfish, but--it's as much for his happiness as mine. It's just as I
thought it would be. You're puritanical. You'd rather see me die, or go
mad in this prison, than have me do a thing that's unconventional,
according to your schoolgirl ideas."
"I came to take you out of prison," said Victoria.
"And you fell into it yourself!" Saidee retorted quickly. "You broke the
spring of the door, and it will be harder than ever to open. But"--her
voice changed from reproach to persuasion--"Honoré might save us both.
If only you wouldn't try to stop my going with him, you might go too.
Then you wouldn't have to marry Maïeddine. There's a chance--just a
chance. For heaven's sake do all you can to help, not to hinder. Don't
you see, now that you're here, there are a hundred more reasons why I
must say 'yes' to Captain Sabine?"
"If I did see that, I'd want to die now, this minute," Victoria
answered.
"How cruel you are! How cruel a girl can be to a woman. You pretend that
you came to help me, and the one only thing you can do, you refuse to
do. You say you want to get me away. I tell you that you can't--and you
can't get yourself away. Perhaps Honoré can do what you can't, but
you'll try to prevent him."
"If I _could_ get you away, would you give him up--until you were free
to go to him without spoiling both your lives?"
"What do you mean?" Saidee asked.
"Please answer my question."
Saidee thought for a moment. "Yes. I would do that. But what's the use
of talking about it? You! A poor little mouse caught in a trap!"
"A mouse once gnawed a net, and set free a whole lion," said Victoria.
"Give me a chance to think, that's all I ask, except--except--that you
love me meanwhile. Oh, darling, don't be angry, will you? I can't bear
it, if you are."
Saidee laid her head on the girl's arm once more, and they kissed each
other.