The promised send-off had been enthusiastic. The arrangements for the
trip had been perfect; there had been no hitch anywhere. The guide,
Mustafa Ali, appeared capable and efficient, effacing himself when not
wanted and replying with courteous dignity when spoken to. The day had
been full of interest, and the long, hot ride had for Diana been the
height of physical enjoyment. They had reached the oasis where the
first night was to be passed an hour before, and found the camp already
established, tents pitched, and everything so ordered that Sir Aubrey
could find nothing to criticise; even Stephens, his servant, who had
travelled with him since Diana was a baby, and who was as critical as
his master on the subject of camps, had no fault to find.
Diana glanced about her little travelling tent with complete content.
It was much smaller than the ones to which she had always been
accustomed, ridiculously so compared with the large one she had had in
India the previous year, with its separate bath--and dressing-rooms.
Servants, too, had swarmed in India. Here service promised to be
inadequate, but it had been her whim on this tour to dispense with the
elaborate arrangements that Sir Aubrey cultivated and to try
comparative roughing it. The narrow camp cot, the tin bath, the little
folding table and her two suit-cases seemed to take up all the
available space. But she laughed at the inconvenience, though she had
drenched her bed with splashing, and the soap had found its way into
the toe of one of her long boots. She had changed from her riding
clothes into a dress of clinging jade-green silk, swinging short above
her slender ankles, the neck cut low, revealing the gleaming white of
her soft, girlish bosom. She came out of the tent and stood a moment
exchanging an amused smile with Stephens, who was hovering near
dubiously, one eye on her and the other on his master. She was late,
and Sir Aubrey liked his meals punctually. The baronet was lounging in
one deck-chair with his feet on another.
Diana wagged an admonishing forefinger. "Fly, Stephens, and fetch the
soup! If it is cold there will be a riot." She walked to the edge of
the canvas cloth that had been thrown down in front of the tents and
stood revelling in the scene around her, her eyes dancing with
excitement as they glanced slowly around the camp spread out over the
oasis--the clustering palm trees, the desert itself stretching away
before her in undulating sweeps, but seemingly level in the evening
light, far off to the distant hills lying like a dark smudge against
the horizon. She drew a long breath. It was the desert at last, the
desert that she felt she had been longing for all her life. She had
never known until this moment how intense the longing had been. She
felt strangely at home, as if the great, silent emptiness had been
waiting for her as she had been waiting for it, and now that she had
come it was welcoming her softly with the faint rustle of the
whispering sand, the mysterious charm of its billowy, shifting surface
that seemed beckoning to her to penetrate further and further into its
unknown obscurities.
Her brother's voice behind her brought her down to earth suddenly.
"You've been a confounded long time."
She turned to the table with a faint smile. "Don't be a bear, Aubrey.
It's all very well for you. You have Stephens to lather your chin and
to wash your hands, but thanks to that idiot Marie, I have to look
after myself."
Sir Aubrey took his heels down leisurely from the second chair, pitched
away his cigar, and, screwing his eyeglass into his eye with more than
usual truculence, looked at her with disapproval. "Are you going to rig
yourself out like that every evening for the benefit of Mustafa Ali and
the camel-drivers?"
"I do not propose to invite the worthy Mustafa to meals, and I am not
in the habit of 'rigging myself out,' as you so charmingly put it, for
any one's benefit. If you think I dress in camp to please you, my dear
Aubrey, you flatter yourself. I do it entirely to please myself. That
explorer woman we met in London that first year I began travelling with
you explained to me the real moral and physical value of changing into
comfortable, pretty clothes after a hard day in breeches and boots. You
change yourself. What's the difference?"
"All the difference," he snapped. "There is no need for you to make
yourself more attractive than you are already."
"Since when has it occurred to you that I am attractive? You must have
a touch of the sun, Aubrey," she replied, with uplifted eyebrows,
drumming impatiently with her fingers on the table.
"Don't quibble. You know perfectly well that you are good-looking--too
good-looking to carry through this preposterous affair."
"Will you please tell me what you are driving at?" she asked quietly.
But the dark blue eyes fixed on her brother's face were growing darker
as she looked at him.
"I've been doing some hard thinking to-day, Diana. This tour you
propose is impossible."
"Isn't it rather late in the day to find that out?" she interrupted
sarcastically; but he ignored the interruption.
"You must see for yourself, now that you are face to face with the
thing, that it is impossible. It's quite unthinkable that you can
wander for the next month all alone in the desert with those damned
niggers. Though my legal guardianship over you terminated last
September I still have some moral obligations towards you. Though it
has been convenient to me to bring you up as a boy and to regard you in
the light of a younger brother instead of a sister, we cannot get away
from the fact that you are a woman, and a very young woman. There are
certain things a young woman cannot do. If you had been the boy I
always wished you were it would have been a different matter, but you
are not a boy, and the whole thing is impossible--utterly impossible."
There was a fretful impatience in his voice.
Diana lit a cigarette slowly, and swung round on her chair with a hard
laugh. "If I had not lived with you all my life, Aubrey, I should
really be impressed with your brotherly solicitude; I should think you
really meant it. But knowing you as I do, I know that it is not anxiety
on my behalf that is prompting you, but the disinclination that you
have to travel alone without me. You have come to depend on me to save
you certain annoyances and inconveniences that always occur in
travelling. You were more honest in Biskra when you only objected to my
trip without giving reasons. Why have you waited until to-night to give
me those reasons?"
"Because I thought that here, at least, you would have sense enough to
see them. In Biskra it was impossible to argue with you. You made your
own arrangements against my wishes. I left it, feeling convinced that
the impossibility of it would be brought home to you here, and that you
would see for yourself that it was out of the question. Diana, give up
this insane trip."
"I will not."
"I've a thundering good mind to make you."
"You can't. I'm my own mistress. You have no right over me at all. You
have no claim on me. You haven't even that of ordinary brotherly
affection, for you have never given me any, so you cannot expect it
from me. We needn't make any pretence about it, I am not going to argue
any more. I will not go back to Biskra."
"If you are afraid of being laughed at----" he sneered; but she took him
up swiftly.
"I am not afraid of being laughed at. Only cowards are afraid of that,
and I am not a coward."
"Diana, listen to reason!"
"Aubrey! I have said my last word. Nothing will alter my determination
to go on this trip. Your arguments do not convince me, who know you. It
is your own considerations and not mine that are at the bottom of your
remonstrances. You do not deny it, because you can't, because it is
true."
They were facing each other across the little table. An angry flush
rose in Sir Aubrey's face, and his eyeglass fell with a little sharp
tinkle against a waistcoat button.
"You're a damned obstinate little devil!" he said furiously.
She looked at him steadily, her scornful mouth firm as his own. "I am
what you have made me," she said slowly. "Why quarrel with the result?
You have brought me up to ignore the restrictions attached to my sex;
you now round on me and throw them in my face. All my life you have set
me an example of selfishness and obstinacy. Can you wonder that I have
profited by it? You have made me as hard as yourself, and you now
profess surprise at the determination your training has forced upon me.
You are illogical. It is your fault, not mine. There was bound to be a
clash some day. It has come sooner than I expected, that's all. Up till
now my inclinations have gone with yours, but this seems to be the
parting of the ways. As I reminded you before, I am my own mistress,
and I will submit to no interference with my actions. Please understand
that clearly, Aubrey. I don't want to wrangle any more. I will join you
in New York as I promised. I am not in the habit of breaking my
promises, but my life is my own to deal with, and I will deal with it
exactly as I wish and not as any one else wishes. I will do what I
choose when and how I choose, and I will _never_ obey any will but
my own."
Sir Aubrey's eyes narrowed suddenly. "Then I hope to Heaven that one
day you will fall into the hands of a man who will make you obey," he
cried wrathfully.
Her scornful mouth curled still more scornfully. "Then Heaven help
him!" she retorted scathingly, and turned away to her tent.
But, alone, her anger gave way to amusement. It had been something,
after all, to rouse the lazy Aubrey to wrath. She knew exactly the
grievance he had been nursing against her during the last few weeks in
Biskra. Though he travelled perpetually and often in remote and
desolate places, he travelled with the acme of comfort and the minimum
of inconveniences. He put himself out for nothing, and the inevitable
difficulties that accrued fell on Diana's younger and less blase
shoulders. She had always known the uses he put her to and the
convenience she was to him. He might have some latent feelings with
regard to the inadvisability of her behavior, he might even have some
prickings of conscience on the subject of his upbringing of her, but it
was thoughts of his own comfort that were troubling him most. That she
knew, and the knowledge was not conducive to any kinder feeling towards
him. He always had been and always would be supremely selfish. The
whole of their life together had been conducted to suit his
conveniences and not hers. She knew, too, why her company was
particularly desired on his visit to America. It was a hunting trip,
but not the kind that they were usually accustomed to: it was a wife
and not big game that was taking Sir Aubrey across the ocean on this
occasion. It had been in his mind for some time as an inevitable and
somewhat unpleasant necessity. Women bored him, and the idea of
marriage was distasteful, but a son to succeed him was imperative--a
Mayo must be followed by a Mayo. An heir was essential for the big
property that the family had held for hundreds of years. No woman had
ever attracted him, but of all women he had met American women were
less actively irritating to him, and so it was to America that he
turned in search of a wife. He proposed to take a house in New York for
a few months and later on in Newport, and it was for that that Diana's
company was considered indispensable. She would save him endless
trouble, as all arrangements could be left in her hands and Stephens'.
Having made up his mind to go through with a proceeding that he
regarded in the light of a sacrifice on the family altar, his wish was
to get it over and done with as soon as possible, and Diana's
interference in his plans had exasperated him. It was the first time
that their wills had crossed, and she shrugged her shoulders
impatiently, with a grimace at the recollection. A little more and it
would have degenerated into a vulgar quarrel. She banished Aubrey and
his selfishness resolutely from her mind. It was very hot, and she lay
very still in the narrow cot, wishing she had not been so rigid in the
matter of its width, and wondering if a sudden movement in the night
would precipitate her into the bath that stood alongside. She thought
regretfully of a punkah, and then smiled derisively at herself.
"Sybarite!" she murmured sleepily. "You need a few discomforts."
She was almost aggressively cheerful next morning at breakfast and for
the time that they lingered at the oasis after the baggage camels had
started. Sir Aubrey was morose and silent, and she exchanged most of
her badinage with Stephens, who was superintending the packing of the
tiffin basket that would accompany her in charge of the man who had
been selected as her personal servant, and who was waiting, with
Mustafa Ali and about ten men, to ride with her.
The time for starting came. Stephens was fussing about the horse that
Diana was to ride.
"Everything all right, Stephens? Up to your standard? Don't look so
glum. I wish you were coming to look after me, but it couldn't be done.
Sir Aubrey would be lost without you."
The idea of a tour without Stephens in the background seemed suddenly
momentous, and the smile she gave him was more serious than she meant
it to be. She went back to her brother, who was pulling his moustache
savagely. "I don't think there's any use waiting any longer. You won't
want to hurry yourself too much, and you will want to be in Biskra in
time for dinner," she said as casually as she could.
He swung towards her. "Diana, it's still not too late to change your
mind. For Heaven's sake give up this folly. It's tempting Providence."
For the first time there was a genuine ring in his voice, and for a
moment Diana wavered, but only for a moment. Then she looked at him
with a slow smile.
"Do I fall on your neck and say, 'Take me back, dear Guardian; I will
be good,' or do I prostrate myself at your feet and knock my head on
your boots, and whine, in the language of the country, 'Hearing is
obeying'? Don't be ridiculous, Aubrey. You can't expect me to change my
mind at the eleventh hour. It's perfectly safe. Mustafa Ali will take
care that everything goes smoothly. He has his reputation in Biskra to
think of. You know the character the authorities gave him. He is not
likely to throw that away. In any case I can take care of myself,
thanks to your training. I don't mind owning to being conceited about
my shooting. Even you admit that I am a credit to your teaching."
With a gay little laugh she whipped out the ivory-mounted revolver, and
aiming at a low flat rock, some distance away, fired. She was an
unusually good revolver shot, but this time she seemed to have missed.
There was no mark on the stone. Diana stared at it stupidly, a frown of
perplexity creasing her forehead. Then she looked at her brother, and
back to the revolver in her hand.
Sir Aubrey swore. "Diana! What a senseless piece of bravado!" he cried
angrily.
She took no notice of him. She was still staring at the smooth rock
fate. "I don't understand it. How could I miss? It's as big as a
house," she murmured thoughtfully, and raised the revolver again.
But Sir Aubrey caught her wrist. "For God's sake don't make a fool of
yourself a second time. You have lowered your prestige quite enough
already," he said in a low voice, with a glance at the group of
watching Arabs.
Diana jerked the little weapon back into its place reluctantly. "I
don't understand it," she said again. "It must be the light." She
mounted and wheeled her horse alongside of Sir Aubrey's, and held out
her hand. "Good-bye, Aubrey. Expect me a month after you arrive. I will
cable to you from Cherbourg. Good luck! I shall roll up in time to be
best man," she added, laughing, and with a nod to Mustafa Ali she
turned her horse's head southwards.
For a long time she rode in silence. The quarrel with Aubrey had left a
nasty taste in her mouth. She knew that what she was doing was
considered unconventional, but she had been brought up to be
unconventional. She had never even thought, when she planned her tour,
of possible criticism; it would have made no difference to her if she
had thought, and she had been amazed and amused at the sensation that
her proposed trip had caused. The publicity to which it had given rise
had annoyed her intensely; she had been scornful that people could not
occupy themselves with their own affairs and leave her to deal with
hers. But that Aubrey should join in the general criticism and present
such a complete _volte-face_ to the opinions he had always held
was beyond her comprehension. She was angry with him, and contempt was
mingled with her anger. It was inconsistent with the whole of his
lifelong attitude toward her, and the discovery of his altered ideas
left her rather breathless and more than ever determined to adhere to
her own deeply-rooted convictions. Aubrey was responsible for them, he
had instilled them, and if he chose now to abandon them that was his
look-out. For her own part she saw no reason to change principles she
had been brought up in. If Aubrey really thought there was danger in
this expedition he could have sacrificed himself for once and come with
her. As Jim Arbuthnot had said, it was only a month, a negligible
length of time, but Aubrey's selfishness would not allow him to make
that concession any more than her own obstinacy would allow her to give
way. It was too much to expect. And this was the desert! It was the
expedition that she had dreamed of and planned for years. She could not
give it up. The idea of danger brought a little laugh to her lips. How
could anything in the desert hurt her? It had been calling to her
always. There was nothing strange about the scene that lay all around
her. Her surroundings seemed oddly familiar. The burning sun overhead
in the cloudless sky, the shimmering haze rising from the hot, dry
ground, the feathery outline of some clustering palm trees in a tiny
distant oasis were like remembrances that she watched again with a
feeling of gladness that was fuller and deeper than anything that she
had been conscious of before. She was radiantly happy--happy in the
sense of her youth and strength, her perfect physical fitness, happy in
the capacity of her power of enjoyment, happy with the touch of the
keen, nervous horse between her knees, exhilarated with her new
authority. She had looked forward so eagerly, and realisation was
proving infinitely greater than anticipation. And for a whole month
this perfect happiness was to be hers. She thought of her promise to
Aubrey with impatience. To give up the joyous freedom of the desert for
the commonplace round of American social life seemed preposterous. The
thought of the weeks in New York were frankly tedious; Newport would be
a little less bad, for there were alleviations. The only hope was that
Aubrey would find the wife he was looking for quickly and release her
from an obligation that was going to be very wearisome. Aubrey was
counting on her, and it would be unsporting to let him down; she would
have to keep her promise, but she would be glad when it was over.
Aubrey married would settle definitely the possibility of any further
disagreements between them. She wondered vaguely what the future Lady
Mayo would be like, but she did not expend much pity on her. American
girls as a rule were well able to care for themselves. She stroked her
horse with a little smile. Aubrey and his possible wife seemed
singularly uninteresting beside the vivid interest of the moment. A
caravan that had been visible for a long time coming towards them drew
nearer, and Diana reined in to watch the long line of slow, lurching
camels passing. The great beasts, with their disdainful tread and long,
swaying necks, never failed to interest her. It was a large caravan;
the bales on the camels' backs looked heavy, and beside the merchants
on riding camels and a motley crowd of followers--some on lean little
donkeys and others on foot--there was an armed guard of mounted men. It
took some time to pass. One of two of the camels carried huddled
figures, swathed and shapeless with a multitude of coverings, that
Diana knew must be women. The contrast between them and herself was
almost ridiculous. It made her feel stifled even to look at them. She
wondered what their lives were like, if they ever rebelled against the
drudgery and restrictions that were imposed upon them, if they ever
longed for the freedom that she was revelling in, or if custom and
usage were so strong that they had no thoughts beyond the narrow life
they led. The thought of those lives filled her with aversion. The idea
of marriage--even in its highest form, based on mutual consideration
and mutual forbearance--was repugnant to her. She thought of it with a
shiver of absolute repulsion. To Aubrey it was distasteful, but to her
cold, reserved temperament it was a thing of horror and disgust. That
women could submit to the degrading intimacy and fettered existence of
married life filled her with scornful wonder. To be bound irrevocably
to the will and pleasure of a man who would have the right to demand
obedience in all that constituted marriage and the strength to enforce
those claims revolted her. For a Western woman it was bad enough, but
for the women of the East, mere slaves of the passions of the men who
owned them, unconsidered, disregarded, reduced to the level of animals,
the bare idea made her quiver and bring her hand down heavily on her
horse's neck. The nervous creature started sharply and she let him go,
calling to Mustafa Ali as she cantered past him. He had ridden to meet
the caravan and was dismounted, deep in conversation with the chief of
the armed guard. With the thoughts that it had provoked the caravan had
lost all interest for Diana. She wanted to get away from it, to forget
it, and she rode on unmindful of her escort, who, like her guide, had
stopped to speak with the traders. Diana's horse was fleet, and it was
some time before they caught her up. There was a look of annoyance on
Mustafa Ali's face as she turned on hearing them behind her and signed
to him to ride beside her.
"Mademoiselle is not interested in the caravan?" he asked curiously.
"No," she replied shortly, and asked for some details connected with
her own expedition. The man talked easily and well, in fluent French,
and after giving the required information, volunteered anecdotes
relating to various well-known people whom he had guided in the desert.
Diana watched him interestedly. He seemed a man of about middle age,
though it was difficult to guess more than approximately, for the
thick, peaked beard that hid both mouth and chin made him look older
than he really was. His beard had been his only drawback from Diana's
point of view, for she judged men by their mouths. Eyes were
untrustworthy evidences of character in an Oriental, for they usually
wavered under a European's. Mustafa Ali's were wavering now as she
looked at him, and it occurred to her that they had not seemed nearly
so shifty in Biskra when she had engaged him. But she attached no
importance to the thought, and dismissed it as much less interesting
than the great difference displayed in their respective modes of
riding. The Arab's exaggeratedly short stirrup would have given her
agonies of cramp. She pointed the difference with a laugh of amusement
and drew the man on to speak of his horses. The one Diana was riding
was an unusually fine beast, and had been one of the greatest points in
the guide's favour when he had brought it for her inspection. He was
enthusiastic in its praise, but volubly vague as to its antecedents,
which left Diana with the conviction that the animal had either been
stolen or acquired in some irregular manner and that it would be
tactless to pursue further inquiries. After all it was no business of
hers. It was enough that her trip was to be conducted on the back of a
horse that it was a pleasure to ride and whose vagaries promised to
give interest to what otherwise might have been monotonous. Some of the
horses that she had seen in Biskra had been the veriest jades.
She asked Mustafa Ali about the country through which they were
passing, but he did not seem to have much information that was really
of interest, or what seemed important to him appeared trivial to her,
and he constantly brought the conversation back to Biskra, of which she
was tired, or to Oran, of which she knew nothing. The arrival at a
little oasis where the guide suggested that the midday halt might be
made was opportune. Diana swung to the ground, and, tossing down her
gloves, gave herself a shake. It was hot work riding in the burning sun
and the rest would be delightful. She had a thoroughly healthy
appetite, and superintended the laying out of her lunch with interest.
It was the last time that it would be as daintily packed. Stephens was
an artist with a picnic basket. She was going to miss Stephens. She
finished her lunch quickly, and then, with her back propped against a
palm tree, a cigarette in her mouth, her arms clasped round her knees,
she settled down happily, overlooking the desert. The noontime hush
seemed over everything. Not a breath of wind stirred the tops of the
palms; a lizard on a rock near her was the only living thing she could
see. She glanced over her shoulder. The men, with their big cloaks
drawn over their heads, were lying asleep, or at any rate appeared to
be so; only Mustafa Ali was on foot, standing at the edge of the oasis,
staring fixedly in the direction in which they would ride later.
Diana threw the end of her cigarette at the lizard and laughed at its
precipitant flight. She had no desire to follow the example of her
escort and sleep. She was much too happy to lose a minute of her
enjoyment by wasting it in rest that she did not require. She was
perfectly content and satisfied with herself and her outlook. She had
not a care or a thought in the world. There was not a thing that she
would have changed or altered. Her life had always been happy; she had
extracted the last ounce of pleasure out of every moment of it. That
her happiness was due to the wealth that had enabled her to indulge in
the sports and constant travel that made up the sum total of her
desires never occurred to her. That what composed her pleasure in life
was possible only because she was rich enough to buy the means of
gratifying it did not enter her head. She thought of her wealth no more
than of her beauty. The business connected with her coming of age, when
the big fortune left to her by her father passed unreservedly into her
own hands, was a wearisome necessity that had been got through as
expeditiously as possible, with as little attention to detail as the
old family lawyer had allowed, and an absence of interest that was
evidenced in the careless scrawl she attached to each document that was
given her to sign. The mere money in itself was nothing; it was only a
means to an end. She had never even realised how much was expended on
the continuous and luxurious expeditions that she had made with Sir
Aubrey; her own individual tastes were simple, and apart from the
expensive equipment that was indispensable for their hunting trips, and
which was Aubrey's choosing, not hers, she was not extravagant. The
long list of figures that had been so boring during the tedious hours
that she had spent with the lawyer, grudging every second of the
glorious September morning that she had had to waste in the library
when she was longing to be out of doors, had conveyed nothing to her
beyond the fact that in future when she wanted anything she would be
put to the trouble of writing out an absurd piece of paper herself,
instead of leaving the matter in Aubrey's hands, as she had done
hitherto.
She had hardly understood and had been much embarrassed by the formal
and pedantic congratulations with which the lawyer had concluded his
business statement. She was not aware that she was an object of
congratulation. It all seemed very stupid and uninteresting. Of real
life she knew nothing and of the ordinary ties and attachments of
family life less than nothing. Aubrey's cold, loveless training had
debarred her from all affection; she had grown up oblivious of it. Love
did not exist for her; from even the thought of passion she shrank
instinctively with the same fastidiousness as she did from actual
physical uncleanliness.
That she had awakened an emotion that she did not understand herself in
certain men had been an annoyance that had become more intolerable with
repetition. She had hated them and herself impartially, and she had
scorned them fiercely. She had never been so gentle and so human with
any one as she had been with Jim Arbuthnot, and that only because she
was so radiantly happy that night that not even the distasteful
reminder that she was a woman whom a man coveted was able to disturb
her happiness. But here there was no need to dwell on annoyances or
distasteful reminders.
Diana dug her heels into the soft ground with a little wriggle of
content; here she would be free from anything that could mar her
perfect enjoyment of life as it appeared to her. Here there was nothing
to spoil her pleasure. Her head had drooped during her thoughts, and
for the last few minutes her eyes had been fixed on the dusty tips of
her riding-boots. But she raised them now and looked up with a great
content in them. It was the happiest day of her life. She had forgotten
the quarrel with Aubrey. She had put from her the chain of ideas
suggested by the passing caravan. There was nothing discordant to
disturb the perfect harmony of her mind.
A shade beside her made her turn her head. Mustafa Ali salaamed
obsequiously. "It is time to start, Mademoiselle."
Diana looked up in surprise and then back over her shoulder at the
escort. The men were already mounted. The smile faded from her eyes.
Mustafa Ali was guide, but she was head of this expedition; if her
guide had not realised this he would have to do so now. She glanced at
the watch on her wrist.
"There is plenty of time," she said coolly.
Mustafa Ali salaamed again. "It is a long ride to reach the oasis where
we must camp to-night," he insisted hurriedly.
Diana crossed one brown boot over the other, and scooping up some sand
in the palm of her hand trickled it through her fingers slowly. "Then
we can ride faster," she replied quietly, looking at the shining
particles glistening in the sun.
Mustafa Ali made a movement of impatience and persisted doggedly.
"Mademoiselle would do well to start."
Diana looked up swiftly with angry eyes. Under the man's suave manner
and simple words a peremptory tone had crept into his voice. She sat
quite still, her fingers raking the warm sand, and under her haughty
stare the guide's eyes wavered and turned away. "We will start when I
choose, Mustafa Ali," she said brusquely. "You may give orders to your
men, but you will take your orders from me. I will tell you when I am
ready. You may go."
Still he hesitated, swaying irresolutely backwards and forwards on his
heels.
Diana snapped her fingers over her shoulder, a trick she had learned
from a French officer in Biskra. "I said go!" she repeated sharply. She
took no notice of his going and did not look back to see what orders he
gave the men. She glanced at her watch again. Perhaps it was growing
late, perhaps the camp was a longer ride than she had thought; but
Mustafa Ali must learn his lesson if they rode till midnight to reach
the oasis. She pushed her obstinate chin out further and then smiled
again suddenly. She hoped that the night would fall before they reached
their destination. There had been one or two moonlight riding picnics
out from Biskra, and the glamour of the desert nights had gone to
Diana's head. This riding into the unknown away from the noisy,
chattering crowd who had spoiled the perfect stillness of the night
would be infinitely more perfect. She gave a little sigh of regret as
she thought of it. It was not really practical. Though she would wait
nearly another hour to allow the fact of her authority to sink into
Mustafa Ali's brain she would have to hasten afterwards to arrive at
the camp before darkness set in. The men were unused to her ways and
she to theirs. She would not have Stephens' help to-night; she would
have to depend on herself to order everything as she wished it, and it
was easier done in daylight. One hour would not make much difference.
The horses had more in them than had been taken out of them this
morning; they could be pushed along a bit faster with no harm happening
to them. She eyed her watch from time to time with a grin of amusement,
but suppressed the temptation to look and see how Mustafa Ali was
taking it, for her action might be seen and misconstrued.
When the time she had set herself was up she rose and walked slowly
towards the group of Arabs. The guide's face was sullen, but she took
no notice, and, when they started, motioned him to her side again with
a reference to Biskra that provoked a flow of words. It was the last
place she wanted to hear of, but it was one of which he spoke the
readiest, and she knew it was not wise to allow him to remain silent to
sulk. His ill-temper would evaporate with the sound of his own voice.
She rode forward steadily, silent herself, busy with her own thoughts,
heedless of the voice beside her, and unconscious of the fact when it
became silent.
She had been quite right about the capabilities of the horses. They
responded without any apparent effort to the further demand made of
them. The one in particular that Diana was riding moved in a swift,
easy gallop that was the perfection of motion.
They had been riding for some hours when they came to the first oasis
that had been sighted since leaving the one where the midday halt was
made. Diana pulled up her horse to look at it, for it was unusually
beautiful in the luxuriousness and arrangement of its group of palms
and leafy bushes. Some pigeons were cooing softly, hidden from sight
amongst the trees, with a plaintive melancholy that somehow seemed in
keeping with the deserted spot. Beside the well, forming a triangle,
stood what had been three particularly fine palm trees, but the tops
had been broken off about twenty feet up from the ground, and the
mutilated trunks reared themselves bare and desolate-looking. Diana
took off her heavy helmet and tossed it to the man behind her, and sat
looking at the oasis, while the faint breeze that had sprung up stirred
her thick, short hair, and cooled her hot head. The sad notes of the
pigeons and the broken palms, that with their unusualness vaguely
suggested a tragedy, lent an air of mystery to the place that pleased
her.
She turned eagerly to Mustafa Ali. "Why did you not arrange for the
camp to be here? It would have been a long enough ride."
The man fidgeted in his saddle, fingering his beard uneasily, his eyes
wandering past Diana's and looking at the broken trees. "No man rests
here, Mademoiselle. It is the place of devils. The curse of Allah is
upon it," he muttered, touching his horse with his heel, and making it
sidle restlessly--an obvious hint that Diana ignored.
"I like it," she persisted obstinately.
He made a quick gesture with his fingers. "It is accursed. Death lurks
beside those broken palm trees," he said, looking at her curiously.
She jerked her head with a sudden smile. "For you, perhaps, but not for
me. Allah's curse rests only upon those who fear it. But since you are
afraid, Mustafa Ali, let us go on." She gave a little light laugh, and
Mustafa Ali kicked his horse savagely as he followed.
The distance before her spread out cleanly with the sharp distinctness
that precedes the setting sun. She rode on until she began to wonder if
it would indeed be night-fall before she reached her destination. They
had ridden longer and faster than had ever been intended. It seemed odd
that they had not overtaken the baggage camels. She looked at her watch
with a frown. "Where is your caravan, Mustafa Ali?" she called. "I see
no sign of an oasis, and the darkness will come."
"If Mademoiselle had started earlier----" he said sullenly.
"If I had started earlier it would still have been too far. To-morrow
we will arrange it otherwise," she said firmly.
"To-morrow----" he growled indistinctly.
Diana looked at him keenly. "What did you say?" she asked haughtily.
His hand went to his forehead mechanically. "To-morrow is with Allah!"
he murmured with unctuous piety.
A retort trembled on Diana's lips, but her attention was distracted
from her annoying guide to a collection of black specks far off across
the desert. They were too far away for her to see clearly, but she
pointed to them, peering at them intently. "See!" she cried. "Is that
the caravan?"
"As Allah wills!" he replied more piously than before, and Diana
wished, with a sudden feeling of irritation, that he would stop
relegating his responsibilities to the Deity and take a little more
active personal interest in his missing camel train.
The black specks were moving fast across the level plain. Very soon
Diana saw that it was not the slow, leisurely camels that they were
overtaking, but a band of mounted men who were moving swiftly towards
them. They had seen nobody since the traders' caravan had passed them
in the morning. For Diana the Arabs that were approaching were even
more interesting than the caravan had been. She had seen plenty of
caravans arriving and departing from Biskra, but, though she had seen
small parties of tribesmen constantly in the vicinity of the town, she
had never seen so large a body of mounted men before, nor had she seen
them as they were here, one with the wild picturesqueness of their
surroundings. It was impossible to count how many there were, for they
were riding in close formation, the wind filling their great white
cloaks, making each man look gigantic. Diana's interest flamed up
excitedly. It was like passing another ship upon a hitherto empty sea.
They seemed to add a desired touch to the grim loneliness of the scene
that had begun to be a little awe-inspiring. Perhaps she was hungry,
perhaps she was tired, or perhaps she was only annoyed by the bad
arrangements of her guide, but before the advent of the mounted Arabs
Diana had been conscious of a feeling of oppression, as if the silent
desolation of the desert was weighing heavily upon her, but the body of
swiftly moving men and horses had changed the aspect utterly. An
atmosphere of life and purpose seemed to have taken the place of the
quiet stagnation that had been before their coming.
The distance between the two parties decreased rapidly. Diana, intent
on the quickly advancing horsemen, spurred ahead of her guide with
sparkling eyes. They were near enough now to see that the horses were
beautiful creatures and that each man rode magnificently. They were
armed too, their rifles being held in front of them, not slung on their
backs as she had seen in Biskra. They passed quite close to her, only a
few yards away--a solid square, the orderly ranks suggesting training
and discipline that she had not looked for. Not a head turned in her
direction as they went by and the pace was not slackened. Fretted by
the proximity of the galloping horses, her own horse reared
impatiently, but Diana pulled him in, turning in her saddle to watch
the Arabs pass, her breath coming quick with excitement.
"What are they?" she called out to Mustafa Ali, who had dropped some
way behind her. But he, too, was looking back at the horsemen, and did
not seem to hear her question. Her escort had lagged still further
behind her guide and were some distance away. Diana watched the rapidly
moving, compact square eagerly with appreciatory eyes--it was a
beautiful sight. Then she gave a little gasp. The galloping horses had
drawn level with the last stragglers of her own party, and just beyond
they stopped suddenly. Diana would not have believed it possible that
they could have stopped so suddenly and in such close formation while
travelling at such a pace. The tremendous strain on the bridles flung
the horses far back on their haunches. But there was no time to dwell
on the wonderful horsemanship or training of the men. Events moved too
rapidly. The solid square split up and lengthened out into a long line
of two men riding abreast. Wheeling behind the last of Mustafa's men
they came back even faster than they had passed, and circled widely
round Diana and her attendants. Bewildered by this manoeuvre she
watched them with a puzzled frown, striving to soothe her horse, who
was nearly frantic with excitement. Twice they galloped round her
little band, their long cloaks fluttering, their rifles tossing in
their hands. Diana was growing impatient. It was very fine to watch,
but time and the light were both going. She would have been glad if the
demonstration had occurred earlier in the day, when there would have
been more time to enjoy it. She turned again to Mustafa Ali to suggest
that they had better try to move on, but he had gone further from her,
back towards his own. She wrestled with her nervous mount, trying to
turn him to join her guide, when a sudden burst of rifle shots made her
start and her horse bound violently. Then she laughed. That would be
the end of the demonstration, a parting salute, the _decharge de
mousqueterie_ beloved of the Arab. She turned her head from her
refractory horse to look at them ride off, and the laugh died away on
her lips. It was not a farewell salute. The rifles that the Arabs were
firing were not pointing up into the heavens, but aiming straight at
her and her escort. And as she stared with suddenly startled eyes,
unable to do anything with her plunging horse, Mustafa Ali's men were
blotted out from her sight, cut off by a band of Arabs who rode between
her and them. Mustafa Ali himself was lying forward on the neck of his
horse, who was standing quiet amidst the general confusion. Then there
came another volley, and the guide slid slowly out of his saddle on to
the ground, and at the same time Diana's horse went off with a wild
leap that nearly unseated her.
Until they started shooting the thought that the Arabs could be hostile
had not crossed her mind. She imagined that they were merely showing
off with the childish love of display which she knew was
characteristic. The French authorities had been right after all.
Diana's first feeling was one of contempt for an administration that
made possible such an attempt so near civilisation. Her second a
fleeting amusement at the thought of how Aubrey would jeer. But her
amusement passed as the real seriousness of the attack came home to
her. For the first time it occurred to her that her guide's descent
from his saddle was due to a wound and not to the fear that she had at
first disgustedly attributed to him. But nobody had seemed to put up
any kind of a fight, she thought wrathfully. She tugged angrily at her
horse's mouth, but the bit was between his teeth and he tore on
frantically. Her own position made her furious. Her guide was wounded,
his men surrounded, and she was ignominiously being run away with by a
bolting horse. If she could only turn the wretched animal. It would
only be a question of ransom, of that she was positive. She must get
back somehow to the others and arrange terms. It was an annoyance, of
course, but after all it added a certain piquancy to her trip, it would
be an experience. It was only a "hold-up." She did not suppose the
Arabs had even really meant to hurt any one, but they were excited and
some one's shot, aimed wide, had found an unexpected billet. It could
only be that. It was too near Biskra for any real danger, she argued
with herself, still straining on the reins. She would not admit that
there was any danger, though her heart was beating in a way that it had
never done before. Then as she hauled ineffectually at the bridle with
all her strength there came from behind her the sound of a long, shrill
whistle. Her horse pricked up his ears and she was conscious that his
pace sensibly lessened. Instinctively she looked behind. A solitary
Arab was riding after her and as she looked she realised that his horse
was gaining on hers. The thought drove every idea of stopping her
runaway from her and made her dig her spurs into him instead. There was
a sinister air of deliberation in the way in which the Arab was
following her; he was riding her down.
Diana's mouth closed firmly and a new keenness came into her steady
eyes. It was one thing to go back voluntarily to make terms with the
men who had attacked her party; it was quite another thing to be
deliberately chased across the desert by an Arab freebooter. Her
obstinate chin was almost square. Then the shadow of a laugh flickered
in her eyes and curved her mouth. New experiences were crowding in upon
her to-day. She had often wondered what the feelings of a hunted
creature were. She seemed in a fair way of finding out. She had always
stoutly maintained that the fox enjoyed the run as much as the hounds;
that remained to be proved, but, in any case, she would give this hound
a run for his money. She could ride, and there seemed plenty yet in the
frightened animal under her. She bent down, lying low against his neck
with a little, reckless laugh, coaxing him with all her knowledge and
spurring him alternately. But soon her mood changed. She frowned
anxiously as she looked at the last rays of the setting sun. It would
be dark very soon. She could not go chasing through the night with this
tiresome Arab at her heels. The humour seemed to have died out of the
situation and Diana began to get angry. In the level country that
surrounded her there were no natural features that could afford cover
or aid in any way; there seemed nothing for it but to own herself
defeated and pull up--if she could. An idea of trying to dodge him and
of returning of her own free will was dismissed at once as hopeless.
She had seen enough in her short glimpse of the Arabs' tactics when
they had passed her to know that she was dealing with a finished
horseman on a perfectly trained horse, and that her idea could never
succeed. But, perversely, she felt that to that particular Arab
following her she would never give in. She would ride till she dropped,
or the horse did, before that.
The whistle came again, and again, in spite of her relentless spurring,
her horse checked his pace. A sudden inspiration came to her. Perhaps
it was the horse she was riding that was the cause of all the trouble.
It was certainly the Arab's whistle that had made it moderate its
speed; it was responding clearly to a signal that it knew. Her guide's
reluctance to give any particulars of his acquisition of the horse came
back to her. There could not be much doubt about it. The animal had
unquestionably been stolen, and either belonged to or was known to the
party of Arabs who had met them.
The _naivete_ that paraded a stolen horse through the desert at
the risk of meeting its former owner made her smile in spite of her
annoyance, but it was not a pleasant smile, as her thoughts turned from
the horse to its present owner. The sum of Mustafa Ali's delinquencies
was mounting up fast. But it was his affair, not hers. In the meantime
she had paid for the horse to ride through the desert, not to be
waylaid by Arab bandits. Her temper was going fast.
She urged the horse on with all her power, but perceptibly he was
slowing up. She flashed another backward look. The Arab was close
behind her--closer than she had been aware. She had a momentary glimpse
of a big white figure, dark piercing eyes, and white gleaming teeth,
and passionate rage filled her. With no thought of what the
consequences or retaliation might be, with no thought at all beyond a
wild desire to rid herself of her pursuer, driven by a sudden madness
which seemed to rise up in her and which she could not control, she
clutched her revolver and fired twice, full in the face of the man who
was following her. He did not even flinch and a low laugh of amusement
came from him. And at the sound of his laugh Diana's mouth parched
suddenly, and a cold shiver rippled across her spine. A strange feeling
that she had never experienced before went through her. She had missed
again as she had missed this morning. How, she did not know; it was
inexplicable, but it was a fact, and a fact that left her with a
feeling of powerlessness. She dropped the useless revolver, trying
vainly to force her horse's pace, but inch by inch the fiery chestnut
that the Arab was riding crept up nearer alongside. She would not turn
to look again, but glancing sideways she could see its small,
wicked-looking head, with flat laid ears and vicious, bloodshot eyes,
level with her elbow. For a moment or two it remained there, then with
a sudden spurt the chestnut forged ahead, and as it shot past it
swerved close in beside her, and the man, rising in his stirrups and
leaning towards her, flung a pair of powerful arms around her, and,
with a jerk, swung her clear of the saddle and on to his own horse in
front of him. His movement had been so quick she was unprepared and
unable to resist. For a moment she was stunned, then her senses came
back to her and she struggled wildly, but, stifled in the thick folds
of the Arab's robes, against which her face was crushed, and held in a
grip that seemed to be slowly suffocating her, her struggles were
futile. The hard, muscular arm round her hurt her acutely, her ribs
seemed to be almost breaking under its weight and strength, it was
nearly impossible to breathe with the close contact of his body. She
was unusually strong for a girl, but against this steely strength that
held her she was helpless. And for a time the sense of her helplessness
and the pain that any resistance to the arm wrapped round her gave her
made her lie quiet. She felt the Arab check his horse, felt the
chestnut wheel, spinning high on his hind legs, and then bound forward
again.
Her feelings were indescribable. She did not know what to think. Her
mind felt jarred. She was unable to frame any thoughts coherently. What
had happened was so unexpected, so preposterous, that no conclusion
seemed adequate. Only rage filled her--blind, passionate rage against
the man who had dared to touch her, who had dared to lay his hands on
her, and those hands the hands of a native. A shiver of revulsion ran
through her. She was choking with fury, with anger and with disgust.
The ignominy of her plight hurt her pride badly. She had been
outridden, swept from her saddle as if she were a puppet, and compelled
to bear the proximity of the man's own hateful body and the restraint
of his arms. No one had ever dared to touch her before. No one had ever
dared to handle her as she was being handled now. How was it going to
end? Where were they going? With her face hidden she had lost all sense
of direction. She had no idea to what point the horse had turned when
he had wheeled so suddenly. He was galloping swiftly with continual
disconcerting bounds that indicated either temper or nerves, but the
man riding him seemed in no way disturbed by his horse's behavior. She
could feel him swaying easily in the saddle, and even the wildest leaps
did not cause any slackening of the arm around her.
But by degrees as she continued to lie still the pressure on her body
was relieved slightly, and she was able to turn her head a little
towards the air for which she was almost fainting, but not enough to
enable her to see what was passing around her. She drank in the cool
air eagerly. Though she could not see she knew that the night had come,
the night that she had hoped would fall before she reached her
destination, but which now seemed horrible. The fresh strength that the
air gave her fanned the courage that still remained with her.
Collecting all her force she made a sudden desperate spring, trying to
leap clear of the arm that now lay almost loosely about her, her
spurred heels tearing the chestnut's flank until he reared
perpendicularly, snorting and trembling. But with a quick sweep of his
long arm the Arab gathered her back into his hold, still struggling
fiercely. His arms were both round her; he was controlling the maddened
horse only with the pressure of his knees.
"Doucement, doucement." She heard the slow, soft voice indistinctly,
for he was pressing her head again closely to him, and she did not know
if the words were applied to herself or to the horse. She fought to
lift her head, to escape the grip that held her, straining, striving
until he spoke again.
"Lie still, you little fool!" he snarled with sudden vehemence, and
with brutal hands he forced her to obey him, until she wondered if he
would leave a single bone unbroken in her body, till further resistance
was impossible. Gasping for breath she yielded to the strength that
overpowered her, and ceased to struggle. The man seemed to know
intuitively that she was beaten, and turned his undivided attention to
his horse with the same low laugh of amusement that had sent the
strange feeling through her when her shots had missed him. It had
puzzled her then, but it grew now with a horrible intensity, until she
knew that it was fear that had come to her for the first time in her
life--a strange fear that she fought against desperately, but which was
gaining on her with a force that was sapping her strength from her and
making her head reel. She did not faint, but her whole body seemed to
grow nerveless with the sudden realisation of the horror of her
position.
After that Diana lost all sense of time, as she had already lost all
sense of direction. She did not know if it was minutes or hours that
passed as they still galloped swiftly through the night. She did not
know if they were alone or if the band of Arabs to which this man
belonged were riding with them, noiseless over the soft ground. What
had happened to her guide and his men? Had they been butchered and left
where they fell, or were they, too, being hurried unwillingly into some
obscure region of the desert? But for the moment the fate of Mustafa
Ali and his companions did not trouble her very much; they had not
played a very valiant part in the short encounter, and her own
situation swamped her mind to the exclusion of everything else.
The sense of fear was growing on her. She scorned and derided it. She
tried to convince herself it did not exist, but it did exist, torturing
her with its strangeness and with the thoughts that it engendered. She
had anticipated nothing like this. She had never thought of a
contingency that would end so, that would induce a situation before
which her courage was shuddering into pieces with the horror that was
opening up before her--a thing that had always seemed a remote
impossibility that could never touch her, from even the knowledge of
which her life with Aubrey had almost shielded her, but which now
loomed near her, forcing its reality upon her till she trembled and
great drops of moisture gathered on her forehead.
The Arab moved her position once, roughly, but she was glad of the
change for it freed her head from the stifling folds of his robes. He
did not speak again--only once when the chestnut shied violently he
muttered something under his breath. But her satisfaction was
short-lived. A few minutes afterwards his arm tightened round her once
more and he twined a fold of his long cloak round her head, blinding
her. And then she understood. The galloping horse was pulled in with
almost the same suddenness that had amazed her when she had first seen
the Arabs. She felt him draw her close into his arms and slip down on
to the ground; there were voices around her--confused, unintelligible;
then they died away as she felt him carry her a few paces. He set her
down and unwound the covering from her face. The light that shone
around her seemed by contrast dazzling with the darkness that had gone
before. Confused, she clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment and
then looked up slowly. She was in a big, lofty tent, brightly lit by
two hanging lamps. But she took no heed of her surroundings; her eyes
were fixed on the man who had brought her there. He had flung aside the
heavy cloak that enveloped him from head to foot and was standing
before her, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in white flowing robes,
a waistcloth embroidered in black and silver wound several times about
him, and from the top of which showed a revolver that was thrust into
the folds.
Diana's eyes passed over him slowly till they rested on his brown,
clean-shaven face, surmounted by crisp, close-cut brown hair. It was
the handsomest and cruellest face that she had ever seen. Her gaze was
drawn instinctively to his. He was looking at her with fierce burning
eyes that swept her until she felt that the boyish clothes that covered
her slender limbs were stripped from her, leaving the beautiful white
body bare under his passionate stare.
She shrank back, quivering, dragging the lapels of her riding jacket
together over her breast with clutching hands, obeying an impulse that
she hardly understood.
"Who are you?" she gasped hoarsely.
"I am the Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan."
The name conveyed nothing. She had never heard it before. She had
spoken without thinking in French, and in French he replied to her.
"Why have you brought me here?" she asked, fighting down the fear that
was growing more terrible every moment.
He repeated her words with a slow smile. "Why have I brought you here?
Bon Dieu! Are you not woman enough to know?"
She shrank back further, a wave of colour rushing into her face that
receded immediately, leaving her whiter than she had been before. Her
eyes fell under the kindling flame in his. "I don't know what you
mean," she whispered faintly, with shaking lips.
"I think you do." He laughed softly, and his laugh frightened her more
than anything he had said. He came towards her, and although she was
swaying on her feet, desperately she tried to evade him, but with a
quick movement he caught her in his arms.
Terror, agonising, soul-shaking terror such as she had never imagined,
took hold of her. The flaming light of desire burning in his eyes
turned her sick and faint. Her body throbbed with the consciousness of
a knowledge that appalled her. She understood his purpose with a horror
that made each separate nerve in her system shrink against the
understanding that had come to her under the consuming fire of his
ardent gaze, and in the fierce embrace that was drawing her shaking
limbs closer and closer against the man's own pulsating body. She
writhed in his arms as he crushed her to him in a sudden access of
possessive passion. His head bent slowly down to her, his eyes burned
deeper, and, held immovable, she endured the first kiss she had ever
received. And the touch of his scorching lips, the clasp of his arms,
the close union with his warm, strong body robbed her of all strength,
of all power of resistance.
With a great sob her eyes closed wearily, the hot mouth pressed on hers
was like a narcotic, drugging her almost into insensibility. Numbly she
felt him gather her high up into his arms, his lips still clinging
closely, and carry her across the tent through curtains into an
adjoining room. He laid her down on soft cushions. "Do not make me wait
too long," he whispered, and left her.
And the whispered words sent a shock through her that seemed to wrench
her deadened nerves apart, galvanising her into sudden strength. She
sprang up with wild, despairing eyes, and hands clenched frantically
across her heaving breast; then, with a bitter cry, she dropped on to
the floor, her arms flung out across the wide, luxurious bed. It was
not true! It was not true! It could not be--this awful thing that had
happened to her--not to her, Diana Mayo! It was a dream, a ghastly
dream that would pass and free her from this agony. Shuddering, she
raised her head. The strange room swam before her eyes. Oh, God! It was
not a dream. It was real, it was an actual fact from which there was no
escape. She was trapped, powerless, defenceless, and behind the heavy
curtains near her was the man waiting to claim what he had taken. Any
moment he might come; the thought sent her shivering closer to the
ground with limbs that trembled uncontrollably. Her courage, that had
faced dangers and even death without flinching, broke down before the
horror that awaited her. It was inevitable; there was no help to be
expected, no mercy to be hoped for. She had felt the crushing strength
against which she was helpless. She would struggle, but it would be
useless; she would fight, but it would make no difference. Within the
tent she was alone, ready to his hand like a snared animal; without,
the place was swarming with the man's followers. There was nowhere she
could turn, there was no one she could turn to. The certainty of the
accomplishment of what she dreaded crushed her with its surety. All
power of action was gone. She could only wait and suffer in the
complete moral collapse that overwhelmed her, and that was rendered
greater by her peculiar temperament. Her body was aching with the grip
of his powerful arms, her mouth was bruised with his savage kisses. She
clenched her hands in anguish. "Oh, God!" she sobbed, with scalding
tears that scorched her cheeks. "Curse him! Curse him!"
And with the words on her lips he came, silent, noiseless, to her side.
With his hands on her shoulders he forced her to her feet. His eyes
were fierce, his stern mouth parted in a cruel smile, his deep, slow
voice half angry, half impatiently amused. "Must I be valet, as well as
lover?"