The night grew hotter and the atmosphere more oppressive. Wrapped in a
thin silk kimono Diana lay very still on the outside of the wide couch
in the inner room, propped high with pillows that the shaded light of
the little reading-lamp beside her might fall on the book she held, but
she was not reading.
It was Raoul's latest book, that he had brought with him, but she could
not concentrate her mind on it, and it lay idle on her knee--while her
thoughts were far away. It was three months since the night that Saint
Hubert had almost given up hope of being able to save the Sheik's
life--a night that had been followed by days of suspense that had
reduced Diana to a weary-eyed shadow of her former vigorous self, and
had left marks on Raoul that would never be effaced. But thanks to his
great strength and splendid constitution the Sheik had rallied and
after the first few weeks convalescence had been rapid. When the
terrible fear that he might die was past it had been a wonderful
happiness to wait on him. With the determination to live for the
moment, to which she had forced herself, she had banished everything
from her mind but the joy of being near him and of being necessary to
him. It had been a very silent service, for he would lie for hours with
closed eyes without speaking, and something that she could not master
kept her tongue-tied in his presence when they were alone. Only once he
had referred to the raid. As she bent over him to do some small office
his fingers closed feebly round her wrist and his eyes, with a
searching apprehension in them, looked into hers for the first time
since the night when she had fled from his curses.
"Was it--in time?" he whispered slowly, and as she nodded with crimson
cheeks and lowered eyes he turned his head away without another word,
but a shudder that he was too weak to control shook him.
But the happiness of ministering to him passed very swiftly. As he grew
stronger he managed so that she was rarely alone with him, and he
insisted on her riding twice every day, sometimes with Saint Hubert,
sometimes with Henri, coolly avowing a preference for his own society
or that of Gaston, who was beginning to get about again. Later, too, he
was much occupied with headmen who came in from the different camps,
and as the days passed she found herself more and more excluded from
the intimacy that had been so precious. She was thrown much into the
society of Raoul de Saint Hubert. All that they had gone through
together had drawn them very closely to each other, and Diana often
wondered what her girlhood would have been like if it had been spent
under his guardianship instead of that of Sir Aubrey Mayo. The sisterly
affection she had never given her own brother she gave to him, and,
with the firm hold over himself that he had never again slackened, the
Vicomte accepted the role of elder brother which she unconsciously
imposed on him.
It was hard work sometimes, and there were days when he dreaded the
daily rides, when the strain seemed almost more than he could bear, and
he began to make tentative suggestions about resuming his wanderings,
but always the Sheik pressed him to stay.
Ahmed Ben Hassan's final recovery was quick, and the camp soon settled
down into normal conditions. The reinforcements were gone back to the
different camps from which they had been drawn. There was no further
need of them. Ibraheim Omair's tribe, with their leader dead, had
broken up and scattered far to the south; there was no chief to keep
them together and no headman strong enough to draw them round a new
chieftain, for Ibraheim had allowed no member of his tribe to attain
any degree of wealth or power that might prove him a rival; so they had
split up into numerous small bands lacking cohesion. In fulfilling the
vow made to his predecessor Ahmed Ben Hassan had cleared the desert of
a menace that had hung over it for many years.
The relations between the Sheik and Saint Hubert had gone back to what
they had been the night of Raoul's arrival, before his candid criticism
had roused the Sheik's temper and fired his jealousy. The recollection
of the miserable week that had preceded the raid had been wiped out in
all that had followed it. No shadow could ever come between them again
since Raoul had voluntarily stood on one side and sacrificed his own
chance of happiness for his friend's.
And with the Sheik's complete recovery his attitude towards Diana had
reverted to the cold reserve that had chilled her before--a reserve
that was as courteous as it was indifferent. He had avoided her as much
as had been possible, and the continual presence of Saint Hubert had
been a barrier between them. Unostensibly but effectually he had
contrived that Raoul should never leave them alone. Though he included
her in the general conversation he rarely spoke to her directly, and
often she found him looking at her with his fierce eyes filled with an
expression that baffled her, and as each time the quick blood rushed
into her face his forehead drew together in the heavy frown that was so
characteristic. During meals it was Raoul that kept the conversation
from lapsing with ready tact and an eloquent flow of words, ranging
over many subjects. In the evening the men became immersed in the
projection of Saint Hubert's new book, for details of which he was
drawing on the Sheik's knowledge, and long after Diana left them she
could hear the two voices, both deep and musical, but Raoul's quicker
and more emphatic, continuously rising and falling, till at last Raoul
would go to his own tent and Gaston would come--noiseless and
soft-toned as his master. Ordinarily the Sheik dispensed with him at
night, but since his wound, the valet, as soon as he had himself
recovered, had always been in attendance. Some nights he lingered
talking, and others the Sheik dismissed him in a few minutes with only
a curt word or two, and then there would be silence, and Diana would
bury her face in her pillow and writhe in her desperate loneliness,
sick with longing for the strong arms she had once dreaded and the
kisses she had once loathed. He had slept in the outer room since his
illness, and tossing feverishly on the soft cushions of the big empty
bed in which she lay alone Diana had suffered the greatest humiliation
she had yet experienced. He had never loved her, but now he did not
even want her. She was useless to him. She was less than nothing to
him. He had no need of her. She would lie awake listening wearily to
the tiny chimes of the little clock with the bitter sense of her
needlessness crushing her. She was humbled to the very dust by his
indifference. The hours of loneliness in the room that was redolent
with associations of him were filled with memories that tortured her.
In her fitful sleep her dreams were agonies from which she awakened
with shaking limbs and shuddering breath, and waking, her hand would
stretch out groping to him till remembrance came with cruel vividness.
In the daytime, too, she had been much alone, for as soon as the Sheik
was strong enough to sit in the saddle the two men had ridden far
afield every day, visiting the outlying camps and drawing into Ahmed
Ben Hassan's own hands again the affairs that had had to be relegated
to the headmen.
At last Raoul had announced that his visit could be protracted no
longer and that he must resume his journey to Morocco. He was going up
to Oran and from there to Tangier by coasting steamer, collecting at
Tangier a caravan for his expedition through Morocco. His decision once
made he had speeded every means of getting away with a despatch that
had almost suggested flight.
To Diana his going meant the hastening of a crisis that could not be
put off much longer. The situation was becoming impossible. She had
said good-bye to him the night before. She had never guessed the love
she had inspired in him, and she wondered at the sadness in his eyes
and his unaccustomed lack of words. He had wanted to say so much and he
had said so little. She must never guess and Ahmed must never guess, so
he played the game to the end. Only that night after she had left them
the voices sounded in the adjoining room for a very short time. And
this morning he and Ahmed Ben Hassan had ridden away at daybreak. She
had not been asleep; she had heard them go, and almost she wished Raoul
back, for with his presence the vague fear that assailed her seemed
further away. The camp had seemed very lonely and the day very long.
She had ridden with Gaston, and hurried over her solitary dinner, and
since then she had been waiting for the Sheik to come back. In what
mood would he come? Since Raoul's announcement of his departure he had
been more than usually taciturn and reserved. The book she held slipped
at length on to the floor, and she let it he unheeded. The usual
stillness of the desert seemed to-night unusually still-sinister
even--and the silence was so intense that the sudden squeal of a
stallion a little distance away made her start with madly racing heart
Earlier in the evening a tom-tom had been going persistently in the
men's lines, and later a native pipe had shrilled thinly in monotonous
cadence; but she had grown accustomed to these sounds; they were of
nightly occurrence and they soothed rather than irritated her, and when
they stopped the quiet had become intensified to such a degree that she
would have welcomed any sound. To-night her nerves were on edge. She was
restless and excited, and her thoughts were chaos.
She was alone again at his mercy. What would his attitude be? Her hands
clenched on her knees. At times she lay almost without breathing,
straining to hear the faintest sound that would mean his return, and
then again lest she should hear what she listened for. She longed for
him passionately, and at the same time she was afraid, He had changed
so much that there were moments when she had the curious feeling that
it was a stranger who was coming back to her, and she both dreaded his
coming and yearned for it with a singular combination of emotions. She
looked round the room where she had at once suffered so much and been
so happy with troubled eyes. She had never been nervous before, but
to-night her imagination ran riot. There was electricity in the air
which acted on her overstrung nerves. The little shaded lamp threw a
circle of light round the bed, but left the rest of the room dim, and
the dusky corners seemed full of odd new shadows that came and went
illusively. Hangings and objects that were commonly familiar to her
took on fantastic shapes that she watched nervously, till at last she
brushed her hand across her eyes with a laugh of angry impatience. Was
the love that had changed her so completely also making her a coward?
Had even her common-sense been lost in the one great emotion that held
her? She understood perfectly the change that had taken place in her.
She had never had any illusions about herself, and had never attempted
to curb the obstinate self-will and haughty pride that had
characterized her. She thought of it curiously, her mind going back
over the last few months that had changed her whole life. The last mad
freak for which she had paid so dearly had been the outcome of an
arrogant determination to have her own way in the face of all protests
and advice. And with a greater arrogance and a determination stronger
than her own Ahmed Ben Hassan had tamed her as he tamed the magnificent
horses that he rode. He had been brutal and merciless, using no half
measures, forcing her to obedience by sheer strength of will and
compelling a complete submission. She thought of how she had feared and
hated him with passionate intensity, until the hatred had been swamped
by love as passionate and as intense. She did not know why she loved
him, she had never been able to analyse the passion that held her so
strongly, but she knew deep down in her heart that it went now far past
his mere physical beauty and superb animal strength. She loved him
blindly with a love that had killed her pride and brought her to his
feet humbly obedient. All the love that had lain dormant in her heart
for years was given to him. Body and soul she belonged to him. And the
change within her was patent in her face, the haughty expression in her
eyes had turned to a tender wistfulness, with a curious gleam of
expectancy that flickered in them perpetually; the little mutinous
mouth had lost the scornful curve. And with the complete change in her
expression she was far more beautiful now than she had ever been. But
with her love was the fear of him that she had learned during the first
hours of her captivity, the physical fear that she had never lost, even
during the happy weeks that had preceded the coming of Saint Hubert,
and the greater fear that was with her always, and that at times drove
her, with wide-stricken eyes, wildly to pace the tent as if to escape
the shadow that hung over her--the fear of the time when he should tire
of her. The thought racked her, and now, as always, she tried to put it
from her, but it continued, persistently haunting her like a grim
spectre. Always the same thought tortured her--he had not taken her for
love. No higher motive than a passing fancy had stirred him. He had
seen her, had wished for her and had taken her, and once in his power
it had amused him to break her to his hand. She realised all that. And
he had been honest, he had never pretended to love her. Often when the
humour took him he could be gentle, as in those last few weeks, but
gentleness was not love, and she had never seen the light that she
longed for kindle in his eyes. His caresses had been passionate or
careless with his mood. She did not know that he loved her. She had not
been with him during the long hours of his delirium and she had not
heard what Raoul de Saint Hubert had heard. And since his recovery his
attitude of aloofness had augmented her fear. There seemed only one
construction to put on his silence, and his studied and obvious
avoidance of her. The passing fancy had passed. It was as if the
fleeting passion he had had for her had been drained from him with the
blood that flowed from the terrible wound he had received. He was tired
of her and seeking for a means to disembarrass himself of her. Vaguely
she felt that she had known this for weeks, but to-night was the first
time that she had had courage to be frank with herself. It must be so.
Everything pointed to it; the curious expression she had seen in his
eyes and his constant heavy frown all confirmed it. She flung her arm
across her eyes with a little moan. He was tired of her and the bottom
had fallen out of her world. The instinct to fight for his love that
had been so strong in her the day that Ibraheim Omair had captured her
had died with the death of all her hopes. Her spirit was broken. She
knew that her will was helpless against his, and with a fatalism that
she had learned in the desert she accepted the inevitable with a
crushed feeling of hopelessness.
She wondered numbly what would become of her. It did not seem to matter
much. Nothing mattered now that he did not want her any more. The old
life was far away, in another world. She could never go back to it. She
did not care. It was nothing to her. It was only here in the desert, in
Ahmed Ben Hassan's arms, that she had become alive, that she had
learned what life really meant, that she had waked both to happiness
and sorrow.
The future stretched out blank and menacing before her, but she turned
from it with a great sob of despair. It was on him that her thoughts
were fixed. How would life be endurable without him? Dully she wondered
why she did not hate him for having done to her what he had done, for
having made her what she was. But nothing that he could do could kill
the love now that he had inspired. And she would never regret. She
would always have the memory of the fleeting happiness that had been
hers--in after years that memory would be all that she would have to
live for. Even in her heart she did not reproach him, there was no
bitterness in her misery. She had always known that it would come,
though she had fenced with it, shutting it out of her mind resolutely.
He had never led her to expect anything else. There was no link to
bring them closer together, no bond between them. If she could have had
the promise of a child. Alone though she was the sensitive colour
flamed into her cheeks, and she hid her face in the pillows with a
quivering sob. A child that would be his and hers, a child--a boy with
the same passionate dark eyes, the same crisp brown hair, the same
graceful body, who would grow up as tall and strong, as brave and
fearless as his father. Surely he must love her then. Surely the memory
of his own mother's tragic history would make him merciful to the
mother of his son. But she had no hope of that mercy. She lay shaking
with passionate yearning and the storm of bitter tears that swept over
her, hungry for the clasp of his arms, faint with longing. The pent-up
misery of weeks that she had crushed down surged over. There was nobody
to hear the agonising sobs that shook her from head to foot. She could
relax the control that she had put upon herself and which had seemed to
be slowly turning her to stone. She could give way to the emotion that,
suppressed, had welled up choking in her throat and gripped her
forehead like red-hot bands eating into her brain. Tears were not easy
to her. She had not wept since that first night when, with the fear of
worse than death, she had grovelled at his feet, moaning for mercy. She
had not wept during the terrible hours she was in the power of Ibraheim
Omair, nor during the days that Raoul de Saint Hubert had fought for
his friend's life. But to-night the tears that all her life she had
despised would not be denied. Tortured with conflicting emotions,
unsatisfied love, fear and uncertainty, utterly unnerved, she gave
herself up at last to the feelings she could no longer restrain. Prone
on the wide bed, her face buried in the pillows, her hands clutching
convulsively at the silken coverings, she wept until she had no more
tears, until the anguished, sobs died away into silence and she lay
quiet, exhausted.
She wrestled with herself. The weakness that she had given way to must
be conquered. She knew that, without any possibility of doubt, his
coming would seal her fate--whatever it was to be. She must wait until
then. A long, shuddering sigh ran through her. "Ahmed! Ahmed Ben
Hassan," she murmured slowly, lingering with wistful tenderness on the
words. She pressed her face closer into the cushions, clasping her
hands over her head, and for a long time lay very still. The heat was
intense and every moment the tent seemed to grow more airless. The room
was stifling, and, with a little groan, Diana sat up, pushing the heavy
hair oft her damp forehead, and covered her flushed face with her
hands. A cicada began its shrill note close by, chirping with maddening
persistency. Quite suddenly her mind was filled with thoughts of her
own people, the old home in England, the family for whose honour her
ancestors had been so proudly jealous. Even Aubrey, lazy and
self-indulgent as he was, prized the family honour as he prized nothing
else on earth; and now she, proud Diana Mayo, who had the history of
her race at her fingers' ends, who had gloried in the long line of
upright men and chaste women, had no thankfulness in her heart that in
her degradation she had been spared a crowning shame. Beside her love
everything dwindled into nothingness. He was her life, he filled her
horizon. Honour itself was lost in the absorbing passion of her love.
He had stripped it from her and she was content that it should lie at
his feet. He had made her nothing, she was his toy, his plaything,
waiting to be thrown aside. She shuddered again and looked around the
tent that she had shared with him with a bitter smile and sad, hunted
eyes.... After her--who? The cruel thought persisted. She was torn with
a mad, primitive jealousy, a longing to kill the unknown woman who
would inevitably succeed her, a desire that grew until a horror of her
own feelings seized her, and she shrank down, clasping her hands over
her ears to shut out the insidious voice that seemed actually
whispering beside her. The Persian hound in the next room had whined
uneasily from time to time, and now he pushed his way past the curtain
and stalked across the thick rugs. He nuzzled his shaggy head against
her knee, whimpering unhappily, looking up into her face. And when she
noticed him he reared up and flung his long body across her lap,
thrusting his wet nose into her face. She caught his head in her hands
and rubbed her cheek against his rough hair, crooning over him softly.
Even the dog was comfort in her loneliness, and they both waited for
their master.
She pushed him down at length, and with her hand on his collar went
into the other room. A solitary lamp burned dimly. She crossed to the
doorway and pulled aside the flap, and a small, white-clad figure rose
up before her.
"Is that you, Gaston?" she asked involuntarily, though she knew that
the question was unnecessary, for he always slept across the entrance
to the tent when the Sheik was away.
"_A votre service, Madame_."
For a few minutes she did not speak, and Gaston stood silent beside
her. She might have remembered that he was there. He never stirred far
beyond the sound of her voice whenever she was alone in the camp. He
was always waiting, unobtrusive, quick to carry out her requests, even
to anticipate them. With him standing beside her she thought of the
time when they had fought side by side--all difference in rank eclipsed
in their common danger. The servant had been merged into the man, and a
man who had the courage to do what he had attempted when he had faced
her at what had seemed the last moment with his revolver clenched in a
hand that had not shaken, a man at whose side and by whose hand she
would have been proud to die. They were men, these desert dwellers,
master and servants alike; men who endured, men who did things, inured
to hardships, imbued with magnificent courage, splendid healthy
animals. There was nothing effete or decadent about the men with whom
Ahmed Ben Hassan surrounded himself.
Diana had always liked Gaston; she had been touched by his unvarying
respectful attitude that had never by a single word or look conveyed
the impression that he was aware of her real position in his master's
camp. He treated her as if she were indeed what from the bottom of her
heart she wished she was. He was solicitous without being officious,
familiar with no trace of impertinence, He was Diana's first experience
of a class of servant that still lingers in France, a survival of
pre-Revolution days, who identify themselves entirely with the family
they serve, and in Gaston's case this interest in his master had been
strengthened by experiences shared and dangers faced which had bound
them together with a tie that could never be broken and had raised
their relations on to a higher plane than that of mere master and man.
Those relations had at first been a source of perpetual wonder to
Diana, brought up in the rigid atmosphere of her brother's
establishment, where Aubrey's egoism gave no opportunity for anything
but conventional service, and in their wanderings, where personal
servants had to be often changed. Even Stephens was, in Aubrey's eyes,
a mere machine.
Very soon after she had been brought to Ahmed Ben Hassan's camp she had
realised that Gaston's devotion to the Sheik had been extended to
herself, but since the night of the raid he had frankly worshipped her.
It was very airless even out-of-doors. She peered into the darkness,
but there was little light from the tiny crescent moon, and she could
see nothing. She moved a few steps forward from under the awning to
look up at the brilliant stars twinkling overhead. She had watched them
so often from Ahmed Ben Hassan's arms; they had become an integral part
of the passionate Oriental nights. He loved them, and when the mood was
on him, watched them untiringly, teaching her to recognise them, and
telling her countless Arab legends connected with them, sitting under
the awning far info the night, till gradually his voice faded away from
her ears, and long after she was asleep he would sit on motionless,
staring up into the heavens, smoking endless cigarettes. Would it be
given to her ever to watch them again sparkling against the
blue-blackness of the sky, with the curve of his arm round her and the
steady beat of his heart under her cheek? A stab of pain went: through
her. Would anything ever be the same again? Everything had changed
since the coming of Raoul de Saint Hubert. A weary sigh broke from her
lips.
"Madam is tired?" a respectful voice murmured at her ear.
Diana started. She had forgotten the valet. "It is so hot. The tent was
stifling," she said evasively.
Gaston's devotion was of a kind that sought practical demonstration.
"_Madame veut du cafe?_" he suggested tentatively. It was his
universal panacea, but at the moment it sounded almost grotesque.
Diana felt an hysterical desire to laugh which nearly turned into
tears, but she checked herself. "No, it is too late."
"In one little moment I will bring it," Gaston urged persuasively,
unwilling to give up his own gratification in serving her.
"No, Gaston. It makes me nervous," she said gently.
Gaston heaved quite a tragic sigh. His own nerves were steel and his
capacity for imbibing large quantities of black coffee at any hour of
the day or night unlimited.
"_Une limonade_?" he persisted hopefully.
She let him bring the cool drink more for his pleasure than for her
own. "Monseigneur is late," she said slowly, straining her eyes again
into the darkness.
"He will come," replied Gaston confidently. "Kopec is restless, he is
always so when Monseigneur is coming."
She looked down for a moment thoughtfully at the dim shape of the hound
lying at the man's feet, and then with a last upward glance at the
bright stars turned back into the tent. All her nervous fears had
vanished in speaking to Gaston, who was the embodiment of practical
common sense; earlier, when unreasoning terror had taken such a hold on
her, she had forgotten that he was within call, faithful and devoted.
She picked up the fallen book, and lying down again forced herself to
read, but though her eyes followed the lines mechanically she did not
sense what she was reading, and all the time her ears were strained to
catch the earliest sound of his coming.
At last it came. Only a suggestion at first--a wave of thought caught
by her waiting brain, an instinctive intuition, and she started up
tense with expectancy, her lips parted, her eyes wide, hardly
breathing, listening intently. And when he came it was with unexpected
suddenness, for, in the darkness, the little band of horsemen were
invisible until they were right on the camp, and the horses' hoofs made
no sound. The stir caused by his arrival died away quickly. For a
moment there was a confusion of voices, a jingle of accoutrements, one
of the horses whinnied, and then in the ensuing silence she heard him
come into the tent. Her heart raced suffocatingly. There was a murmur
of conversation, the Sheik's low voice and Gaston's quick animated
tones answering him, and then the servant hurried out. Acutely
conscious of every sound, she waited motionless, her hands gripping the
soft mattress until her fingers cramped, breathing in long, painful
gasps as she tried to stop the laboured beating of her heart. In spite
of the heat a sudden coldness crept over her, and she shivered
violently from time to time. Her face was quite white, even her lips
were colourless and her eyes, fixed on the curtain which divided the
two rooms, glittered feverishly. With her intimate knowledge every
movement in the adjoining room was as perceptible as if she had seen
it. He was pacing up and down as he had paced on the night when
Gaston's fate was hanging in the balance, as he always paced when he
was deliberating anything, and the scent of his cigarette filled her
room. Once he paused near the communicating curtain and her heart gave
a wild leap, but after a moment he moved away. He stopped again at the
far end of the tent, and she knew from the faint metallic click that he
was loading his revolver. She heard him lay it down on the little
writing-table, and then the steady tramping began once more. His
restlessness made her uneasy. He had been in the saddle since early
dawn. Saint Hubert had advised him to be careful for some weeks yet. It
was imprudent not to rest when opportunity offered. He was so careless
of himself. She gave a quick, impatient sigh, and the tender light in
her eyes deepened into an anxiety that was half maternal. In spite of
his renewed strength and his laughing protests at Raoul's warnings,
coupled with a physical demonstration on his less muscular friend that
had been very conclusive, she could never forget that she had seen him
lying helpless as a child, too weak even to raise his hand. Nothing
could ever take the remembrance from her, and nothing could ever alter
the fact that in his weakness he had been dependent on her. She had
been necessary to him then. She had a moment's fierce pleasure in the
thought, but it faded as suddenly as it had come. It had been an
ephemeral happiness.
At last she heard the divan creak under his weight, but not until
Gaston came back bringing his supper. As he ate he spoke, and his first
words provoked an exclamation of dismay from the Frenchman, which was
hastily smothered with a murmured apology, and then Diana became aware
that others had come into the room. He spoke to each in turn, and she
recognised Yusef's clear, rather high-pitched voice arguing with the
taciturn head camelman, whose surly intonations and behaviour matched
the bad-tempered animals to whom he was devoted, until a word from
Ahmed Ben Hassan silenced them both. There were two more who received
their orders with only a grunt of acquiescence.
Presently they went out, but Yusef lingered, talking volubly, half in
Arabic, half in French, but lapsing more and more into the vernacular
as he grew excited. Even in the midst of her trouble the thought of him
sent a little smile to Diana's lips. She could picture him squatting
before the Sheik, scented and immaculate, his fine eyes rolling, his
slim hands waving continually, his handsome face alight with boyish
enthusiasm and worship. At last he, too, went, and only Gaston
remained, busy with the _cafetiere_ that was his latest toy. The
aroma of the boiling coffee filled the tent. She could imagine the
servant's deft fingers manipulating the fragile glass and silver
appliance. She could hear the tinkle of the spoon as he moved the cup,
the splash of the coffee as he poured it out, the faint sound of the
cup being placed on the inlaid table. Why was Ahmed drinking French
coffee when he always complained it kept him awake? At night he was in
the habit of taking the native preparation. Surely to-night he had need
of sleep. It was the hardest day he had had since his illness. For a
few moments longer Gaston moved about the outer room, and from the
sound Diana guessed that he was collecting on to a tray the various
things that had to be removed. Then his voice, louder than he had
spoken before:
_"Monseigneur desir d'autre chose?"_
The Sheik must have signed in the negative, for there was no audible
answer.
_"Bon soir, Monseigneur."_
_"Bon soir, Gaston."_
Diana drew a quick breath. While the man was still in the adjoining
room the moment for which she was waiting seemed interminable. And now
she wished he had not gone. He stood between her and--what? For the
first time since the coming of Saint Hubert she was alone with him,
really alone. Only a curtain separated them, a curtain that she could
not pass. She longed to go to him, but she did not dare. She was pulled
between love and fear, and for the moment fear was in the ascendant.
She shivered, and a sob rose in her throat as the memory came to her of
another night during those two months of happiness, that were fast
becoming like a wonderful dream, when he had ridden in late. After
Gaston left she had gone to him, flushed and bright-eyed with sleep,
and he had pulled her down on to his knee, and made her share the
native coffee she detested, laughing boyishly at her face of disgust.
And, holding her in his arms with her head on his shoulder, he had told
her all the incidents of the day's visit to one of the other camps, and
from his men and his horses drifted almost insensibly into details
connected with his own plans for the future, which were really the
intimate confidences of a husband to a wife who is also a comrade. The
mingled pain and pleasure of the thought had made her shiver, and he
had started up, declaring that she was cold, and, lifting her till his
cheek was resting on hers, carried her back into the other room.
But what she had done then was impossible now. He seemed so utterly
strange, so different from the man whom she thought she had grown to
understand. She was all at sea. She was desperately tired, her head
aching and confused with the terrible problems of the future. She dared
not think any more. She only wanted to lie in his arms and sob her
heart out against his. She was starving for the touch of his hands,
suffering horribly.
She slid down on to her knees, burying her face in the couch.
"Oh, God! Give me his love!" she kept whispering in agonised entreaty,
until the recollection of the night, months before, when in the same
posture she had prayed that God's curse might fall on him, sent a
shudder through her.
"I didn't mean if," she moaned. "Oh, clear God! I didn't mean it. I
didn't know.... Take it back. I didn't mean it."
She choked down the sobs that rose, pressing her face closer into the
silken coverings.
There was silence in the next room except for the striking of a match
that came with monotonous regularity. And always the peculiar scent of
his tobacco drifting in through the heavy curtains, forcing a hundred
recollections with the association of its perfume. Why didn't he come
to her? Did he know how he was torturing her? Was he so utterly
indifferent that he did not care what she suffered? Did he even think
of her, to wonder if she suffered or not? The fear of the future rushed
on her again with overwhelming force. The uncertainty was killing her.
She raised her head and looked at the travelling clock beside the
reading-lamp. It was an hour since Gaston had left him. Another hour of
waiting would drive her mad. She must know what he was going to do. She
could bear anything but this suspense. She had reached the limit of her
endurance. She struggled to her feet, drawing the thin wrap closer
around her. But even then she stood irresolute, dreading the fulfilling
of her fears; she had not the courage voluntarily to precipitate her
fate. She clung to her fool's paradise. Her eyes were fixed on the
clock, watching the hands drag slowly round the dial. A quarter of an
hour crept past. It seemed the quarter of a lifetime, and Diana brushed
her hand across her eyes to clear away the dazzling reflection of the
staring white china face with its long black minute hand. No sound of
any kind came now from the other room. The silence was driving her
frantic. She was desperate; she must know, nothing could be worse than
the agony she was enduring.
She set her teeth and, crossing the room, slipped noiselessly between
the curtains. Then she shrank back suddenly with her hands over her
mouth. He was leaning forward on the divan, his elbows on his knees,
his face hidden in his hands. And it was as a stranger that he had come
back to her, divested of the flowing robes that had seemed essentially
a part of him; an unfamiliar figure in silk shirt, riding breeches and
high brown boots, still dust-covered from the long ride. A thin tweed
coat lay in a heap on the carpet--he must have flung it off after
Gaston went, for the valet, with his innate tidiness, would never have
left it lying on the floor.
She looked at him hungrily, her eyes ranging slowly over the long
length of him and lingering on his bent head. The light from the
hanging lamp shone on his thick brown hair burnishing it like bronze.
She was shaking with a sudden new shyness, but love gave her courage
and she went to him, her bare feet noiseless on the rugs.
"Ahmed!" she whispered.
He lifted his head slowly and looked at her, and the sight of his face
sent her on to her knees beside him, her hands clutching the breast of
his soft shirt.
"Ahmed! What is it?... You are hurt--your wound----?" she cried, her
voice sharp with anxiety.
He caught her groping hands, and rising, pulled her gently to her feet,
his fingers clenched round hers, looking down at her strangely. Then he
turned from her without a word, and wrenching open the flap of the
tent, flung it back and stood in the open doorway staring out into the
right. He looked oddly slender and tall silhouetted against the
darkness. A gleam of perplexity crept into her frightened eyes, and one
hand went up to her throat.
"What is it?" she whispered again breathlessly.
"It is that we start for Oran to-morrow," he replied. His voice sounded
dull and curiously unlike, and with a little start Diana realised that
he was speaking in English. Her eyes closed and she swayed dizzily.
"You are sending me away?" she gasped slowly.
There was a pause before he answered.
"Yes."
The curt monosyllable lashed her like a whip. She reeled under it,
panting and wild-eyed. "Why?"
He did not answer and the colour flamed suddenly into her face. She
went closer to him, her breast heaving, trying to speak, but her throat
was parched and her lips shaking so that no words would come.
"It is because you are tired of me?" she muttered at last hoarsely,
"--as you told me you would tire, as you tired of--those other women?"
Her voice died away with an accent of horror in it.
Again he did not answer, but he winced, and his hands that were hanging
at his sides clenched slowly.
Diana flung one arm across her face to shut him out from her sight. Her
heart was breaking, and she longed with a feeling of sick misery to
crawl to his feet, but a remnant of pride kept her back.
He spoke at length in the same level, toneless voice. "I will take you
to the first desert station outside of Oran, where you can join the
train. For your own sake I must not be seen with you in Oran, as I am
known there. If you should by any chance be recognised or your identity
should leak out, you can say that for reasons of your own you extended
your trip, that your messages miscarried, anything that occurs to you.
But it is not at all likely to happen. There are many travellers
passing through Oran. Gaston can do all business and make all
arrangements for you. He will take you to Marseilles, and if you need
him he will go with you to Paris, Cherbourg, or London--whichever you
wish. As you know, you can trust him absolutely. When you do not need
him any longer, he will come back to me. I--I will not trouble you any
more. You need never be afraid that I will come into your life again.
You can forget these months in the desert and the uncivilised Arab who
crossed your path. To keep out of your way is the only amends I can
make."
She flung up her head. Quick, suspicious jealousy and love and pride
contending nearly choked her. "Why don't you speak the truth?" she
cried wildly. "Why don't you say what you really mean?--that you have
no further use for me, that it amused you to take me and torture me to
satisfy your whim, but the whim is passed. It does not amuse you any
longer. You are tired of me and so you get rid of me with all
precautions. Do you think the truth can hurt me? Nothing that you can
do can hurt me now. You made me the vile thing I am for your pleasure,
and now for your pleasure you throw me on one side.... How many times a
year does Gaston take your discarded mistresses back to France?" Her
voice broke into a terrible laugh.
He swung round swiftly and flung his arms about her, crushing her to
him savagely, forgetting his strength, his eyes blazing. "God! Do you
think it is easy to let you go, that you are taunting me like this? Do
you think I haven't suffered, that I'm not suffering now? Don't you
know that it is tearing my heart out by the roots to send you away? My
life will be hell without you. Do you think I haven't realised what an
infinitely damned brute I've been? I didn't love you when I took you, I
only wanted you to satisfy the beast in me. And I was glad that you
were English that I could make you suffer as an Englishman made my
mother suffer, I so loathed the whole race. I have been mad all my
life, I think--up till now. I thought I didn't care until the night I
heard that Ibraheim Omair had got you, and then I knew that if anything
happened to you the light of my life was out, and that I would only
wait to kill Ibraheim before I killed myself."
His arms were like a vice hurting her, but they felt like heaven, and
she clung to him speechless, her heart throbbing wildly. He looked down
long and deeply into her eyes, and the light in his--the light that she
had longed for--made her tremble. His brown head bent lower and lower,
and his lips had almost touched her when he drew back, and the love in
his eyes faded into misery.
"I mustn't kiss you," he said huskily, as he put her from him gently.
"I don't think I should have the courage to let you go if I did. I
didn't mean to touch you."
He turned from her with a little gesture of weariness.
Fear fled back into her eyes. "I don't want to go," she whispered
faintly.
He paused by the writing-table and took up the revolver he had loaded
earlier, breaking it absently, spinning the magazine between his finger
and thumb, and replaced it before answering.
"You don't understand. There is no other way," he said dully.
"If you really loved me you would not let me go," she cried, with a
miserable sob.
"_If_ I loved you?" he echoed, with a hard laugh. "_If_ I
loved you! It is because I love you so much that I am able to do it. If
I loved you a little less I would let you stay and take your chance."
She flung out her hands appealingly. "I want to stay, Ahmed! I love
you!" she panted, desperate--for she knew his obstinate determination,
and she saw her chance of happiness slipping away.
He did not move or look at her, and his brows drew together in the
dreaded heavy frown. "You don't know what you are saying. You don't
know what it would mean," he replied in a voice from which he had
forced all expression. "If you married me you would have to live always
here in the desert. I cannot leave my people, and I am--too much of an
Arab to let you go alone. It would be no life for you. You think you
love me now, though God knows how you can after what I have done to
you, but a time would come when you would find that your love for me
did not compensate for your life here. And marriage with me is
unthinkable. You know what I am and what I have been. You know that I
am not fit to live with, not fit to be near any decent woman. You know
what sort of a damnable life I have led; the memory of it would always
come between us--you would never forget, you would never trust me. And
if you could, of your charity, both forgive and forget, you know that I
am not easy to live with. You know my devilish temper--it has not
spared you in the past, it might not spare you in the future. Do you
think that I could bear to see you year after year growing to hate me
more? You think that I am cruel now, but I am thinking what is best for
you afterwards. Some day you will think of me a little kindly because I
had the strength to let you go. You are so young, your life is only just
beginning. You are strong enough to put the memory of these last months
out of your mind--to forget the past and live only for the future. No
one need ever know. There can be no fear for your--reputation. Things
are forgotten in the silence of the desert. Mustafa Ali is many hundreds
of miles away, but not so far that he would dare to talk. My own men
need not be considered, they speak or are silent as I wish. There is
only Raoul, and there is no question of him. He has not spared me his
opinion. You must go back to your own country, to your own people, to
your own life, in which I have no place or part, and soon all this will
seem only like an ugly dream."
The sweat was standing out on his forehead and his hands were clenched
with the effort he was making, but her head was buried in her hands,
and she did not see the torture in his face, she only heard his soft,
low voice inexorably decreeing her fate and shutting her out from
happiness in quiet almost indifferent tones.
She shuddered convulsively. "Ahmed! I go!" she wailed.
He looked up sharply, his face livid, and tore her hands from her face.
"Good God! You don't mean--I haven't--You aren't----" he gasped hoarsely,
looking down at her with a great fear in his eyes.
She guessed what he meant and the color rushed into her face. The
temptation to lie to him and let the consequences rest with the future
was almost more than she could resist. One little word and she would be
in his arms ... but afterwards----? It was the fear of the afterwards
that kept her silent. The colour slowly drained from her face and she
shook her head mutely.
He let go her wrists with a quick sigh of relief and wiped the
perspiration from his face. Then he laid his hand on her shoulder and
pushed her gently towards the inner room. For a moment she resisted,
her wide, desperate eyes searching his, but he would not meet her look,
and his mouth was set in the hard straight line she knew so well, and
with a cry she flung herself on his breast, her face hidden against
him, her hands clinging round his neck. "Ahmed! Ahmed! You are killing
me. I cannot live without you. I love you and I want you--only you. I
am not afraid of the loneliness of the desert, it is the loneliness of
the world outside the shelter of your arms that I am afraid of. I am
not afraid of what you are or what you have been. I am not afraid of
what you might do to me. I never lived until you taught me what life
was, here in the desert. I can't go back to the old life, Ahmed. Have
pity on me. Don't shut me out from my only chance of happiness, don't
send me away. I know you love me--I know! I know! And because I know I
am not ashamed to beg you to be merciful. I haven't any shame or pride
left. Ahmed! Speak to me! I can't bear your silence.... Oh! You are
cruel, cruel!"
A spasm crossed his face, but his mouth set firmer and he disengaged
her clinging hands with relentless fingers. "I have never been anything
else," he said bitterly, "but I am willing that you should think me a
brute now rather than you should live to curse the day you ever saw me.
I still think that your greater chance of happiness lies away from me
rather than with me, and for your ultimate happiness I am content to
sacrifice everything."
He dropped her hands and turned abruptly, going back to the doorway,
looking out into the darkness. "It is very late. We must start early.
Go and lie down," he said gently, but it was an order in spite of the
gentleness of his voice.
She shrank back trembling, with piteous, stricken face and eyes filled
with a great despair. She knew him and she knew it was the end. Nothing
would break his resolution. She looked at him with quivering lips
through a mist of tears, looked at him with a desperate fixedness that
sought to memorise indelibly his beloved image in her heart. The dear
head so proudly poised on the broad shoulders, the long strong limbs,
the slender, graceful body. He was all good to look upon. A man of men.
Monseigneur! Monseigneur! _Mon maitre et seigneur._ No! It would
never be that any more. A rush of tears blinded her and she stepped
back uncertainly and stumbled against the little writing-table. She
caught at it behind her to steady herself, and her fingers touched the
revolver he had laid down. The contact of the cold metal sent a chill
that seemed to strike her heart. She stood rigid, with startled eyes
fixed on the motionless figure in the doorway--one hand gripping the
weapon tightly and the other clutching the silken wrap across her
breast. Her mind raced forward feverishly, there were only a few hours
left before the morning, before the bitter moment when she must leave
behind her for ever the surroundings that had become so dear, that had
been her home as the old castle in England had never been. She thought
of the long journey northward, the agonised protraction of her misery
riding beside him, the nightly camps when she would lie alone in the
little travelling tent, and then the final parting at the wayside
station, when she would have to watch him wheel at the head of his men
and ride out of her life, and she would strain her eyes through the
dust and sand to catch the last glimpse of the upright figure on the
spirited black horse. It would be The Hawk, she thought suddenly. He
had ridden Shaitan to-day, and he always used one or other of the two
for long journeys. It was The Hawk he had ridden the day she had made
her bid for freedom and who had carried the double burden on the return
journey when she had found her happiness. The contrast between that
ride, when she had lain content in the curve of his strong arm, and the
ride that she would take the next day was poignant. She closed her
teeth on her trembling lip, her fingers tightened on the stock of the
revolver, and a wild light came into her sad eyes. She could never go
through with it. To what end would be the hideous torture? What was
life without him?--Nothing and less than nothing. She could never give
herself to another man. She was necessary to no one. Aubrey had no real
need of her; his selfishness wrapped him around with a complacency that
abundantly satisfied him. One day, for the sake of the family he would
marry--perhaps was already married if he had been able to find a woman
in America who would accept his egoism along with his old name and
possessions. Her life was her own to deal with. Nobody would be injured
by its termination. Aubrey, indeed, would benefit considerably. And
he----? His figure was blurred through the tears that filled her eyes.
Slowly she lifted the weapon clear of the table with steady fingers and
brought her hand stealthily from behind her. She looked at it for a
moment dispassionately. She was not afraid. She was conscious only of
an overwhelming weariness, a longing for rest that should still the
gnawing pain in her breast and the throbbing in her head.... A flash
and it would be over, and all her sorrow would melt away.... But would
it? A doubting fear of the hereafter rushed over her. What if suffering
lived beyond the border-line? But the fear went as suddenly as it had
come, for with it came remembrance that in that shadowy world she would
find one who would understand--her own father, who had shot himself,
mad with heartbroken despair, when her mother died in giving her birth.
She lifted the revolver to her temple resolutely.
There had been no sound to betray what was passing behind him, but the
extra sense, the consciousness of imminent danger that was strong in
the desert-bred man, sprang into active force within the Sheik. He
turned like a flash and leaped across the space that separated them,
catching her hand as she pressed the trigger, and the bullet sped
harmlessly an inch above her head. With his face gone suddenly ghastly
he wrenched the weapon from her and flung it far into the night.
For a moment they stared into each other's eyes in silence, then, with
a moan, she slipped from his grasp and fell at his feet in an agony of
terrible weeping. With a low exclamation he stooped and swept her up
into his arms, holding her slender, shaking figure with tender
strength, pressing her head against him, his cheek on her red-gold
curls.
"My God! child, don't cry so. I can bear anything but that," he cried
brokenly.
But the terrible sobs went on, and fearfully he caught her closer,
straining her to him convulsively, raining kisses on her shining hair.
"_Diane, Diane,_" he whispered imploringly, falling back into the
soft French that seemed so much more natural. "_Mon amour, ma
bien-aimee. Ne pleures pas, je t'en prie. Je t'aime, je t'adore. Tu
resteras pres de moi, tout a moi._"
She seemed only half-conscious, unable to check the emotion that,
unloosed, overwhelmed her. She lay inert against him, racked with the
long shuddering sobs that shook her. His firm mouth quivered as he
looked down at his work. Gathering her up to his heart he carried her
to the divan, and the weight of her soft slim body sent the blood
racing madly through his veins. He laid her down, and dropped on his
knees beside her, his arm wrapped round her, whispering words of
passionate love.
Gradually the terrible shuddering passed and the gasping sobs died
away, and she lay still, so still and white that he was afraid. He
tried to rise to fetch some restorative, but at the first movement she
clung to him, pressing closer to him. "I don't want anything but you,"
she murmured almost inaudibly.
His arm tightened round her and he turned her face up to his. Her eyes
were closed and the wet lashes lay black against her pale cheek. His
lips touched them pitifully.
"Diane, will you never look at me again?" His voice was almost humble.
Her eyes quivered a moment and them opened slowly, looking up into his
with a still-lingering fear in them. "You won't send me away?" she
whispered pleadingly, like a terrified child.
A hard sob broke from him and he kissed her trembling lips fiercely.
"Never!" he said sternly. "I will never let you go now. My God! If you
knew how I wanted you. If you knew what it cost me to send you away.
Pray God I keep you happy. You know the worst of me, poor child--you
will have a devil for a husband."
The colour stole back slowly into her face and a little tremulous smile
curved her lips. She slid her arm up and round his neck, drawing his
head down. "I am not afraid," she murmured slowly. "I am not afraid of
anything with your arms round me, my desert lover. Ahmed! Monseigneur!"
THE END