THE LIONS OF THE DESERT
Against the blinding brazen glare of the African sky the green tops of
the palms of the oasis of Tel-el-kelb waved gratefully and threw their
precious shade over the white tents clustered at their feet. It was
high noon and the heat, here, away from the magic breeze that is always
found on the Nile, was intense.
It was a large encampment altogether, the low brown canvas tents at the
back, far in the grove of palms, indicating the servants' quarters,
the higher and larger white ones, grouped together more towards the
edge of the trees, showed European comfort in the midst of their severe
simplicity.
At the door of the largest white tent sat Regina, looking out with her
clear blue eyes, gazing from the wavering shadow of the palms far into
the sunlit distances of the desert that stretched away in limitless
tawny ripples to the far horizon, broken here and there by exquisite
shallow lakes of azure surrounded by black rocks and stunted trees
which mirrored themselves in the shining water.
Ah, those lakes!--those wonderful lakes of the desert, which, when one
walks towards them, vanish utterly, and on the spot where they have
been--shining water, rocks and trees--looks up to mock one only the
glittering yellow sand. The mirage of the desert, how wonderful it is.
It had for Regina a fascination, a magnetic influence upon her that
she could neither explain nor resist. It seemed she could never tire
of gazing out on those magic shining phantom waters of the waste. She
looked very pale as she sat there, her chin leaning on her hand, her
elbow on her knee, across which rested the deadly little rifle. She
wore a short brown canvas skirt reaching only to her knees; below the
beautifully moulded calves and ankles were encased in brown gaiters
fitting tightly over the tops of her neat, low-heeled boots. A loose
blouse of the same colour was drawn in tightly by the heavy belt full
of cartridges that enclosed her waist. She was wearing no hat and the
yellow light flung up from the sanded floor turned her hair into soft
gold above the pallor of her face.
A month, she was thinking, had gone by since Sybil had joined them, and
they had all gone into camp. And how she had suffered in those thirty
days! A little at first and then more and more with each day that
passed, a long and terrible _crescendo_, as it were, of suffering.
The girl had come out, as Regina had thought, and as she now knew, with
the deliberate intention of taking Everest away from her, and she had
pursued this plan with a callousness and an ingenuity that was simply
inconceivable. The extreme cleverness of all her tactics seemed to
Regina wonderful in a person who, outside this one idea, appeared to
have absolutely no brains at all.
The main feature of her scheme was an excessive amiability towards
Regina, nothing could exceed her apparent admiration, affection and
respect for her. And by this attitude, from the first, she completely
disarmed Everest, as Regina recognised with a deep pain in her heart.
Clever and keen as he usually was in penetrating most people's masks
and shams, and understanding their real motives and feelings, he seemed
to be completely deceived by this girl's clever acting. It was so well
done, never overdone, but always perfectly even, natural and genuine,
that Regina, to a certain extent, understood this. Any man, lacking as
he does the keen female intuitive instinct about these things, would
have been deceived in the same way. It was always "What would Mrs.
Lanark like?" when any expedition was proposed, anything suggested, and
a charming turn of the golden head with a world of affectionate inquiry
in the blue eyes. "Would _you_ like to go out," or "Are you tired,
dear, after yesterday?" and so on, and Regina saw no other way than to
accept all this poisonous affection and be gentle and amiable in return.
Everest, who would have resented the least discourtesy towards Regina,
began to feel in this way an attraction towards the pretty, fairy-like
creature who was so devoted to the woman he loved, and quite lost his
suspicions that she would make mischief and disagreement in the camp.
To Everest himself she was submission and flattery personified. She
listened devoutly to all he said, never held a contrary opinion to his,
was always willing to adapt herself to his or Regina's wishes. She
would do this or that which was convenient, either stay in camp or go
with them; ride whatever was provided for her, do whatever was desired,
and in the evenings sang and played divinely on the guitar which she
had brought with her. Her beauty seemed to increase daily, and to
Regina the reason for this was perfectly clear. She was playing a most
exciting, difficult and successful game, and the excitement and joy of
it lent to her that peculiar beauty of intense animation which no other
can equal.
There was no doubt that she coveted Everest personally, with all the
force of which she was capable, and Nature is always on the side of
any individual fighting for a mate. She lends beauty and charm to the
female as she lends power and magnetism to the male.
And Everest closely in contact with this young, beautiful, insistent
woman, who was new to him, felt that transient sensory desire for her
which is a purely natural spontaneous impulse in natures like his, full
to the brim of energy and vigour, possessing both far in excess of the
demands of daily life.
His love for Regina went very deep into his whole organisation, and
his power of self-control was strong, therefore had he realised at the
first that he was going to do anything to make his idol unhappy he
would have strenuously resisted the new invading passion. But, as in
all these cases the beginnings are imperceptible, the slope of the hill
is far slipped down by the unwary feet before they even feel they are
descending.
In this case Sybil had masked her advances with infinite care. Of
course there could be no love-making, no flirtation, between them now.
He was a married man, she knew, bound to that lovely and exquisite
Regina for ever and ever; but there could be such a nice camaraderie
between them; they were such old friends and cousins, and cousins might
kiss each other, as they had always done, and her kisses were cousinly
little things at first, so that, without in the least alarming him
at the beginning, she established forms of intimacy that gradually
afterwards she could fill with passion.
When he awoke to the passion in them it was too late: it had set fire
to his own; he knew that he wanted those kisses, desired them, as he
did the woman herself!
It is useless for those who read this record to frown and scowl and
talk of his love for Regina and regard him as a monster because, while
loving and possessing her, he desired another. His love for Regina had
nothing to do with the question. One might as well argue that because
one dines every night at home one never wants to dine out with a friend.
The idea of replacing Regina with Sybil never occurred to him. Regina
was for him something he could never part with, a portion of his own
life. All the feelings for her were so deep, so real, so intertwisted
with the mental emotions, it was impossible to compare them with those
for Sybil. But she had the amazing power of novelty on her side; she
had that charm for Everest that the unlearned language has for the
student, the unknown country for the explorer; and when Regina at
last appealed to him about the matter, he suddenly realised that the
presence of Sybil, her society, the sight of her, her kisses, gave him
a keen pleasure that now he did not at all wish to give up.
The first time that Regina spoke to him of her own pain and distress
was in their tent at night, alone, and Everest had come up to her and
taken her into his arms.
"Dear little girl, how can you be so foolish? There is no one in the
world for me except yourself."
And this was quite true, for Everest had never felt for any woman the
same feelings as he had done for her, and it never occurred to him that
he could ever part with her. But the curious pleasure that his cousin's
face gave him, the momentary physical delight of her kiss, the joy of
putting his arm round the tiny form and seeing her little teeth gleam
in a smile upon him, all these were very dear to him, though he did not
ever dream of her in any lasting relationship.
When Everest was alone he often wondered himself how it was that,
knowing so well and disliking so greatly, as he did, this woman's
character and all her mentality, the physical charm of her presence,
the sound, sight and touch of her could give so much pleasure. It
seemed almost sometimes as if the fact that there was little sympathy,
almost no point of union, between them, no attraction except the
physical, seemed to heighten that physical attraction, increase its
power. He knew perfectly well that, in order to please Regina and
preserve her happiness, he ought to annihilate this new passion, which,
insignificant as it really was with reference to his life as a whole,
for the moment gave him so much pleasure; but then, was he bound to do
this, he asked himself. How far do the rights of others go? How far
ought he to deny himself, sacrifice himself that she might enjoy to the
full her life, instead of him enjoying his?
She had given him the extreme of pleasure, it is true, but in return
he had laid everything he had at her feet. That she had not accepted
his gifts in full was not his fault. He had not withdrawn any of them,
nor ever would. The first place in his life, in his soul, was for her.
Then they were equally in debt to each other, and now what was to be
done? He wanted to enjoy this new pleasure, have this new excitement,
and not being in any way an ideal character, but only an extremely
passionate and rather selfish individual with some few delightful
traits, he determined to take it--determined, that is to say, in that
vague and indefinite manner that one always determines such things,
driven by physical impulses, led by forces of which we know nothing,
compelled by unseen powers, like the helpless, whirling leaf before the
gale. There was no deliberate purpose, plan or intention. Imperceptibly
he had grown interested in Sybil's playing and singing after dinner;
her quaint, inconsequent prattle in its novelty amused him, though he
quite well recognised it would be intolerable once its newness had worn
off, her face from its great beauty of line had always pleased him
immensely, her ardent kiss, with those exquisitely carved scarlet lips,
had shaken his reason, and so from out of all these had grown gradually
desire, which is merciless, blind, relentless, savage, quick in its
onward rush, rapid in its disappearance as any desert lion.
Regina sat at her tent door and thought over all these things, and the
burnished glory of the golden desert swam before her in a mist of tears.
She had not read and studied and thought as she had without acquiring
that philosophy that knowledge gives, but no philosophy could help her
against the deadly pain now of her daily life. As far as the shooting
went, the camp up till now had not been a success. Small game and
birds of every sort and kind there were in limitless numbers, but the
lion district, according to their native guides, was always somewhere
beyond. This range of hills, that ridge to the west, the lions had
always retreated there, but when the whole party had duly packed and
moved there, the new camp on the range of hills or on the western ridge
was equally devoid of lion.
The men, except Everest, went out every day and shot what they could
find, largely antelope, but Everest always having been prompted by his
own nature against the taking of defenceless life, since his intimacy
with Regina, had lost all desire or capability of doing it. If they
came upon a lion he would shoot, the sporting chance was equal there,
the danger shared, the game well able to look after itself; but with
the taking of the beautiful innocent life which abounded all round them
he would have nothing to do. Regina revolted utterly from it, and would
never visit the large tent at the back of the camp where the antelope
were hung and the flamingo flung in heaps, dead and dying together,
their exquisite plumage making it seem as if a sunset cloud had fallen
there.
At first Everest and Regina had spent together a great deal of the
time painting, and Sybil, who, though she could not hold a rifle
straight herself, had no objection to seeing things killed, accompanied
her brother and the others on their shoots. But latterly Everest had
cared less about the sketching and had taken Sybil for camel rides in
the desert, rides in which Regina could have joined had she been able
to force herself to the pain of witnessing Everest's pleasure as he
lifted his cousin on and off her camel, and the passion in his eyes as
he spoke to and smiled upon her.
They had gone out to-day, and Regina had stayed in camp and practised
her shooting all the morning. She could talk with the natives and she
understood they were nearing the lion district, and she ardently longed
if any occasion arose in which she could put her skill at Everest's
service, or in his defence, to have it at her command, to show him all
those dear lessons in the past happy time were not given in vain. She
had shot splendidly. Not a single mark out of any of those which she
had set herself had she missed, and her nerves, so excitable by all
mental emotions, seemed to calm and steady themselves when her fingers
closed on a rifle as they did when they took up her paint-brush.
Now she was tired, and she sat waiting for them to return, for the
exquisitely painful pleasure of Everest's kiss, knowing that his lips
had only recently left another's.
All the other three men were more or less in love with her in varying
degrees, rather to Everest's amusement, but she only entertained a sick
antipathy towards them and their blood-stained hands and clothes, such
as any ordinary person feels on meeting a butcher coming out of his
shambles.
She insisted that they should come moderately clean to the dining tent
and that the conversation at dinner should not be upon wounding and
crippling, death agonies and blinded eyes and mangling shots, and as
Everest backed her up in this they had to submit.
Immediately after dinner she withdrew to her own tent, leaving them to
their smoking and brandy-drinking and their talk of blood and death.
And sitting there alone, she could hear the soft tinkle of the guitar
and the pretty girlish voice singing love songs under the palms where
Sybil had gone, and where Everest, wearied also by the drinking,
smoking and conversation in which he did not care to take a part, had
followed her. How she suffered! Like a bodily illness, the sickness of
jealousy seems to diffuse paralysing pain throughout the whole system.
Yet after that hour, or sometimes half-an-hour, of misery, when Everest
himself came to the tent, and raising the door flap stepped inside,
she rose to meet him with a smile and waves of intense happiness
vibrated through her as her eyes took in his image. The sight of him,
his presence near her had still that same tremendous power over her
that it had had from the first. The sharp contrast that he presented
to the other men they were now with seemed to heighten still further
the effect upon her senses. When he came in, pale and calm as usual,
his clear skin fresh and cool from the outside air, his dark eyes full
of fire, and approached her, willing to kiss and caress her, she knew
she must forgive him everything, she wanted and desired him too much
to do anything else. How different he seemed from the thick-skinned,
burnt-faced, heavy-eyed men she had left in the dining tent, flushed
with over-eating and drinking, soaked through with the scent of tobacco
and brandy and of old blood on their clothes and of grease and mud on
their shooting boots. Had they been models of fidelity and all the
domestic virtues she would not have let one kiss her, hardly to save
her life, so violently did they in themselves outrage her æsthetic
sense, but by Everest, if she were mentally hurt and wounded, yet the
physical compensations in himself were so overwhelming that she could
not do otherwise than go on loving him, through all her suffering.
Everest never came to her in the condition--dirty, untidy, smoky,
semi-fuddled--that these men seemed to live in, if, indeed, he was ever
in that condition at all, which seemed impossible in connection with
him. The order and beauty of his rooms that had so intensified her
love for him when she surprised him in London seemed always to be part
of his person, his clothes, his atmosphere. Without ever in the least
seeming to care about his dress or be conscious of his looks, he always
seemed to be clean, well-attired, fresh, alert-eyed, as an officer
going on parade.
And often in those night vigils, when the bitter gall of jealousy had
risen to the brim of her nature and anger burnt in all her veins and a
torrent of lava-like words waited on her tongue, and her brain seethed
with madness, when he really came to her, all possible reproaches
slipped from her mind; she felt only inclined to fall upon her knees
before him, as a slave girl before an emperor, and tell him how much
she worshipped him.
As she sat now looking into the golden haze of the distance, which
reddened softly as the sunset hour approached, she saw the light veils
of dust rising which meant the nearing of the home-coming party, and
she rose and retreated into her own tent. She guessed that Sybil and
Everest would be riding together and she did not wish to see it. She
found that when she did not actually see them together she suffered
less. She knew with her reason that much of what so hurt her senses,
looks, smiles, tones, even caresses, from a man of his nature, really
meant very little, and therefore when her eyes and ears were not pained
by them she was less disturbed. Behind these two would come the three
sportsmen, and then all the horrid procession of limp, blood-covered
bodies, masses of beautiful dead birds carried along by the troop of
servants. That she did not wish to see either. So she retreated into
the shadow and shelter of her tent and pulled down the door flap,
knowing that Everest would come in when Sybil had dismounted and gone
to her tent, and the three men with their spoils and their attendants
had disappeared to the gun-room tent at the back.
She set her rifle in the corner after unloading it and slipped off her
belt of cartridges, as it is hardly a comfortable adjunct to one's
clothing in a close embrace, and while she did so she heard all the
noise without of the return, the snuffing of the camels, the barking of
dogs, the chatter of the natives, the dragging of the heavy antelope on
the sand, and the scent of blood and dust came to her nostrils through
all the chinks of the tent.
She waited some time, but Everest did not come, and the sounds subsided
outside. As all grew quiet again, she lifted a little window flap that
was at one side of the tent and looked out into the green shade of the
palm. Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stand still and
tremble as a stricken deer. They were standing there, not twenty yards
away, Sybil and Everest, their hands in each other's, apparently about
to part. The girl's fair, pale face lifted to his showed distinctly
against the deep shadow behind her.
Regina looked at Everest, and a sudden fury like the hot smoke of a
fire rose over all her brain. A panting thirst after something not
defined stirred in all her blood, and then came the query, like a
voice in a dream: "Why not end this? Why not kill her?" She could do
it so easily now as she stood there, a perfect mark for Regina, who
could pierce a cactus leaf through the exact centre at twenty yards.
She was very near to Everest, it was true, but Regina knew her aim so
well--that calm white oval against the green. She could send a shot
from her pistol out of the tent that would find it and shatter it for
ever.
Without knowing it, in that instant of frightful jealous rage, her feet
had carried her across the tent, her fingers had clasped her pistol
and drawn it from her belt. Swift and silent as a shadow she was back
at the little window; they were still there, nearer each other, that
was all. She cocked the revolver and aimed it so that she covered the
delicate and perfect carving of that pale disk beneath the trees. Then
her true self woke suddenly and rushed upon her, and her hand dropped
to her side.
How mad, how foolish her impulse had been! Better turn the pistol on
herself than that. Death was far better than to live dishonoured,
burdened with the blood of another. Sybil had injured her enough
already. She should not turn her into a murderess; besides, death or
injury to Sybil meant suffering for Everest, and in her wildest moments
she had no wish to cause him pain or distress. To her, an object once
loved was sacred. No faintest thought of revenge on _him_ ever came
near her mind.
He had offered to bind himself to her and she had refused. She had
wished him to be free. Well then, how illogical, how absurd her
attitude now, like that of a pettish child.
She closed the flap of the tent and sank down on the side of the bed
and buried her face in her hands, lost in a sense of humiliation and
self-condemnation.
Here Everest found her when he came in, and as she looked up and saw
him enter, smiling and full of life, a sense of joy came to her that no
mad act of hers had brought misery upon him and so upon them both. She
rose as he approached her. She was very white, but she smiled up at him
as she saw the look of concern come into his face.
"You look so pale. Do you feel ill? Is the heat too much for you?" he
exclaimed anxiously.
"No; I am quite well. I always get dull and miss you when you are
out, that is all," she answered. She would not speak to him of Sybil.
She knew in matters of love coercion is useless, words are useless,
everything is useless. Like a malady, like a sickness, desire drifts
across the brain and runs its course. Sometimes the sufferer dies, but
more often he recovers and asks: "Was I ever ill?"
She took up the pistol and put it back in its place and busied herself
with making tea for him, and all the time her mind was recalling the
exquisite lines of Sophocles on love: "Like the icicle lying in the
hot hand of the wondering boy it diminishes and vanishes even while he
gazes on it and the harder, the tighter, he clasps it, the more rapidly
does it disappear."
Day after miserable day went by for Regina, while the hate, which was
wholly alien to her nature, for Sybil grew within her, and like some
horrible physical growth hurt and oppressed her in the growing and
seemed to poison her whole organisation.
If she could only have known clearly what Everest's feelings were; but
he would not speak on the subject. He had admitted that he desired the
girl, and all his assurances that nothing could affect his love for
Regina might be merely to comfort her. At the best he wanted something
that, but for her presence, he could and would have obtained. And to
Regina her own duty, her course of conduct was not clear. She had
brought with her into camp a few books, and among them "Anna Lombard,"
which she read and reread, finding in the position of Gerald Ethridge
some reflection of her own. But to her, her situation seemed more
difficult, her duty more obscure than his, for in Gerald's case he
felt convinced that Anna's love for the Pathan could not bring her
happiness, and therefore he could believe himself justified in trying
his utmost to turn her from it, but here the torturing thought would
ever present itself to Regina that Sybil had every quality to fit her
to be Everest's wife. She might well hold herself to be in the right
and Regina in the wrong. She could bring to the man she married a
large dower, noble rank, lands, old name. She was the bride picked out
and selected for him by his own family and people, and now he himself
desired her. In utter anguish of soul Regina asked herself again and
again why was she standing between? The girl was beautiful too, and
though, to Regina, the extreme disproportion of size between the
cousins jarred and seemed unnatural, yet she had to admit that Nature
worked that way, constantly making the male seek his opposite in his
mate, so that the average of the type may be maintained.
She hated Sybil with the fierce natural hate of any human being for
another who robs and despoils him of his dearest possessions, but
logically she could not defend that hatred of her. In the eyes of the
world she knew that Sybil and not herself would be given the better
title to Everest.
If she could only have known what he thought, what he felt! If she
could only have penetrated the mystery that had grown up round his
feelings and relations to his cousin! But like all men he would not
speak definitely or clearly to her about it. That silence of men! How
much it has to account for! We have all heard of the crimes without
number traced to and excused by the celebrated habit of "nagging" which
belongs to women. No condemnation is too severe for it. No sympathy too
excessive to be given to the male sufferers from it. But what of that
dogged brutal silence of men that corrodes and eats into the sensitive,
excitable brain of a woman? For how many murders and suicides has that
not been accountable?
In the whole world there is no lash more effective, no vitriol more
corrosive than this silence in which men cloak their various infamies.
Everest had been far more outspoken than most men would have been,
but he also, as the days went by, seemed to grow more reserved, more
silent. A sort of abstraction seemed to enclose him, and often after
a day's expedition, in the evening, when they had gone to their own
tent--those evenings which formerly had been so dear to her--he would
lie down on the camp sofa and fall apparently into a reverie which left
him hardly conscious of her presence. Looking at him she could see his
face had a pained, abstracted pallor on it. She could not tell of what
he was thinking, but she knew that he was desiring another and that she
stood between.
And the strain of all this was so great that it seemed to her she must
escape from it or go mad. But there was no escape for any of them from
each other. Like a lot of hostile animals in a cage, they were shut up
together in the camp to quarrel as they chose, and on all sides the
sandy waste hemmed them in.
One day she went out a little way from her tent with her easel and
colours. She was alone. St John, James and Graham had gone out quite
early, and Everest and Sybil, after luncheon, had strolled away
together among the palms. She did not know where they had gone, nor
did it matter. She never sought to spy upon them or follow them or to
see where they went or what they did. The fact that Everest wished to
be with the girl was all that mattered. The intense bitterness of this
knowledge was so overwhelming that all detail of pain and distress was
lost in it.
To-day, left alone in the suffocating heat of midday in the tent, with
nothing but her hatred of Sybil, her passion for Everest and her sick
misery in the present situation for companion, she felt as if her brain
would give way.
She must get out, under the open sky, in the shade of the grove, and
perhaps she could lose herself temporarily in some inspiration. She
must, in some way, break up the maddening circle of her thoughts.
Suppose she lost her reason and killed or injured Everest! The mere
thought filled her with cold horror and fear. Never, never, never,
whatever he did, however he made her suffer, would she in her sane
moments retaliate, never could she hurt or harm this man who had
given her so much happiness. But after all the brain is an unstable
thing--she would not know what she did if the veil of madness were
suddenly drawn over it.
Oppressed by this new thought, she gathered her painting materials
together and wandered slowly through her tent door towards the shadiest
part of the grove.
There were two palms leaning a little together which caught her eye,
and between them a tiny brown tent by a clump of banana-trees, the
whole forming a little picture in glowing light and wavering shade,
and she dropped down here, weary and heart-sick, putting up her easel
and trying to set her mind upon her work.
Her talent was so great that even in that state of pain and suffering
her hand obeyed her will almost mechanically, and she soon had the
whole sketched in on the paper.
She was just commencing the colouring when she heard voices close to
her and quivered and grew deadly pale as she recognised Everest's and
its gentle tones.
"I do love you so much," she heard Sybil's voice saying, "and you are
beginning to love me too, now just a little, do say you do?"
And Everest answered:
"Does this not seem like it." And just at that moment the two figures
came in view round a palm close to those under which she was sitting,
and she saw him bend over the girl and kiss her.
Regina had seen them kiss before, as Sybil had insisted on these
cousinly habits from the first, but this was a different thing. This
was neither a greeting nor a leave-taking. It was the kiss of pleasure,
prompted by passion, sought for by the man.
Regina felt absolutely paralysed by the agony of witnessing it. She
could not move, and for a moment could hardly breathe. Like those who
looked on the Gorgon's head, she felt turning into stone.
As Everest raised his head after their kiss they both saw her. They
could not do otherwise, opposite her and only a few yards away. All
three for the first second remained rigid and staring, then Sybil burst
away with a half scream. Everest let her go, not seeming to notice her
as she ran towards the camp. He stood for a moment where he was, then
he walked up to Regina.
The colour burned in the clear cheek, his eyes were kindling with
excitement and anger. He looked splendidly, cruelly handsome as he
approached her. She could not move. Fascinated like a little kid put
into the python's cage, she stared at him as he came up.
"Regina!" there was a sharp ring of annoyance and anger in his voice.
He expected reproaches, some outburst, but no sound came from her. She
gazed upon him quite silently, her blue eyes looking black and burning
in the deadly white of her face.
Everest loved her so dearly that he could not bear to face the anguish
of that gaze. He came a step nearer, then, with his natural easy grace,
threw himself on the ground beside her.
"Regina! Darling! It is nothing! Kisses like those are nothing! Do not
worry yourself or make yourself ill over them. You know, better than
most women, what men are, men of my temperament especially. I don't
want to lie to you, nor to deceive you, but I don't want you to think
things are worse than they are. Speak to me! Say you forgive me, dear
one."
At these words, in the loved voice that ruled all her being, Regina
burst suddenly into tears and let him draw her up to him, her tired
head, weary with much pondering over the same painful idea, sank
against his breast and she continued to sob and sob there.
"There is no question of my forgiving," she said at last through her
tears. "The whole thing is in your hands. You do want this girl, I
suppose; you do desire her?"
Everest laughed a little as he stroked her hair.
"In a way, perhaps, yes, just now. It is difficult for me not to desire
any beautiful woman who tells me she loves me. I am not accustomed to
resisting them, I'm afraid. The position with Sybil is getting quite
impossible. I will end it as soon as I can."
"But what would you like to do about her? For yourself?"
"Do not let us discuss her any more," he responded, kissing her hair.
"I want you to trust me and know that the matter between her and me
does not and will not in any way affect our relationship. Will you do
that?" And what could Regina say or do but assent and let him kiss away
her tears.
"Come," he added, after a minute, "let us go out of the grove. It's
quite cool now, we can walk easily."
Regina rose at once. It would be a joy to be out with him in the open,
away from the hateful camp. Everest called up a servant and told him to
pack up carefully and take into the tent Regina's easel and drawing.
Then he slipped his arm through hers and they walked through the palms
towards the gleaming gold of the desert. The oasis was just like a
great temple, she thought, with the straight stems of the trees rising
on all sides like pillars to support the roof, and the blue and gold
of sand and sky lay beyond its cool green shade, as if beyond an open
portal.
The light was full of rose colour, and the whole desert before them
looked palely pink as they emerged from the grove. Each tiny wavelet of
the gigantic sea of sand was rose-tinted on its crest and softly mauve
in its rounded hollow. The sky was still a glorious sapphire-blue, but
transforming slowly into golden orange and across the transparent light
of the west winged in joyous flight a band of flamingoes, wonderful in
their exquisite salmon-pink and flame-coloured plumage. The calmness,
the delight of the evening hour was on all around.
"How lovely this is!" Regina exclaimed. "And I feel so happy whenever I
am alone with you. It seems like the enchanted garden days again. Oh,
Everest, I am so grieved that this girl has come between us and that
you care about her as you do."
"Who can understand the mystery of our own hearts?" he answered
bitterly. "They are just like this desert, full of the bright shining
mirage of hope, and the oasis of beauty, and infested with the lions of
passion and desire that are always prowling there in the darkness."
Regina looked up at him as he walked beside her. How well he knew life
and spoke of it. Had not his passion for her sprung into her life
suddenly as a lion and devoured her, and now perhaps was passing on,
leaving her broken and destroyed as the mangled remains of a kid on
the sand where a lion has fed. But yet he had led her to those oases
and she had drunk deeply there of the sweetest waters of life, and
he had shown her the shining mirage and dazzled her eyes with those
beautiful phantom images she never could have seen without him. Yes,
he was like the desert, and she could not hate him any more than man
can hate the desert, in spite of its cruelty and the death it deals out
to them. Deeply, marvellously pink, lower and lower, fell the light,
like a mantle dropping on them and the face of the waste. They paused
and looked back to the encampment. Palms and tents and the figures of
the men and the feeding camels, all looked as if cut out of ruby, all
in lustrous glowing red against the pale warm gold background of the
sky. They sat down on a rising mound of the rippling sand, and he put
his arm round her and drew her close to him till her head found its
resting-place on his shoulder, and they were quite silent, fearing
that any word should mar the deep hush, the infinite peace that seemed
falling like a benediction from that far-arched crystal sky, and over
the girl's brain came softly the lines of an old French song she had
noted somewhere in her reading:
"Eloine de ton coeur le fiel qui voudrait s'y glisser.
Ce n'est point dans le coeur de femme que la haine doit s'y fixer."
And while she was resolving that never should that bitterness live
in her heart for him, no matter what his crimes against her, he was
questioning within himself why and how it was that, loving this woman
as he did, this curious wild gust of emotion should have swayed him to
another. He disliked Sybil, he had always done so. For years she had
courted him in vain, and yet and yet, the sight of those lines of her
ivory face, whenever he saw them, seemed to throw madness through all
his veins. It would tear his heart in two to give up Regina, not for
any reason on earth would he have parted with her, but like the deadly
thirst that comes on a man after drinking alkali water and drives him
back to drink of the poisonous thing again, his desire held him and
lived with him against his will.
The rose light faded and died and twilight came up over the desert
like a violet flood. Very slowly and lingeringly they rose and walked
back to the tent together, as the fires of the camp were beginning to
sparkle amongst the trees.
That same night Regina woke suddenly between the hour of midnight
and dawn and sat up in bed with a wild fluttering at her heart. For
a moment the bodily faintness, the whole strange series of physical
feeling, was so great, she was not conscious of anything else. She
turned to Everest for help and then saw she was alone. The bed and tent
were alike empty, brilliant with the moonlight that poured through the
canvas, bright as day.
Sick, dizzy and confused she sat up, gasping. Then a great joy vibrated
suddenly all through her. It was true then. She felt convinced now that
her unsubstantial hopes and thoughts were verified. A great delight
filled her, the scene of the enchanted garden rushed back upon her and
Everest's words. Now she might tell him, she could not be in doubt any
longer.
Where was he, she wondered. All the faintness seemed to have passed
again as suddenly as it came, all the cloud of bodily sensation to have
whirled by. She only felt a great sense of happiness, an eagerness to
share it with him.
She rose and found her dressing-gown and a pair of shoes and crossed
the tent, all filled with white light, to the door, pulled aside the
flap and looked out. It was a very still night, the palms lifted their
feathery tops in stately majesty against the glorious purple of the
star-filled sky without a quiver of the lightest leaf, their shadows
lay in velvety blackness on the silvered golden of the sand. Not a
sound disturbed the deep silence; the air came to her light and pure
and cool. Beyond the palm grove, far out into the limitless distance
she could see the desert roll like a rippling silver sea beneath the
moon rays.
As she stood there something moved, a shadow fell on the sand some
fifty yards away from the tent door and then she saw Everest's figure
walking slowly as if he were pacing up and down. Beyond him she could
see the closed faces of two other tents, they were those of Sybil and
her brother. In an instant the scene of the afternoon and its whole
import came back to her, and she held suddenly the canvas edge of the
door in her cold hand. She looked at the moving figure closely. Up and
down, up and down it walked and she could see his hands were clenched
sometimes at his sides and sometimes one hand would be raised and drawn
across his eyes as if to clear away some painful thought.
Regina turned from the door and found her way back trembling to the
bed. She could not tell him now. It was too late. What a bitter irony
of fate! What a cruel mockery to send her certainty now, when her lips
were closed and he was only thinking of and desiring another! She
reached the bed and threw herself upon it in a passion of bitter tears.
All their talk, their own dear intimate conversations, came back upon
her like knives cutting into her brain. How she had looked forward
to the joy it would give him! How she had dreamed of the expression
that would cross his beautiful face! How she had cherished the idea
of this pleasure she had in store for him! And now, how could she
tell? It would, perhaps, be no pleasure, it would bring to him only a
sense of bondage, a feeling that he was bound. Already he was pacing
there, tortured by thoughts as pitiless and savage as the desert lions,
already he was torn between his honour and his desire. Should she add
to his burden?--carry out to him a chain and fetter with which to bind
his feet already longing perhaps to go from her? No, a hundred times
no; not now. The happy secret, the joyous hope transformed into bitter
pain, she would lock up in her own breast as long as she could.
If she could have but told him sooner! If she could have had that
delight in London before they left, or on board that magic boat he had
fitted up for her! The intense joy of it then! Would it have made any
difference, she wondered. No; nothing, she thought, would have helped
her.
Everest did not come back, she lay in the silver light of the tent
alone, in an agony of grief and pain; her pillow drenched with tears.