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THE
DESERT HEALER
BY
E. M. Hull
Author of “The Sheik”
McCLELLAND & STEWART, LIMITED
PUBLISHERS TORONTO
Copyright Canada 1923 by
McCLELLAND & STEWART, Limited
Printed in Canada
Press of The Hunter-Rose Co., Limited
THE DESERT HEALER
CHAPTER I
The slanting rays of the afternoon sun, unusually powerful for the time
of year, lay warmly on the southern slopes of a tiny spur of the Little
Atlas Mountains, glowing redly on the patches of bare earth and naked
rock cropping out between the scrubby undergrowth that straggled
sparsely up the hill-side, and flickering through the leaves of a clump
of olive trees huddled at its base where three horses stood tethered,
lazily switching at the troublesome flies with their long tails and
shifting their feet uneasily from time to time.
Ten miles away to the westward lay Blidah, Europeanised and noisy, but
here was the deep stillness and solitude—though not the arid
desolation—of the open desert. The silence was broken only by the
monotonous cooing of pigeons and the low murmur of voices.
At a little distance from the picketed horses, out in the full sunshine,
a man lay on his back on the soft ground apparently asleep, his hands
clasped under his head, his face almost hidden by a sun helmet beneath
the brim of which protruded grotesquely a disreputable age-black pipe
which even in sleep his teeth held firmly. There were amongst William
Chalmers’ patients and intimate acquaintances those who affirmed
positively that that foul old meerschaum—treasured relic of his
hospital days—ranked second in his affections only to the adored wife
who was sitting now near his recumbent figure. Alert and youthful
looking in spite of her grey hairs, she lounged comfortably against a
sun warmed rock talking animatedly yet softly to the third member of the
party, a well set up man of soldierly appearance who sprawled full
length at her feet. There was a certain definite resemblance between the
two, a similarity of speech and gesture, that proclaimed a near
relationship.
Mrs. Chalmers broke off in the middle of a sentence to flap her gauntlet
gloves at a swarm of persistent flies. “All the same, I think it’s
perfectly disgraceful that you are still a bachelor, Micky,” she said,
with emphatic cousinly candour, resuming an argument which had raged for
the last half hour. Major Meredith grinned with perfect good humour.
“Haven’t time for matrimony,” he answered lazily, “too busy watching our
wily brothers over the Border. And besides,” with a provocative sidelong
glance, “marriage is a lottery. We can’t all expect to have Bill’s
luck.”
Mrs. Chalmers wrinkled her nose at him disgustedly. “That’s a _cliché_,”
she said with fine scorn, ignoring the implied compliment, “it merely
means that you haven’t yet met the right woman. However—” she laughed
mischievously—“there’s still hope for you. A year at home after nearly
ten years of exile will probably make you change your mind. It’s a pity
you didn’t take your leave sooner, there were some charming girls here
last winter. Unfortunately this year’s sample is not recommendable,
there is scarcely a really nice girl in the place—always excepting
Marny Geradine, and she’s married already—poor child.”
“Why ‘poor child?’ ” asked the soldier, his cousin’s sudden change of
tone seeming to call for some comment. “Because—” Mrs. Chalmers paused
frowningly, “oh, well, you haven’t seen Lord Geradine or you wouldn’t
ask,” she went on soberly, “he’s been away on a shooting trip since
you’ve been here—and the air of Algiers has been consequently cleaner,”
she added with a little shiver.
Major Meredith hoisted his long limbs up into a sitting position. “A
case of a misfit marriage?” he suggested.
“Marriage!” echoed Mrs. Chalmers scornfully, “it isn’t a marriage, it’s
a crime. It makes my blood boil to think of it. And yet I hardly know
them. He’s impossible, and she is the shyest, most reserved young woman
I have ever met. I’d give a great deal to be able to help her, she seems
so lonely and there is tragedy staring at you out of her eyes. But of
course one can’t do anything. She isn’t the kind of person who makes
confidants. I’ve blundered in pretty often during my life when it hasn’t
been my business, but I simply shouldn’t dare to speak to Lady Geradine
of her affairs—though I am old enough to be her mother. Ugh! let’s talk
of something less revolting,” she said hastily, a trace of huskiness in
her voice. And for a time she sat silent, staring absently in front of
her with eyes that had become very wistful and tender. Then with a shrug
and a half sigh she turned again eagerly to her companion. “There is a
great deal that wants putting right in the world, Micky,” she said with
ungrammatical decisiveness, “but I’m not going to spoil a perfect
afternoon by moralising. It has been jolly, hasn’t it? I thought you
would like this little valley. So few people seem to know of it, no
special inducement to bring them here except peace and quietness which
most of the folk wintering in Algiers don’t seem particularly to hanker
after. We found it years ago and have camped here often, a haven of
refuge when life was especially strenuous or perplexing. It is sad to
think that it is our last visit and that in a few weeks we shall have
shaken the dust of Algeria off our feet. Five years, Micky, five years
that Bill has been marking time in this Back of Beyond because of my
stupid lungs. But they are all right now, thank God, and we are off to
America as soon as may be to investigate some new nerve treatment Bill
is interested in. And when he has picked the brains of his transatlantic
_confrères_ we shall come home to end our days in Harley Street in an
odour of sanctity and general stuffiness. Won’t London be simply horrid
after years of fresh air and open spaces? So, you see, you only just
caught us in time. If your leave had been delayed you would have missed
us, and I did want you to see our Algerian home. It’s been a hectic
fortnight, but I’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and I think we’ve
managed to show you all the sights of Algiers and its immediate
surroundings. But I do regret one thing—I wish you could have seen our
Mystery-man. He is quite a feature of the place. An Englishman who lives
like an Arab—you needn’t pull a face, Micky, I don’t mean that he has
‘gone native’ or anything horrid of that kind, he is _much_ too
dignified. But he lives in a sort of splendid isolation in the loveliest
villa in Mustapha, with a retinue like a Chief’s. And though he is
tremendously popular with the French officers and all the important
Sheiks who come into Algiers he pointedly avoids his fellow countrymen.
And he won’t speak to or even look at a woman! He wears Arab dress most
of the time and would pass for a native anywhere. He lives for months
together in the desert and descends on Algiers at irregular intervals.
One hears that he is in the town, and glimpses him occasionally stalking
along with his head in the air rather like a supercilious camel, or
riding like a hurricane through the streets in approved Arab style, but
that is all that the English community ever see of him. And he has
obviously heaps of money—and it’s a gorgeous villa. He might be such an
acquisition to the place, but, as it is, he is merely an intriguing
personality who is ‘wropt in mystery,’ as old Nannie used to say.
Needless to add that in a place like this, where we all discuss our
neighbours, he is the subject of endless speculation. But nobody really
knows anything about him.”
A faint chuckle came from behind Doctor Chalmers’ big helmet. “I’m sorry
to contradict you, Mollie, but that is not strictly accurate,” he said
sleepily. His wife sat up with a jerk. “Who knows?” she challenged.
“Well—I do, for one,” replied Doctor Chalmers coolly.
“_You_ know, Bill—and you’ve never said. How like a man! Really, you
are the most exasperating creatures on earth. Fancy having that pearl of
information up your sleeve—I’m getting mixed up in my metaphors, but
never mind—and withholding it from the partner of your joys and
sorrows. I shouldn’t have passed it on if it was a confidence, you know
that very well. But since you have admitted so much you can soothe my
outraged feelings by imparting a little more.”
Doctor Chalmers laughed and stretched lazily. “Can’t be done,” he
replied succinctly.
“Why not? I wouldn’t tell a soul, and Micky is only a bird of passage so
it can’t possibly matter what he hears. Don’t be tiresome, Bill,
expound.”
But the doctor shook his head. “My dear Mollie,” he expostulated,
fingering the old pipe tenderly, “a confidence is a confidence and I
can’t break it simply to satisfy your curiosity, natural though it may
be. And hasn’t the poor devil been discussed enough? How he lives and
what he chooses to do in the desert is, after all, entirely his own
affair—nobody else’s business.”
“But, Bill, one hears such queer stories—”
“Queer stories be hanged, m’dear. A silly lot of idiotic gossip, this
place is rotten with it. Some fool of a busybody starts a rumour without
a tithe of foundation to it and it’s all over the town as gospel truth
the next day. Carew’s mode of life, his antipathy to women, and his
obvious sympathy with the Arabs make him a bit peculiar. Just because
the poor chap has the bad taste to ignore your charming sex all the
women have got their knives into him. I bet the queer stories you speak
of emanate from your blessed feminine tea parties. Trust a woman to
invent a mystery—”
“But, Bill, he _is_ mysterious.”
“Rubbish, Mollie. He prefers to make his friends amongst the French and
he hates women—that’s the sum total of his crimes as far as I’m aware.
Peculiar, if you like, but certainly not mysterious. And as to the last
indictment—” the doctor laughed and winked unblushingly at Major
Meredith, “—personally I call him a sensible chap to mix only with his
own broader minded and more enlightened sex—_ouch!_” he grunted, as his
wife’s helmet landed with a thud on his chest.
“Bill, you’re horrid. Men gossip just as much as women.”
Doctor Chalmers returned her helmet with an ironical bow. “They may do,
my dear,” he said with sudden gravity, “but in Algiers it is not the men
who gossip about Carew. And for the short time we remain in this hot-bed
of intrigue you will oblige me by contradicting, on my authority, any
silly stories you may hear about him. He’s a friend of mine. I value his
friendship, and I won’t have him adversely discussed in my house.”
Mrs. Chalmers bowed her head to the unexpected storm she had raised.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said contritely, “I didn’t know he was really a
friend. In all the years we’ve lived here you’ve hardly ever mentioned
him. I do think men are the queerest things,” she added in a puzzled
voice that made her companions laugh. Her husband rolled over and began
to fill his pipe. “There are still a few little secrets I keep from the
wife of my bosom,” he murmured teasingly, “but, seriously, Mollie, hands
off Carew.”
“Very well, dear,” she replied with surprising meekness. And for some
time she sat silent with knitted brows, poking the sand absently with
the handle of her whip. Then she spoke abruptly—“But there’s no smoke
without fire, Bill. There must be some foundation for the stories that
are told about him. He was divorced or something unpleasant of the kind,
wasn’t he?”
“He may have been,” replied the doctor indifferently, pressing the
tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with a blunt thumb, “I don’t
know—and I’m afraid I don’t care. I take people as I find them, and
Gervas Carew is one of the whitest, cleanest men I have ever met.”
Major Meredith looked up with a sudden start.
“Gervas Carew,” he said quickly, “_Sir_ Gervas Carew?”
The doctor shrugged. “I believe so,” he said guardedly, “though he
doesn’t seem to have any use for the title. He drops it here in Algeria.
And if you have anything detrimental to say about him I’d rather not
hear it,” he added shortly, with a sudden flicker of anger in his sleepy
blue eyes.
But Major Meredith was obviously not listening.
“Gervas Carew—after all these years!” he ejaculated, “so your
Mystery-man, Mollie, turns out to be Gervas Carew. Gad, what a small
place the world is! Poor old Gervas—of all people!”
Mrs. Chalmers’ eyes danced with excitement. She laid an impatient hand
on her cousin’s shoulder, and shook him vigorously. “If you don’t say
something more explicit in a minute, Micky, I shall scream. It’s no good
sitting there looking as if you had seen a ghost and murmuring
tragically ‘poor old Gervas,’ you’ve simply got to explain. And if Bill
doesn’t want to listen he can go and saddle the horses. It’s time we
made a move anyhow.”
Meredith turned slowly and looked at her through narrowing eyelids.
“Give a dog a bad name, and hang him,” he said with a touch of contempt
in his voice. “From what you say, Mollie, Algiers appears to have been
hanging Gervas Carew pretty thoroughly and, as he was my best friend
once, I think it is up to me to explain. You needn’t go, Bill,” he added
hastily as the doctor heaved himself on to his feet with a smothered
word of profanity. “You’re seldom wrong in a diagnosis, old man, and you
haven’t made a mistake this time. It’s not a long story, nor,
unfortunately, an uncommon one. Carew and I were chums at Rugby, and
until I got my commission and went to India. When he was about
twenty-five, shortly after his father’s death and he had succeeded to
the title, he married. The girl, who was a few years younger than
himself, was the worst kind of Society production, artificial to her
finger tips. I stayed with them on my first home leave and hated her at
sight. But poor old Gervas was blindly in love. He worshipped the ground
she walked on. She was beautiful, of course, one of those
pale-complexioned, copper-haired women who are liable to sudden and
tremendous passion—but Gervas hadn’t touched her. Mentally and morally
he was miles above her. She was as incapable of appreciating the
fineness of his character as he was of suspecting the falseness of hers.
His love didn’t content her and, though she was clever enough to hide it
from him, she flirted shamelessly with every man who came to the house.
She craved for adulation. Anybody was fair game to her. She tried it on
with me before I’d been there half a day—but I hadn’t served five
years’ apprenticeship in India for nothing and she ended by hating me as
thoroughly as I hated her. Then the South African war broke out and I
did all I could to get to the front but they sent me back to the
Frontier. And Gervas, who had always wanted to be a soldier and had had
to content himself with the Yeomanry, was in the seventh heaven, poor
devil, and took a troop out to the Cape, largely composed of men off his
own estate. He was invalided back to England after nine months to find
that his wife had consoled herself in his absence with an Austrian
Count, of sorts, and had cleared out with the blighter, leaving a
delicate baby behind her. The child died the night Gervas reached home.
I heard what happened from a mutual friend. For a few weeks he was to
all intents and purposes out of his mind. He was in a very weak state
from his wound, and the double shock of his wife’s faithlessness and the
baby’s death—he was devoted to the little chap—was too much for him.
Then he took up life again, but he was utterly changed. He divorced the
woman that she might marry the man she had gone off with and six months
afterwards he disappeared.
“That’s ten or twelve years ago and I’ve never been able to get into
communication with him since. That’s Gervas Carew’s story, Mollie.
“I can’t give any explanation of his avoidance of English people except
that he was always a sensitive sort of chap. But I think that his
present attitude towards women, at any rate, is understandable. There
was one woman in the world for him—and she let him down.”
There was a long silence after the soldier stopped speaking. Mrs.
Chalmers sat very subdued, blinking away the tears that had risen in her
eyes.
“I wish I’d known before, Micky. I feel a beast,” she said at last with
regretful fervour.
“You might well,” growled her husband unsympathetically, and stalked
away to the horses.
Major Meredith prepared to follow, but lingered for a moment beside his
cousin who had also risen to her feet.
“I need hardly add that what I’ve told you is entirely between
ourselves, Mollie. I only wanted to put Carew right with you and Bill.
What the rest of Algiers chooses to think doesn’t matter a tinker’s
curse. I wish I could have seen the poor old chap, but as I’m off
tomorrow that is hardly probable. Still, I’ve located him, which is more
than I ever expected to do.”
Mrs. Chalmers followed him thoughtfully to the clump of olive trees
where the doctor with recovered good temper was busily saddling the
horses.
They mounted and moved off leisurely down the steep side of the hill,
picking a careful way between rocks and scrub and cactus bushes until
they reached a narrow track winding in and out at the foot of the
mountain a few feet above the bed of the tiny ravine that separated it
from the adjoining range.
The track was wide enough only for two to ride abreast and the doctor
forged ahead leaving his wife to follow with her cousin.
* * * * *
Mrs. Chalmers made no further reference to the story she had heard,
guessing that Meredith would not care to speak of it again, but chatted
instead of the neighbourhood through which they were passing.
“These hills are a maze,” she explained with a sweeping gesture of her
whip that effectually upset the hitherto irreproachable behaviour of the
horse she was riding. She reined him back with difficulty.
“I forgot I mustn’t do that. Captain André told me he couldn’t bear to
have a whip whiffled about his ears,” she said laughingly. “Some of the
gorges are wider than this, perfect camping grounds,” she continued,
after she had soothed her mount’s ruffled sensibilities. “Very often a
Sheik will camp here on his way to Algiers. Extraordinarily interesting
they are, especially the ones who come from the far south—the wildest
creatures, with hordes of fierce retainers who look as if they would
think nothing of murdering one just for the sheer fun of it. But they
are always very nice to us—they like the English. I am ashamed to say I
have learned very little Arabic but when we meet them I smile and say
‘Anglaise’ and they get quite excited and salaam and grin and chatter
like magpies. Then, again, we come here and may ride for miles and never
see a soul for days together.”
“That is what one thinks on the Frontier but the beggars are there all
the time, right enough,” said Meredith with a quick smile. “You will be
riding over a bit of country that you wouldn’t think could afford cover
for a cat and _ping_ goes a bullet past your head. If they weren’t such
thundering bad shots I, for one, should have been a goner years ago.” He
laughed light-heartedly, and Mrs. Chalmers glanced at him curiously,
marvelling, as she had marvelled frequently in the last fortnight, at
the hazardous life that is some men’s portion and the fatalistic
indifference it usually engenders. During his short visit she had
listened with wonder and amazement to her cousin’s reluctant account of
his work on the Border.
To Meredith it was the Great Game. Now, quite suddenly, she wondered
what it would mean to the woman he might make his wife.
“I don’t believe, after all, Micky, that men like you ought to marry,”
she said pensively. Meredith laughed at the patently regretful tone of
her voice, for her matchmaking proclivities were notorious.
“I’m quite sure of it,” he replied promptly, and unwillingly Mrs.
Chalmers was obliged to laugh with him.
But further conversation became for the time impossible. The rough track
they were following grew narrower and less perceptible until it suddenly
vanished altogether and the horses slithered and slipped down to the
rocky bed of the dry watercourse at the bottom of the defile. The pass
was bearing steadily towards the south and Doctor Chalmers who was some
little distance ahead of them had already disappeared from sight behind
a jutting angle of rock where the hill curved abruptly. Following in
single file they reached the sharp bend and rounding it close under the
stark cliff face, emerged into a wider, less rugged valley that
stretched on the one hand far up into the mountains and on the other led
to open country. A quarter of a mile away, at the entrance of the
valley, Doctor Chalmers was waiting for them. Scrambling out of the
river bed they spurred their horses, racing to join him, and as they
neared he turned in the saddle beckoning vigorously. “You’re in luck,
Micky,” he shouted, “there’s your man.” And following his pointing
finger they saw a small party of horsemen galloping towards the
mountains. The leader, who was riding slightly in advance of his escort,
was distinguished from his white-clad followers by an embroidered blue
cloth burnous that billowed round him in swelling folds. With a little
thrill of excitement Mrs. Chalmers glanced quickly at her cousin, and
decided for the second time that day that men were queer creatures. They
never did what one expected them to do. A little more than half-an-hour
ago Micky had expressed a great wish to meet again the friend of his
youth. The wish unexpectedly fulfilled, it was to be supposed that his
inward gratification would take some outward and visible form. He sat
instead motionless on his fretting horse, scowling at the approaching
horsemen, his underlip sucked in beneath his trim brown moustache, in
very obvious hesitation.
It was Doctor Chalmers who rode forward and waved his hand with a
welcoming shout. And for a moment it seemed as if his greeting was going
to pass unrecognised. The horsemen were nearly abreast of them, riding
at a tremendous pace, another moment they would have swept past. Then,
with a powerful jerk that sent the bright bay straight up into the air
spinning high on his hind legs, the leader checked his mount suddenly.
It was a common trick among the Arabs which Mrs. Chalmers had often
witnessed, but she never watched it without a quickening heartbeat, and
she gave a little sigh of relief now as the horse came down without the
ugly backward tremble she had seen once and dreaded to see again. She
was conscious of a feeling of extreme embarrassment at the near presence
of the man whose mysterious personality she had discussed freely with
her circle of acquaintances during the last five years, but who now
appeared to her in a new and totally different light. Her warm impulsive
heart had been touched by Micky Meredith’s story and a hot wave of
discomfort passed over her as she recollected the idle gossip she had
both countenanced and participated in. She determined to delay the
inevitable meeting with the much criticised Mystery-man until the first
greeting and explanations between the two old friends were over. Leaving
Meredith to go alone, she lingered behind under pretext of re-arranging
her habit, and for some minutes she bent over her perfectly adjusted
safety skirt pulling and patting it into further order while her fidgety
horse wheeled and backed impatiently at the forced stand. Then she rode
forward with unusual diffidence to join the three men who, dismounted,
were deep in conversation. They drew apart at her coming and Meredith
effected the necessary introduction.
In response to Mrs. Chalmers’ murmured greeting the tall
picturesque-looking man who had turned almost reluctantly towards her
replied briefly and bowed with grave, unsmiling aloofness that seemed
consistent with the Arab robes he wore so naturally. She had a swift
glimpse of a lean brown clean-shaven face, of a pair of dark blue sombre
eyes that did not quite meet her own, and then her husband’s genial
voice broke the threatening silence.
“Sir Gervas is camping in the neighborhood, Mollie. He wants Micky to
wait over until the later train. We shall have to push on as I promised
to be in Algiers early this evening,” he explained, preparing to
remount. “Your train leaves Blidah at eleven, Micky,” he added. “And,
Carew, the horse is André’s. See that he gets back all right to the
cavalry barracks, will you? Ready, Mollie? Then take hold of that beast
of yours. We shall have to run for it.”
As the Doctor and his wife cantered off, Meredith looked after their
retreating figures with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Bill’s
diplomacy had been worthy of a greater cause. Then he turned to his
companion.
“That’s a dam’ good fellow,” he said emphatically, “one in a billion.”
But the silent man beside him did not at the moment seem inclined to
discuss Doctor Chalmers’ merits.
Nodding briefly he signed to his servants to bring up the spirited bay
that had been removed from the proximity of the other horses.
And as they rode along together Meredith tried in vain to trace in this
grave, taciturn individual some resemblance to the gay, happy-go-lucky
Gervas Carew of long ago. He wondered, if alone, he would have even
known him. Carew had apparently recognised him at once, but the
recognition was easy, for the passing years had made no great alteration
in him; while to Meredith the face of his old friend had become the face
of a stranger, hardened, remoulded almost, until even the contour seemed
different. Other changes too became gradually evident. The restless
impatience that Meredith remembered had given place to a calm
imperturbability that was more oriental than occidental. There was a
dignity and stateliness in his bearing that contrasted forcibly with his
former boyish impulsiveness. Of the old Gervas Carew there was clearly
nothing left, and the new Gervas seemed reluctant to reveal himself. The
threads, too, of the early acquaintance, broken for so long, were
curiously difficult to pick up but Micky Meredith, trained to waiting,
was content to let the matter take its course. Enough that a desire had
been shown for his company, the rest would follow.
Once only during the half-hour ride did Carew open his mouth. He turned
and looked critically at Meredith’s mount. “Shall we let them out?” he
said slowly, with a certain hesitation in his voice as if his
mother-tongue came unnaturally. “André’s horses have a reputation.”
And as they raced neck and neck towards the north over the broken
country that bordered the foothills they were skirting, Meredith found a
certain measure of satisfaction in the fact that one interest, at least,
had survived the general upheaval. Carew had always been a horseman and
a lover of horses. More than ever did he seem so now. And as the soldier
looked at the magnificent creature his companion was riding, and,
glancing behind him, found the escort thundering close at their heels,
he decided that it was not only the courteous cavalry captain at Blidah
whose stud must have a reputation in the country. It was one bond of
sympathy remaining, he reflected, and sat down to ride as he had rarely
ridden in his life.
His borrowed horse responded gallantly to the effort demanded of him,
but the pace was punishing and the animal’s satiny neck grew dark and
seamed with sweat as he strained to keep up with the bay that showed no
sign of distress and seemed to be rather checked than urged by his
rider. And with the perspiration pouring down his own face Meredith was
not sorry when a sudden curve in the hillside revealed a deserted fruit
farm with Carew’s camp scattered amongst the orange trees.
The big double tent of the owner was pitched at some distance from those
of its followers, lying in an open clearing where once the farm
buildings must have stood. And all about were horses and camels,
tethered or wandering at will, and a small army of Arabs languidly
fulfilling the various duties of the camp or squatting idly on their
heels engaged in endless argument.
But the return of the master roused his retainers to sudden and
spontaneous activity, and Meredith noted with a smile of approval the
evident signs of discipline and authority. Waiting grooms who had been
lounging near the big tent sprang to the horses’ heads and the soldier
slid out of the saddle with a grunt of relief and mopped his forehead
with a gaudy silk handkerchief. “Do you usually ride at that pace?” he
enquired, laughing.
Carew turned from fondling the big bay that was nozzling him
affectionately. “Pretty usually,” he answered, “it’s a bad habit one
catches in the desert. But I’ve always wanted to try Suliman against
that grey of André’s. He had him beaten from the start,” he added with a
faint smile, “come have a drink.” And he led the way under the
lance-propped awning into the cool dimness of the tent.
Meredith glanced about with interest. The costly but sparse furnishings
were almost entirely of the country; a small camp table and a solitary
deck chair, the sole concessions to European taste, looked incongruous
in conjunction with the low inlaid stools and gay brocaded silk mats
that were purely Arab. A wide divan, heaped with heavy cushions and
covered with a couple of leopard skins, stood in the centre of the room.
Looped back curtains of gold-embroidered silk hung before the entrance
to the sleeping apartment.
At first sight Meredith thought the tent empty. But as his eyes grew
accustomed to the soft light he saw, in a far corner, the slender figure
of a child sitting on the ground swaying gently to and fro, his handsome
little face upturned in rapt devotion as he crooned softly to himself
while the beads of a long rosary slipped through his small brown
fingers. The thick rugs on the floor deadened the sound of their
footsteps and for a moment the entrance of the two men passed unnoticed.
Then Carew moved and his foot struck sharply against a small brass bowl
that had fallen from a nearby stool. At the sound the lad stopped
swaying and sat rigid as if listening intently, his face turned eagerly
towards them. Then with a glad cry he tossed the rosary away and
scrambling to his feet came flying across the tent with outstretched
hands. A thick cushion that in its bright-hued covering appeared
perfectly obvious against the dark rug lay directly in his path but he
blundered straight into it and fell headlong before Carew could catch
him. And as Meredith watched the big man bending over the little
white-clad figure and saw the stern lines of his face change into a
wonderful tenderness, and heard the sudden gentleness of his voice as he
murmured in soft quick Arabic, he recollected with a feeling of acute
dismay the “queer stories” that Mollie Chalmers had referred to. Was
this, then, the solution of Carew’s protracted sojourns in the desert?
To the Anglo-Indian with his deep-rooted prejudices the supposition was
repulsive. It was to him little short of a crime. And yet was there not
perhaps an excuse? Sudden pity contended with repulsion as he remembered
Carew’s devotion to his tiny son, and the tragedy that had robbed him of
his child. Had the ardent desire for parenthood that had formerly been
so strong in him risen even against racial restrictions and the misogyny
with which he was now accredited?
Meredith was relieved when his disturbing thoughts were interrupted. The
boy was on his feet again, talking excitedly, but Carew silenced him
with a hand on his shoulder.
“There is a guest, Saba,” he said in French, “salute the English lord,
and go bid Hosein hasten with the cooling drink.”
Suddenly shy the boy moved forward, bending his supple little figure in
a deep salaam. Then drawing himself erect, he lifted his face to
Meredith’s with a curiously uncertain movement. And looking down into
the beautiful dark eyes raised to his the soldier saw the reason for
that hasty tumble and an involuntary exclamation escaped him. He looked
enquiringly at his host.
Carew nodded. “Yes, he’s blind,” he said in English, “but you needn’t
pity him. He has never known anything different and he is a thoroughly
happy little imp.” And drawing the boy to him with a quick caress he set
him with his face towards the door and watched him grope his way from
the tent.
Then, pulling forward the deck chair, he placed cigarettes beside his
guest. From behind a cloud of smoke Meredith spoke with obvious
constraint. “I’m awfully sorry—” he began awkwardly, and something in
his voice made Carew turn quickly to look at him. For a moment his
sombre eyes rested on the soldier’s embarrassed face, then he shook his
head with a grave smile that had in it a trace of bitterness.
“It’s not what you think,” he said evenly, “though I admit the thought
is natural. He is not mine—sometimes I wish to God he were. He’s only a
waif picked up in the desert, five or six hundred miles away in the
south, there. I found him six years ago, when I was helping to clean up
an Arab raid, lying across his dead mother’s body and whimpering like a
hungry kitten. He wasn’t more than a year old. I’ve had him ever since.
I don’t think I could get on without the little chap now. He’s an
interest, and fills up my time when I’m not otherwise occupied—fills it
pretty completely, too, for he is as sharp as a needle and, when the
mood takes him, as keen on mischief as any boy with the full use of his
eyes. But tell me about yourself. Are you still on the Frontier?”
And Meredith, keenly anxious to renew the old intimacy, let himself be
drawn and talked of his life on the Indian Border as he had never talked
of it before. Baldly and jerkily at first and then with increasing ease
he spoke of the years of arduous work that had claimed his whole time
and thought; of perilous journeys and months passed in disguise amongst
the savage northern tribes, of hairbreadth escapes and strange
experiences, of periods of so-called leave which to the man intent on
his job and absorbed in his occupation had only meant work in another
form.
For an hour or more his quiet voice went on until the lengthening
shadows deepened into blackness and the tent grew dark and obscure,
until Carew, sitting Arab fashion on the divan, was almost invisible and
only the glowing end of his cigarette revealed his presence. And
Meredith—the first plunge made—found him curiously easy to talk to,
curiously knowledgeable too. From one or two comments he let fall
Meredith was inclined to believe that the Watching Game was no new one
to him and the knowledge made his own tale less difficult to tell.
He stopped at last and groped for the matches on the stool beside him.
“That about lets me out,” he said, as he lit a cigarette. Carew rose
and going to the tent door clapped his hands. “You’re doing a big work,
Micky,” he said as he came slowly through the gloom. “You’ll end on the
Indian Council if you don’t take care,” he added with almost the old
bantering note in his voice.
“If I don’t end with a bullet through my head, which is much more
probable,” replied Meredith with a quick laugh, blinking at the lighted
lamps that were being brought into the tent.
During the dinner that followed the conversation was mainly of Algeria.
But though Carew discussed the country and its conditions, its people
and the sport it afforded, of his own life there he said nothing.
Neither did he refer to the old days when their friendship had meant so
much to each. The past was evidently a sealed book that he had no
intention of reopening. A tentative remark hazarded by Meredith met with
no response and it was not until later when they were sitting out in the
darkness under the awning that the soldier put the question he had been
trying to ask all evening. They had sat for some time in silence,
smoking, looking across the moonlit plain, listening to the subdued
noises of the camp behind them and to the faint rhythmical thump of a
tom-tom far off amongst the orange trees. A tiny breeze drifting,
perfume laden, across their faces made Meredith think suddenly of the
scented gardens of Kashmere. He twisted in his chair to get a better
view of the starry heavens, and blurted out his question.
“Why didn’t you write, old man?”
For a long time there was no answer and he mentally kicked himself for a
blundering fool. Then Carew’s deep voice, deeper even than usual, came
out of the darkness. “I couldn’t. I tried once—but there seemed nothing
to say. I hoped you would understand.”
Meredith moved uncomfortably. “I was—damned sorry,” he muttered
gruffly. Carew lit a fresh cigarette slowly.
“You needn’t waste any sympathy on me, Micky,” he said with a sudden
hard laugh. “I was a fool once—but I learnt my lesson—thoroughly.”
There was another long silence. Then Meredith asked abruptly: “Why
Algeria?”
Carew shrugged. “I had to go somewhere. The house—its associations were
a hell I wasn’t strong enough to stand. So I played the coward’s part
and ran away. My people used to winter in Algiers when I was a boy. I
liked the country. It seemed the natural place to come to, somehow.” He
paused. When he spoke again it was in a voice that was new to Meredith.
“It’s a wonderful place, the desert, Micky,” he said dreamily, “it gets
you in the end—if you go far enough, and stay long enough. It’s got me
all right. I don’t suppose I shall ever leave it now. I come into
Algiers sometimes, but never for very long. Always I go back to it. It
holds me as nothing else has ever held me. The mystery of it, the charm
of it—always new, never the same, changing from day to day. And its
moods, my God, Micky, its moods! The peace of heaven one moment and the
fury of hell let loose the next. Cruel but beautiful, pitiless but
fascinating. And, somehow, one forgets the cruelty and only the beauty
remains—the beauty of its wonderful solitudes, its marvellous
emptiness.”
“And being there—what do you do?” Meredith had no wish to appear
inquisitive but for the last few minutes he had been trying,
unsuccessfully, to fit his old friend into the new setting that seemed
so incongruous. Gervas and solitude! To Meredith, remembering the
perpetual house parties at Royal Carew, the crowds of pleasure-seeking,
sport-loving men and women with whom the genial host of those old days
had surrounded himself, it appeared a thing incredible. And again he
asked with growing perplexity: “What do you do?” and wondered if Carew
would consign him to the devil. But the retort he half expected did not
ensue. “What do I do?” repeated Carew slowly. “That was the question I
asked myself when I came to Algeria, when I seemed to have come to the
end of everything—‘what shall I do.’ My first trip into the desert
settled that quickly enough. I had always been interested in the
Arabs—I spoke the language as early as I spoke English—but I only knew
the Arabs of the towns. So I went down into the south to see the real
life of the desert. I met some of the old Sheiks who used to come into
Algiers when I was a boy and who still remembered my father. They made
it easy for me and passed me on into districts where otherwise I could
never have penetrated, and I saw more than I had ever hoped to see. I
started my wanderings with no higher motive than curiosity—and a desire
to get away from my own thoughts. It had never occurred to me that up
till then I had led an utterly purposeless life, that not a soul in the
world was the better for my being in it. But out there in the desert the
crying need I found forced me to think, for the reckless waste of life
and the ghastly unnecessary suffering I saw appalled me. I knew that one
man alone could not do much—but he could do something. It didn’t take
me long to make up my mind. The old life was over. I wanted a new life
that wouldn’t give me time to think, that would give me opportunity to
help the people I had professed to be interested in. I went to Paris and
studied medicine, specializing in surgery, and took my degree.
Afterwards I put in six months with a man in Switzerland, a brute—but a
wizard with the knife, and then came back to Algeria. That’s what I do,
Micky.”
Meredith drew a deep breath. “And a dam’ fine thing, too,” he said
heartily. And reaching out a long arm he gripped the other’s shoulder
for a moment with a pressure that was painful. “So that’s what you do in
the desert when you vanish for months at a time, is it?” he said slowly,
with a curious expression of relief in his voice and a feeling of
self-disgust as he thought of the suspicions that had been forced upon
him earlier in the evening.
“It isn’t all plain sailing, I suppose?” he suggested.
“Far from it,” replied Carew, “but it depends on the district, of
course. Usually the beggars are grateful enough and I go pretty much
where I please. But they are a naturally suspicious people and there are
some places I can’t get into at any price. They think my work is a
pretext and that I am a spy of the Government.”
“And are you?”
“Officially, no. But sometimes I see and hear things I think the
Government should know—it’s a difficult country to administer—and at
times the Government make use of my knowledge. I have acted as
intermediary more than once in negotiations with some of the outlying
tribes where it would be impossible to send a regularly accredited Agent
without a regiment to back him up—and that usually ends in fighting
which the Government try to avoid. There’s unrest enough in the south
without stirring up any more trouble,” he added, turning to speak to a
tall, saturnine-looking Arab who had suddenly approached with a soft
murmur of apology.
The shrill sequel of a stallion and the trampling of hoofs made Meredith
realise the reason for the interruption.
“Time up?” he said regretfully, following Carew into the tent. “By jove,
it’s late!” he added, glancing at his watch, “can we get into Blidah by
eleven?”
“Not by the way the Chalmers brought you,” replied Carew with a faint
smile, buckling the clasp of the heavy burnous his servant folded about
his shoulders. The same escort that had ridden with him earlier in the
day was waiting but he dismissed them and alone the two men rode out
into the moonlit night. For a time they did not speak. Carew had
apparently reached the limit of his confidences and Meredith was in no
mood to break the silence. It had been a curious meeting, a curious
renewal of an old friendship, but the soldier was left with an
uncomfortable feeling of doubt whether it would not have been kinder if
no reminder of his early life had been brought to disturb the peace
that, seemingly, his old friend had found in the desert. His presence
must have vividly awakened in Carew memories of the past. For how much
did the past still count with him? Did he never regret the fine old
property in England where generations of Carews had lived since the days
of the Virgin Queen whose visit during a royal progress had given the
house its name? Meredith had many pleasant recollections of Royal Carew
and the thought of the stately house he had known so full of life and
happiness standing now empty and forlorn in the midst of its beautiful
park gave him a feeling of sadness.
“Will you never go back, Gervas?” he asked involuntarily.
“Go back—where?”
“To Royal Carew.”
Carew shook his head. “I told you I had done with the old life,” he said
rather wearily. “Royal Carew belongs to the past—and the past is dead.
And I couldn’t very well go back now, if I wanted to. I let my cousin
have the place. He is my heir, it would have come to him eventually. It
was better he should go there while he was still young enough to enjoy
it. It’s a damned poor game waiting for dead men’s shoes,” he added with
a short laugh.
They were galloping now over undulating country where the crests of the
gently swelling hillocks were almost as light as day and the tiny
intervening valleys lay like pools of dark, still water. As they reached
the summit of a rather larger hill than they had yet encountered, Carew
slackened speed with a word of warning.
“There is a deserted village in the valley,” he said, pointing down into
the darkness, “be careful how you go, it’s a confusing place at night.
And if anything happens—sit tight and leave the talking to me,” he
added significantly. And as he spurred the bay a half length in advance
Meredith saw his hand go to the silk shawl that was swathed about his
waist. A deserted village—but Carew was reaching for his revolver. With
a grin Meredith took a firmer grip of Captain André’s grey. He had
passed through similar deserted villages in India.
“Heave ahead,” he said cheerily, and followed his companion closely down
the long slope.
The valley was shallower than others they had traversed and here and
there a shaft of moonlight cut through the murky gloom. They were on the
village before Meredith realised its nearness, and as they threaded the
empty streets at a slow canter he looked keenly about him with a slight
feeling of pleasurable excitement. But no sound broke the stillness and
no furtive figures lurking among the ruined huts appeared to justify
Carew’s warning. Then the grey stumbled badly on a heap of rubble lying
across the road and until they were clear of the village he gave his
whole attention to his borrowed horse. But when they were speeding
across the plain once more with the lights of Blidah faint in the
distance he turned to Carew with a look of enquiry. “What might have
happened?” he asked curiously.
“Anything—murder, probably, if you had been alone.”
Meredith chuckled at the casual tone. “Healthy spot for a midnight
ride!”
“It saves three miles,” replied Carew calmly.
And Meredith flung back his head and laughed like a boy.