For a few moments after the train that was carrying Major Meredith back
to Algiers had pulled jerkily out of the station, Carew lingered on the
deserted ill-lit platform. Then, acknowledging with a curt nod the
half-caste stationmaster’s obsequious greeting, he strode leisurely to
where the horses were waiting in the care of a Kabyle lad he had picked
out from among the heterogeneous collection of loafers lounging before
the station entrance. He signed to the boy to follow him with Captain
André’s horse and trotted Suliman slowly towards the town. Entering by
the Es-Sebt Gate he turned in the direction of the cavalry barracks.
Despite the late hour the numberless cafés with their flaring gas lamps
and tawdry garishness were at their busiest. The pavements were
thronged, a ceaseless stream of cosmopolitan humanity; slow-moving,
dignified Arabs, servile and furtive-eyed Jews meekly giving place to
all who elbowed them, and eager, chattering Frenchmen—all jostling,
indiscriminately. Even the roadway was invaded, and bands of Zouaves
with interlocked arms reeled along regardless of the traffic, roaring
out the latest musical song with unmelodious vigour and shouting
questionable jibes at the passers by.
Tonight Blidah seemed to be _en fête_, noisier and more blatant than
usual. And to Carew, fresh from nearly a year in the desert, the scene
was distasteful. It was not new to him, years spent in Algeria had
familiarised him with the nightly aspect of the garrison towns, and he
was in no mood to be either interested or amused by what he saw. He had
no love for Blidah at the best of times and he had already been there
once before that day.
At the cavalry barracks he handed over Captain André’s grey to the
sleepy groom who was waiting and, dismissing the Kabyle lad, turned with
a sigh of relief in the direction of the Bab-el-Rabah. Passing through
the gateway he headed towards the east, intending to return by the same
route by which he had brought Major Meredith. Once clear of the town
Suliman broke of his own accord into the long, swinging gallop to which
he was accustomed and for a time Carew let him take his own pace. But
soon he checked him, drawing him into a reluctant walk. And as the bay
sidled and reared, snorting impatiently, his master bent forward in the
saddle and ran his hand caressingly over the glossy arched neck.
“Gently, gently, core of my heart,” he murmured in the language that
came more readily to his lips than his own, “there is no need for haste.
Tomorrow is also a day.” And pacing slowly forward through the quiet
night he set himself at last to face the torturing recollections of the
past that for years he had put resolutely out of his mind but which had
been cruelly awakened by the wholly unexpected advent of his old friend.
Inscrutable as the Arabs amongst whom he lived, he exhibited no outward
sign of agitation, but under the passivity that had become second nature
with him there was raging a bitter storm of anger and revolt against
fate that had thrown Micky Meredith across his path to shatter the
hard-won peace that had come to him in the desert. Meredith was bound up
with all he wished to forget, was the living reminder of the home and
happiness he had lost. His coming had reopened the wound that Carew had
thought healed forever. Memories, like stabs of actual pain, crowded in
upon him. The old struggle, the old bitterness he had conquered once was
overwhelming him again, shaking him to the very depths of his being. The
past he had resolved to forget rose up anew with terrible distinctness.
Royal Carew—and the woman he had loved! With the sweat of agony thick
on his forehead he lived again through the horror of that ghastly
homecoming. He saw again, clearly as though they stood before him, the
pitying, terrified faces of the old servants from whom he learned the
sordid story of his betrayal. He passed once more through the hours of
anguish when he had knelt in dumb, helpless misery beside the tiny cot
in the luxurious nursery and watched the death struggle of the child
whom, worse than motherless, he loved so passionately. The dark waters
of despair had closed over his head that night. Weak from the terrible
wound that had brought him back to England, crushed by the double
tragedy, he had longed and prayed for death. And when he had at last
found courage to go forward with what remained to him of life, it was as
a changed man, embittered out of any semblance to his former self. He
had divorced his wife that she might marry the man for whom she had left
him, and with grim justice, because she had been the mother of his son,
he had settled upon her an adequate fortune. But for the woman herself
he had no feeling left but loathing and contempt. She had deceived him,
lied to him. She had destroyed his faith, his trust. She had opened his
eyes at last to the unworthiness that had been patent to all but the
husband who worshipped her. She had killed his love—and with it had
died esteem and belief in the sex she represented. With her his ideal of
womanhood, pinnacled high with chivalrous regard, had shattered into
nothingness. Because of her he had become the cynical misogynist he was,
seeing in all women the one woman whose falseness had poisoned his life.
The thought of her stirred him now to nothing but a sense of cold
disgust.
But the memory of the little son who had died was a living force within
him. It had gone with him through all the years of loneliness and
disillusion, a grief as bitter now as on that first night of his
bereavement. Not for the woman, but for the child his starved heart
still yearned with passionate intensity. The tiny face was present with
him always, even yet he could remember the clinging touch of the fragile
baby fingers closing convulsively on his in that last moment of terrible
struggle. It was to try and deaden the pain of memory, to ease the
burden of his solitude, that he had kept the little waif of the desert.
And the blind boy in his helplessness and dependence had in some measure
filled the blank in his life. But tonight the remembrance of his loss
was heavy upon him. Even with the child Meredith was connected, for his
visit to Royal Carew had been made a few months after the birth of the
heir who had been born to such high hopes. Together the two men had
discussed in all solemnity the probable career of the sleepy scrap of
pink humanity who at that time had shown no sign of the delicacy which
had developed later.
And Royal Carew! For the first time in years he let his thoughts turn to
the beautiful property he had voluntarily surrendered and a wave of
intense home sickness passed over him. He crushed it down with a feeling
of contempt for his own weakness. Once it had seemed to him the fairest
place on God’s earth, he had loved every stick and stone of it. He loved
it still, but with his love was the remembrance of bitter pain that made
him shrink from ever seeing it again. Childless, it was for him
purposeless. If the child had lived—but the child was dead, and things
were better as they were. Regrets were useless. There was nothing to be
gained by harking back to what might have been. Carew’s lips tightened
and he forced his mind into another channel of thought. After all, it
had been no fault of Meredith’s. Carew had guessed the reason of the
soldier’s restrained manner at the moment of meeting and the knowledge
had added warmth to his own greeting. Pride had stirred him, that and a
vague idea of testing his own command over himself. Naturally
long-sighted he had seen and known Meredith even before Doctor Chalmers
had hailed him. Almost he had been tempted to pass by with no sign of
recognition. Then he had cursed himself for a coward and had reined in
Suliman with that sudden jerk that had made Mrs. Chalmers’ heart stand
still. And now was he glad or sorry for Meredith’s coming? It was a
question that in his present mood he found himself unable to answer. He
had no wish to further analyse his feelings. He had become unaccustomed
to self-consideration. For once he had relaxed the rigid control he
exercised over his own thoughts—and once was enough. During the years
of strenuous work in the desert he had succeeded in suppressing self,
and in that work he would endeavour to regain the contentment that was
all he had to hope for.
With a powerful effort of will he put away all thoughts of Meredith and
the memories he had awakened and, touching Suliman with his heel,
concentrated on the results of the difficult mission from which he was
now returning to Algiers.
It had been a delicate business, attended with considerable danger that
had not disturbed him, and subtle oriental intrigue, in dealing with
which Hosein’s help had been invaluable. The man had been Carew’s
body-servant and faithful companion for all the years he had lived in
Algeria. The son of his father’s old dragoman, Carew remembered him as a
singularly intelligent urchin, a year or two older than himself,
employed about the villa on Mustapha Superieur where the winters of his
own boyhood had been spent, and he had sought him out on his first
return to the country. He had never regretted it. Devoted and
singleminded in his service the Arab had been friend as well as servant
and a loyal cooperator in Carew’s chosen work. A wanderer by instinct,
it was not only in Algeria that Hosein had travelled and the green band
of the Mecca pilgrim that he wore gave him a prestige which had carried
his master and himself through some sufficiently awkward situations.
Carew had owed his life to him not once nor twice, and he knew that but
for Hosein’s watchfulness he would never have returned alive from this
last dangerous undertaking. The report he was carrying back to the
Governor in Algiers was due as much to Hosein as to himself. And the
Arab should not be the loser if he could help it, he thought with a
sudden rare smile.
Immersed in his thoughts he had taken little notice of his surroundings
and had not realised how far he had come on his homeward journey. A
whistling snort from Suliman and a sudden wild swerve that would have
unseated a less practised horseman brought him back abruptly to the
immediate present, and looking round sharply he saw that they had
arrived at the outskirts of the deserted village. Dragging his horse to
a standstill he looked keenly about him, but in spite of the brilliant
moonlight, he could see nothing moving. Yet Suliman was accustomed to
night work and it was unlike him to shy at shadows. The deserted village
had a bad reputation in the neighbourhood but Carew had never avoided it
on that account, he had a reputation himself that was sufficiently
widely known.
He glanced perfunctorily to right and left as he rode through the
winding, grass-grown street, but to all appearances, the place seemed
empty as it had been when he passed through it earlier in the evening.
He was nearing the last group of tumbled-down huts when the sound of a
piercing shriek breaking weirdly on the silence of the night sent
Suliman high on his heels in furious protest. Hauling him down, Carew
twisted in the saddle, listening intently. It came again, echoing from a
little lane that straggled from the main street, the wail of a woman’s
voice crying wildly in French for help. A woman—in such a place and at
such an hour! Carew’s compressed lips parted in a mirthless grin and he
relaxed his strained attention. What was a woman doing at midnight in
that village of ill repute? Some little fool, doubtless, who had tempted
providence too highly, paying the price of her folly! Well, let her pay.
In all probability she had brought it on herself—she could abide by the
consequences. It was no business of his, anyhow. Why should he, of all
men, interfere to help a woman in her need—what was a woman’s suffering
to him? His face was set and grimly hard as he soothed his plunging
horse and prepared to ride on. But as Suliman started forward the cry
was repeated with words that made Carew check him with an iron hand and
bring him, quivering to his haunches. Clear and distinct they came to
him—words of frenzied entreaty to a higher power than his, words in a
language he least expected to hear.
“_Help, help! oh, God, send help!_”
An Englishwoman! For a moment he battled with himself. Then with a
terrible oath he wrenched his horse’s head round savagely and drove him
down the little lane at a headlong gallop.
The lane was a cul-de-sac, the house he sought at the far end of it, for
there only did a dim light filtering through an unshuttered window show
any sign of habitation. Deep shadows masked the entrance and a few feet
short of it, in a patch of vivid moonlight, he pulled up and, leaping to
the ground, raced towards the hidden doorway. His foot was on the
crumbling step when out of the gloom three figures rose up to bar his
entrance and hurled themselves upon him. The attack was silent, and in
silence he met it. There was no time to reach for the revolver he had
neglected to draw. Straining, heaving, he wrestled in the darkness with
opponents whose faces he could not see, whose arms encircled him and
whose clutching sinewy hands tore murderously at his throat. A knife
pricked him and with a blind instinct he caught at and held the hand
that brandished it, crushing it in his strong fingers till he felt the
yielding bones crack and the weapon slipped to the ground with a faint
tinkle. In perfect physical condition, with steely muscles toughened by
years of strenuous and active life, he knew that singly he could have
matched any one of the men who were hemming him in, but against three
even his great strength was unavailing. Struggling to free his arms, he
gave back step by step as they pressed him closer in a continued silence
that was menacing by its very unusualness. Even the man whose hand he
had maimed had made no sound beyond a muffled growl. Only the shuffling
of feet on the dry ground, the panting, animal-like grunts of exertion
as they grappled with him, were audible. The rank stench of filthy,
sweat-drenched garments was pungent in his nostrils; hot, fetid breath
fanning his face gave him—accustomed though he was to the dirt and
squalor of the Arabs—a feeling of nausea that sent a shiver of disgust
through him. At last with a tremendous effort he wrenched himself free
and reeled back, gasping, into the patch of moonlight, his heart
pounding against his ribs, perspiration pouring from him. And as the
bright light struck across his face the men who had followed him swiftly
drew back with sudden indetermination, muttering amongst themselves. He
caught the words “El Hakim,” the title he bore amongst the desert
people, and almost before he realised it they had vanished into the
shadows of the neighbouring houses and he was alone. For a moment he
fought for breath, wiping the blinding moisture from his dripping face,
fumbling for the revolver in his waistcloth. Then another strangled cry
from within the lighted hut spurred him into action and he sprang
forward, flinging back the heavy burnous from his shoulders as he ran.
The rotting door crashed open under the sudden impact of his weight and
in the entrance he halted with levelled revolver. For a second only. His
eyes sweeping the tiny room met those of a gigantic, evil-faced Arab
who, startled at his appearance, had flung to the ground the woman who
struggled in his arms and turned to meet the intruder with a scowl of
murderous ferocity. A grim smile of recognition flickered across Carew’s
stern face. “_Thou_—dog?” he thundered, and leaped at him. For a moment
the Arab wavered, then a knife flashed in his hand. But with a quick
feint Carew dodged the sweeping blow and caught the upraised wrist in a
vice-like grip. With his revolver pressing into the man’s stomach he
forced him back slowly against the wall of the hut, his fingers
tightening their hold until the paralysed hand unclenched and the knife
clattered to the floor. Kicking it beyond reach, Carew backed a few
paces and, still keeping the Arab covered, turned his attention for the
first time to the woman he had come reluctantly to aid. Only a girl
apparently, her face almost childish in its strained, white piteousness,
she had dragged herself up from the floor and was standing rocking on
her feet in the middle of the room. He looked with a kind of cruel
deliberation on the slender, shaking limbs which, clothed in boyish
riding dress that intimately revealed their delicate beauty, would have
been the joy of an artist, but which filled him only with an acute
feeling of antagonism. The folly of it, the shameless, senseless folly
of it! A woman must be a fool and worse than a fool to expose herself
thus in a land of veiled femininity. His antagonism augmented and he
viewed unmoved the signs of terrible struggle through which she had
passed. That she had fought desperately was evidenced in the marks of
violent handling she bore, in the unbound hair that lay in curling
chestnut waves about her shoulders, in the tattered silk shirt that,
ripped from throat to waist, bared the soft whiteness of her heaving
breasts to the austere gaze bent so pitilessly on her. She seemed
unaware of Carew’s nearness. Panting for breath, her hands clenching and
unclenching mechanically, she stood like a driven animal at bay, her
eyes fixed on the Arab in a wild, unblinking stare. Carew broke the
silence abruptly with a blunt question addressed to her that was
brutally direct. He spoke in French that both could understand and
because he had no wish tonight to pass as other than an Arab himself.
The harsh voice roused her to a realisation of his presence. She started
violently, her hunted eyes turning slowly to him as if she dared not
lose sight of the sinister figure by the wall. For a few seconds she
stared at him uncomprehendingly, then her cheeks flamed suddenly as the
meaning of his words penetrated. Her lips quivered and she shrank back,
dragging the tangle of soft hair over her uncovered bosom with an
instinctive gesture of modesty. She tried to speak, but for some time no
words would come, then a wail of entreaty burst from her. “Take me away,
oh, for God’s sake take me away!” she cried, and buried her face in her
hands with a convulsive shudder.
He jerked his head impatiently. The life he had led for the last twelve
years had made him intolerant of convention, he had no intention of
allowing it to interfere now with the rough and ready justice he was
fully prepared to administer. He had no reason to hesitate. The Arab was
a well-known criminal, the abduction of an English visitor an offence
the Algerian Government could not in any sense condone.
“I will take you away when you have answered my question, Madame,” he
said coldly. “This is no time or place for false modesty. Does he go
free or—” he raised his revolver with a gesture that was unmistakable.
But the sharp cry of protest arrested him, and shuddering again she drew
further from him till she leant against the opposite wall, clinging to
it and hiding her face like a child fearful of some impending horror.
“No—no—not that,” she gasped, “let him go. You came—in time.” The
last words trailed into an almost inaudible whisper and with a little
moan she slipped to the floor as if the last remnant of her strength had
left her.
Indifferent to her distress he turned from her to the more pressing
matter of the Arab.
“What shame is this, O Abdul?” he said sternly, relapsing into Arabic.
Shuffling his feet the man glanced past him towards the open doorway
from which Carew’s tall figure effectually barred him. He knew that in
the few minutes that had passed he had been nearer to death than was
comfortable to contemplate. He had no desire to enter into a detailed
history of his offence, his sole wish at the moment was to remove
himself as speedily as might be from the proximity of the accusing eyes
fixed on him. True, a reprieve had been granted—but for how long?
Memories of past dealings with the man who stood before him made him
keep a wary eye on the revolver that Carew still held with unpleasant
suggestiveness.
“Shame indeed, O Sidi,” he whined with a cringing salaam, “had I known
that the _lalla_ was under thy protection. But is not my lord known
throughout all Algeria as one who deigns not to stoop his eyes to the
face of a woman?”
There was cunning mixed with curiosity in the swift upward glance that
met Carew’s frowning stare for an instant and then wavered to earth
again. The scowl on the Englishman’s face deepened.
“Yet would I have killed thee for what thou hast done tonight,” he said
quickly, “be very sure of that, O Abdul. But the _lalla_ has given thee
thy life. Give thanks—and go.”
He cut short the Arab’s glib protestations and hustled him towards the
door. But on the threshold the man paused irresolutely, with another
obsequious salaam.
“I have served my lord in the past,” he muttered sullenly, “for the sake
of that service will not my lord forget—tonight?”
Carew looked at him through narrowing eyelids.
“To suit thine own ends hast thou served me,” he said pointedly, “and
forgetfulness comes not readily to those who live with a sharp
reminder—as I shall live,” he added, stooping swiftly and catching up
the knife that lay near his foot. With a cold smile he thrust it into
his waistcloth and turned slowly back into the room. He did not trouble
to wait and watch the man off the premises. He had known Abdul el Dhib
for years and his knowledge made him confident that in the meantime he
was safe from any form of revenge from the human jackal on whose head
the Algerian Government had set a price. Usually his activities were
confined to more remote districts and Carew had been surprised to see
him so near to civilisation. But it was no part of his business to act
as a common police spy and he knew that Abdul had counted on the fact
when he had endeavoured to make terms with him. Remained the more
perplexing problem of the woman thrust, wholly undesired, on his hands.
She was still crouched on the dusty mud floor where she had fallen and
he went to her reluctantly.
She shivered at his touch, staggering to her feet with a swift glance of
apprehension round the room. Clutching the screening mass of curls about
her she passed a hand over her eyes as though clearing away the
remembrance of some horrible vision. She showed no fear of the tall
Arab-clad figure standing beside her, by some curious instinct she
seemed sensible that his presence constituted a protection and not a
menace. But equally she displayed no haste to explain the predicament in
which he had found her or to disclose her identity. Stunned by the
terrible experience through which she had passed, she appeared to be
only half conscious and incapable of any initiative. Carew, passionately
anxious to be quit of the whole business, was not inclined to beat about
the bush, but came to the point with characteristic directness.
“You come from Blidah, Madame?”
She looked at him blankly, her puzzled eyes still shadowy with pain, and
he repeated the question slower and more distinctly.
“Blidah—” she echoed vaguely. “Blidah? No—Algiers.”
A look of dismay crossed Carew’s face. Algiers was thirty miles away. He
could have taken her back to Blidah easily enough, but Algiers with
Suliman, who had already done a hard day’s work, carrying double—it was
out of the question. He jerked his head with a gesture of annoyance and
scowled thoughtfully, mentally cursing Abdul el Dhib and the woman
beside him with fine impartiality.
“Where in Algiers?” he asked shortly, by way of gaining time to think
out the awkward situation. But the girl was past all explanations.
“Algiers—” she repeated weakly and, reeling, would have fallen but for
the strong arm slipped round her. That settled it. Half fainting and
wholly unable to express herself she could give him no assistance and he
realised there was nothing for it but the expedient he least
desired—that of taking her to his own camp. His own camp—good God!
Antagonism grew into actual dislike as he glanced down at the slender
boyish figure leaning against him. With a grunt of disgust he half led,
half carried her out of the hut.
Suliman, trained to stand, was waiting in the patch of moonlight,
jerking the dangling bridle impatiently. Unhooking his heavy burnous
Carew rolled it into a long, soft pad and flung it across the horse’s
neck in front of the high-peaked saddle. Then he swung the girl up with
a curt “Hold on to his mane” and leaped up behind her, wondering what
would be the result of Suliman’s first excited plunge. But with
instinctive good grace the horse refrained from his usual display of
light-hearted exuberance and set off soberly at a slow canter to which
Carew held him. There were no signs of Abdul and his band of
cut-throats, no lurking shadows in the vicinity of the silent houses and
in a few minutes the village was behind them.
Carew rode with a tight rein and a watchful eye on the drooping little
figure in front of him. His own tall, muscular form was drawn up in the
saddle taut and rigid with repugnance at her nearness, every fibre in
his being revolting from the proximity of her woman’s body. The subtle
torture of it made him grit his teeth and thick, cold drops of moisture
gathered on his forehead. He raged at the necessity that had forced him
to a step that an hour ago he would have thought beyond the bounds of
possibility. And tonight of all nights, when his senses were already raw
and aching with the recollections of the past that had racked him almost
beyond bearing.
The calm to which he had schooled himself through years of
self-discipline and self-suppression had been swept away and he was
aghast at the tumult within him which seemed to be tearing down every
defence and barrier he had raised so strenuously.
The need of one fragile girl had caused him to break a resolution from
which he had sworn never to turn. And at the moment he could cheerfully
have thrown the fragile girl behind the clump of rocks they were passing
and washed his hands of the whole affair. Because she was English—it
was the sole reason for the action that had so surprised himself. Race
loyalty had, in an extreme moment, proved stronger than his
determination and her sex had been swamped in her nationality. But for
those few words in English he would have ridden on. The appeal coming in
another language had left him unmoved, but repeated in the mother-tongue
that had become almost foreign to him had stirred him powerfully, even
against his own inclination. But the call of the blood that had
triumphed so unexpectedly over him did not in any way mitigate the
constraint of his present situation. It was an embarrassment that grew
momentarily more acute and distasteful. He was impatient of every little
circumstance that augmented his discomfiture. His nerves on edge he
found cause for annoyance even in the slow pace at which he was
compelled to ride. It irked him as badly as it was irking Suliman who,
with his nose turned towards home, was snatching at his bit and
endeavouring to break into the usual gallop. The girl herself settled
the last problem. She had been drooping more and more over the horse’s
neck, clutching instinctively at the thick mane in which her fingers
were twined, but now without a word or sound she collapsed and fell back
in a dead faint.
With his face gone suddenly ghastly Carew lifted her until she lay
across his thighs, his left arm crooked about her shoulders, her
dishevelled little head pressing against his breast. God in heaven, it
only wanted this! Cursing savagely he drove his spurs with unwonted
cruelty into his horse’s sides and gave him his head. And in the wild
rush through the cool night that followed he tried to forget that he
carried a woman in his arms. But the slender little body, warm and
yielding against his own, was a reminder that obtruded too powerfully to
allow of forgetfulness. So had he carried his wife once after a minor
accident in the hunting field, and then, as now, a thick strand of
scented hair had blown across his face blinding him with its soft
fragrance. He tore it away with shaking fingers.
Impossible now to stem the flood of recollection. It was stronger than
his will to put it from him. More painful, more crushing even than
before it swept him with a force he was powerless to resist and he made
no further effort, surrendering his mind to its bitter memories while he
urged Suliman recklessly, careless whether he broke his neck and the
girl’s or not. And with a madness almost equal to his own, goaded by the
sharp spurs that Carew used so seldom the bay tore on at racing speed,
breasting the tiny hillocks and thundering down their gentle
declivities, taking rocks and pitfalls in his stride, as if tireless.
And when at last the open plain was reached he turned of his own accord
in the direction of the camp, hardly slackening his pace until he
arrived with a great slithering rush before the tent door. A couple of
grooms sprang forward, but the last spurt had been his final effort and
he made no attempt to evade them, standing with down-drooping head and
widely planted feet, breathing heavily and trembling with exhaustion.
Gathering the girl closer in his arms Carew slipped to the ground. To
Hosein, imperturbable even in the face of this unprecedented spectacle,
he vouchsafed only the curt explanation “Abdul el Dhib” and ordering
coffee to be brought to him carried his slight burden into the tent.
Prejudiced and angry he scowled down at her with fierce resentment as he
laid her among the silk cushions on the divan. That he had himself been
compelled to bring her here did not in any way lessen his anger or make
his task easier. But since she was here, helpless and dependent on him,
common humanity demanded that he should do all in his power to aid her.
Striving to sink the man in the doctor he endeavoured to regard her only
as a case and set to work to combat the prolonged fainting fit that
seemed to argue something more than a mere collapse from fear and
fatigue. And as his sombre eyes dwelt on her he found himself
reluctantly admitting the uncommon beauty of her face and form. But her
beauty made him no more kindly disposed towards her. A woman’s
beauty—the transient snare that lured trusting fools to their
undoing—what was it to him who had learned the vileness and hypocrisy
that lay beneath seeming outward loveliness? With a shrug of disdain he
raised her higher on the cushions.
And at last she stirred, the long, dark lashes that lay like a dusky
fringe on her pale cheek fluttering tremulously. And, as he bent over
her, two deep blue eyes looked suddenly into his, blankly at first, then
with quick apprehension that in turn gave place to dawning recognition.
The colour crept back slowly into her face and with a whispered enquiry
she struggled to sit up. But he pressed her back, slipping another
cushion under her head. “Lie still for a little while,” he said slowly,
“you fainted. I had to bring you to my camp. You are quite safe.”
The curious trust she had shown earlier was manifested again for she
obeyed him without protest, her rigid limbs relaxing against the soft
cushions. But the colour in her cheeks deepened as she glanced
wonderingly about the room and then at her own disordered appearance.
“I’ve never fainted before in my life,” she murmured, “I’m sorry to have
been so stupid—to have given so much trouble.” Then, all at once, her
lips quivered and with a sharp, dry sob she flung her arm across her
face. But the natural outburst of womanly weeping that Carew expected
did not follow, only, watching her, he saw from time to time spasms of
terrible shuddering shake her from head to foot.
The coffee that Hosein brought a few minutes later steadied her, and
when Carew turned to her again after giving his servant further orders
she staggered unsteadily to her feet with a half shy, half nervous
glance about the tent.
“You have been very kind—I don’t know how to thank you,” she said
hurriedly, “but I can’t trespass on your hospitality any longer. I—my
husband—oh, I _must_ get back—if—if you could lend me a horse—” But
even as she spoke she swayed giddily and caught at the divan for
support. Carew looked at her narrowly. “When did you eat last?” he asked
abruptly, ignoring her request. Her eyes closed wearily. “I don’t know,”
she faltered, “this morning, I think. A cup of coffee—before I left
home. Oh, it seems ten years ago!” she burst out shuddering.
It was a simple explanation of her exhaustion that had already occurred
to him, and for which he had provided. Want of food, combined with
reaction following a nerve-racking experience—small wonder she had
collapsed, he reflected.
“Algiers is thirty miles away,” he explained gravely, “you are not fit
to ride now. You must eat, and rest for a few hours before you attempt
to return.”
But she shook her head vehemently. “I couldn’t eat,” she panted, a
desperate urgency in her voice, “I couldn’t rest, I _mustn’t_ rest. I’ve
got to get back home. Oh, you don’t understand—but I must get back to
Algiers.” She was shaking with nervousness but Carew felt instinctively
that it was not of him she was afraid. And consequently who or what
inspired her fear was no business of his, though as he watched her
restlessly twisting the golden circlet that gleamed so incongruously on
her slim, boyish hand he made a shrewd guess at the cause of her
agitation. But that was her affair. He was concerned only with the need
of the moment.
“Be reasonable, Madame,” he said sharply, “I do not keep you to amuse
myself, but because you are not in a fit state at the moment to ride
thirty miles. Eat what my servant is bringing, rest for a couple of
hours, and then I will take you back to Algiers. If your—your friends
are anxious about you they must be anxious for a few hours longer.”
He spoke almost brutally and though she flinched from his tone she
seemed to realise the necessity of submitting to his decision. But her
distress was still obvious and he could see that she was fighting hard
to maintain the restraint she imposed upon herself. And grudgingly he
conceded admiration he was loath to accord. Usually courage of any kind
appealed to him, but, morbidly prejudiced, he was irritated now by the
unexpected moral courage she displayed. He did not want to admit it, did
not want to be forced to admire where he preferred to condemn, and he
turned away with a sudden rush of unreasonable anger. The entrance of
Hosein with the food he had ordered put a period to an awkward silence.
And when the man withdrew, Carew followed him out under the awning
leaving the girl alone, for it seemed to him that his presence must be
as distasteful to her as her own was to him. He detained the Arab for a
few moments to explain his further requirements, and then subsided into
the deck chair with a stifled yawn. Like Suliman, he had already put in
a hard day’s work and there were still thirty miles to ride before
sunrise. But he was used to turning night into day and inured to
fatigue, and it was mental rather than physical weariness that made him
relax in his chair with a heavy sigh. In spite of his efforts to control
his thoughts, his mind was in a ferment, and brain and body alike were
in a state of nervous tension that sapped his strength and left him at
the mercy of an overwhelming tide of long forgotten emotions. The strain
of the meeting with Micky Meredith had weakened him for the further
developments of the evening. He could still feel the soft weight of the
girl’s limp body in his arms, he brushed his hand across his face as
though the thick strand of hair was again smothering him with its soft
fragrance. Angry with himself, angry with her, he tried to forget
her—and found himself suddenly wondering who she was. Good Lord, as if
it mattered! Cursing under his breath he pitched his cigarette away and
went back into the tent.
The girl met his glance with a shy smile. “I was hungry, after all,” she
said, pointing to the empty tray, “and I’m so sleepy I can hardly keep
my eyes open.”
But determined to go no further than bare courtesy demanded he
vouchsafed only a brief nod to her tentative advance and led the way to
the inner room. She paused on the threshold, looking curiously at the
little sleeping apartment, then turned to him with a swift imploring
glance. “You won’t let me sleep too long?”
For a moment Carew’s gloomy eyes looked deeply into the troubled depths
of the blue ones fixed so earnestly on his, then: “The horses will be
ready in two hours,” he said curtly, and dropped the portiere into
place. For some time he paced the big tent restlessly, a prey to violent
agitation. He swore at himself angrily. What in God’s name was the
matter with him! Why did his thoughts, despite himself, keep turning to
the woman in the adjoining room? Woman! She was only a girl, little more
than a child in spite of the wedding ring that seemed to lie so uneasily
on her slim finger. Any woman or child, what did she matter to him. Once
safely back in Algiers she could go to the devil for all he cared.
Swinging on his heel he crossed the room and taking a medical book from
a small case by the door, flung himself on the divan to read until the
waiting time was over.
He was still reading when Hosein came back two hours later.
Laying the book aside with no particular haste he took a white burnous
his servant tendered him and went slowly towards the inner room,
scowling with annoyance and disinclination. Yet somebody had to wake the
girl and he could hardly relegate the job to Hosein. He swept the
curtains aside with an impatient jerk. She was still asleep, lying in an
attitude of unconscious grace, her face hidden in the mass of tangled
curls spread over the pillow. And from her his frowning gaze went
swiftly round the room as if the alien presence made him see it with new
eyes. His stern lips set more rigidly as he touched her shoulder. She
woke with a start and leaped to her feet with a sharp cry that changed
quickly to a nervous little laugh of embarrassment. “I was
dreaming—I—is it time?” she stammered, stifling a yawn and blinking
like a sleepy child. Sparing of speech he held out the white cloak. “The
night is cool,” he said briefly, and turned away too quickly to notice
the vivid blush that suffused her face.
At the door of the tent, under the awning, he found Hosein, who was to
accompany them, waiting for him and together they watched the three
black horses Carew had selected for the journey being walked to and fro
in the moonlight by the grooms.
And in an incredibly short space of time the girl joined them. The
enveloping burnous was clasped securely, hiding her tattered clothing,
and she seemed to have regained her self-possession for she was quite at
ease and looked about with eager curiosity at the scattered camp, and
then with even greater interest at the waiting horses. The stallion
Carew was to ride was almost unapproachable, wild-eyed and savage, held
with difficulty by the two men who clung to his head. But the mount he
had chosen for his unwelcome guest was a steadier, friendly beast that
nozzled her inquisitively as she went to him. She caught at his velvety
nose with a little cry of delight, “Oh, what a darling!” and rubbed her
cheek against his muzzle, crooning to him softly. Then before Carew
could aid her she was in the saddle, backing to make room for the
screaming fury that was demonstrating his own reluctance to be mounted
by every device known to his equine intelligence. But his rage was
futile and Carew was up in a flash. And for five minutes Marny Geradine,
who had ridden from babyhood, watched with breathless interest the
sharpest tussle she had ever seen between a horse and its rider, and
marvelled at the infinite patience of the man who sat the plunging,
frenzied brute like a centaur, handling him perfectly without exhibiting
the smallest trace of annoyance. His methods were not the cruel ones
which, for five miserable years, she had been compelled to witness, she
thought with sudden bitterness. And yet this man was an Arab in whom
cruelty might be excused.
Then as Carew wheeled alongside of her she put away the painful thoughts
that had risen in her mind and gave herself up to the delights of this
strange ride with this equally strange companion.
It was all like a dream, fantastic and unreal, but a dream that gave her
more happiness than she had known for years. The swift gallop through
the night, the cool wind blowing against her face, the easy movements of
the horse between her knees, were all sheer joy to her. She had no wish
to talk, even if the taciturn manner of the man beside her had not made
speech difficult. She wanted nothing but the pleasure of the moment, the
beauty of the moonlit scene and the charm of the wonderful solitude. For
her Algeria had been Algiers, she had not been asked to accompany her
husband on his occasional shooting expeditions, and she had wearied of
the town and its immediate surroundings. She had longed to go further
afield, to get right out into the desert, but she had been given no
opportunity and she had long since learned to suppress inclinations that
were ridiculed and never gratified. She craved for open spaces and the
lonely places of the earth, and she had been chained to towns or crowded
country houses and forced into a company whose society nauseated her;
she had dreamt of nights like this, of the silence and peace of the
wilderness, of solitary camps where she would sleep in happy
dreamlessness under the radiant stars—and the nights that were her
portion had been her chiefest torment. But this one night she could
revel in her dream come true and rejoice in the freedom that might never
again be hers. That she might have to pay, and perhaps pay hideously,
for what had occurred did not matter, almost she did not care. She had
suffered so much already that further suffering seemed almost inevitable
and she would not spoil the rare joy of this wonderful ride by
anticipating trouble. But even as she argued bravely with herself, she
blanched at the possible consequences of the terrible adventure that had
been no fault of her own. If when she reached the villa at Mustapha,
Clyde had already returned! She clenched her teeth on her quivering lip.
He had gone for a fortnight’s shooting and the fortnight would be up
tomorrow—today, she remembered with a sudden glance of apprehension at
the sky, where the pinky flush of dawn was already showing. He might be
back now! And if he were—what would her punishment be, what would she
have to endure from one who knew his strength and used it brutally, who
was cruel and merciless by nature as if he, too, were an Arab. Her mind
leapt to the man who had abducted her. When, at the close of an
appalling day, she had been brought to the hut in the deserted village,
when she had finally realised the sinister purpose intended against her,
the ghastly fear that had come to her, the paralysing sense of
helplessness she had felt as she struggled against the crushing arms
that held her, the horror of the relentless face thrust close to hers
quivering with lust and desire, was no new thing. So did Clyde look at
her, so did she shrink and sicken when he touched her. Were all men
alike—sensual brutes with no consideration or pity? One, at least, had
shown himself to be different—and he was an Arab! She turned and looked
at him curiously. By the light of the brilliant moon she studied the
lean, tanned face, wondering at its grave austerity. And as her gaze
lingered on the white seam of an old scar that ran diagonally across his
cheek above the curve of his square-cut jaw, she remembered suddenly
that the stern, sombre eyes that had looked into hers were blue. Were
there, then, blue-eyed Arabs, as there were blue-eyed Afghans? Who was
he? A personage of importance, obviously—the rich appointments of the
camp to which he had taken her, proved it. The embroidered cloth
burnous, the wide silk scarf swathed about the haick that shaded his
face, the scarlet leather boots he wore was the dress of a Chief. One of
the wealthy Sheiks from the far south, perhaps, coming into Algiers for
the Governor’s annual ball. Whoever he was, he had saved her honour, had
saved her from worse than death. And a sudden inexplicable desire came
to her to explain to this strange, taciturn Arab the situation in which
he had found her. She swung her horse nearer. “I oughtn’t to have ridden
alone,” she began jerkily. “I know that, but I was quite close to
Algiers—it seemed safe enough—and I had a reason for what I did. One
has to—be alone—sometimes. I didn’t think there could be any danger.
It all happened so suddenly—” she broke off, chilled with his silence,
wondering how she had found courage to speak to him at all, for his
frigid manner did not invite confidence. And his brief answer did not
tend to put her more at ease.
“It is always dangerous for a woman to ride alone in Algeria,” he said
gravely. It was his tone rather than the actual words that sent the hot
blood rushing to her face and reduced her to a silence that lasted until
they sighted the outskirts of Algiers. The dawn was brightening, already
the stars were paling and dying, one by one, and the red glow of the
rising sun was warming in the east.
With a sign to Hosein, Carew drew rein. “My servant will attend you,
Madame. I can go no further,” he said, abruptly, his eyes fixed on the
distant city. She sat for a moment without answering, then she looked up
quickly, her lips quivering, uncontrollably. “I don’t know what to
say—how to thank you—” He cut her short almost rudely. “I need no
thanks, Madame. Put the one deed against the other—and do not judge the
Arabs too harshly. They are as other men—no better, and perhaps no
worse.” She shook her head with a tremulous little smile, and for a time
she seemed to be struggling with herself. Then she flung her hand out
with an odd gesture of appeal. “If you won’t let me thank you, will you
let me be still further in your debt?” she said, unsteadily.
“As how?”
“The horse I rode,” she faltered, “I—I——my husband values him. Can
you help me get him back—and soon?”
Surprised that she should seek his aid in what was clearly a police
matter, Carew glanced at her with a gathering frown, but what he saw in
her eyes made him look away quickly.
“You shall have your horse, Madame. I pledge you my word,” he said,
shortly. A look of curious relief swept over her tense face.
“Then I shan’t worry about him—any more,” she said, with a shaky laugh.
And reigning her horse nearer, again she held out her hand. “Won’t you
tell me your name? I should like to know it, to remember it in—in—”
she choked back a rising sob. “_Please_,” she whispered.
He turned to her slowly, his eyes almost black in their sombre
intensity. “I have many names,” he replied, unwillingly, as though he
were forcing himself to speak.
“Then tell me one,” she pleaded, wistfully.
Still he hesitated, his square chin thrust out obstinately.
“I am called—El Hakim,” he said at last, reluctantly. And touching his
forehead in a perfunctory salaam, he wheeled his impatient horse and
spurred him into a headlong gallop.