For a few moments, Marny Geradine, fighting to keep her own mount to a
standstill, watched the fast retreating horseman until his tall, upright
figure was blurred by the rush of hot tears that filled her eyes. She
forced them back before they fell, the relief of tears was a luxury she
had learned to deny herself, and turning once more towards Algiers
cantered forward as slowly as her eager horse would permit. After all,
what was the use of hurrying, she thought with a kind of dreary
fatalism. If Clyde had already returned he would have arrived last
night, a few minutes extra delay now would make no difference. The
mischief would have been done. Nothing she could do would lessen his
anger, nothing she could say would convince him against his own
inclination. The true story of her terrible experience would find no
credence with him. And even all the truth she dare not tell him. The
latter part of the night’s adventure could never be divulged. The
strange Arab who rescued her, his hospitality, his chivalrous regard and
consideration would be beyond her husband’s comprehension. He was
incapable of understanding a temperament other than his own, he would
believe only the vile conclusion his own foul mind would leap at and
hold in spite of all denials. She could never tell him. Enough that his
return had found her absent, that she had lost a valuable horse for
which he had recently paid a large figure. True, she had been promised
that the horse would be returned, and the curious unaccountable faith
she had in the man who had made that promise did not waver in spite of
the seeming improbability of its fulfillment, but would his return even
satisfy Clyde for his temporary loss? A cold feeling of fear ran through
her, and then a wave of contemptuous anger at her own cowardice. She
could make no explanations and offer no excuses. She would have to be
silent as she always was silent rather than lie to shield herself from
his imputations. Whatever she did was wrong, no matter how hard she
tried to please him she always failed. She wondered, sometimes, how she
found courage to go on trying. It all seemed so utterly useless. She
pushed the heavy hair off her forehead with a bitter sigh. There wasn’t
much courage about her this morning, she thought. The exultation of that
wild swift gallop through the night had passed, the new strength that
had come to her had evaporated, leaving her utterly weary and sick at
heart. It would have settled so many difficulties if the Arab who had
abducted her had used with purpose the knife with which he had
threatened her the previous day. Death would mean release from a life
that was unbearable, and she was not afraid to die. Death was life—and
the life she led was death. All whom she loved, all who had ever loved
her—for Clyde’s gross passion was not love—were dead. All except
Ann—and how much longer would Ann be left to her? Clyde had so often
threatened that she must go. For Ann’s sake she must try and struggle
on. But if Ann was taken from her—the beautiful, tired little face grew
suddenly cold and set like a piece of carved white ivory and the
slender, drooping figure drew straighter in the saddle as she wrenched
her thoughts to the present. To get it over as soon as might be—to take
her medicine like a man. Despite her unhappiness, she smiled at the
recollection of the well remembered formula that in her childhood had
been her father’s invariable prelude to any correction he administered.
And the father who had died so long ago, who had idolised her as she had
idolised him, had never punished without reason. Clyde punished without
either reason or provocation. The thought goaded her. No matter what
form his anger took she would not give him the satisfaction he always
hoped for. She would not let him see the physical fear he inspired that
even her courageous spirit could not conquer. It would be worse for her
in the end for her apparent callousness infuriated him, but she would
rather break than bend, rather die than grovel at his feet which she
knew was his desire. Avoiding the main road which she was approaching,
she struck into a narrow bridle path that wound upward to the woods
behind Mustapha, from where she had easy access to the little door that
half hidden by flowering shrubs lay at the far end of the villa garden.
The courage she still clung to did not extend to braving the curiosity
of the gatekeeper at the main entrance. A turn in the track brought her
to the path that led down to the garden gate. She reined in and slid to
the ground. For a moment she stood still by the horse that had carried
her so well, her face pressed against his neck, her fingers caressing
the black muzzle thrust affectionately against her arm. Then she turned
and handed the bridle to Hosein who was waiting stolidly beside her.
“That is the villa,” she said, pointing downward, “will you tell your
master that he may know where to send my horse? It is called the Villa
des Ombres. You will not forget?”
The Arab’s dark eyes followed the direction of her hand. “It is known to
my lord,” he said gravely, “it is the villa of the Vicomte de Granier,
who is his friend.”
She smiled at the little piece of gratuitous information.
“Go, with God,” she murmured shyly in his own tongue. It was one of the
few sentences she had learned and as the man heard the stumbling words
his gloomy face lit up suddenly and he replied with a flow of soft quick
Arabic she could not understand. She watched him mount and, leading the
horse she had ridden, move slowly away, not, to her surprise, in the
direction from which they had come but along the winding bridle road
that led further up the hillside. The trees soon hid him from sight, and
with another weary sigh she turned and looked again on the Villa des
Ombres. White and dainty as a doll’s house, set in the loveliest garden
she had ever seen, surrounded by a high wall washed with palest yellow,
the name seemed singularly inappropriate, yet as she looked at it now
the significance of it struck her forcibly. For her it was indeed a
villa of shadows, dark, menacing shadows that crept nearer to her as she
hesitated beside the little path her feet had trodden so often. With a
quickening heart-beat she pulled herself together and went down to the
tiny doorway. Thick fronds of jasmine trailed across it and she put them
aside carefully while she hunted for the key. The door opened inwards
and she slipped through, closing it gently behind her, and stood for a
moment with all the length of the garden between her and the villa,
clutching the burnous closer round her, staring fixedly in the direction
of the house. The garden was deserted, it was too early even for the
gardeners who were not allowed to disturb by their chattering the
protracted slumbers of the English _milor_ who usually lay like a log
for hours after the sun had risen. There was no sign of life within the
villa. Everything was hushed and still, a brooding silence that
oppressed her overwrought nerves. The heavy cloying perfume of the
flowering shrubs brought a feeling of nausea that made her choke with
sudden breathlessness. Her heart was beating suffocatingly as she
started forward, moving slowly from tree to tree, instinctively taking
what cover they afforded. At first she hardly realised what she was
doing, then a blaze of anger went through her. She flung her shoulders
back defiantly. She was not a thief to creep stealthily into her own
house; whatever horrible construction Clyde might choose to put upon
what had happened, she had done nothing to be ashamed of. With head held
high and lips firmly compressed, she flung out from among the sheltering
wealth of foliage into the open and walked steadily towards the house.
It was a modern villa built in the French style, with all the rooms
communicating. The bedrooms were at the back, opening on to a veranda
which led to the garden. And to her own bedroom, the room she shared
with the brute who owned her, she went with dragging feet. Before the
open French window that gave access to the room, she came to a sudden
halt and her eyes swept the cool dim interior with one swift glance of
apprehension. Then she fell weakly against the window frame with a
strangled gasp of relief, trembling violently, conscious for the first
time of an overwhelming weariness that seemed to take from her every
atom of strength. The room appeared to be empty; the massive bed, its
silken curtains hanging from a gilt coronet fixed in the ceiling had not
been slept in.
But as she looked again, too tired to move, she saw what she had
overlooked at first, the tall gaunt figure of a woman, clothed in black,
kneeling beside a big armchair, her neat grey head bowed on her folded
arms. And as Marny bent forward eagerly there came to her ears the low
soft murmur of a voice raised in passionate prayer.
A faint smile flitted across her pale face.
“Ann,” she whispered.
With a wild cry the woman scrambled to her feet and rushed at her,
catching her in her arms with hungry fierceness.
“My lamb—my lamb—” she sobbed, and held her as if she never meant to
let her go. And yielding to the weakness that was growing on her, almost
happy for the moment in the shelter of the tender arms wrapped around
her, Marny laid her aching head on the shoulder of the woman who had
nursed her from babyhood. But the transient happiness passed quickly and
she freed herself with a single word of interrogation.
“Clyde?”
The old woman’s face hardened suddenly. “His lordship’s not back—thank
God,” she said, grimly. With an inward prayer of thankfulness Marny
dropped into a chair. The relief was tremendous, the respite more than
she had dared to hope for. As Clyde was not yet back then there was no
possibility of his arriving before the evening when she would have
strength again to meet him. But there was still one thing that had to be
arranged before he came. She put aside the trembling hands that were
fumbling at the clasp of the enveloping cloak.
“Tanner,” she said, hoarsely, “fetch Tanner. I must speak to him at
once.”
The woman made a gesture of protest. “Never mind Tanner, Miss Marny
dear,” she said, soothingly. “Tanner can wait. Let me put you cosily
into bed first and then I’ll tell him you are safe home. He’s close by
and won’t take any finding. Give him his due, he’s been nearly as
anxious as me, backwards and forwards between the house and the stables
since yesterday morning—and worrying more about you, my precious, I’m
bound to admit, than that nasty, vicious horse he’s so partic’lar
about,” she added, trying again to unfasten the burnous. Marny guessed
at the unspoken anxiety that made Ann’s fingers so unusually clumsy and
smiled reassuringly.
“You don’t understand,” she said, with gentle insistence, “I must see
him. Don’t fuss, Ann dear. I’m not hurt or damaged in any way, I’m only
desperately tired. But I can’t rest until I’ve spoken to Tanner. Bring
him here, and then you can coddle me to your heart’s content. But I
won’t move from this chair until I’ve seen him.”
“But, Miss Marny, it’s your bedroom,” exclaimed Ann in horrified
accents, “and you in that outlandish cloak and all, and your hair—”
“Oh, never mind my hair, you dear old propriety, and Tanner won’t
trouble his head about it being my bedroom. Do as I ask you, Ann, if you
love me,” said Marny, wearily. And muttering to herself Ann departed
grudgingly.
She returned almost immediately followed by an undersized, sharp-faced
man, who bore the marks of his calling stamped plainly upon him. Half
jockey, half groom, Cockney from the top of his bullet head to the tips
of his neat feet, he accepted the situation with the aplomb of his kind.
Saluting smartly, he waited for Lady Geradine to speak. And Marny who
liked and trusted the little man did not hesitate.
“I’ve lost The Caid, Tanner,” she said, bluntly. For a moment his
coolness forsook him. “_My Gawd!_” he breathed and stared at her in
frank dismay. Then he recovered himself quickly. “Did you take a toss,
m’lady, did ’e ’arm you, the vicious devil—begging your ladyship’s
pardon. Mrs. Ann and me, we’ve been cruel anxious,” he added with the
suspicion of a shake in his rasping voice. Marny smiled at him and shook
her head.
“I’m not hurt, thank you, Tanner. The chestnut was stolen. I ought not
to have taken him so far from Algiers. I forgot that he might be known,
might be a temptation to any Arab who knew his value—there are a lot of
desert men coming into the town just now. Anyhow he’s gone. I couldn’t
do anything alone. But I—I’ve given information about it and I’m almost
certain that he will be sent back. So you needn’t worry, Tanner. I’m
sure it will be all right. It was my fault entirely, it probably
wouldn’t have happened if I had taken you with me. But there is no good
in going back to that. I’ll explain to his lordship and—and please keep
near the stables, Tanner, in case the horse comes back today,” she
added, hastily, struggling to keep her voice steady. For a moment the
man hesitated, then with a quiet, “Very good, m’lady,” he jerked his
hand to his forehead and tip-toed from the room. Outside in the hall he
looked back over his shoulder at the closed door, his face working
oddly. “You’ll explain to ’is blooming lordship, will you m’lady? Gawd
almighty, we all know what that’ll mean! I’d a deal rather take the
blame meself—blast ’im!” he muttered, and strode off very far from
sharing his mistress’s optimism with regard to the stolen horse.
In the bedroom, Marny leant back wearily in the deep armchair, too tired
to move, wondering at her own confidence in the promise that had been
made to her, wondering at the man himself and at the strange feeling of
security she had felt in his presence.
Ann’s anxious voice roused her and rising with an effort she submitted
without further protest to the ministrations of her old nurse who
stripped the tattered clothing from her with exclamations of horror at
the sight of the bruises marring the whiteness of the delicate body she
worshipped.
She had seen, with almost murder in her heart, similar bruises before on
those slim young arms and knew them for what they were, the marks of a
man’s merciless fingers. But she made no comment while she bathed the
aching limbs, and brushed the tangled mop of curly hair, and finally
tucked up her charge in bed as if she were a child again. And until the
last drop of strong soup she brought was finished, and she had drawn the
jalousies over the open window, she refrained from asking the questions
that kept rising to her lips. But when everything she could think of for
her mistress’s comfort was done she slipped on to her knees by the
bedside and caught the girl’s hands in hers.
“Tell me, Miss Marny dear,” she pleaded, tremulously, “you can’t go
bottling things up inside of you forever. It will ease your mind to
speak—for once. There’s a lot more than you let out to Tanner, you that
came home in rags and bruised fit to break my heart. What did they do to
you, my precious? Where have you been all these weary hours that I’ve
been nearly out of my senses with fright—thinking you dead, or worse,
and dreading his lordship’d come back and find you gone, and all.”
And thankful for the opportunity of confiding fully once more in the
faithful old nurse who, until five years ago, had shared her every
secret, Marny told her. And Ann listened, as she had listened long ago
to the frank recital of childish escapades, in silence. Only the
trembling of her thin lips, the occasional tightening of her worn old
hand, betrayed the agitation she would not allow herself to voice. Miss
Marny had been through enough, had suffered enough for one day, she
wouldn’t want any more “scenes” now it was all safely over. She brushed
the hair tenderly from the damp white forehead and rose to her feet with
a long drawn breath. “It was bad enough—God be thanked it wasn’t
worse,” she said, softly. “I’d never have believed the day would come
when I’d feel a particle of gratitude toward an Arab—nasty, slinking,
treacherous creatures I’ve always thought them. That man of his
lordship’s—Malec—fair gives me the creeps. But I suppose there’s good
as well as bad amongst them, there must be by what you’ve told me. A
Christian gentleman couldn’t have done more, and there’s many who’d have
done less. What did you say his name was, Miss Marny?”
Marny turned drowsily, settling more comfortably into the pillows.
“He didn’t tell me his name,” she said, sleepily, “he said he was called
El Hakim.”
“And what might that mean?”
“It means a doctor, I think, but I didn’t know Arabs had doctors.
Perhaps he has something to do with the Spahis—he talked French very
well—perhaps he—” a big yawn swallowed the end of the sentence, and
Ann drew up the coverlet with a little admonishing pat. “Never you
bother your pretty head about him now, my lamb. Just go to sleep and
forget all about it. And heaven send the man’s as good as his word and
gets that dratted horse back,” she added, anxiously to herself as she
left the room.
It was late in the afternoon when she reluctantly aroused her mistress
and set down a dainty tea tray by the bedside.
“It’s four o’clock, Miss Marny, and there’s two eggs to your tea. I’ll
see you eat every bit of it,” she announced cheerfully, bustling about
the room and flinging back the shutters. Lady Geradine stretched
luxuriously and then sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Oh,
Ann, what fun,” she said with a laugh the old woman had not heard for
years. “It’s like nursery days. Put heaps of cushions behind me and cut
off the tops of the eggs. I’m simply famishing.” Then she paused with a
square of toast half way to her mouth and the laughter died out of her
eyes.
“Has The Caid come back?”
Ann splashed the tea into the saucer at the sudden question.
“Not yet, dearie, but its only four o’clock—and the train doesn’t get
in until seven,” she said, inconsequently. Marny understood very well
the meaning of her somewhat obscure sentence, but she gave no sign of
understanding. It was part of the pitiful game she played that even Ann
received no confidences and was allowed to make no comment on the
treatment her husband meted out to her. Angry with herself for the words
that had escaped unintentionally, the old woman stole a penitent glance
at the girl who was her idol. But Marny was apparently only concerned
with the salting of her egg.
“The poor dear isn’t likely to come back by train,” she said lightly, as
if the horse alone occupied her mind.
Finishing her tea she slipped out of bed and into the wrapper Ann held
for her. Stretching out her arms she patted them tenderly, and then
raising them high above her head bent forward easily, sweeping her
finger-tips to the ground, and straightened again slowly with a laugh of
satisfaction.
“I’m as right as rain, Ann,” she said, reassuringly, “not a bit stiff.
I’ll dress for dinner now. I can’t be bothered to change again so soon.
Bring me that white teagown thing I got in Paris, it’s loose and cool.”
Too loose and too cool, thought Ann as she went with primly folded lips
to fetch the diaphanous little garment that had been made to Lord
Geradine’s order and which she herself considered neither fit nor decent
for her mistress to wear. A dress suitable in its sensuous appeal to the
women with whom the Viscount chose to associate, but degrading to the
innocent girl whom he had married. And when the final touches to Lady
Geradine’s toilet were completed, Ann stood back and surveyed her
handiwork with grim disapproval. And Marny, staring absently into the
long mirror, caught the expression in the stern old eyes fixed on her
and moved abruptly with a smothered sigh, the colour deepening in her
face. The dress was hateful and she loathed it, but in this as in
everything else, loyalty to her husband kept her lips closed. Even his
questionable taste must pass undiscussed. And discussion would make it
no easier to bear. She had to submit to it as she had to submit to the
man himself. She was not a free agent. Legally she was his wife,
actually she was a slave to be and do at the whim of a capricious and
tyrannical master.
In the early days of her married life, she had tried to rebel, and the
memory of those futile struggles was like a horrible nightmare, but the
passing years had taught her wisdom and given her strength to accept
what she revolted from and detested.
Slipping a long chain of uncut emeralds round her neck she went silently
out of the room. The drawing room she entered was more English than
French in its appointments, bright with gay coloured chintzes and
fragrant with masses of flowers banked in every available space. She
lingered by a tall basket filled with giant roses, inhaling their
delicate perfume and gathering the cool petals against her hot cheeks.
Then she moved slowly to glance at a porcelain clock ticking noisily on
the mantelpiece. Little more than an hour before Clyde might come and
her brief holiday would be over. He rarely left her for so long and the
days of respite had flown. With a shiver she lit a cigarette and began
to pace the narrow room, her thoughts travelling back over the last five
years of bitter misery to the day when, barely seventeen years of age, a
child in every sense, she had grown suddenly in the space of a few
agonising hours into womanhood, cruelly awakened to what it meant to be
Clyde Geradine’s wife. As he determined to continue so had he begun. The
disgust and loathing he inspired in her had never lessened. Herself
innately chaste, his gross coarseness and frank sensuality appalled her.
If he had even once shown that he had been moved by any higher
sentiment, had had any nobler thought beyond the purely physical
attraction she had for him she would have tried to make allowances. But
for him she was merely a perfectly made vigorous young animal by whom he
hoped, as he candidly told her, to get the heir on whom he had set his
heart. And with nothing to cling to, nothing to hope for, she felt only
degradation in her association with him. His moods were variable as his
temper was uncertain. He was made up of contradictions. Despite his own
infidelities, infidelities of which she was fully aware, despite the
fact that he deliberately paraded her beauty on every possible occasion,
he was possessed with an insensate jealousy. Faithless himself he placed
no trust in her faithfulness, and was suspicious of every mark of
admiration shown her. She was his, he insisted, as much his property as
any horse or dog in his stable, his to use as he would. His also, it
seemed, to abuse and torture by every subtle mental torment his cruel
nature could devise. And not mental only. It pleased him to know her
powerless against his strength, it pleased him when the mood was on him
to subject her to physical violence that his warped mind held to be
within his right. He had bought her, body and soul he had bought her,
and brutally he allowed her no possibility of ever forgetting the fact.
Motherless before she was old enough to know her loss, she had grown up
in a big rambling house in an isolated part of the west coast of
Ireland. The father she adored had died when she was twelve, leaving her
in care of her brother Denis, who was ten years her senior. Neighbours
were few and far between, their visits long since discouraged by the
lonely, broken-hearted man who had lived a life of seclusion since his
wife’s death. With no companions of her own age, with almost no
associates of her own rank, she had spent her days in the open, riding
and fishing, content with the limited life she led. Ann’s had been the
only womanly influence she had known, Ann who had been her mother’s
nurse and then her own.
And Denis, a ne’er-do-well with tastes and inclinations studiously
hidden during his father’s lifetime, had, on succeeding to his
inheritance, shaken the dust of Ireland off his feet to seek a more
exhilarating sphere of activity where he had successfully dissipated his
patrimony, and incidentally fallen under the influence and into the
power of Lord Geradine who was a past master in all the vices the
younger man emulated. Marny had never known the real truth of the whole
sordid story. She only knew that after years of absence Denis had
returned, changed almost beyond recognition, bringing with him a
stranger who had stayed for a fortnight in the house. She had hated the
big domineering Englishman at sight, instinctively repelled, and the
attention that almost from the first he had shown had terrified her.
Then he had gone, and a couple of months later Denis had reappeared,
more haggard, more careworn than before. He had told her a long rambling
tale, most of which she had not understood, and had ended with a wild
appeal to her to save his honour and the honour of the family she had
been taught from childhood to reverence. Only by her marriage with Lord
Geradine, it seemed, could the family name escape disgrace. And,
ignorant of what she did, carried away by Denis’ eloquence, passionately
jealous for the name that had gone untarnished for generations, she had
consented. She had been given no time for further reflection, and in
spite of Ann’s horrified remonstrances and pleadings she had been
married almost at once. That was five years ago. And for five years she
had endured a life of misery, in an alien environment, disillusioned and
shocked. Her husband’s hold over her brother—a hold she had never
comprehended and which had never been explained to her—was the means by
which he compelled her submission in everything. And consistently she
had done what she thought to be her duty, had striven to please him as
far as she was able and had been loyal to him who had never shown
loyalty to her.
Five years—only five years!
With a bitter sigh she sank wearily into a big chintz covered
Chesterfield. For a long time she lay thinking, almost dreaming, until
at last she awoke with a sudden sense of shock to the import of her
thoughts. The Arab who had saved her! She could see distinctly every
line of his tall, graceful figure, every feature of his grave, bronzed
face. She found herself wondering again at the cold austerity of his
expression, so different from the appraising glances of admiration
usually accorded her and which made her hate the beauty that inspired
them. He had not even appeared to know that she was beautiful. His
sombre eyes had rested on her with complete indifference, almost, so it
seemed to her, with dislike. Hyper-sensitive, she had been conscious
that his aid, his hospitality had been given unwillingly. She remembered
the curt impatient voice, “I do not keep you to please myself—” and
wondered why the fact of his indifference seemed so suddenly to hurt
her. If he had not been indifferent, if he had looked on her as other
men did, what would have been her fate? She would have escaped one
horrible peril only to fall into another as horrible. She had been
utterly in his power, utterly at his mercy—the mercy of an Arab. She
owed her honour to an Arab—and she did not even know his name! Why had
he evaded what was a perfectly natural question, why hidden his identity
under a sobriquet? Was he afraid that she would try to trace him, try to
force on him some tangible proof of the gratitude he had refused to
listen to? Her cheeks burned. What he had done was beyond payment. In
all probability she would never see him again. She would have to be
content with the meagre information he had given her, content with the
memory of a wonderful chivalry she had never thought to experience and
which had been a revelation. It was as though some healing power had
touched her, like the clean, wholesome breath of some purifying wind
penetrating the defiling atmosphere that surrounded her, opening her
eyes to a new conception of man’s attitude towards woman. The men she
had hitherto met had been uniformly alike in taste and inclination to
the husband who forced their society upon her. She shrank from them as
she shrank from him with a sense of shame that was unendurable.
Compelled to participate in a life she abhorred, she seemed to be on the
brink of some loathsome pit, choked with the fetid fumes of its foul
putrescence, steadily sinking downward into an abyss of horrible and
terrible darkness, her whole soul recoiling from the moral destruction
that appeared to loom inevitably ahead of her. What did her soul matter
to Clyde? It was only her body he wanted. It was only physical
admiration she saw in the eyes of his friends. Yesterday for the first
time she had met a man who had ignored her sex, whose gaze had not
lingered desirously on the fair exterior compelling a remembrance of her
womanhood, whose proximity had not moved her to hot discomfort, but had
given instead a sense of security and trust. With him she had felt
safe—safe and curiously unstrange. The hours spent in his tent, the
long ride through the night at his side, would never be effaced from her
memory. He had given her a glimpse of a finer, cleaner manhood than in
her unhappy experience she had ever known. In some undefinable way he
seemed to have restored the self-respect that year by year she had felt
being torn from her. And he was an Arab! An Arab. She whispered it
again, lying very still on the sofa, her fingers twining and untwining
restlessly about the emerald chain. What did his nationality matter—it
was the man himself who counted. The man who had shown her a nobler type
than she had ever met with, the man who had shown her that all strength
was not merciless, that all men did not look on women merely as their
natural prey. And as with this desert man, so must it be with many men
of her own race. Her brooding eyes darkened with sudden anguish, and she
flung on to her face burying her head in the silken cushions, fighting
the agony of misery and revolt that swept over her. Why had she been
destined for such a fate? Why had it been her lot to be thrown only
amongst those whose vileness debased the sacred image in which they were
made? Why had she been given no chance of the happiness that must be the
portion of luckier women than she? If it had been otherwise, if for her
marriage had meant not only physical union but a higher, holier
companionship of mind and spirit, how gladly would she have yielded to a
passion hallowed by love, to possession tempered by consideration. If
she could have loved and respected where now she only obeyed and
endured! A marriage such as hers was ignoble, degrading, horrible beyond
all thought. If she had known what it would mean, would she have had the
courage to face what she had done in ignorance? She sat up, pushing the
heavy hair off her forehead, staring into space with pain-filled eyes.
Yes, she would have done it again in spite of everything. Not for love
of Denis, she had never loved him—in childhood he had bullied her, in
girlhood he had neglected her, and on the threshold of her womanhood he
had made her pay the price of his infamy—but for love of the name and
family that meant so much to her. And because of that, because her
wretchedness was the result of her own willing sacrifice she must
struggle on as she had struggled all these five terrible years, beaten
and hopeless, but striving to fulfill her part of the marriage vows her
husband treated so lightly. But, oh, dear God, she had never known it
would be so hard! Harder now than ever. Why did her thoughts turn so
persistently to the man who had saved her? Why did the recollection of
his chivalry and generosity seem to make her feel so much more acutely
the misery of her life? Was it only the contrast to the man whose wife
she was? She hid her face in her hands with a sharp little cry of fear.
It was more than that. Quite suddenly she realised it—the full meaning
of what had happened to her, the full significance of the thoughts that
were crowding in her brain. She shivered, clasping her hands closer over
her eyes. Why, oh why had this come to her—had she not already enough
to bear! And if she had not been bound, if she were free, it would make
no difference. He was an Arab! Then her self-control gave way and she
fell back among the cushions, dry-eyed but shaking with emotion. “I
wouldn’t have cared,” she wailed, “I wouldn’t care what he was.”
But his indifference had been complete—and she was married! She wrung
her hands in an agony of shame and horror. She was married. She was
Clyde’s wife. To even think of another man was sin. She must tear from
her heart the image that in a few short hours had become so deeply
implanted. She would never see him again. With quivering lips she
whispered it, and writhed at the strange new sense of desolation that
came upon her. A companionship that had been so brief, a passing
stranger of an alien race whose name she did not even know—and yet the
world seemed suddenly empty. She pondered it, ashamed and vaguely
frightened. It was because she had trusted him, she thought with a
pitiful attempt at self-justification, and because she was tired and
overwrought. Unnerved, she had allowed his kindness to make too deep an
impression.
Later, when strength was given her again, she would forget—not him—but
the wickedness that filled her heart tonight. She moved listlessly on
the sofa, mentally exhausted, too tired almost to care that The Caid was
still missing, that very soon her husband might be returning and she
would have to make her lame explanation and face his inevitable wrath.
And for once, honesty compelled her to admit it, he would have good
cause for anger. The horse was valuable, and she had had no right to
take him so far from Algiers unattended. It was asking for trouble in a
land of horsemen who stole where they could not buy and who would
consider the theft of a noted stallion, that a foreigner purposed to
remove from the country, as an act of merit rather than otherwise. All
her young life she had ridden alone. But it would be useless to try and
explain to Clyde the overpowering desire for solitude that had driven
her out yesterday morning without the groom whose constant presence put
a period to her enjoyment and took from her all the pleasure of her
rides.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. She hardly glanced at it. If
Clyde did come, the train would probably be late. It usually was. And
for nearly an hour more she lay still, striving to concentrate her tired
mind on trivialities, becoming momentarily drowsier as the room grew
darker. She was nearly asleep when the sound of a loud blustering voice
echoing from the hall sent her bolt upright on the sofa, her heart
beating violently, her wide eyes fixed apprehensively on the door.
She stumbled to her feet as he flung into the room, a tall heavily-built
man whose big frame seemed to almost fill the aperture as he stood for a
moment in the entrance peering for her in the dim light.
“What the devil are you sittin’ in the dark for?” The truculent tone
gave her the key to the mood in which he had returned and her heart beat
faster as she heard him fumbling at the electric switchboard by the
door. Then the room flashed into brilliance as he swept his hand
downward with an impatient jerk, and she blinked at the sudden glare of
light with a nervous little laugh.
Without waiting for an answer he strode towards her and caught her in
his arms with the rough masterfulness that was habitual with him. “Been
asleep—tired of waiting for me? You look like a baby with your hair all
ruffled and your cheeks the colour of a two-year-old,” he said, with a
short laugh of satisfaction, drawing her closer and bending to kiss her.
The hot breath fanning her face was rank with spirits and it took all
her resolution to suppress the repugnance his nearness caused her, and
meet the heavy eyes that glowed with sudden passion as he crushed his
mouth on hers. She was trembling when at last he released her but he did
not seem to notice her agitation. He laughed again, looking her slowly
up and down with the frank appraisement of a proprietor. “I wanted
that,” he remarked complacently, “a fortnight’s a bit too much without
your charmin’ society, my dear. You’ll come along too the next time. And
the trip wasn’t worth it. No decent heads worth speaking about, not a
sight nor smell of a panther, and that ass Malec mucked up the
arrangements as I knew he would—a rotten show from start to finish. And
the train was nearly an hour late getting into Algiers, waited an
infernal time at a potty little wayside station for some dam’ chief or
other to get aboard with most of his tribe. Thought we were going to be
there all night. Can’t think why they let the beggars travel by train.
I’m as hot as hell and my throat’s on fire. I want a drink and I want a
bath. Tell ’em to have dinner ready in half-an-hour.” And with a parting
curse at the inefficiency of the Algerian railway service he flung out
of the room as he had flung into it.
With her hand pressed tightly against the lips that were still quivering
from his kisses Marny stood struggling to regain her composure and
starting nervously as she listened to the angry bellowing that came from
her husband’s dressing room. But she drew a swift little breath of
relief at the thought that he obviously knew nothing as yet of The
Caid’s disappearance, that it was not any fault of hers but only the
non-success of the shooting trip that had annoyed him. If she could only
keep the disastrous knowledge from him until tomorrow—the horse might
be back by then. She smothered a sigh and, ringing the bell, gave the
order for dinner. His rough handling had further disarranged her ruffled
hair and while she smoothed it into order she stared at herself in the
mirror with hostile eyes.
He had made her a coward—would he end by making her a liar as well? But
at least she need not lie to herself. It was cowardice that made her
defer telling him the story of her mishap. It was cowardice that had
made her choose the hateful dress she was wearing tonight. She turned
away with a gesture of disgust and self scorn, and fell to pacing the
room until he joined her again.
During dinner her own silence passed unheeded while he launched into a
detailed and grumbling account of the expedition that had fallen far
short of his expectations. He cursed the country and its people and the
sporting facilities with equal impartiality and with a wealth of highly
coloured language that was peculiarly his own, breaking off frequently
to swear at the servants who were, notwithstanding, doing their work
quickly and well. She knew that he must have been drinking heavily
during the day, but his thirst seemed unquenchable and as she watched
him gulp down whisky after whisky, she wondered with a feeling of dread
what form the inevitable reaction would take. His rages were easier to
bear than the moods of maudlin sentimentality that sickened her.
Contrary to his usual custom he followed her into the drawing room when
dinner was finished, and lighting a cigar took up a commanding position
before the flower-filled fireplace with his hands thrust deep in the
pockets of his dinner jacket, watching her through half-veiled eyes
until coffee was brought.
“You’re dam’ pretty tonight, Marny,” he remarked condescendingly as he
took the fragile cup she held out to him. “I flatter myself that dress
was a stroke of genius,” he added, looking with no great favour at the
coffee he raised to his lips. A moment later cup and contents went
crashing into the flower pots behind him.
“Filth!” he ejaculated disgustedly, “if that chap can’t make decent
coffee he’ll have to go.” And consigning the cook to perdition he
lounged across the room to a chair and turning to the tray-laden table
beside him splashed neat cognac wrathfully into a glass. Marny put down
her own cup without answering. There was nothing wrong with the coffee,
it was perfectly made as usual, but expostulation was useless with Clyde
in his present humour. And he seemed to expect no comment. Swallowing
the brandy with slow enjoyment, he refilled the glass and, stretching
his long limbs lazily, turned to her with the question for which she had
been waiting all evening.
“Tanner been behaving—beasts all right?” he rapped, with a glance at
the clock on the mantlepiece. And fearful that, even at this late hour,
he might be meditating a visit to the stables, for the first time in her
life she lied, her fingers clutching at the soft cushions of the sofa
till they grew stiff and numb.
“Tanner has been exemplary. The horses are splendid,” she said with
forced easiness. And her answer apparently satisfied him for he grunted
approvingly and settled more comfortably into his chair. For some time
he did not speak, and she lay still striving to subdue the rapid beating
of her heart, acutely conscious of the searching eyes that rarely left
her face. But when the coffee tray had been removed he stirred
restlessly. “Any letters?”
Accustomed to doing for him what he was too lazy to do for himself, she
rose and fetched the pile of correspondence that had accumulated during
his absence, and, going back to the sofa, watched him tearing open and
throwing aside letter after letter until she could keep silent no
longer.
“Aren’t you going to the Club?”
He laughed shortly. “Not me,” he said, with a glance that made her
flinch. “You seem to forget I’ve been away for a fortnight. My wife’s
society is good enough for me tonight.”
With an involuntary tremor she turned her head that he might not see the
loathing she knew was written on her face, and picked up a novel with
shaking fingers. She had not expected that he would go to the Club, and
only a passionate longing to shorten the hours she must spend alone with
him made her propose it. Her lips trembled as she turned the pages of
the book mechanically, not reading but listening to his angry comments
on the letters that were evidently not pleasing to him. He flung the
last one from him with a snarl.
“That charming brother of yours is asking for trouble! Overrun his
allowance again and has the cheek to write and ask for a cheque by
return. I’ll see him in Hades first. I’ve warned him before the
allowance is ample and that I wouldn’t raise it by a single halfpenny.
Seems to think I’m made of money,” he added, kicking the letter
petulantly.
The book slipped to the floor as Marny sat up with a jerk, staring at
him uncomprehendingly.
“His allowance—Denis—I don’t understand,” she said slowly, with a
puzzled frown.
He looked at her with a curious smile. “Don’t you, my dear?” he said
unpleasantly. “Neither does Denis, apparently. No Irishman seems to
understand the value of money, and I suppose Denis is only conforming to
type when he fails to understand that the yearly allowance I make him
has got to last a year. He can whistle for what he wants now, I shan’t
give it to him.”
“But, Clyde, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she gasped, “the
allowance _you_ make him—why do you make Denis an allowance? Why can’t
he live on his own money?”
Lord Geradine smiled again.
“What money?” he drawled.
She jerked her head impatiently.
“His own money, the estate money, the rents of Castle Fergus. What
he—what we have always lived on. Why can’t he manage on that?”
“Because the Castle Fergus rents are paid to me,” replied her husband
shortly. She looked at him blankly, putting her hand to her head with a
gesture of bewilderment.
“To you,” she faltered, “the Castle Fergus rents are paid to you? But
why—what have you to do with Castle Fergus? Oh, Clyde, I don’t know
what you mean, truly I don’t.”
Lord Geradine heaved himself sideways in his chair and poured out a
whisky with slow deliberation. “You knew your brother was in a hole when
I married you,” he said at last, with a certain irritation in his voice.
She winced, and the blood rushed into her white face. “I knew that,” she
said shakily, “but I didn’t know it had anything to do with money. I
thought it was something—something horrible he had done,” she added
with a shiver, her voice breaking pitifully.
Geradine emptied the glass and pushed it from him with a hard laugh.
“The one sometimes follows from the other,” he said contemptuously, “it
was so with Denis. He ran through a very tidy fortune in an uncommonly
short space of time, and then he did what you are pleased to call
‘something horrible’. I don’t set up to be a model of virtue myself but
there are some things I jib at, and I’m damned if I’d soil my hands with
the dirty game he played. But he played it once too often when I came on
the scenes. He landed himself in the devil of a mess and jolly nearly
ended in jail. But for my own reasons that didn’t suit me, and he was
dam’ glad to take the terms I offered him. He wanted his liberty and
money enough to make it amusing—I wanted you. And there you have it,”
he concluded with brutal candour.
She sat quite still, looking at him fixedly her face colourless, trying
to realize the meaning of what he had told her. At the moment she hardly
knew which she hated most, the brother who had held his sister so
cheaply or the man who had been content to drive so shameful a bargain
to obtain what he wanted.
“He _sold_ me to you,” she said at last. And the scorn in her voice sent
him out of his chair with an oath that made her shudder, “Oh, for God’s
sake don’t make a tragedy out of it,” he cried angrily. “In any case
it’s ancient history. You knew that Denis had a reason for pressing our
marriage. I don’t know what fancy tale he told you, and I don’t care. We
are married and there’s an end of it. And there’s no earthly need to cut
up so rough about it. You didn’t do so badly for yourself, you blessed
little innocent—and I’m not complaining. Don’t be a little fool, Marny.
I mayn’t be a saint but I’m dam’ fond of you. I wanted you the first
minute I laid eyes on you, and I generally get what I want,” he added
with a complacent laugh, dropping down on the sofa beside her. Then his
voice changed as he slid his hand slowly up the soft cool arm under the
loose sleeve of her teagown. “I’ve been wanting you pretty badly this
last fortnight,” he whispered thickly, and flung his arms around her
with sudden violence. For a moment he held her, trembling and helpless
in his fierce embrace, and she felt the heavy beating of his heart as he
stared down at her with hot desire flaming in his red flecked eyes. Then
he laughed again, a laugh that made her want to shriek, that made every
nerve in her body quiver with passionate revolt, and pushed her from
him.
“Run along,” he said quickly, “and don’t keep me waiting the infernal
age you usually do. Tell that old woman to clear out in double quick
time if she values her place.”
Beyond the door, free from his watching eyes, she buried her face in her
hands with a groan of agony. For how many more years, oh, merciful God,
must she endure this life of horrible bondage? Would she never be
free—never escape from his brutality till death released her. If she
could only die—but she was too strong to die. Misery did not kill. She
would live—live until the beauty that was all he cared for faded, live
until he had drained from her the strength and vitality that had
attracted him. And afterwards? For her there was no afterwards, no hope,
no consolation. There was only the present with its difficulties and
suffering. The present! She started nervously. How long had she stood
there? With a convulsive shudder she went swiftly across the dim lit
hall.
And as she passed her husband’s dressing room the door opened suddenly
and she came face to face with his Arab valet. She had not seen the man
since his return and, forcing a smile to her trembling lips, she nodded
to him with the kindly greeting she gave invariably to every member of
the household. But as he turned to her the words died in an inarticulate
gasp and she halted abruptly, staring with horror at the terrible mark
that, stretching from forehead to chin, disfigured his face—a mark that
could only have been caused by the slashing cut of a powerfully driven
whip. “Malec—” she cried aghast. But with a quick salaam the man drew
back and, slipping past her, vanished down the passage with the lithe
noiselessness of his race. She stood as if turned to stone, breathing
heavily, her clenched hands pressed against her throbbing temples,
sickened by what she had seen. “How can he—oh, how can he?” she moaned.
Then with a backward glance of fearful apprehension she fled
panic-stricken to the door of her own room. But there, with a tremendous
effort of will, she regained her self command and went in quietly,
smiling with apparent naturalness as Ann turned from the open window to
meet her. The old woman’s face was radiant. She almost ran across the
room.
“Miss Marny, dear, it’s all right,” she breathed eagerly. “Tanner’s just
been in. The horse was brought back half an hour ago and he’s not a
penny the worse.”
For an instant Marny looked at her strangely. Then she sank into a chair
with a gasp of relief, and stretched out her hands tremblingly.
“Ann—oh, _Ann_!” she whispered.