At the close of a hot afternoon, about three weeks after his return to
Algiers, Carew was sitting in the Governor General’s private room at the
Winter Palace.
Staring out of the window, a neglected cigarette drooping between his
lips, he was listening without attending to the faint strains of the
Zouave band echoing from the Place du Gouvernement, drumming absently
with his fingers on the table before him which was littered with maps
and plans and scattered typewritten sheets. For the best part of two
hours he had been repeating the story of his last journey, and the
hardly won concession for the benefit of an interested and detail-loving
representative of the Ministry of the Interior who was returning the
next day to Paris after an extensive and carefully shepherded tour
through the northern provinces of Algeria.
Carew’s mission successfully terminated and his report duly handed in to
headquarters, he had had no wish to be further identified with the
enterprise. He was glad to be of use to the Administration; anxious
always, when opportunity offered, to assist in promoting a better
understanding between the rulers of the country and its native part of
his life’s work. He was not inclined to magnify the importance of what
he did and he was actuated by no desire for personal gain or advantage.
He was content to give his help when it was required and let others take
the kudos. He worked solely for love of the country and admiration of
its administrators. The Governor General and the Commander-in-Chief,
both hard-working conscientious men who governed a difficult country
with tact and discretion, were his personal friends, and he considered
himself amply rewarded if his own endeavors in any way eased the burden
of their responsibilities.
But today, for the first time, he had yielded to the often expressed
wish of General Sanois—who administered the particular part of the
Sahara under discussion—that his really valuable aid should be more
intimately known to the home authorities.
The interview had passed off successfully. The illustrious visitor had
shown a wide knowledge of and a deep personal interest in the affairs of
the country which had gone far to lessen the instinctive feeling of
hostility with which the two men primarily responsible for its
well-being, had viewed his advent. He had listened carefully to Carew’s
story, gripping the major points of importance sanely and intelligently,
and had been loud in his approval of the work done. With Gallic courtesy
and enthusiasm he had congratulated all concerned, expressing his own
and his country’s indebtedness to the three men he addressed in a
felicitous little speech that hinted at much he did not say outright,
and, with a final interchange of compliments, had at last betaken
himself to his waiting carriage whither the Governor and General Sanois
had accompanied him.
And Carew, left for a few moments alone in the cool pleasant room, had
fallen into a profound reverie that was in no way connected with the
events of the afternoon.
The sound of approaching voices roused him and he turned reluctantly
from the window as the stout, smiling little Governor bustled in,
followed by his tall, grave-faced army colleague, and a slim,
delicate-looking youth who went silently to a desk in a far corner.
The Governor dropped into a chair with a little grunt, mopped his heated
forehead vigorously and beamed with evident satisfaction on his
companions.
“That’s over,” he remarked in a tone of relief. “I usually have a _crise
de nerfs_ after these visits. But this one was better than most, _Dieu
merci!_ Some of them—_oh, la! la!_” He broke off with a comical
grimace, flourishing his handkerchief expressively. Then with a shrug
and a gay laugh he tapped Carew’s knee confidentially with a podgy
forefinger.
“Everything goes _à merveille_, my dear Carew. Our friend is charmed
with all he has seen, has been pleased to compliment me on the state of
the country, and has swallowed all the extravagant demands of our good
Sanois here without turning a hair. Providing he remembers all he has
promised, providing his interest is as great as he represents, there
should be speedily allowed to us some alterations in administration we
have long asked for in vain. Our hands have been tied too tightly,
_voyez-vous_. He sees the necessity for loosening them somewhat. I am
not expecting the millennium—I have lived too long to expect anything
very much, particularly of politicians—but I am hopeful, decidedly
hopeful. If it were not so exhausting I might even allow myself to
become enthusiastic. But I gave up enthusiasms when I came to
Algeria—so very detrimental to the nerves.” Again he demonstrated
languidly with his handkerchief, and then patted his chest
significantly. “And some little decorations will probably follow,
_hein_? We need not attach too much importance to them, perhaps, but
they are pleasant to receive, oh, yes, decidedly very pleasant to
receive.”
“For me, I would rather receive the extra battery I asked for,” growled
the General.
The little Governor looked up at him with an expression of pained
protest. “Ah, you soldiers—you and your guns! Brute force, brute
force—that’s all you think of,” he murmured reprovingly. Then he smiled
again, waving his hands as though dismissing the unpleasant idea his
colleague’s words suggested.
“You will dine with me tonight,” he said genially, “both of you? We must
celebrate the occasion. And afterwards, perhaps, for an hour or two, the
opera? Not very amusing but—” he shrugged whimsically and offered Carew
his cigarette case.
For a few minutes longer they talked of the possibilities of the new
régime in prospect, and then the General rose to go with a vague
reference to a mass of correspondence awaiting his attention.
“Are you coming my way?” he asked, turning to the Englishman. But Carew
shook his head.
“I’ve an appointment in the Casbar this evening,” he said, shuffling
some papers together and slipping them into his breast pocket.
Sanois laughed grimly and looked up from the sword-belt he was buckling
with a suspicion of eagerness in his keen eyes. “It would be indiscreet
to ask with whom, I presume? You know more about the Casbar than I do,”
he said, almost grudgingly. “You’ve friends everywhere, Carew. Some of
them I’d like to lay my hands on,” he added meaningly.
Carew smiled faintly. “Possibly,” he said coolly, “but my ‘friends’ are
useful. And until they let me down I can’t very well help you to any
information you may want concerning them. That was agreed,” he added,
his voice hardening slightly.
“Word of an Englishman, eh?” said the General with another grim laugh,
and stalked off.
The Governor looked at the closing door with his smiling features
puckered up disapprovingly. “An excellent fellow, but blood
thirsty—very blood thirsty,” he murmured, with the least little touch
of regret in his voice as if he deprecated an attitude with which in
reality he thoroughly concurred.
But Carew’s thoughts were not concerned with the man who had just left
the room.
Crossing to the open window he stood for some time without speaking, his
hands plunged deep in his jacket pockets, scowling at the palms in the
garden beneath. And accustomed to his frequent and protracted silences
his host, pleasantly somnolent with the beat and tired with the
excitement of the day, made no attempt to force conversation. Stretched
comfortably in a capacious armchair he toyed idly with a cigarette and
sipped the vermouth his guest had declined, thoroughly content with
himself and the world at large, until Carew’s voice broke in suddenly on
thoughts that were lightly alternating between the happy results of the
afternoon’s interview and the gastronomic delights of the coming dinner.
“There is a compatriot of mine, a certain Viscount Geradine, who has de
Granier’s villa this winter—can you tell me anything about him?”
The cherubic little Governor looked vaguely embarrassed. “Nothing of
very much good, I am afraid,” he said slowly, “he is not, unfortunately,
an ornament to your usually so distinguished aristocracy. I personally
know very little of him. But one hears things—one hears things,” he
repeated uncomfortably.
For a moment Carew hesitated, then:
“As—what?” he asked bluntly. Surprised at the question, the Frenchman
shot him a look of undisguised astonishment. It was unlike Carew to be
curious about anybody, and in all the years he had known him he had
never heard him even refer to a member of the English community.
“Patrice knows more about these things than I do,” he fenced, lighting a
fresh cigarette with delicate precision. And turning to the pale youth
in the corner who seemed absorbed in his secretarial duties, he raised
his voice slightly.
“My good Patrice, can you tell us anything about the Englishman, Lord
Geradine, who is living at the Villa des Ombres?”
The young man looked up quickly with a laugh which showed that his
attention was not so wholly centered on his work as it appeared to be.
“I can tell you what happened _chez Fatima_ last night, _mon oncle_,” he
replied promptly, with a boyish grin that was faintly malicious. But the
Governor raised a plump white hand in horrified protest. “I beg of
you—no,” he said hurriedly. “Spare us the disgusting details, _mon
cher_. Generalities will be amply sufficient, amply sufficient.”
His nephew shrugged acquiescence. “As you will,” he said complacently,
“but it was amusing—oh, yes, distinctly amusing,” he mimicked, with the
assurance of a highly privileged individual. And for five minutes he
sketched with racy frankness the character and failings of the man who
had won for himself an unenviable reputation even in a not too
straight-laced society. It was an unsavoury revelation that provoked
little exclamations of disgust from the visibly distressed Governor, but
Carew listened with apparent indifference to the delinquencies of his
fellow-countryman. “—a drunkard and a bully,” concluded the attaché,
ticking off the final accusations on his fingers as if he were
tabulating them for a formal process. “And married,” he added with a
burst of indignation, “married, _imaginez-vous_, to a beautiful young
girl with the face of an angel—”
“Yes, yes, quite so,” interrupted his uncle dryly, “they usually are
married, _ces gens là_, to a beautiful young girl with the face of an
angel! But we are not discussing Lady Geradine, my good Patrice. Not a
pleasant character, I fear,” he added, turning deprecatingly to Carew as
if apologising for his nephew’s outspoken comments, “but rich, immensely
rich, I understand. If it is the question of a horse, perhaps—” he
suggested tentatively, as a probable reason for Carew’s inquiry suddenly
occurred to him. But Carew shook his head with a curt gesture of
disdain.
“I value my horses too highly to sell them to a man of that type,” he
said shortly, and took leave without vouchsafing any explanation of his
curiosity.
Outside in the Place du Gouvernement he glanced at his watch as he
turned his steps toward the native quarter. It was later than he had
imagined. He would have to hurry to keep his appointment and get back to
his own villa in time to dress for the dinner the Governor had planned
so gleefully. Heedless of the traffic, too familiar with the varied
types to even glance at the jostling crowd of cosmopolitan humanity
about him, he strode through the busy streets with a heavy scowl on his
face, immersed in his own thoughts. What on earth had made him ask the
Governor that idiotic question? What on earth did the fellow matter to
him! If the voluble young attaché’s story was true—and Patrice Lemaire
was a social butterfly who knew everybody and everything in Algiers—he
must be a pretty average blackguard. And if he were—what business was
it of his? It mattered not one particle to him if the tenant of de
Granier’s villa was a devil from hell or a saint from heaven. If the
girl had married a scoundrel it was her own look-out. It was of no
moment to him. He had no interest in either her or her husband. He had
been forced to help her in her exigency, but the affair was over and
done with—thank heaven.
Finished as far as he was concerned when he had been fortunate enough to
get her horse back, which he had done far sooner than he had expected.
It had been a stroke of luck, that second chance meeting with Abdul el
Dhib. Carew smiled despite himself as he remembered the wily horse
stealer’s discomforted curses when he reluctantly surrendered the stolen
stallion which he had already mentally disposed of at considerable
profit to a Sheik in the south who paid well and asked no questions. But
it had been touch and go, half-an-hour later and he would have missed
him. With what result? Quite suddenly he seemed to be looking into a
pair of wide, blue eyes, strained and dark with agonised terror, and he
flung his shoulders back angrily, cursing the trick of memory that had
brought the girl’s white face before him with vivid distinctness. For
years he had never consciously looked at a woman. Why did this woman’s
face haunt him so persistently? He had no wish to remember her, he hoped
never to see her again, but for the last three weeks the remembrance of
her had been a nightmare. The tranquillity of mind he had won after
years of mental struggle had been torn from him, first by the coming of
Micky Meredith and then by the circumstance that had flung this
unfortunate girl across his path. The quiet villa that for so long had
been his haven of rest seemed now neither restful nor solitary. It was
peopled by shadowy figures that crowded day and night upon his thoughts,
breaking habits that had become second nature and stirring him painfully
to the recollection of emotions he had long since deliberately cut out
of his life. He was in the grip of a tremendous revolt that acted
equally on mind and body. He seemed, for the second time in his forty
years, to be facing a crisis that was overwhelming. He tried to analyse
dispassionately the agitation of mind that had taken so strong a hold on
him, to probe honestly for the reason of the strange unrest that filled
him. But self-analysis brought him no nearer to an understanding of his
feelings, brought him no kind of alleviation.
And yet, in reality, there was only one solution, he argued doggedly as
he made his way through the narrow streets, a solution that was simple
enough, ample enough in all conscience—if he had only sense enough to
leave it at that. It was, it could only be, reaction from the sudden
awakening of the old pain, the old memories he had thought done with
forever. There was no other possible construction to put upon his state
of mind—he would allow no other construction. And yet, the humiliation
of it! That the chance meeting with an old friend should move him so
strongly; that he should be fool enough, weak enough to permit himself
to brood over the past he had buried so many years before. Had he not
even yet conquered the moral cowardice that in the early days of his
sorrow had driven him from England and made him avoid association with
his fellow countrymen rather than face the scandal that would always be
connected with his name. It had been rank cowardice. And he was a coward
still, it appeared, too cowardly even to be honest with himself.
His face hardened as a wave of self-disgust passed over him. And
wrenching his thoughts resolutely from the morbid introspection to which
he had given way he forced his attention to the immediate matter in
hand.
And as he plunged deeper into the heart of the Casbar he thought with a
slight feeling of amusement of General Sanois’ parting words for the
astute old Arab who awaited his coming was distinctly one of those
“friends” the General yearned to lay his hands on.
Turning from the steep street he was ascending, he entered a gloomy
alley of squalid, sinister-looking houses and walked slowly along the
narrow footway, counting the closed doors carefully as he went.
The house before which he eventually halted was, if possible, more
sinister, more wretched-looking than the rest, the cracked walls bulging
ominously in places and stained with leperous-like patches where the
plaster had fallen off, the twisted iron balcony that projected a few
feet above his head clinging by what seemed a miracle to the crumbling
fabric from which it threatened momentarily to detach itself. There was
no knocker on the nail-studded door, and the tiny grille was closed, but
Carew had not expected an open welcome and he was too well versed in the
ways of the Casbar to advertise his presence by any noisy demonstration.
Though apparently deserted, he knew that life was teeming behind the
seemingly empty walls. The whole street bore the same abandoned
tenantless appearance, but he was well aware that unseen peeping eyes
had followed his leisurely progress from the moment he had set foot on
the filthy cobble stones that were damp and reeking with undrained
refuse. He knew that he was expected, but it was not his custom to make
visits of ceremony to the Casbar in European dress, and, an unfamiliar
figure, in all likelihood, some minutes would elapse before the door
opened to receive him. It was probable that his coming was watched for
from behind the close lattice-work of the forlornly drooping little
balcony and he moved further out into the street that he might be more
plainly seen, lighting a cigarette as he set himself to wait until the
hidden watcher should satisfy himself of the visitor’s identity. And the
cigarette was smoked through before he heard the dull clank of heavy
bars being removed. Still with no show of haste he sauntered to the door
that opened narrowly to admit him and passed into gloom that became
absolute blackness as the faint light, filtering in from without, was
shut off by the closing of the entrance. Again he heard the rattle of
formidable bolts, then a hand touched his sleeve and he was led along an
interminable passage that curved and twisted tortuously. It was
impossible in the darkness to form any idea of the way he was being
conducted and with the frequent turnings he speedily lost all sense of
bearing. He only knew that the house he had entered was certainly not
the one in which he would eventually find himself. That the passage
occasionally widened into rooms was apparent for he could feel the
difference in the atmosphere, and his hand outstretched to the dank wall
beside him met from time to time with only space. But his silent guide
moved forward unhesitatingly with a sure step that made Carew wonder
suddenly if he was blind.
Dumb also, it would appear, for he made no answer to the one remark
addressed to him.
A doorkeeper who was a deaf mute and blind, a mysterious building which
was approached by devious ways and secret passages—Carew’s lips
twitched with amusement. To him the situation was sufficiently
ludicrous, though to one less sure of his welcome, less acquainted with
the way of the people, there might have been more than a suggestion of
unpleasantness in this curious reception. It was all so typically
eastern, so fraught with childish intrigue and suspicion. The wily old
Arab who, after years of absence, had ventured into Algiers again for
cogent reasons of his own was evidently taking no chances of a surprise
visit from the authorities who were presumably unaware of his return.
That he had come himself directly from the Palace and from the company
of General Sanois was a humorous coincidence that made Carew smile
again.
His eyes were just beginning to become accustomed to the darkness when
the guide’s fingers pressing on his arm brought him to a sudden stop and
he waited without moving while more bolts were removed and a tiny door
swung inward revealing a narrow winding staircase which was lit by a
solitary earthenware lamp placed in a niche in the wall. Seen by the dim
light his conductor proved to be a powerful negro of gigantic height,
blind as he had thought. And feeling more than ever that he had stepped
into an episode from the Arabian Nights, Carew followed him up the
staircase to a door that was covered with a curtain of matchless
embroidery. He was ushered into a room which, for sumptuousness of
furnishing and barbaric splendour, he had never seen equalled. The rugs
and hangings were priceless, the divans and mats gorgeous with vivid
colourings, and the many lamps of beaten silver, lit already, for the
daylight was excluded by thick curtains, were finer even than those
which hung in the mauresque hall of his own villa. The atmosphere was
stifling and heavy with the sweet pungent scent of incense.
Blinking at the sudden light he hesitated on the threshold for an
instant and then went forward to meet the superbly-dressed Arab who rose
quickly from a heap of cushions to greet him with unusually
demonstrative expressions of pleasure.
Their last meeting had been under very different circumstances,
circumstances attendant on the intertribal warfare that waged
perpetually between the belligerent Arabs of the far south. Travelling
in a district that was new to him, Carew had become involved in a bid
for supremacy between two powerful chiefs which had ended in victory for
the one who was now greeting him with such wealth of flowery
hyperbole—a victory that at the time it had seemed impossible he could
live to enjoy. In the course of his wanderings, Carew had seen many
appalling sights and had attended to wounds that appeared well-nigh
incurable, but never in the whole of his experience had he attempted to
restore a body so horribly mangled and broken. For weeks he had wrestled
to save the chief’s life and it had been mainly owing to his care,
though helped by a magnificent constitution and a passionate desire to
live, that the Sheik had eventually recovered to swear eternal
friendship with the man who had literally snatched him from the jaws of
death.
The mutual interchange of formal compliments and good-will was followed
by the customary coffee and sweet-meats, and cigarettes that were the
Sheik’s one lapse from strict orthodoxy and which he proffered with a
grave smile and a jest at his own expense. The conversation ranged over
many topics, and used though he was to the circumambient methods of the
oriental when any particular point is in view, Carew began to wonder
when the special subject which he understood was the main reason of his
visit would be approached. But when the Sheik at length abandoned
generalities and came with unexpected directness to the heart of the
matter he had dallied with so long, Carew listened to information that
coming from such a quarter, filled him with amazement. The man was no
friend to France, and out of favour with the Government, but he was
calmly imparting intelligence that would be very useful to the
Administration and for the moment Carew was nonplussed. Was the
surprising confidence for his ears alone or was he being used as an
intermediary to bring about a rapprochement between a refractory chief
and the rulers of the country? He put the question with his usual
bluntness.
“Is it thy wish that the Government should learn of this?”
The Sheik’s gem-laden fingers touched lightly first his forehead then
his breast.
“It is my wish that through _thee_ the Government should learn that
which they are too blind to see. Thus do I, in part, pay my debt,” he
answered, with a sudden gleam in his fierce old eyes. Carew nodded and
studied the glowing end of his cigarette thoughtfully for a few moments.
“And thou, O Sheik,” he said at last, “do I speak for thee to the
Government? The day is fortunate. Tonight I dine with His Excellency and
General Sanois—”
“May Allah burn them!” interposed the Sheik fervently, and spat frankly
and conclusively on to the priceless carpet. Carew laughed.
“And thy news?” he asked, rising to his feet after a glance at the watch
on his wrist and pulling his waistcoat down with a jerk.
“Use it—or withhold it, but speak no word of me. Am I their dog?”
replied the Sheik, with a flash of anger, as he prepared to take leave
of his guest.
But there was a constraint in his manner, a hint of something left
unsaid, that made him appear preoccupied as he accompanied Carew to the
head of the little winding staircase where the negro was still waiting.
And it was not until the elaborate farewells had been spoken and Carew
had started to descend that the old Arab gave utterance to what was in
his mind. Leaning forward he spoke in a swift undertone. “There was a
dweller in the wilderness who had a garden filled with rare
flowers—culled from the gardens of better men than he—a garden
overflowing with sweetness and delight. Yet was he not satisfied, for
his questioning eyes had glimpsed the beauty of a stranger blossom
brought from a far-off land, and he burned with desire to gather it for
his own. Chance gave him the prize he longed for—and chance wrested it
from him again. And now the fire of desire is quenched in the greater
fire of hatred and revenge. Take heed for that same gardener, my
friend,” he added meaningly, and turned away with a parting salaam.
Carew went on down the stairs with a faint smile at the oriental
ambiguity with which the veiled warning had been conveyed to him. Though
no name had been mentioned it was perfectly obvious who threatened him.
He had thwarted the desire of no other Arab. But as he followed the
negro again through the blackness of the winding passage he turned from
the thought of that particular Arab with a shrug of annoyance. Abdul el
Dhib was too intimately connected with what he wished to forget to allow
him to dwell on the possible results of the horse-thief’s threats.
Threatened men live long, and Abdul was in some ways wise in his
generation. There seemed no need to take the warning too seriously and,
besides, he was too deeply imbued with the fatalism he had learned in
the desert to dread death that was always more or less imminent in the
hazardous life he led. He had always held his life cheaply, there was no
reason now to go out of his way to take precautions that would probably
be unnecessary. He lived or he died as Allah willed—a comfortable creed
he found amply sufficient.
Dismissing Abdul from his mind his thoughts reverted to the other as
plausible but more clean-handed Arab he had just quitted. The
intelligence the Sheik had imparted ought, without question, to be
passed on to headquarters, and that as speedily as possible. Perhaps
tonight he would find opportunity to approach the General on the
subject—and Sanois; certain demands for the source of his information
were going to be the very devil to parry.
The return journey through the dismal cellars seemed shorter than the
first and Carew was not surprised when he was ushered into the outer
world again to find himself, as he had expected, in a totally different
street from that in which he had waited to gain admittance to the
sinister-looking house. But the locality was known to him and very soon
he was back in the rue Annibal, swinging quickly down the unusually
empty street. Preoccupied he rounded a sharp corner without noticing the
noisy clamour that ordinarily would have warned him of some special
excitement in progress and came suddenly upon a yelling crowd of ragged
youths and boys who fought and screamed and tore at each other as they
surged round some central object that was hidden from him. The noise was
deafening, the narrow roadway completely blocked, and Carew glanced at
his watch with a gathering frown. He was late enough already, he had no
mind to be further delayed by a band of young savages employed probably
in their usual amusement of torturing some unfortunate dumb animal that
had fallen into their clutches.
He was familiar with the callous cruelty of the Arabs, but familiarity
had not lessened the abhorrence with which he viewed this particular
pastime of the native youth. And the scowl on his face deepened as he
sought to find some way of passing the squalid rabble who had taken
possession of the footway. Argument was impossible, his voice would be
drowned in the shrill cries that filled the air. Action, prompt and
decisive, was the only expedient. Selecting a spot where the throng
seemed less dense he gripped two of the taller lads, who were engaged in
a private sparring match on the fringe of the crowd, and dashing their
heads together drove them before him a living wedge into the heart of
the press.
The unexpectedness of his attack made his task an easy one, and in the
sudden silence that ensued he cursed them fluently and with picturesque
attention to detail that left nothing to the imagination.
There were some who knew him by sight—he heard his Arab title uttered
warningly—for the rest he was a representative of law and order whose
coming put a period to their amusement. Before he had finished speaking
they had begun to slink away and in a few moments he was alone in the
again deserted street, looking down with a variety of feelings on the
slim girlish figure crouched on the filthy cobblestones at his feet.
Hatless, her white dress stained and crumpled, she seemed oblivious of
everything but the pitiful little cur whose mangled bloodstained head
lay on her knee. She was crooning to it softly, brushing the matted hair
from its fast glazing eyes and stroking the broken palpitating limbs
with tender caressing fingers. And when the tortured creature’s agony
was over and she had laid the little dead body gently aside she still
sat on motionless, shivering from time to time as she tried to wipe the
crimson stickiness from her fingers with a scrap of lawn that was
already a soaked red rag.
With a gesture of impatience Carew dropped his own larger and more
adequate handkerchief into her lap.
“It is unwise to meddle with these Arab _gamins_, Lady Geradine.” He
spoke curtly, his tone patiently disapproving, and at the sound of his
voice she started violently. For a moment she scarcely seemed to
breathe, then she stumbled to her feet looking up at him quickly and he
saw the sudden bewilderment that leaped into her eyes as they travelled
slowly over the length of his tall figure and then sought his face again
to linger on the tell-tale scar across his cheek that gave her the clue
to his identity.
“You are English,” she stammered, the colour rushing into her white
cheeks. “I thought—that night—you were an Arab.” Then she flung her
hands out to him with a little choking cry. “Oh, why didn’t you come
sooner,” she wailed, “it was horrible! That poor wee beastie—those
_devils_! You don’t know what they did—it nearly drove me mad—I can’t
bear to see an animal suffer—” she broke off with a shudder and for a
moment he thought she was going to faint and caught at her arm
instinctively. But she pulled herself together, moving away from him
slightly with a fleeting smile of acknowledgment.
“I’m all right, thanks, only it makes one—just a little bit—sick,” she
said jerkily, her hands busy with her loosened hair, and looking about
for her hat which had been torn from her in the scuffle. She spied it at
last wedged in the grating of a window and rescued it with a rueful
laugh that ended shakily. Brushing the dust marks from her tumbled dress
she turned again to Carew. He was waiting with the detached air of
aloofness she remembered so well and which sent a little chill through
her, making her feel that again he had been constrained to render a
service that was totally against his inclination.
“I seem to be fated to give you trouble,” she murmured shyly. But he did
not choose to notice her tentative reference to their first meeting.
“Are you alone?” he asked bluntly. “It is too late in the evening for
you to be in the Casbar without an escort.”
She flushed deeply at the undisguised reproof in his tone, and found
herself eagerly defending her imprudence as if she admitted his right to
censure and could not bear that he should put a wrong construction on
her actions.
“I know—but I didn’t realize how late it was. I was shopping, and after
I had sent my man home with the parcels I remembered a piece of
embroidery I wanted. I thought I could find it easily but I had to hunt
for it a long time. Then I forgot all about the time in watching the
people, and I wandered on until, finally, I lost myself. I was trying to
make my way back when—when I saw the dog. I suppose it was stupid of me
to attempt to do anything—but I just had to,” she concluded, with
sudden vehemence. A curious look she was unable to read flashed across
his face as he glanced from her to the wretched little body stiffening
on the cobbles, but he made no comment as he moved forward with an
almost imperceptible shrug. “I can find you a _fiacre_ in the rue
Randon,” he said coldly, as if his sole desire was to be rid of her
society at the earliest moment possible.
And chilled again by his brusque manner she walked beside him silently.
She was more shaken by the incident than she had realised, and for the
first time she began to wonder what would have happened if he had not
come. But he had come, and once again she was his debtor for a service
he rendered unwillingly. By no stretch of imagination could she deceive
herself into believing that, he was even interested, much less glad, at
seeing her again. Why did he so grudge the help he voluntarily offered?
And why had he let her think that he was an Arab? She looked at him
covertly, but after the first shy glance she had no hesitation in
continuing her scrutiny for he seemed as unaware of her regard as he was
negligent of her company. She realised it with a curiously bitter little
feeling of pain. Yet why should he be other than he was? She was only a
stranger, forced upon his notice by what he must consider as deliberate
acts of folly on her part. And yet it was not so. She had been
thoughtless, but on neither occasion had she willfully gone out of her
way to court either excitement or danger. The morning when she had
ridden alone it was an imperative desire for solitude that had made her
leave Tanner behind. And today the sight of the tortured dog had driven
all thoughts of herself out of her head. She had not stopped to think of
the possible consequences that might ensue when, carried away by horror
and pity, she had endeavoured to restrain the most fiendish cruelty she
had ever witnessed.
She stifled a sigh as she looked at him again, sure of his
preoccupation.
The change of dress seemed to alter him completely. In the well-fitting
blue serge suit that clung closely to his muscular figure he appeared
taller, slenderer than she had supposed; but he looked older, too, and
the gravity of face and demeanour that had seemed natural in an Arab
struck her even more forcibly now that she knew his true nationality.
The soft felt hat, pulled far forward over his eyes, shaded features
that to her looked sterner and more rigidly set than when she had first
seen them. It was a strong face, she decided, too strong, too hard
perhaps for absolute beauty but, clean cut, and bronzed as a native’s,
lean and healthy looking, it was a face that arrested and compelled
attention. Strength seemed the key note of his composition. His spare
frame appeared to be made up of only bone and muscle, his long slow
stride was springy and elastic, and he carried himself magnificently.
Again she found herself wondering who he was, wishing she might ask him,
but fearing the same rebuff she had met with before. And yet, if she
only knew his name! It would be something to remember, something to
cling to. And as the thought came she turned her head away hastily with
a feeling of acute and miserable shame, realising how completely he had
filled her mind during what had seemed to her the longest and most
unhappy weeks she had ever experienced. She had wrestled with herself,
striving to forget him, hoping that time would obliterate the image that
seemed to possess her every conscious moment. But this second meeting
had shattered the resolutions she had formed so bravely. She would
always remember, always care. The memory of him would go with her
through life—the memory of a man who was indifferent to her, whom
honour demanded that she should root out of her heart. Did love always
come like that, so suddenly, so irresistible, so unsought? Could she
have conquered it if she had really tried to do so from the first moment
of realization? She had tried. She had fought against it, shuddering
from what seemed to her a sin, praying desperately for strength to put
it from her. But her prayers had been unavailing and daily, hourly, the
love she could not deny had grown stronger and more insistent. Only in
the last three weeks had she come to know how starved her heart had
been. Love had entered very little into her life. Her father had loved
her but she was a child when he died, and since his death she had had no
outlet for the affection lying dormant in her. She had lived in the
open, a boy’s life rather than a girl’s, finding abundant happiness and
contentment in sport and outdoor pursuits. She had had no girlish dreams
of the possible lover who might some day come to win her heart, no
opportunity of filling her imagination with tales of sentiment and
romance. During the long winter evenings in the lonely house in Ireland
she had read much but the books that formed her father’s library were
books of travel and the histories of many countries. She had been
singularly innocent, singularly young. Then she had married, and
marriage had brought her not the joy and wonder of a man’s devotion but
the loathing of a man’s possession. All that was brutal, all that was
sordid and degrading in such a union she had learned with horror and
amazement. Forced to hide the revulsion that filled her, forced into a
mode of life that shocked her every sense of decency, she had steeled
herself to endure until she had come to look upon herself as a thing of
stone, a heartless, lifeless automaton. The hope of a child, that might
have been another woman’s salvation, had never touched her. She shrank
with abhorrence from the thought of possible motherhood. It would have
been the last drop in her cup of bitterness. In spite of the
disappointment and anger of her husband, who never ceased to reproach
her for failing to give him the heir he desired, she prayed God
passionately to spare her the shame of bringing into the world the
offspring of such a man. That through her his vices might be perpetuated
was a fear that never left her, a fear that year by year as she learned
more thoroughly her husband’s character and innate viciousness had grown
into an obsession. And now the dread that filled her continually had
become a thousand times more poignant, a thousand times more horrible
for the strange overwhelming emotion that had leaped into being that
awful night three weeks ago. Love she had never thought to know had come
to her—and come too late. Free, she could have loved him though he had
never turned to her; bound, to even think of him was disloyalty to the
man who had the right to claim her affection. The right to claim—but
when had he ever claimed it! When had he ever shown by look or word that
he even desired it? Her feelings were nothing to him, obedience was all
he demanded—slavish submission to his domination, absolute surrender to
his will, his caprices, and his inordinate passion. The pride he
displayed in her beauty was the same he exhibited for any animal his
wealth enabled him to acquire. The pride merely of arrogant ownership.
And as he treated his animals so did he treat her. And as they flinched
from him so did her whole soul recoil from his proximity. The last three
weeks had been purgatory. He had been more intolerant, more hard to
please, more insistent in his selfish demands than he had ever been. He
had also been drinking more heavily than usual with disastrous results
to his temper which had been felt by all the household. Malec, the Arab
valet, the scarcely healed cut across his face a burning, throbbing
reminder of his master’s heavy hand, went sullenly about his duties with
hatred in his half-veiled eyes, and Tanner was in open rebellion.
This evening for the first time since his return he had allowed her out
of his sight, and had given reluctant permission for the shopping
expedition to the Casbar. For two hours she had been free, free of the
suspicious eyes that watched her every movement, free of the hated
caresses that in his maudlin humour he showered on her. She shivered at
the thought of going back to him. With an unconscious movement she drew
nearer to the man who walked beside her, marvelling anew at the strange
feeling of security his presence brought her, marvelling that she should
feel so little astonishment at seeing him again.
It seemed perfectly natural that he should once more come to her aid. If
it had been Clyde instead—a spasm of pain crossed her face. Clyde would
only have been amused! She clenched her hands as she strove to stem the
tide of bitterness that rushed over her. Why must she torture herself
with making comparisons. The contrast between them was sufficiently
hideous without allowing herself to dwell on it. And she had no right to
dwell on it, no right to make comparisons. She was Clyde’s wife—Clyde’s
wife. The clenched hands tightened until the nails bit deeper into the
soft palms. Silence became impossible. She must speak, if only to turn
the current of her thoughts.
“I haven’t thanked you for sending back The Caid,” she said nervously,
forcing her voice to steadiness. They were passing down a narrow street
where grave-faced Arabs, lost apparently in contemplation, sat smoking
in the open doorways of their shops regarding the passers-by with
unconcerned aloofness, ostensibly disdainful of possible sales, yet
quick to notice all who came and went, for, watching them, Marny saw
with growing astonishment the frequent and profound salaams which
greeted her companion. As she spoke he had stopped to acknowledge the
salute of a venerable greybeard who lounged indolently amongst the fine
carpets and heterogeneous collection of brasswork and antique firearms
that formed his stock in trade. For a moment Carew paused to handle the
keen-edged Moorish dagger proffered to him with an accompanying murmur
that was barely audible, then shook his head smilingly as he returned
the weapon with a shrug of careless indifference and an equally
low-voiced rejoinder.
With complete unconcern the Arab tossed the knife aside and resumed his
pipe, and Carew turned again to Marny with a slight gesture of apology.
“I can recommend old Ibraheim, if you are interested in embroideries,
Lady Geradine. Most of his things are genuine, and he has seen you with
me—he won’t rob you too unmercifully,” he said, with the first smile he
had yet given her. “I was fortunate in finding your horse,” he
continued, raising his hand to fend from her the swaying head of a
heavily laden camel that lurched past with a snarling grunt of
ill-humour, “but, if you will permit me to say so, I strongly advise you
not to ride him again unattended. His worth and pedigree are well known,
and there are a number of Arabs in and about Algiers who are very averse
to valuable stallions being sold out of the country. It is only natural
when you come to think of it! I should hold the same view myself—were I
an Arab.”
“You are very like one.” The words escaped her involuntarily and she
glanced at him quickly, fearful that he would think her impertinent. But
he did not appear to resent the comparison and taking courage she
yielded to the longing that came over her to learn more of the man who
had come so strangely into her life.
“You have lived much amongst them?” she suggested diffidently. His curt
assent was not conducive to further questioning but her wistful interest
overcame her shyness.
“In the desert—the _real_ desert?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes, in the real desert,” he answered shortly, a slight frown gathering
on his face. And as if regretting the slight lapse from his former
rigidity of manner he seemed to draw once more into himself, cold and
unapproachable as he had been at first. And, flushing sensitively, Marny
relapsed into silence that lasted until they reached the rue Randon. A
passing victoria plying for hire rattled up in response to Carew’s
signal, and he had placed her in it almost before she realized that they
were clear of the Casbar.
For a moment she leant forward without speaking, looking at him as he
stood bareheaded on the pavement beside her. Then she thrust her hand
out to him with a brusque boyish gesture.
“Thank you—for all you’ve done,” she said shakily, her lips trembling
despite her efforts to keep them steady.
For the fraction of a second he hesitated, staring gloomily at the
little outstretched hand, then his tall figure stiffened suddenly and,
drawing back with a deep un-English bow, he signed to the Arab coachman
to drive on.