During the days that followed it became more and more borne in upon
Carew that his cherished dream of visiting the mysterious City of Stones
was doomed if not to failure certainly to indefinite postponement.
General Sanois, who had thrown himself heart and soul into the new
scheme for which Carew’s information had paved the way, was plying him
hard, pressing for his acceptance of the mission offered him. Carew’s
success in the past had made the General very sanguine of the outcome of
the present proposed embassage and very tolerant of the Englishman’s
lack of enthusiasm in a venture that presented far fewer difficulties
than others which had been negotiated and which, moreover, promised to
further the prestige of the military governor of the Sahara. By turns he
argued and expostulated, throwing forward every possible inducement to
secure his voluntary agent’s co-operation and losing no opportunity of
urging his insistent demands. To each and every objection Carew raised
he responded with an unusual flow of rhetoric that was wasted on his
silent and equally determined listener whose desire to return to his own
work he brushed aside as secondary to the needs of the country. Mounted
orderlies arrived at the villa at all hours of the day, and it seemed to
Carew that the telephone bell never ceased ringing. In despair at last
of obtaining the peace and quiet for which he longed, he had taken
Hosein and slipped away for a couple of days to the camp near Blidah.
Within a mile of his own camp he found the tents of a desert sheik who
was making a leisurely way to Algiers for the annual gathering of
chiefs.
The Arab was an old acquaintance whose hospitality Carew had enjoyed on
several occasions and an interchange of visits was both necessary and
advantageous. But it was not to listen to the querulous outpourings of a
chief with a perpetual grievance that he had fled from General Sanois’
importunity, and foiled in his purpose, he had set out alone this
morning an hour or so before the dawn to return to Algiers, leaving
Hosein to follow later in the day when he had completed some
arrangements in the camp.
But in spite of the tedious interruptions which the old sheik’s demands
on his time had made the two days had proved beneficial to him. Away
from Algiers he had in a measure conquered the agitation of mind that
had possessed him since the night he had rescued Lady Geradine from
Abdul el Dhib.
And it was of the frustrated horse-thief and his unfulfilled threat that
he was thinking as he drew Suliman to a standstill on the crest of a
hill, a few miles outside the town, to watch the glory of the sunrise
that was to him a never-failing pleasure.
Abdul had so far made no attempt to put his murderous intention into
practise and, still sceptical himself as to the real truth of the
warnings he had received, Carew would never have given him a second
thought but for the behaviour of his attendants whose continual and
obvious watchfulness was a constant reminder of the menace hanging over
him. Hosein was still anxious—there had been difficulty in persuading
him to remain behind at the camp this morning so loath was he to let his
master ride alone—and Saba was still unhappy, a pathetic little figure
of misery who clung to his protector refusing to be comforted. And daily
the revolver that Carew wore naturally thrust in the waistcloth of his
Arab dress sagged uncomfortably in the pocket of his serge jacket until
he laughed at himself for carrying it. Clad in the native robes he
preferred for the last two days he had forgotten it, but as he glanced
now around the little hillock on which he stood he pushed it further
into the silken folds of his embroidered shawl with a slight smile of
amusement. The locality was reminiscent. It was here, after leaving Lady
Geradine on the outskirts of Algiers, that he had chanced across Abdul
and forced him to reveal the whereabouts of the stolen horse. But the
smile passed quickly and his face clouded as his thoughts swung from the
recovered stallion to the girl who had ridden him. Since the night of
the opera he had not seen her but the memory of her was present with him
always. The intolerant anger she had once roused in him was gone and he
was at a loss to actually define the feeling he now felt towards her. It
was not interest, he told himself almost angrily, he had no interest in
her, no wish to think of her, and he fought against the perpetual
remembrance that never left him. Unable to combat what seemed to him a
veritable obsession he resented the deep impression she had made,
resented the humiliating breakdown of the will he had trained to obey
him. More than ever was he determined to get out of Algiers at the first
possible opportunity. He had come to hate the town and the disturbing
associations that would always be connected with it. The call of the
desert, the lure of the legendary City of Stones was urging him
powerfully as he sat with slackened reins looking dreamily at the golden
sunrise, cursing the half promise he had made to General Sanois. But he
had promised, or as good as promised, and facing his decision squarely
for the first time he knew that the City of Stones must wait. With a
little sigh of regret he searched for a cigarette in the folds of his
waistcloth as he watched the glowing disc of the sun rise higher in the
crimson flecked sky until the full light came with a sudden rush and the
distinct city stood out before him clear and distinct in every detail.
He scowled at it with sudden irritation and tightening his grip on the
bridle, turned Suliman in the direction of the little village of
Birmandreis. It was still very early. But for an occasional goatherd
stalking gravely at the head of his flock, he had seen no sign of human
life since he left the cross-country track he had taken from the camp
and joined the plane-bordered highway that led to the village. Too early
to return to the villa, he decided as he rode slowly along the well laid
road listening to the sharp clip clop of his horse’s hoofs and breathing
in the fragrance of the fresh morning air that was blowing against his
face. There was no need to hurry. Time enough this afternoon to see
Sanois and give him his long delayed answer. Until then he could forget
it.
Birmandreis was awake and stirring as he cantered through its miniature
square and headed in the direction of El Biar. A short distance beyond
the village he left the main road and turned down a narrow pathway in
search of a tiny Arab café that was known to him. The picturesque little
building, almost hidden by a wide spreading fig tree, was at this early
hour of the morning silent and apparently deserted, but the clatter of
hoofs and Carew’s shout produced a sleepy and yawning proprietor who
awoke into sudden and obsequious activity at the sight of this visitor.
Slipping Suliman’s bridle through a ring in the wall Carew sat on a
bench in the shadow of the fig tree while he waited for the Arab coffee
for which the place was famous. It was brought at length by the
half-caste _aubergist_ who hovered about his early guest with eager
loquaciousness. He had heard that his excellency had returned from the
desert, he had hoped before this to have seen him at the Café Meduse. He
trusted that the protracted journey had been propitious. Monsieur was
pleased to return to civilization? Monsieur was _not_ pleased! _Hélas!_
and yet Algiers was gay this season—fuller than it had been for many
years. Trade was good. For himself he had nothing to complain of, the
café prospered and the visitors, the English visitors in particular,
paid well—to Allah the praise!
Undeterred by Carew’s monosyllabic replies he rambled on half in French
half in Arabic discussing the district and the crops and the government
taxes with fine impartiality, but with due regard to his listener’s
well-known intimacy with the administrators of the country. But under
his seemingly careless manner there was a suggestion of uneasiness that
was very apparent. He moved restlessly as he talked, from time to time
glancing almost furtively about him, and once or twice it seemed as if
he were on the point of imparting some confidence that nearly reached
utterance but which died away in mumbled ambiguity before it was spoken.
But when Carew had paid his modest score and was once more in the saddle
the man appeared to come to a sudden decision. Pressing close up to the
restless horse he stooped down under pretence of tightening a loosened
girth, his fingers fumbling nervously at the scarlet leather straps.
“There is venom in the jackal’s bite, O Sidi,” he muttered in the
vernacular, pure Arab in his agitation, and drew back hastily as if
already repenting the words he had nerved himself to say. And Carew,
glancing down at his twitching face, knew that to question him would be
useless, so he made no sign of understanding but with a careless nod and
a perfunctory, “Go with God,” reined his horse back into the little lane
and held him, sidling and catching at his bit, to a walk until a bend in
the road hid them from the prying eyes that were doubtless watching from
behind the dense foliage of the fig tree. Then he gave Suliman his head
wondering, as the spirited creature broke into a headlong gallop, how
near to attempted assassination he had been during the last half hour.
That Abdul el Dhib, biding his time with oriental pertinacity, was
somewhere in the vicinity, seemed beyond all question. But why he risked
his rascally neck so near to Algiers or what were his relations with the
half-caste owner of the café Carew was at a loss to conjecture.
Sufficient that once again he had been warned and that the warning had
been given reluctantly and under stress of great personal fear. It spoke
volumes that the fellow had found courage to say what he had said.
With a muttered word of impatience Carew bent forward and ran his
fingers soothingly over Suliman’s glossy neck. Abdul was becoming a
nuisance, and he found himself almost wishing that the difference
between them could have been settled definitely once and for all at the
Café Meduse that morning. Half tempted to retrace his steps and force
the affair to an immediate conclusion he pulled up suddenly, turning in
the saddle to scan the road behind him. But what was the good! Abdul had
had his chance and for reasons of his own had neglected it. There was
nothing to be gained and probably a good deal to be risked by putting
temptation in his way a second time. After all, the quarrel was Abdul’s,
not his. Let Abdul then make the first move—if, indeed, he intended to
move at all. To Carew it seemed almost that his enemy had talked too
much to be really dangerous. Babblers were seldom doers, he reflected,
and dismissing the outlaw from his mind he rode on, leaving the road for
a rough mule track by which he could skirt El Biar and reach Bouzaréa
from where he meant to return to Mustapha.
Already the fresh morning wind had dropped and the day began to give
promise of great heat unusual for the time of year. But to Carew,
accustomed to the fierce sun of the desert, the warmth was welcome and,
more at peace within himself than he had been for weeks, he turned his
whole attention to the district through which he was riding, a district
known to him from boyhood but which he had not lately visited. The
intervening years seemed to drop away as he noted and recognised each
succeeding landmark. There was little change to be seen in the fruit
groves and vineyards he was passing and gradually he fell into a
reverie, leaving Suliman to choose his own way along the stony track.
Influenced by his surroundings he let himself dwell on early memories;
memories of the handsome brilliantly clever father who had given up a
public career of great promise to devote himself to the delicate wife
who was his idol; and memories of the beautiful fragile mother whose
influence, had she lived, might have made so great a difference in his
own life. With all the strength of his boyish heart he had adored her
and the memory of her had made him very tender with the wife who had
repaid his devotion with coldness and deceit. But with the tragic ending
of his own short married life he had closed his heart to the softening
influences of memory and in the drawing room of the villa, a room he
never entered, the portrait of his mother was veiled by heavy curtains
that for the last twelve years had never been drawn. Twelve years!
Twelve years of self-banishment and loneliness. At first it had been
little short of hell, there had been times when the temptation to end it
all had been almost overpowering, when only his strong will had kept him
from self-destruction. But now he could think of it calmly—except for
the one aching memory that never left him. Despite himself his thoughts
turned to the child he had lost, the little son in whom so many hopes
had been centered, and a passion of longing and regret filled him. If
only the boy had been left to him! A look of intense pain swept across
his face and his firm lips quivered as he tried to visualise the boy as
he might have been now, a lad of fourteen, on the threshold of manhood.
His son! God, how he wanted him still! And from the child of his body
who was lost to him his thoughts veered with sudden compassion to the
child of his adoption, the little Arab waif he had saved from death to
assuage his own loneliness, who was in his blindness and helplessness so
utterly dependent on him. Poor little dreamer of dreams, besieging Allah
hourly with prayers for the safety of the beloved protector who was all
his world, he too was longing for the desert, for the freer, wilder life
to which he had been born.
Carew’s mind leaped forward to the coming interview with General Sanois.
His promise given today, he would move heaven and earth to expedite
matters and get away from Algiers as soon as possible. A speedy
departure should be a _sine qua non_ of his acceptance.
With a little laugh he bent forward to ease his weight off Suliman as
the horse started to climb a steep ascent that led to the woods behind
Bouzaréa. The mule track was little used, rough and boulder strewn and
in places almost overgrown with cactus among which the stallion picked
his steps with careful precision born of experience. Carew let him take
his own way and sat with slackened rein as the big bay, straining and
heaving, breasted the last hundred yards of sharp incline, his powerful
muscles rippling against his rider’s knees. With a final effort, the
loose stones flying from under his heels, he reached the summit and
stood breathing deeply and whinnying in response to the caressing hand
laid on his sweat drenched neck. Then he moved slowly forward with
pricked ears and nervous gait along the track that had dwindled to a
narrow hardly perceptible path. Desert bred, to Suliman the dense silent
wood was a place of lurking unknown terror to which he had never become
accustomed and, snorting and starting, he evidenced now his disapproval
of a route that was highly distasteful to him. But wrapped in his own
thoughts and used to his horse’s moods Carew did not heed his
uneasiness. Like the district through which he had just passed the wood
was alive with memories, a favourite haunt of childhood where he had
roamed for hours at a time with Hosein as companion and playmate. Then
the wood had been a region of mystery and enchantment, peopled with the
malevolent djinns and horrible afreets that loomed so large in the
Arab’s creed and of whom he discoursed with all the fluency and
imagination of his race—tales to which the English boy, already deeply
imbued with the spirit of the country, listened half credulous, half
unbelieving but always interested, wriggling for sheer joy even when his
hair crisped on his head and he peered involuntarily into the depths of
the thick undergrowth for the monstrous shapes and fiery eyes that
Hosein’s eloquence made so real. Carew looked about him with an
eagerness that brought a smile to his lips. Near here there had been a
tiny clearing, always connected in his mind with a tale of especial
weirdness that had been Hosein’s masterpiece—a tale of necromancers and
demons, of beauty in distress, and the extravagant adventures of a
sultan’s son whose heroic exploits had transcended all human
possibility. How he had revelled in it, listening wide eyed and absorbed
to Hosein’s sing-song intonations. Here, so went the story, the
sorrowful princess, escaping from the enchanter who held her captive,
had met the wandering knight whom fate had sent to rescue her; here,
more beautiful than all the houris of paradise, sitting patiently upon
the ground and veiled in her night black hair she had waited for her
lover.
The old tale was running through his head as a sharp curve in the path
brought him to the entrance of the little clearing. Smaller it seemed
than when his boyish eyes had looked upon it, and robbed somehow of the
mystery that had been associated with it. To the man’s eyes now just an
ordinary glade in an ordinary wood.
But it was not the well remembered spot that held his attention. His
gaze was rivetted on a figure sitting, like the princess of the story,
motionless upon the ground at the foot of a gnarled cork oak. Not
swathed in shimmering eastern silks nor veiled in a cloud of dusky hair,
but clad in the close fitting boyish riding suit in which he had first
seen her she leant back comfortably against the tree, her bare head
resting on the crinkly bark, her arms wrapped round her updrawn knees,
whistling softly to a small green lizard palpitating on the moss beside
her. The tiny creature with swelling throat and languorous swaying head
was listening fascinated to the clear sweet trills charming it into
immobility. Suliman’s neat feet made no sound on the soft earth and the
girl was obviously unaware of the increase to her audience. To back his
horse silently and slip away before she noticed his presence was Carew’s
first impulse, but despite his every inclination something stayed him in
undecided hesitation. And the opportunity neglected he was given no
second chance. Resenting the tight grip on his mouth and the sudden
convulsive pressure of his rider’s knees Suliman, with a display of
temper that was unusual, bounded high on his hind legs snorting his
indignation. Submitting to the inevitable with the best grace he could
muster Carew dragged him down and swung to the ground, raising his hand
to his forehead in the graceful salute that was in accordance with his
Arab dress.
“Good morning, Lady Geradine.”
The lizard had fled but Marny had neither moved nor altered her
position. She responded to his greeting with a faint smile, her eyes
sweeping him frankly from head to foot as he stood, a picturesque
commanding-looking figure, leaning against his horse whose muzzle was
thrust contritely into his hand.
“Good morning—desert man.”
There was the least possible pause before the last two words and Carew’s
tanned face flushed dully. “My name’s Carew,” he said gruffly. She
nodded, looking at him with wide grave eyes and hunching her knees up
closer to her chin.
“I know,” she said, “Mrs. Chalmers told me before she left Algiers. You
are Sir Gervas Carew—and you hate women. Why did you do it?”
“Do what—” he asked, failing to grasp the context of her question.
“Why did you trouble to interfere that night near Blidah?” she said
quietly, but the quick blood sprang to her face as she spoke.
He was silent for a few moments then, with a slow shrug: “Because you
were English,” he answered tersely. She shook her head with a little
smile of amusement.
“But I’m not. Sure it’s Irish I am—glory be to God.” The brogue was
unmistakable and despite himself Carew’s grave face relaxed.
“It’s the same thing,” he said with indifference. But she negatived his
assertion with a scornful wave of the hand.
“Not to us,” she said laughingly. Then she grew grave again, looking at
him with undisguised interest. “Do you mean it, really?” she said with
deliberation. “Do you mean that if I had been an Arab or a Frenchwoman
you would have done—nothing?”
He nodded in silent assent.
“And because I was English, or you thought I was English, you set your
prejudice on one side and did what you did—just to satisfy your
_esprit-de-race_?”
“Yes.”
She looked away with an odd little laugh. “You are very refreshing.”
Carew scowled at the hint of mockery in her voice.
“How so?” he asked stiffly. But she laughed again and shook her head,
refusing to enlighten him. Then with a sudden change of manner she
turned to him again, eyeing him almost wistfully.
“You refused to shake hands with me—twice, Sir Gervas,” she said
slowly, flushing slightly, “and I cut you dead at the opera. Shall we
call quits—just for this morning—your prejudice against my rudeness?
Can’t you forget, just for once, that you are talking to one of the sex
you despise—I can’t help being a woman, I would much rather have been a
man—and tell me the things you know so well, the things that nobody I
meet with in Algiers seems to care about—the Arabs, the desert, and all
this wonderful country. Not the desert the tourists go to but the real
desert, far away in the south there,” she added eagerly, kneeling up
suddenly to point with unexpected precision towards the region of which
she spoke. Mechanically his eyes followed her outstretched hand. He was
trying to understand his own strange hesitation. It would have been easy
to excuse himself, alleging any plausible excuse that offered, and go as
he had come leaving her to the solitude he had interrupted. But he did
not want to go. The astounding truth came to him suddenly and his lips
curved in cynical self-scorn. What sort of a fool was he, what strength
of purpose had he that, professing to hate all women, he should
surrender to the charm of this one woman? And wherein lay the charms he
reluctantly admitted? Her beauty? He smiled more bitterly than
before—he had learnt the worthlessness of outward loveliness. Was it
then the diversity of mood she displayed? He glanced at her covertly as
she sat leaning against the cork tree, apparently indifferent to his
silence, her eyes fixed not on him but on the tips of her neat riding
boots, whistling as she had whistled to the lizard. A boyish graceful
figure, pulsing with life and health, bearing this morning no kind of
resemblance to the white-faced fainting girl he had carried in his arms
or the proud weary-looking woman he had seen at the opera. Which was the
real woman? And what was her present motive? Was it really a
disinterested and genuine desire to learn something of the real life of
the country that had led her to endeavour to detain him at her side—or
was she merely amusing herself at his expense, flattered at having
claimed the attention of a man known as a determined misogynist? His
face darkened and meditated refusal sprang to his lips. But the words
died away unspoken. Flight was tantamount to a confession of weakness
against which his pride rebelled. If she was playing with him—so much
the worse for her. If, on the other hand, she was sincere in the request
she had made—with a shrug he turned and led his horse to the further
side of the little clearing, tethering him with no show of haste to the
branch of a tree.
And as he went Marny Geradine’s eyes followed him with a look of
yearning sadness, and a deep sigh that was almost a sob escaped her.
What had she done! What right had she to intrude herself upon him? Why
add to her own unhappiness by prolonging an interview that would only
bring her further sorrow. The joy of seeing him, of speaking with him,
could lead to nothing but greater misery and regret. But the temptation
had been stronger than she could withstand. She loved him so. And what
harm could there be when his own indifference was so great! Why did he
hate women? Mrs. Chalmers’ information had not gone beyond the bare fact
and, herself reserved almost to fastidiousness, she had not sought to
probe the reason of his hatred. What, after all, did it matter? The
secrets of his past, if there were any secrets, were not her affair.
Enough for her that he was a man who had devoted his life to relieving
the suffering of the desert people amongst whom he lived. From the
doctor’s warm-hearted wife she had learned the significance of the title
by which he had called himself that night of terrible memory. So would
she have him—the ideal she would treasure in her heart, a man
magnificent in his singleness of purpose.
He came back to her slowly, his face inscrutable as the people whose
dress he wore, and sat down leisurely, Arab fashion, on the ground near
her. Taking her literally at her word and prompted by her eager
questions he found that speech was easier than he had anticipated. It
was a subject on which he was well qualified to speak, a subject that
lay very close to his heart, and gradually his attitude of barely
concealed hostility wore away and he talked as, weeks ago, he had talked
in his tent to Micky Meredith. But not of himself and his own work. Of
these he said nothing, speaking only of the desert and its nomad
inhabitants, of the charm and cruelty of the vast sandy wastes, of the
petty wars and feuds that raged perpetually amongst the savage and
belligerent tribes. His low even voice ran smoothly on, drawing no
fanciful picture but relating faithfully the things that were the things
he had himself seen, the life he had shared. While he dwelt on the
glamour and fascination of the desert wilds he spared her nothing of the
squalor and misery, the ghastly needless suffering that was bound up
inextricably with the scenes he depicted.
Eagerly she listened to him, happy with just the fact of his nearness,
enthralled by the story he told so graphically and which held her
spellbound. Her eyes fixed on the sunburnt face that was turned
persistently away from her, she was no longer in the little clearing or
even near to the Algiers that had proved so great a disappointment to
her. She was far away in the burning south, riding beside him over the
undulating sweeps of the restless sand, camping under the argent stars
and living the life of which she had dreamed—a life that with all its
savagery and primitive violence was yet cleaner than the one to which
she was condemned. To be with him there, far from the artificial
existence that sickened her, to live out her life beside him aiding him
in the work of which he would not speak and serving him with all the
strength of the love that was consuming her! She clenched her hands with
the pain of her own imagining. A dream that could never be realised.
There was no room for a woman’s love in the life he led. Alone, and
always alone, he would follow the course he had set himself, a solitary
dweller in the wilderness pitting his individual strength against the
pain and suffering he sought to minimise. And, bound, what would be her
loneliness when he rode for the last time out of her life leaving her to
a misery that would be greater even than she had known before?
A gasping sob escaped her and horrified at her lack of control she hid
her burning face in her hands. But to Carew her agitation seemed only
the natural consequence of the grim tale of ruthless Arab ferocity he
had just concluded.
“It is cruel, of course,” he said with a slow shrug, “but it is the way
of life the whole world over—the strong preying on the weak, the
eternal battle for existence, and a callousness that is born of
necessity. And Arabs are only children, as all men at heart are
children, fighting for what they want and often, from mere perversity,
for what they do not want.”
She nodded assent, not trusting her voice to answer him and furtively
brushing away the tears of which she was ashamed. And he too fell
silent, playing absently with a length of creeper he twined and retwined
between his long strong fingers, wondering at the interest she had
evinced, wondering at the ease with which he had spoken to her.
At last, through the silence that neither seemed able to break, came the
trampling of horses’ hoofs. He looked up with a start and leapt to his
feet, his hand reaching instinctively for the revolver in his
waistcloth. For himself he did not care, but if Abdul had tracked him
here what of the girl beside him? Alone he would have been content to
give his enemy the benefit of the doubt—but because of her he could
take no chances. He would have to shoot at sight, or be shot himself. He
moved quickly, screening her where she sat, and slid the heavy weapon
from its resting place. But the next moment he jerked it back with a
smothered ejaculation of relief. It was not Abdul el Dhib who rounded
the bend in the narrow path but a neat typically English little man
straddling with a jockey’s gait between the two horses he led. Only when
he turned to find Marny close at his elbows did Carew realise that his
face was wet with perspiration. With a gesture of impatience he brushed
his hand across his forehead but he did not vouchsafe any explanation.
She must have seen the revolver in his hand—explanations could wait.
And standing quietly beside him, she did not seem in any hurry to ask
but remained silent until the arrival of the groom. The little man
brought the horses to a stand with no sign of surprise at the sight of
the tall Arab-clad figure towering behind his mistress.
“Nine o’clock, m’lady,” he announced stolidly, and backed her horse into
position.
Marny laughed as she placed her foot in the stirrup Carew moved forward
to hold.
“Tanner is my timekeeper,” she explained, swinging easily into the
saddle, “he always has a watch, and I lose mine as fast as I buy them,”
she added, gathering up the reins and settling herself comfortably.
Carew patted the neck of her horse for a moment without answering, then
he looked up slowly and at sight of his face the laughter died out of
her eyes.
“Keep your man in sight when you come to the woods again, Lady
Geradine,” he said gravely. She looked at him questioningly.
“Do you mean it—seriously? I thought that so close to Algiers—”
“You were close to Algiers before, and I would not warn you if I did not
mean it seriously,” he interrupted with a touch of irritation in his
voice, and stepped back with a salaam that she felt to be almost a
dismissal. And it was without waiting to watch her ride away that he
strode across the clearing to his own horse. He had no intention of
accompanying her back to Algiers, he had outraged his principles
sufficiently for one morning he assured himself with a smile that was
not mirthful.
Nor did he feel inclined to return immediately to the villa.
During these last few weeks he had grown almost to hate it. He would go
on to Bouzaréa, telephone to Sanois and spend the rest of the day at the
little suburb with a French doctor of his acquaintance. Perhaps in
Morel’s laboratory he would be able to forget the unrest that this
morning’s meeting had revived so poignantly.
It was late in the afternoon when he rode into Algiers to keep the
appointment made over the telephone that morning.
At the moment General Sanois was living in barracks and Carew found him
in his private room sitting alone before a huge desk that was heaped
with a mass of papers. At his entrance the general rose and held out a
welcoming hand.
“Well,” he said eagerly, “you have decided?” and sank back into his
chair with a little exclamation of satisfaction as Carew nodded
affirmatively.
“You relieve me of a difficulty, _mon cher_,” he went on, pushing papers
and telephone on one side to make room for the map he spread out with
almost affectionate care. “I was at my wits’ end to find a substitute.
My own men are no use, an officer would never get past the frontier. And
the same applies to the accredited agents—those, that is to say, whom I
have at my disposal. Remains you. And I think I shall not be wrong in
saying that you will not fail,” he added confidently.
Carew smiled faintly at the implied compliment which he knew to be no
idle one but a genuine expression of opinion.
“I’ll do my best,” he said briefly, with a slight shrug of
embarrassment, “but I am not infallible,” he added, “and if I fail—”
“You will at least have had a charming excursion,” cut in Sanois
laughingly. “You will have broken new ground. You will probably have
found a new disease and we shall have to send an expensively equipped
medical mission to follow up your discovery, and you will end by costing
us the deuce and all of a lot of money. But that’s not my affair,” he
added, tapping the gold lace on his sleeve significantly, and turned
once more to the large scale map he had laid out.
Carew hitched the folds of his heavy burnous closer round him and drew
his chair nearer to the table.
“I am ready to start almost at once. My own preparations can be
concluded in a week. I am anxious to get out of Algiers, and if you keep
me waiting indefinitely—well, then, I can’t promise that when you want
me you will find me.” He smiled at Sanois’ whistle of dismay for there
had been an undertone of peremptoriness in his voice that the general
recognised.
“A week?” he said rather doubtfully. “You don’t give us much time, my
friend. It will take longer than a week to settle this affair. But I’ll
do what I can. And now to business.”
When the details of the expedition had been discussed in every
particular and Carew rose at last to go night had fallen. He refused the
general’s invitation to dine with the mess and found himself obliged to
repeat his refusal more than once before he reached the barrack yard.
Usually he was glad to accept the hospitality of the officers with whom
he was a frequent and popular guest but tonight he wanted to be alone.
Riding through the crowded streets Suliman occupied his exclusive
attention, but when the town had been left behind and the ascent to
Mustapha begun he let his thoughts range forward to the coming journey.
Regretfully he put away from him the temptation of the City of Stones.
It would have to be for another time. He was pledged to Sanois now and,
the general himself bound down to a promise, he had at last something
definite to go on. Not that there was much for him, personally, to
arrange. The change of route called for little alteration in the
preparations he had already made for an extended tour in the desert. And
the boy would go in either case. He had spent most of his young life in
the saddle and his apparently frail little body was capable of
astonishing endurance. To leave him behind would be to break his
heart—and Carew could not do without him. Tonight the air was strangely
soft, heavy with the scent of flowers, and a brooding silence that was
reminiscent of the solemn hush of the desert seemed to have closed down
over all nature. Not a tree moved, not a dog barked, and Carew had the
curious feeling that he was riding through a place of the dead. Amongst
the Arabs it was an omen of death, a sure and certain sign that for some
human soul the wings of Azrael were beating downward from the realms of
the blessed. For his? With a philosophical shrug he turned in the saddle
to look back at the newly risen moon, a crescent slip of silver in the
sky, and then sent Suliman flying in the direction of the villa.
The door of the wall was open, and Hosein, ghostlike in his white
draperies, emerged from the deep shadows of the entrance as Carew
dismounted. He took the horse in silence, still evidently nursing his
grievance of the morning, and half amused, half annoyed by his servant’s
tacit expression of disapproval Carew omitted his own customary greeting
and swinging on his heel walked up to the house.
In the Moorish hall, brilliantly lit by three large hanging lamps of
beaten silver, Saba was waiting. And as his sensitive ears caught the
almost imperceptible sound of soft leather against the marble pavement
he darted forward with a wild cry of joy and fell, laughing and sobbing
together, into the arms stretched out to catch him. Tossing him up on
his shoulder, Carew carried him, chattering with excitement, through the
jasmine scented courtyard to the big bedroom at the back of the house,
there to cope with a flow of endless questions which ceased not but
penetrated shrilly even to the distant bathroom. And standing beside the
dressing table, his slim fingers straying caressingly among the orderly
arranged toilet appointments, he was still talking when Carew came back
from his tub. Then the questions gave place to a detailed description of
his own small doings during the last three days and he rambled on
discoursively, while Carew changed into the fresh robes laid out for
him, carrying his listener through endless imaginary adventures and
concluding with the grave announcement that Derar, the fat butler, had
assuredly incurred the wrath of Allah for his wife had presented him
that morning with yet another unwelcome daughter “—which, as your
lordship knows, is the _fifth_,” he added with fine scorn.
And glad that for the moment the boy appeared to have forgotten his
fears, Carew let him talk and finally took him with him to the dining
room where, perched cross-legged on a cushion beside the table and made
happy with a plate of fruit and sweetmeats, he continued to chatter
throughout the formal dinner served by a dejected, tearful-looking Derar
and Hosein, who had recovered his accustomed serenity.
Though preferring the simplicity of camp life, Carew, in his town house,
followed early traditions and maintained a certain state and ceremony.
Many of the servants were old retainers, and Derar had been butler to
the late Sir Mark Carew. And the elderly survivor, conservative to the
backbone and highly endowed with a sense of his own importance, was
largely responsible for the continuance of the old régime that still
prevailed at the villa. And so it was that, even when he was alone,
Carew dined nightly in the huge room where the table seemed a tiny
island set in the midst of a vast marble sea. But this evening he had
glanced about him once or twice during the protracted meal with a
faintly puzzled look in his sombre eyes. What made the room tonight
appear so empty—so chill and lifeless? It was not the lack of guests
that troubled him, he was used to being alone, but a strange yearning
for something he was at a loss to define. Was it the preliminary
warnings of middle age that, urging a remembrance of his forty years,
had induced the unaccustomed feeling of lassitude and melancholy that
seemed to have taken hold of him? He almost laughed at the thought. For
some it might be the beginning of a gradual decline of force and
ability, but for himself, he had never felt fitter or stronger. It was
just Algiers, he told himself as he lingered over the cup of thick,
sweet coffee that had become as indispensable to him as to any native of
the country, Algiers—and a consciousness of intense and profound
boredom. Thank heaven it wouldn’t last much longer. Life on the march
was too strenuous to admit of ennui.
Calling to Saba he went to the study adjoining his bedroom and from
there out on to the wide verandah that overlooked the garden.
For a while he smoked in silence that was punctuated at intervals by the
blind boy’s fitful remarks to which he replied briefly with an
inattention that was not lost upon his small companion, for gradually
he, too, fell silent.
The night was very still. Directly before the verandah a broad streak of
moonlight stretching like a path of silver to the distant boundary wall
made blacker the darkness that enveloped the rest of the garden where
trees and flowering shrubs loomed large and fantastic in the murky
gloom. The heavy scent of flowers was almost overpowering, languorous
and sleep-inducing as the smell of incense. And the brooding hush that
Carew had noticed earlier in the evening seemed now even more
penetrating and intense. There was in the air a feeling of unnatural
suspense, a breathless sensation of expectancy like the deep hush that
precedes a storm. In the desert Carew would have known what it
portended, but here in Algiers he could not account for it. Was it
perhaps only his own imagination magnifying the quiet of an ordinary
evening into something that approached the abnormal? He was not given to
imagination, but he could not rid himself of the impression of a coming
calamity that momentarily made him more wide awake and alert. And with
the sense of waiting there came again the feeling of depression and
melancholy he had experienced during dinner. How empty and lonely the
house had seemed! He had never noticed it before. Why did he notice it
now? And as he pondered it there seemed to rise before him the semblance
of a figure standing in the brilliant strip of moonlight, a slender,
graceful figure whose boyish riding dress no longer moved him to
intolerant disgust. For an instant he stared with almost fear at the
delicate oval face that appeared so strangely close to his, looking
straight into the pain-filled haunting eyes that seemed to be tearing
the very heart out of him. Then a terrible oath broke from his rigid
lips and in the revulsion of feeling that swept over him he wrenched his
gaze away, cursing with bitter rage the day he had ever seen her. Not
her nor any other woman—so help him God!
A stifled whimper and a tiny hand slid tremblingly into his, made him
realise the passionate utterance that had been forced from him. He
caught the boy in his arms and soothed him with remorseful tenderness.
“Angry with thee—when am I ever angry with thee, thou little foolish
one?” he murmured gently in response to the sobbing question that came
muffled from the folds of his robes in which Saba’s head was buried.
Content with his answer the child lay still. And the clinging touch of
his fingers, the soft warm weight of his slim little body brought a
measure of consolation to the lonely man who held him.
For a long time Carew sat without moving, staring into the shadowy
garden. Save for the shrilling of a cicada in the grass near by the deep
silence was unbroken. And soon even the insect ceased its monotonous
chirp, abruptly as it had begun.
Carew had been up since before daybreak, and lulled by the intense quiet
and the heaviness of the night, he began to be aware that drowsiness was
stealing over him. He was almost asleep when the vague impression of a
distant sound, a curious slithering sound that ended in a faint thud,
penetrated to his only half conscious mind and roused him to sudden and
complete wakefulness. The noise seemed to have come from the further end
of the garden. Who was abroad in the garden at this time of night? As he
stared keen-eyed into the darkness his brain was working rapidly. He had
thought the child to be asleep, but from a slight movement in his arms
he knew that Saba too was awake and listening intently, as he himself
was listening. To get the boy away before the happening he believed
inevitable was his first care. Without altering his own position he slid
him silently behind his chair with a low breathed injunction to go. But
with a passionate gesture of refusal Saba clung to him and Carew was
obliged to use unwilling force to unclasp the slender fingers twined
desperately in his thick burnous.
“Go!” he whispered again peremptorily. And as the boy crept slowly away
he leant forward in his chair once more, waiting with braced muscles and
straining ears for any further sound that should betray his nocturnal
visitor’s whereabouts. But the few moments’ attention given to Saba had
been moments used by another to advantage. The attack came with
unexpected and noiseless suddenness, from a quarter he least expected,
and it was only his acute sense of smell that saved him. With the rank,
animal-like odour of the desert man reeking in his nostrils he leaped to
his feet, swerving as he turned. And his quick, instinctive movement
saved his life, for the driving knife thrust aimed at his heart failed
in its objective and glanced off his arm gashing it deeply. With a snarl
of rage el Dhib thrust again. And, his right hand temporarily numbed and
unable to draw the revolver at which his blood drenched fingers fumbled
nervelessly, Carew caught the swinging arm with his left hand and flung
his whole weight forward against his opponent. They fell with a crash,
the Arab undermost, and grappled in the darkness twisting and heaving
with straining limbs and labouring breath.
Crippled, Carew at first could do little more than retain his hold, but
as the numbness passed from his wounded arm he managed with a desperate
effort to jerk himself upward until his knees were pressing with
crushing force on Abdul’s chest and rigid forearm and, rolling sideways,
he tore the knife from the fingers that clung to it tenaciously. But the
manœuvre cost him the advantage he had gained. With a lithe panther-like
movement of his sinewy body the Arab slipped uppermost, his hands at the
other’s throat. And conscious that he was fighting for his life, Carew
put forward his utmost power to meet the strength he knew to be equal to
his own. Locked in a mortal embrace that seemed to admit of only one
ending they struggled with deadly purpose, writhing to and fro on the
floor of the verandah until a sidelong jerk from one of them sent them
over the edge and they rolled, still gripping fiercely, into the garden
beneath. The drop was a short one, but in falling Carew’s head struck
against the abutment of the marble stairway and for a moment he lay
stunned. And Abdul who had fallen on top of him was not able to complete
the work he had begun. Warned by the lights that flashed up in the
villa, unable to recover the knife he had lost, with a parting curse he
turned and ran for the shelter of the shadowy trees, doubling like a
hare as he sped across the strip of brilliant moonlight. And still dazed
from the blow on his head Carew staggered to his feet and stood staring
stupidly after him, swaying dizzily as he strove to think collectedly.
But as the flying figure almost reached the friendly darkness that would
cover his flight the momentary cloud lifted from Carew’s brain and he
wrenched the revolver from his waistband. Yet with his finger pressing
on the trigger he paused irresolute. Not at an unarmed man—not in the
back! That was _murder_—no matter how great the provocation. With a
smothered exclamation he dropped his arm to his side. But the screaming
whine of a bullet tearing past his head and a sharp crack behind him
told him that Hosein was troubled by no such scruples. And with mingled
feelings he watched Abdul el Dhib, caught at the moment he thought
himself safe, plunge forward on his face and lie twisting in the agony
of death.
When Carew reached him and lifting him with practised hands supported
him against his knee, the dying man’s eyes rolled upward to the grave
face bending over him and his contorted features relaxed in a grin of
ghastly amusement.
“This was ordained, lord,” he gasped painfully, a pinkish foam gathering
on his lips, “thou or I—and Allah has chosen. To Him the praise,” he
added mockingly, and choked his life away on the crimson tide that
poured from his mouth.