Silence had settled again over the little oasis which an hour before had
been the scene of noisiest activity.
Scattered amongst the palms and thorn trees the debris of a camp
evidenced the passing of a caravan, and three or four miles away the
train of lurching camels with its escort of mounted Arabs was still
visible moving steadily over the rolling waste, heading for the south.
Seated cross-legged on the warm ground, idly dribbling sand through his
long, brown fingers, Carew watched it with a feeling of envy, longing
for the time when he could once more lead his own caravan towards the
heart of the great desert whither his thoughts turned perpetually.
But for the promise made to General Sanois he would already have left
Algiers. The small attraction the town had once had for him had vanished
completely in the mental disturbance that had dominated him during the
last few weeks. And Sanois’ preparations dragged interminably. Daily
Carew was tempted to put his half-laughing threat into execution and
abandon the whole enterprise. But the constant delays were no fault of
the General who was straining every nerve to complete his
arrangements—and Carew had given his word. There was nothing for it but
to wait with what patience he could muster.
Out of tune with himself and his surroundings he had gone for
distraction to Biskra to attend the annual race meeting, and for three
crowded days he had been able, partially, to forget the strange unrest
that beset him. But only partially. The little desert town, filled to
overflowing for the great event of the year, was too small for chance
meetings to be avoided and several times he had glimpsed Geradine,
blustering and insufferable there as in Algiers. But keeping closely to
his own circle of acquaintances Carew had escaped coming into contact
with the man for whom he had conceived a hatred that was inexplicable.
And in Biskra he had other interests besides the racing to engage his
attention. Amongst the Arab chiefs who poured into the town from far and
wide he had encountered many old friends. And it was in response to the
earnest request from one of them, the strangest Arab he had ever known,
that Carew had left Biskra early the previous day to ride with him the
first couple of stages of a journey that would take the sheik weeks to
accomplish.
It was long since they had met and the intervening years had brought
startling and unforeseen changes into the life of the man Carew
remembered as a light-hearted captain of Spahis who had been more
Frenchman than Arab in his tastes and inclinations.
Carew’s gaze turned musingly to the chief who lay stretched on the
ground beside him. Wrapped in his burnous, his face hidden in his arms,
he had slept, or seemed to sleep throughout the hour of the siesta and
not even the clamour and bustle of the departing caravan had roused him.
Carew had watched the breaking up of the camp with more than ordinary
interest. A headman had superintended the arrangements with precision
and despatch that savoured more of military methods than the usual
haphazard procedure prevalent among journeying Arabs; and the escort, of
whom a dozen or so remained at the further side of the oasis chatting
with Hosein, were all obviously fighting men, extraordinarily
disciplined and orderly.
Still in disgrace with the Administration for the wiping out of a
contiguous tribe ten years before, for what purpose had Said Ibn
Zarrarah, ex-captain of Spahis and paramount chief of a large district,
not only fostered the warlike instincts of a people with fighting
traditions behind them but endeavoured, apparently with success, to
engraft on them the European tactics he had himself learnt from the
rulers of the country? It was an intriguing question Carew had pondered
while his companion slept. In the old days France had had no more
devoted adherent than the dashing young Spahi. Was there now any
ulterior motive in the militarism he encouraged in his people, or was it
merely a means by which he sought to distract his mind from a life that
Carew knew to be uncongenial?
A younger son with no immediate prospect of succeeding to the leadership
of the tribe, with aspirations that had never found fulfillment in his
desert home, he had, on joining his regiment, become thoroughly
Gallicised, spending long periods of leave in Paris and unlike the
average semi-educated native assimilating only what was best in western
thought and culture. Unspoilt by the flattery and attention heaped on
him, notorious for his cold disregard of women, he had lived for his
regiment and the racing stable he maintained in France. The death of his
elder brother, killed in the raid that had put him out of favour with
the Government, had called him from the life he loved to assume the
cares and duties of a chieftainship he had never desired. Hotly
resenting the heavy censure of the authorities on an action that had
been misrepresented to them, and too proud to explain the necessity that
had forced his hand, he had severed all connections with the past and
had retired to his desert fastness to combat the suspicions of the
elders of his tribe who had distrusted him for his want of religious
zeal and for his adherence to the very people with whom he was in
disgrace.
The irony of the situation had not been lost on him and it had been a
certain satisfaction to prove conclusively his loyalty to his father’s
house. The Governor who had condemned his action had been superseded
shortly afterwards, but the chief of the Ibn Zarrarah had ignored the
change and made no effort towards reconciliation. His heart turned often
in secret to the France he had known and loved, he held aloof from his
old associates, keeping strictly to his own territory and immersing
himself in the affairs of his tribe. He had lived down the mistrust of
even the most conservative of his people, conforming outwardly to an
orthodoxy that gave him no inward consolation.
This year, for the first time in ten years, he had yielded to the long
suppressed desire to revisit the scene of former pleasures. In the old
days he had been a conspicuous and well-known figure at the annual race
meeting at Biskra, popular with Arab and Frenchman alike and famous for
his stud of magnificent horses. The visit just concluded had been made
under very different circumstances. Unrecognised and almost unremembered
he had kept entirely to the company of his own countrymen, a spectator
only where once he had been a moving spirit.
The experience had been fraught with more pain than pleasure. He was
human enough to feel the difference keenly, philosophical enough to be
contemptuous of his own bitterness. But all his philosophy could not
heal the ache in his heart or still the longings quickened by the sound
of the soft musical language he had spoken for years in preference to
his own.
And now when Carew bent forward and touched him with a half-laughing
“Ho, dreamer!” in the vernacular, he sat up with a jerk revealing dark
melancholy eyes that were not dulled with sleep but hard and bright with
concentrated thought. “For the love of God speak French,” he ejaculated.
“Oh, I know I’m a fool,” he went on with a half-defiant ring in his
voice, “a bigger fool than most—I always was. I was a fool to forget
that I was an Arab, to try and imagine myself a Frenchman. I was a fool,
when my brother Omair remained childless, not to realise that I might at
any time be called upon to give up all that made life pleasant for me.
And when he was killed I was a fool to do what I did. You know what
happened. I went to Algiers to make my _amende honorable_ for having
broken the peace of the border, and the Governor—that fat old Faidherbe
who was always trembling for his own skin—waited for no explanation but
lost his temper and cursed me. I was ‘an ingrate to be viewed with the
deepest suspicion,’ I was ‘a turbulent chief who was a menace to the
country.’ I was everything that was vile and contemptible and
dishonourable. I lost my own temper in the end and cursed him back until
I didn’t know how I got out of the Palace without being arrested. I left
Algiers within the hour and Faidherbe misrepresented the whole case to
the Ministry of the Interior, and I have been under suspicion ever
since. But what else could I do? I had to fight. I loved Omair. When it
came to the pinch I found that my love for him was greater than my love
for France. I fought to defend his honour, and what I did later I did to
avenge his death—do you blame me?”
His restless eyes swept upward in frowning enquiry and a momentary gleam
lit them as Carew shook his head.
“No! but France blames me, and it hurts—damnably. France—” his voice
softened suddenly—“what she meant to me once! I loved her, I love her
still—the more fool I! She is like a woman—fickle,
undependable—courting you today, spurning you tomorrow. But I cannot
hate her as I hate women though she has hurt me as women have hurt me.
Women! God’s curses on them!” he exclaimed violently. “I always detested
them, always avoided them, but they made me suffer despite myself. For
love of a woman Omair died. The love of a woman took from me my best
friend, an Englishman as you are, just when I needed him most. _Bon
Dieu_, how I loathe them!” He flung himself back on the sand with a
harsh laugh.
The confidence Carew had been expecting ever since they left Biskra had
come with a rush. Much of the story was known to him already. A garbled
account of the chief’s delinquencies had been given to him years ago in
Algiers, more he had learned from his numerous Arab friends. That there
were faults on both sides was evident, but it was clearly a case where
leniency might very well have been extended to a chief who had been one
of France’s warmest admirers. It had been the last blunder of a weak and
unscrupulous Governor whose term of office had been a series of
unfortunate happenings. To curry favour with the home authorities he had
screened his own hastiness and magnified the chief’s offence, forgetting
that his scapegoat had it in his power to retaliate in a way that would
have cost France much. The Ibn Zarrarah were a large and powerful tribe
whose sphere of influence was far reaching and, flushed at the moment
with victory, a revolt of more than ordinary magnitude might easily have
occurred. Their chief, seething under a sense of injustice, a very
little might have turned the scale in favour of rebellion—and wars of
suppression were expensive. And often Carew had wondered not at what
Said Ibn Zarrarah had done but at what he had left undone. But now as he
sat still raking the loose warm sand with his fingers he was thinking
more of the chief’s concluding words than of his grievance against the
French Government.
He looked again at the distant caravan, a mere smudge now on the
horizon. He had spent a day and a night with the Arab and his train of
followers and he had reason to know that one of those slow moving camels
carried the closely screened travelling box of the wife of the man who
had cursed all women as heartily and as passionately as ever he had done
himself.
“You loathe women—and yet you are married,” he said slowly, without
turning his head or altering the direction of his gaze.
The chief rolled over with a growl of angry impatience.
“For the sake of the tribe,” he flashed. “Do you think by any chance
that I did it to please myself! Do I do anything to please myself in
these days? I put it off as long as possible, but my people were
insistent—the house of Zarrarah had need of an heir.”
“And your wife—?” The involuntary question surprised Carew even more
than his listener. To an ordinary Arab the remark would have been beyond
the bounds of all etiquette and convention; to Said Ibn Zarrarah,
western in his ideas even with regard to the sex he despised, it was
curious only as coming from the man it did.
“She is happy with her child,” he said with a shrug of indifference, and
searched for a cigarette in the folds of his burnous. But despite his
outward show of unconcern it seemed as if his answer had scarcely
contented himself for his black brows were knitted gloomily and his face
almost sullen as he sat smoking in silence with his melancholy eyes
fixed on the boundless space before him. “Why should she not be happy?”
he burst out at length. “She has everything she asks for—the only
wonder is she asks so little. She has more liberty allowed her than the
average Arab woman—and is too rigid an Arab to make use of it. She is
alone in my harem, she has no rival to make her life miserable—and she
has borne a son to the house of Zarrarah.”
She had borne a son—the supreme desire of the eastern woman.
A shadow crossed Carew’s face as he turned and looked at his companion
curiously. “And is that no compensation to you? There are those who
would envy you your son, Sheik,” he said, with a touch of bitterness in
his voice. But his question went unanswered and he changed the
conversation abruptly.
“You were a fool to leave it to Faidherbe,” he said with friendly
candour. “You knew what he was, and the attitude he was likely to adopt.
You had your chance with the change of administration. His successor is
a very different type. He would at least have listened to your
explanations with an open mind. He would listen to them now if you chose
to make them. But the first move must come from you. You cannot expect
the Government to make overtures to one who is _suspect_. I heard the
story at the time, of course—Faidherbe’s version of it, that is to say.
But I could do nothing then. I was practically new to the country and I
was not—”
“You were not El Hakim—the eye of France,” cut in the chief with a
swift smile. Carew laughed.
“Is that what they call me? A blind eye, Sheik, where my friends are
concerned.” The chief nodded. “That I have also heard. And that is why
you are trusted—trusted as few men are in Algeria,” he added gravely.
And for a time he relapsed into silence and Carew waited for the
suggestion he preferred the other to make. He had a certain influence
now with the Government, he could pave the way for a reconciliation—if
Said Ibn Zarrarah really desired it. But did he desire it? It was clear
from what he had said that in spite of his very natural feeling of
resentment the chief nourished no schemes of revenge and had no thought
of turning the large forces at his command against the country he still
admired. But wounded in his deepest susceptibilities, embittered by
years of solitary brooding, would his pride allow him to make overtures
that must of necessity be humiliating and would require a certain moral
courage to perform? And his present position was a strong one, apart
from the injury to his feelings he had little to lose or gain either
way.
It was a problem the chief would have to decide for himself. In the
years that Carew had worked in the country he had learned to keep his
own counsel. He never interfered or gave gratuitous advice, and was
chary even of advising when asked. He had come to have a deep insight
into the workings of the native mind and he had long since realised the
value of neutrality. His rôle of intermediary was possible only so long
as his sympathies remained equally divided between the people of the
land and their foreign rulers.
And now he waited long for Said Ibn Zarrarah to speak, so long that more
than once he glanced covertly at the watch on his wrist. It was time,
and past the time, that the chief should start to overtake the caravan
that was now no longer distinguishable, and time that he himself set out
on the fifty mile ride back to Biskra. Travelling with no camping
impedimenta to hinder him he had reckoned on spending the night at a
tiny village that was known to him and which made a convenient halting
place. He would have to ride hard if the squalid little collection of
mud huts was to be reached before the light gave out. Not that either he
or Hosein minded a night spent supperless under the stars, but there
were the horses to be considered. There was, too, an odd feeling in the
air that he had only just realised. The heat that all day had been
intense was now suffocating. And as he raised his hand to brush away the
moisture lying thick on his forehead, it dawned on him that he had been
doing so frequently during the last hour. Instinctively his eyes swept
the horizon. There was nothing to break the uninterrupted view, and seen
through the shimmering haze that eddied from its surface, the wide
expanse of sand looked like the rolling waves of a vast leaden sea. A
sullen angry sea that seemed to heave and writhe as though straining to
let loose the tremendous forces lying dormant within its mighty bosom.
And far off to the southeast, where sky and sand met, a faint dark line
like an inky smudge caught Carew’s attention and sent him to his feet
with a sharp exclamation.
“You were better with your people, Sheik.”
At the sound of his voice the chief looked up with a start and sudden
anxiety flashed into his eyes as they followed the direction of the
other’s pointing finger. Then his gaze turned southward and for a moment
he stood peering intently as if striving to visualise the caravan that
had long since passed out of sight. Without moving he shouted to his men
and almost before the words died on his lips his horse was beside him
and he swung into the saddle.
Bending down he caught Carew’s outstretched hand in a grip that conveyed
much he did not utter.
“Some day I may ask you to speak for me,” he muttered hurriedly, and was
gone in a swirl of dust and sand.
For a minute or two Carew lingered, looking after him, then turned to
Hosein who was bringing up the horses. The man jerked his head towards
the east. “My lord has seen?” he murmured. Carew nodded. “It may pass,”
he said, running his fingers caressingly over Suliman’s neck before
gathering up the reins. But Hosein shook his head. “It will come,” he
asserted positively, “they know,” he added, pointing to the horses whose
nervous fidgeting and sweat-drenched coats evidenced uneasiness.
“Then in God’s name let it come,” replied Carew with a short laugh, “are
we children to fear a sandstorm?” And Hosein’s grim features relaxed in
an answering grin as he held his master’s stirrup for him to mount.
Riding, the air seemed less stagnant but the heat increased momentarily
and the deep silence of the desert was more strangely silent than usual.
The horses were racing, urged by instinct, and splashes of white foam
thrown back from Suliman’s champing jaws powdered Carew’s dark burnous
like flakes of snow.
But it was Said Ibn Zarrarah rather than the approaching sandstorm that
engaged his mind as he leant forward in the saddle to ease his weight
from the galloping horse. Said’s case was only one of thousands of
others, he reflected. East or west the problems of life were very
similar. The point of view might differ but the problems remained the
same. The eternal struggle between duty and inclination was not confined
only to the so-called civilized races but raged as fiercely here under
the burning African sun as in many more temperate climes. And Said Ibn
Zarrarah, trained from boyhood to despotism and self-indulgence, had
shown more moral courage than he himself had done. Surrendering to a
sense of obligation the Arab had gone back to the life he loathed and
assumed duties that were distasteful to him, while he, for a private
sorrow, had shirked the responsibilities that were his by inheritance.
It was a humiliating truth that was indisputable.
And from Said Ibn Zarrarah, Carew’s thoughts wandered to the young wife
who was waiting for the coming of the husband who had married her only
to satisfy the wishes of his people. It was a strange marriage even for
an Arab woman. Though treated evidently with unusual consideration, her
life must be a difficult one. Rigidly orthodox, as there was every
reason to suppose she was, her lord’s western tendencies and liberality
of thought would alone be sufficient cause for perplexity and
bewilderment. And solitary in a harem that was probably a marvel of
oriental sumptuousness, surrounded by everything that a woman could
desire, with no spoken wish ungratified, might she not still be longing
for more than the cold and empty symbols of a lavish generosity that was
prompted only by a sense of what was properly her due as the wife of a
powerful sheik? “She has everything she asks for—the only wonder is she
asks so little.” Unloved and perhaps yearning for the love denied her,
were her wants so few by reason of the one want that made all others
valueless to her? Said, with his magnificent physique and fine features,
was an arresting figure of a man who would appeal to any woman, more
particularly to one who could have had little or no opportunity of
seeing other men with whom to contrast him. Small wonder if the
girl-bride had fallen in love with her stalwart, handsome husband. And
he? Was love for her dawning in spite of his professed hatred of
women—was the mother of his son already more to him than he realised?
He was not as indifferent to her welfare as his words had seemed to
imply. He had gone unnecessarily out of his way to endeavour to
represent her as contented with her lot. That in itself was significant.
And the look that had leaped to his eyes when Carew drew his attention
to the threatening storm was certainly not anxiety on his own behalf.
What did the coming years hold for him and the woman he had married? The
woman—Carew checked his wandering thoughts with a bitter smile. What
had he to do with women and the love of women?
Jerking his head angrily he waved Hosein to his side, and as he turned
in the saddle a sudden gust of wind, scorching as the heat from an oven
door, struck against his face and a heavy peal of thunder crashed
through the intense stillness, reverberating sharply like the prolonged
rattling of artillery. For an instant the horses faltered, quivering and
snorting, then leaped forward racing neck and neck and, together, the
two men looked behind them. The inky smudge on the skyline was blacker
and more apparent than it had been, rolling swiftly up like a dense
impenetrable wall, and for the first time Carew realised the gloom that,
preoccupied, he had not noticed before. There seemed no possibility now
of escaping the storm that earlier he had thought would pass too far to
the south to touch them, and the prospects for the night should they
over-ride the tiny village in the darkness, were not cheering. But it
was all in the day’s work and he was accustomed to the vagaries of the
desert. And there was something in the thought of the approaching
struggle with the elements that stirred his blood and made him almost
welcome the physical discomfort that would inevitably ensue. It was
something tangible he could contend with, something he could do, and
doing, forget perhaps for a few hours the strange unrest that had laid
so strong a hold on him.
A vivid flash of lightning followed by another deafening roar of thunder
stemmed the current of his thoughts and concentrated all his attention
on his nervous mount. The pick of his stud, Suliman was the fastest
horse Carew had ever ridden, and today, fleeter than usual by reason of
his fear, it was difficult to restrain the headlong gallop that
threatened to carry him far beyond his companion.
Tightening his grip Carew leant forward soothing the terrified animal
with voice and hand. The gloom was increasing, the gusts of hot wind
more frequent and of longer duration, bringing with them now the
stinging whip of driving sand. There was a distant muttering like the
far off surge of waves beating against a rocky coast and suddenly the
sun went out, hidden by the racing clouds that swept across the heavens,
and with a tearing, whining scream the storm broke.
Reeling under the terrific impact of the wind that staggered even the
galloping horses, blinded with the swirling sand, the two men crouched
low in their saddles, wrestling with the flapping cloaks they strove to
draw closer about them, struggling to keep near to each other, their
voices lost in the roar of the tempest. The surrounding country was
obliterated and a thick darkness enveloped them. Between his knees Carew
could feel the great bay trembling and starting but the strain was eased
somewhat from his arms for the need of companionship had driven Suliman
close beside the horse Hosein was riding. It was pure chance now where
they would find themselves when the storm abated for the darkness and
the whirling clouds of sand obscured every landmark. But it was not a
matter with which Carew concerned himself. He had been through many
sandstorms, fiercer and more prolonged than this one was likely to be.
And here they were only catching the fringe of it. Further to the south
Said, with his slow moving camels and the burden of women on his hands,
was probably in a far worse case and would spend a more uncomfortable
night than they would. With a shrug he spat out a mouthful of sand and
dragged the heavy burnous higher about his face. The flying particles
stung like showers of spraying glass and the reins were rough and gritty
between his wet fingers. From time to time he shook off the clinging
accumulation but it gathered fast again filtering up his wide sleeves
and penetrating through his thick clothing till his whole body was
tingling and pricking. But in spite of the discomfort he was happier
than he had been for weeks. The fighting instinct in him leaped to meet
the fury of the storm. There was no time to think. He lived for the
moment, every nerve strained to the utmost, his sombre eyes glowing with
a curious look of pleasure, his knees thrust tight against his horse’s
ribs, his powerful limbs braced to resist the violent gusts that
threatened to tear him from the saddle. The fierce howling of the wind,
the savage pitilessness of the scene filled him with a strange
excitement, making him exult in his own physical strength, the strength
that had enabled him to pursue the wild and strenuous life he had made
his own. It was nature, capricious and changeful as he had learned to
know her—the nature he had turned to in his time of need, the nature he
would go back to with undiminished pleasure and confidence. A hard
mistress, cruel often, but alluring and compelling for her very
waywardness.
The storm had been raging for some time before the rain came, a heavy
tropical downpour that, unexpected as it was short lived, drenched the
men’s thick cloaks and caked the sand on the horse’s bodies. It passed
quickly and with its going the gloom lessened slightly and the wind
abated somewhat of its violence. But Carew placed no faith in the
temporary lull. It would blow again later, or he was very much mistaken,
and probably harder than before. Meanwhile it was an opportunity to push
on, to increase the pace of the horses, whose mad gallop had gradually
slackened while the storm was at its height. It was only nerves and the
strong wind that had slowed them down. They were capable of a good deal
yet in spite of the strain they had gone through. It was not such blind
going now but it was still impossible to distinguish any of the
outstanding features of the district and the village they were making
for could be easily passed within a stone’s throw and yet missed. And
night was falling rapidly. There was nothing for it but to carry on and
trust to luck.
For an hour they rode steadily, huddled in their dripping cloaks, silent
as they usually were when together. And the moment, to men even more
communicatively inclined than Carew and his taciturn servant, was not
conducive to conversation. The air was still impregnated with drifting
sand that sifted through to mouth and nostrils in spite of the close
drawn cloaks, and the wind made speech difficult. And furthermore, Carew
was succumbing to an intense and growing feeling of drowsiness. He had
not slept during the hour of the siesta at the oasis and he had been up
the greater part of the previous night attending to one of Said’s
followers who had taken an ugly toss from a stumbling camel. Suliman,
his panic subsided, had resumed his usual smooth gallop and his easy
movements were sleep inducing. More than once Carew found his
sand-rimmed eyes closing. It was Hosein who noticed the first indication
that luck had favoured them and that they were on the right track for
the village they had scarcely thought to find. A clump of withered palms
clustered beside a broken well that had been dry for years. Carew
recognised the mournful little spot with a half-somnolent feeling of
detachment and nodded sleepily in response to his servant’s exclamation.
And it was again Hosein who made the further discovery that drew from
him a second exclamation that effectually banished his master’s
drowsiness.
Almost hidden by the palm trees and the crumbling masonry of the well,
two riderless horses stood with dejected, down-drooping heads, ridden to
a standstill apparently for even Suliman’s angry squeal failed to
attract their attention. Motionless like creatures of bronze, their
backs to the driving sand, their dangling bridles flapping in the wind,
there was something singularly forlorn in their attitude. At sight of
them Carew scowled in momentary indecision. He had no wish to be
hampered with the care of two spent horses, but it was not a night to
pass even an animal in distress. With a word to Hosein, he swung Suliman
towards the little dead oasis. The weary beasts took no notice of their
approach and did not move as Carew drew rein beside them. A quick glance
about him and he slid suddenly out of the saddle. Near by lay an Arab,
face downwards on the ground, and a few steps away a powerfully built
European sat with his back propped against the broken wall of the well
nursing a heavy riding whip across his knees. His head was sunk between
his shoulders, his face hidden by the wide brim of the helmet pulled low
on his forehead. Rain-drenched and spattered with mud and sand that
caked his once immaculate boots and clung closely to the rough surface
of his tweed coat, he presented a sorry spectacle, but his plight had
evidently not impaired his power of speech for there came from his lips
a steady flow of uninterrupted blasphemy that sounded oddly in such a
place and at such a time.
Carew was no purist himself, but the unnecessary foulness of the words
that assailed his ears roused in him a feeling of disgust and he turned
abruptly to the prostrate Arab who seemed in more immediate need of
attention. But as he touched him the man rolled from under his hands and
stumbling to his feet, shrank away with upraised arm as though to ward
off a blow. His eyes were dazed but mingling with the pain in them there
was a look of deep hatred, and his bruised and bleeding mouth told their
own tale. The individual by the well was evidently a hard hitter as well
as a hard swearer. To Carew, the sullen, twitching features were vaguely
familiar and it was obvious, when after a few moments the Arab collected
himself sufficiently to speak, that he himself was recognised. But he
could not place him and the name that was reluctantly vouchsafed
conveyed nothing—he knew dozens of Arabs with the same designation.
More he could not ask. Whatever were his feelings on the subject he
could not interfere between master and servant. But his expression was
not pleasant and he was conscious of a rising anger as he swung on his
heel to go back to the well. He did not reach it. With slow clenching
hands he stood where he had turned staring at the man who was leisurely
coming towards him—the man he had been trying to avoid since the night,
weeks ago, of the opera. The sodden helmet was pushed back revealing
clearly, even in the dim light, the blotched, dissipated looking face
that had stirred him to so strange and deadly a hatred. And now, in
their close proximity, that strange hatred seemed to increase a
thousandfold and it was all Carew could do to preserve semblance of
passivity and conceal the boiling rage that filled him. It was like
nothing he had ever experienced in his life before. As on that night in
Algiers it was sweeping him with a force that was beyond all reason, all
explanation. He could not explain it. He could not conquer it. He could
only hope to retain the self-command that seemed perilously near to
breaking point, for again the same appalling desire to kill was pouring
over him. Aghast at the horrible impulse that was almost more than he
could resist he thrust his hands behind him to keep them from the weapon
that lay hidden in the folds of his waistcloth. And completely oblivious
of the storm of passion his presence had evoked, Geradine strode up to
him with the swaggering gait and overbearing demeanour that
characterised him always, but which was especially notable in his
dealings with any native, irrespective of rank. A native to him was a
native, an inferior creature little better than the beasts of the field,
to be dominated by fear and kept in his place. He stood now, his legs
planted widely apart, slapping his boot with his riding whip, surveying
Carew through insolent half-closed eyes.
“Look here—” he began, his tone a mixture of truculence and arrogant
condescension. “I’m in the devil of a mess. Came out from Biskra for a
day or two’s camping—missed my people in this infernal sandstorm—all
the fault of that fool there. What’ll you take to get me out of this
bally graveyard? My beasts are knocked up—yours look pretty fresh. Name
your price, and for heaven’s sake get a move on, I—oh, _damn_!” he
broke off with a petulant shrug of annoyance as Carew continued to stare
at him with a purposely blank face that was neither helpful nor
encouraging. For a few moments, imagining himself to be not understood,
he glared wrathfully at the supposed Arab, favouring him with a string
of personal epithets that were neither complimentary nor parliamentary.
And with contemptuous indifference Carew let him curse. If Geradine had
accepted him as an Arab, an Arab he would remain—but not an Arab to be
either browbeaten or bribed. He was not in a mood to make things easier
for the blustering bully who was working himself up into a state of
childish rage. He could alter his tone if he wanted assistance. Nor at
the moment was Carew very certain that his assistance would be
forthcoming. Why should he go out of his way to help a man he hated! To
be left in the predicament in which he was would be a salutary
experience that might have a chastening effect on one who was obviously
unused to opposition or discomfort in any shape or form. A few
privations would do him no harm. And if he died in the desert, which was
not in the least likely, his death would probably be a source of relief
rather than grief to his friends and relations. Quite suddenly Carew
thought of the wife of the man who was facing him. She certainly, if all
reports were true, would have no cause to lament a husband she evidently
went in dread of. But what was that to him! A surge of anger went
through him as his down-bent eyes swept upward to meet the insolent
stare fixed on him. The foul-mouthed brute! God, how he hated him!
Almost unconsciously he moved a step forward, and there was something
menacing in his expression that checked Geradine’s flow of language.
With a shade more civility in his tongue he began to repeat his demand
in halting French that was scarcely comprehensible. And with typical
Arab aloofness Carew waited for him to come to the end of his stumbling
explanations. But it was not on his account that he listened to him. It
was the need of the wretched servant and the two exhausted horses that
swayed him and moved him finally to a reluctant decision.
With a cold word of assent, and a curt gesture that sent the quick blood
rushing to the other’s face, he turned haughtily as though from an
inferior and walked back to the horses, leaving Geradine to stare after
him spluttering with rage, twisting and bending the pliable whip between
his coarse hands, in two minds whether to follow him or not. Curse the
dam’ nigger and his infernal cheek, looking at him as if he were dirt! A
bit above himself, that chap. That’s what came of treating natives as
the French did—equality, fraternity and the rest of it, by Gad! A
rotten country! Who did the supercilious beggar think he was talking to,
anyhow? A silly tourist to be impressed by his dam’ airs of superiority?
He was hanged if he would stick impudence from any Arab. Coming the free
son of the desert over _him_, was he? The blighter could go to blazes,
and his horses too for that matter. _He’d_ not truckle to any eternally
condemned son of a—But a freshening gust of wind that, sand laden,
whipped against his cheek with unpleasant suggestiveness cut short his
muttered imprecations and quashed his half-formed intention of revoking
his demand for assistance and relying on himself to get out of an
uncomfortable situation he was convinced was due entirely to the
muddle-headedness of his servant. Curse the fool—there hadn’t been a
job yet that he hadn’t mucked up! Recommended for his capabilities, by
jove! A well-trained valet and an efficient dragoman, was he? He’d be a
bit more trained and efficient when his present employer was done with
him. There was only one way of dealing with cattle of that kind, and
Malec wouldn’t be the first nigger he’d licked into shape, not by a long
way. But Malec could wait—he could deal with him later.
With a snarl that boded little good for the unfortunate valet Geradine
went with no show of haste to join the group of men and horses by the
well-head. Carew was already mounted, wrestling with Suliman who was
backing and rearing impatiently. He swung him round as the Viscount
approached.
“You can ride my servant’s horse,” he said in French, “yours can hardly
carry themselves. The men will have to walk.”
With a grunt which was certainly not an expression of courtesy Geradine
took the bridle Hosein offered him and climbed stiffly into the saddle.
His drenched condition and his resentment at the authoritative tone
addressed to him did not tend to improve either his manners or his
temper, and with characteristic pettiness he vented his ill-humour on
the object nearest at hand. The horse that had been lent to him was
plunging in furious protest at the raking spurs that were being used
with unnecessary violence and, losing command of himself, he slashed
savagely at the little shapely head with his whip. Twice the heavy thong
rose and fell, then a hand like steel closed on his wrist and it was
wrenched from him. And, turning with an oath, he found himself
confronted by a pair of blazing eyes in which he read not only rage but
a totally unexpected hatred that sent an odd sensation of cold rippling
down his spine. He flinched involuntarily, dragging his horse aside,
conscious for the first time in his life of a feeling of fear. But the
strange look that had startled him was gone in a flash and Carew’s face
was impassive as he reined his own horse back. “Your pardon, _monsieur_,
he is unused to a whip,” he said icily, and sent the offending weapon
spinning into the mouth of the empty well where it fell beyond recovery.
Speechless with fury Geradine glared at him, and then, his French too
limited to adequately express his feelings, let out a string of curses
in his own language which would have given him more pleasure had he
known them to be understood. But his hands were fully occupied with the
enraged mount and Carew had already ridden on. It was blowing again
steadily. Carew, sure now of his bearings, was heading more to the east
and the swirling sand was driving straight at them. Muffled in his
burnous, his face shielded somewhat by the close drawn haick, he felt it
less than Geradine did. But he had no sympathy to waste on the huddled
figure behind them with the exhausted horses. For them he was glad that
the village lay only a bare three miles away. And even three miles, over
rough uneven ground and against a strong wind, was a sufficiently
tedious tramp for men unused to walking and hampered by two jaded beasts
who required constant encouragement to induce them to move at all.
Progress was necessarily slow and more than once Geradine, impatient of
the snail’s pace at which they were proceeding, let out his fretting
horse and dashed on ahead. But ignorant of the way and not relishing the
prospect of losing sight of his companions in the growing darkness he
was forced each time to curb his impetuosity and wait for the others to
come up with him.
For a time he kept silence, but at last his annoyance found utterance.
“See here,” he exploded angrily, as Carew for the fifth time ranged
alongside without seeming to notice the temporary separation, “this
isn’t a bally funeral! For heaven’s sake push on a bit.” And as Carew
turned to him with an indifferent “_Plâit-il_?” he lost his temper
completely. “_Plus vite_, you silly ass,” he bellowed. “_Pas un
cortège_, _n’est-ce-pas_—confound you!”
For a moment Carew hesitated, his own temper rising dangerously. Then he
shrugged and raising his hand pointed behind him. “The men are walking,”
he said shortly, and wondered how long it would be before he was goaded
into retaliation. To profess ignorance of his mother tongue was easy, to
sit quietly under a storm of abuse and personal epithets was rather more
difficult. But he had brought it on himself, he had allowed Geradine to
think him an Arab and an Arab he would have to remain. To tardily admit
his nationality was impossible, it would only make Geradine feel that he
had been made a fool of and might probably lead to a quarrel that could
easily end disastrously. As it was, his mere presence was almost more
than Carew could endure. He had kept a firm hold over himself so far but
he knew that a very little more would shatter his self-control. He had
voluntarily decided on a certain line of action and he would have to go
on with it, if only for the sake of the wretched Arab. Left in the
lurch, Geradine would undoubtedly wreck his wrath on the servant who had
been already sufficiently manhandled. And again Carew racked his brains
to recollect where he had seen the man before. He rarely forgot faces
and now, for want of something better to engage his attention, he set
himself to discover why the dimly remembered features were familiar. It
flashed across him at length. De Granier’s man—taken on with the villa,
probably, poor devil. A fairly recent addition to the Frenchman’s
household, Malec had made no very definite impression on the guest he
had served but once. But having identified him Carew, casting back in
his mind, remembered that de Granier had spoken of him as a curious
character, responding to kindness, but sullen when corrected and quick
to take offence.
The change from the easy-going Frenchman to service with a brute like
Geradine must have been great, and Carew wondered suddenly what induced
him to remain with a master he obviously hated. High wages—or a more
sinister purpose?—He checked himself abruptly. He would be doing murder
by proxy, and rather enjoying it, if he let his thoughts race in this
fashion. His own incomprehensible hatred was deep enough without
allowing himself to dwell on another’s grievances. And for him there was
not even the excuse of a grievance. For no reason or cause whatsoever he
had hated Geradine at sight. With a shrug of perplexity he drew his
cloak closer round him and shook the stinging sand from his bridle hand.
The wind was gathering in force every minute and the light fading
rapidly. If it failed entirely and they missed the little village in the
darkness there was no other shelter available and Carew did not welcome
the thought of a night spent in the open with his present company. At
this slow pace the way seemed more like thirty miles than three. But he
could not increase it. Even kept to a walk, the horses had outpaced the
men and they were some distance behind. Deaf to Geradine’s snarl of
protest, Carew pulled up and waited until Hosein was alongside of him.
And as the man’s hand touched his stirrup the storm broke again with
redoubled fury and a tearing gust enveloped them in a cloud of blinding
sand. For a few moments the horses became almost unmanageable, wheeling
backs to the storm and crowding together in a plunging, kicking bunch.
They were pulled apart at last and the little party struggled on in the
teeth of the wind, choked with the driving particles and straining their
eyes through the gloom.
And complete darkness had fallen before they stumbled upon the squalid
little collection of mud huts that formed the village. Tenantless, it
seemed at first, for no lights shone from the tiny barred windows that
were blocked with rags to keep out the drifting sand. But Hosein,
despatched in quest of the headman, returned shortly with an elderly
Arab who, shrouded in a multitude of filthy coverings, salaamed
obsequiously in answer to Carew’s shouted enquiry and led them to a hut
a little distance away.
Only a hovel it was, but sheltering an amazingly large family—vague,
shadowy figures, sexless in their close drawn draperies, who shrank from
the vicinity of the strangers and slipped away stealthily into the night
with heads bent low and shoulders hunched against the sweeping wind as
the headman routed them out unceremoniously to give place to the
unexpected visitors. One room, the further portion screened for the use
of the women of the family, and indescribably dirty and comfortless. It
was nothing new to Carew, use had accustomed him to even greater squalor
than this, but Geradine’s disgust was evident as he stared about him
with curling lip, spitting the sand from his mouth and shaking it from
his clothing. Wet and angry, and in no mood to be further
inconvenienced, the sight of the horses vigorously propelled into the
hut through the narrow entrance moved him to noisy expostulation. With
frequent and profanatory lapses into English he managed to convey his
total disapproval of the shelter provided for him, which he described as
unfit even for pigs, and wrathfully announced his disinclination to
share the limited accommodation with “those dam’ brutes”—horses and
men-servants grouped impartially. His own tired beasts stood shivering
and listless but Suliman and Hosein’s horses were nervous of their
surroundings and for a short space pandemonium reigned in the hut and
his remonstrances passed unheeded. When he could hear himself speak
again he reiterated his demands loudly. But Carew, who was stooping to
unloosen Suliman’s girths, waved an indifferent hand towards the door
and intimated sharply that if he preferred the sandstorm he was at
liberty to remove himself, but that as far as he—Carew—was concerned
men and horses remained where they were until the weather conditions
improved.
Unused to opposition, and too selfish to think of anything but his own
comfort, the flat refusal was all that was needed to stir Geradine’s
smouldering rage to a white heat of fury. An ugly look swept across his
lowering face and he started forward with a threatening gesture. And for
a few seconds it seemed as if the open quarrel Carew had feared was now
inevitable. Tired and on edge, goaded by the other’s insolence and
overbearing manner, driven by his own hatred, nothing would have given
him greater pleasure than to respond to the provocation offered him.
Every instinct urged him to retaliate. He had done already all that
could be humanly expected of him, and for two hours he had borne
patiently with insults and abuse. He had done enough, and now his
patience had reached its limit. And it was Geradine, not he, who was
forcing the quarrel. Then why not give him what he asked for? By every
means in his power he had tried to avoid him—and fate had thrust them
together. Carew’s heart beat with a fierce exultant throb, and the
atmosphere of the little room seemed suddenly to become electric—alive
with naked passions—as the two men stared into each other’s eyes.
Behind them the Arabs, sensitive of the tension, were watching intently,
and Hosein was edging nearer to his master, his hand stealing to the
knife in his belt. Then with a tremendous effort Carew thrust from him
the temptation to which he had almost succumbed and swinging on his heel
without a word turned back to his horse. And checked, despite himself,
by a silence he did not understand, Geradine made no further protest,
but fell back with an inarticulate growl and crossing the room, dropped
down heavily on the cleanest spot he could find, as far removed from the
others as possible.
Lighting a cigar with difficulty, for his matches were wet, he smoked
sulkily until the horses were unsaddled. Then fumbling in the pocket of
his sodden coat he produced a good-sized flask and, gulping down the
remaining contents, shouted to the sullen-faced Arab—who was leaning
moodily against the wall beside the steaming horses—to bring him more
brandy. Apathetically, the man unstrapped the leathern holster from his
master’s saddle. And, following him, Carew saw the savage kick aimed at
him as Geradine snatched the second flask from his outstretched hand. To
the multifarious odours that filled the little room was added the reek
of raw spirit for the Viscount, whose hand was shaking, spilled as much
as he drank of the undiluted cognac with which he sought to quench an
unquenchable thirst. Even so, added to what he had previously taken, the
allowance was a generous one. But, beyond deepening the colour in his
already congested face and further dissatisfying him with his
environment, it seemed to make no difference to him for he cursed as
fluently and as intelligibly as before as he shivered closer into the
corner where he was sitting in a vain attempt to avoid the sweeping
draughts that whistled through innumerable cracks in the broken, mud
walls of the hut.
With growing hatred and disgust Carew listened to the uninterrupted flow
of filthy language, wishing passionately that Geradine’s hand had been
steadier. Dead drunk he would at least have been silent. Half tipsy and
vituperative he was intolerable. Was this what the girl listened to day
after day and night after night—Carew flung his wet cloak back with an
angry jerk, scowling at the sudden thought. It was no business of his,
no business of his, he whispered doggedly as he searched for a
cigarette. No business of his—but remembrance, stimulated, was easier
than forgetfulness and for long he stared sombrely at the wreathing
clouds of faint blue smoke that, curling upward in fantastic spirals,
seemed to frame the exquisite oval of a pale, pure face. When at last,
by sheer strength of will, he forced his mind back to the immediate
present, Geradine’s grumbling had ceased and he seemed to be asleep. The
men, too, were dozing, though Hosein’s hand moved mechanically each time
the restless Suliman stamped. The room was perceptibly darker, and
looking for the cause, Carew saw that one of the two little earthenware
lamps left by the routed family had burnt out and the other was
flickering feebly. He wondered if he also had been asleep. And listening
for the gusts of wind that before had shaken the crumbling building he
realised that the storm had passed. The atmosphere was stifling, and
going to the door he wrenched it open and went out into the night. There
the change was almost magical. Swept clean, the heavens were blazing
with stars and the desert lay calm and still in the soft, clear light of
a rising moon whose slanting beams shone silver on the sand. A peace and
silence that was gripping. To Carew, still seething with the hatred that
a little while since had almost mastered him, the marvellous beauty of
the night was like the touch of a healing hand and, watching it, for a
time he forgot even Geradine.
Behind him the tiny collection of huts straggled dark and mysterious in
the deep shadow of a great bare rock that, stark and solitary, rose out
of the level plain at some distance from the chain of mountains to which
it properly belonged. But he did not look at the sleeping village. It
was the desert that held him—the desert that with its silent voice was
whispering, enticing, as so often it had whispered and enticed before,
drawing him with the glamour of its hidden secrets. Caressingly his eyes
swept the moonlit plain. He was one with it now, a nomad for all time.
More than the stately house in England, more than the miniature palace
in Algiers, it was his home. For ten years he had lived in it. For ten
years, seeking to cure his own hurt, he had tried to bring relief to
others, fighting misery and disease, appalled by the magnitude of his
task and seeming to have accomplished so little. But even the little was
worth while. By even the little he was repaid. His toil had not been
altogether in vain. By God’s grace he had been enabled to do something,
and by God’s grace he would do still more. In the deep stillness of the
eastern night the sense of the Divine Presence was very near and, in all
humbleness, Carew prayed from his heart for strength to continue the
work that had become his life.
As he arose from his knees Hosein came to him, uneasy at his absence and
the unwilling bearer of a message.
“The English lord is hungry,” he announced briefly, with patent scorn in
his voice that Carew affected not to hear. The situation was already
sufficiently difficult without having to reprove his servant for a lapse
that was due entirely to Geradine’s own behaviour.
With a last glance at the shining stars he went reluctantly back to the
hut.
Half hidden in a haze of cigar smoke and aggressively wide awake
Geradine hailed his appearance with no more civility than before.
“Clear out those cursed beasts,” he shouted truculently. “I can’t sleep
in a damned stable! And get me something to eat. Something—to—eat.
_Quelque chose à manger, comprenez?_—you blasted fool!” he added,
pantomiming vigorously. The blood rolled in a dark wave to Carew’s face
but determined to keep his temper he swallowed the retort that sprang to
his lips and gave the required orders with apparent unconcern. But he
smiled inwardly as he watched the men lead the horses away. It was very
doubtful whether food of any kind would be procurable at this time of
night, and even if Hosein’s endeavours met with success it was not
likely that Geradine would appreciate the rough fare of the necessitous
little village. Nor, he was convinced, would the handful of crushed
dates he carried in his waistcloth prove any more acceptable.
And when at length Hosein returned with a bowl of curdled camel’s milk
he was not surprised that the Viscount, after one glance of mingled
dismay and repugnance, rejected both it and the unsavoury looking little
mass of sand covered fruit with a disgusted “Lord, what beastly muck!”
and retired into his corner with his hunger unsatisfied to curse himself
to sleep. He was still sleeping heavily when Carew woke with the dawn
and went out to find Hosein and the horses and make arrangements for
Geradine’s return to Biskra. It was not his intention that they should
ride together. His sole desire was to get away as quickly as possible
from the vicinity of the man he hated more vehemently than ever.
Last night he had controlled himself only by a super-human effort. This
morning he felt he could no longer trust himself. To escape the leave
taking that was otherwise unavoidable he did not go back to the hut
when, an hour later, he was ready for the road and had concluded his
interview with Malec and the headman of the village.
But as his foot was in the stirrup Geradine appeared, yawning sleepily,
and swinging his arms to get the stiffness out of them. Having wakened
for once without his customary morning headache he was in a better
temper than usual. Apparently oblivious of his incivility of the
previous evening he lounged forward with an air of condescending
geniality, prepared evidently to make himself agreeable. His shouted
greeting terminated in a loud laugh as he glanced at Carew, clean shaven
and immaculate as Hosein always contrived he should be, and then at his
own soiled clothing.
“You look smart enough, by Gad,” he said, fingering his rough chin
tenderly, “where the devil do you find water and a razor in this filthy
little hole? You’re off early—what’s your hurry? Oh, damn it, I forgot
you can’t speak English. Well, never mind, you’re a sportsman whatever
you are. I’d have been in the soup last night if you hadn’t come along.
Many thanks—dash it, I mean _très obligé, mille remerciments_—and all
the rest of it, don’t you know.” And with another laugh he thrust out
his hand.
But incited by the gentle pressure of his rider’s heel Suliman plunged
wildly and shot away leaving Geradine with his arm still outstretched,
half annoyed and half amused at Carew’s abrupt departure.
Proud as Lucifer, like every other potty little chief he had ever
met—but the beggar could ride, he reflected as he stood looking after
the galloping horsemen, and the man he had with him was worth a dozen of
the fool _he_ was landed with. And yawning again he turned back to the
hut and roared for the fool in question.