The first pale streaks of dawn were stealing across the sky before Carew
stirred from the chair into which he had dropped two hours before to
face the knowledge that had come to him in that tense moment of
self-understanding in the little winter garden at the Palace. Stunned by
the realisation of his own feelings, racked by the painful scene
following his return to the villa, at first concrete thought had been
impossible. His whole ability to will and do, his whole mental and
physical being seemed crushed under a weight of sorrow that for the time
was paralysing. He felt numbed, conscious only of the suffering that,
clogging his brain, reacted on his body leaving him inert and lifeless.
But gradually his mind cleared and he was able to think more calmly. He
loved. For the second time in his life he loved. And yet it seemed to
him that only now did he know the depths of his own heart, only now did
he comprehend what true devotion could really mean. The love of his
early manhood, the love he had given the woman who had been his wife,
was not comparable with this overmastering passion that had come to him
in his maturity. If he had loved then as he loved now not even the
tragedy of twelve years ago could kill that love. And the greater,
deeper, more wonderful emotion he had only just realised was as the dust
of ashes in his mouth. There was no joy, no hope in this new love. There
was only the pain of renunciation and the bitter knowledge that he had
brought sorrow to her for whose sake he would gladly die rather than
even a shadow should cross her path. For that she also loved him he knew
beyond all doubt. He had read it in her eyes, he had heard it in the
anguished tones of her voice when the thought of his peril had driven
her to self betrayal as she listened to his story of the finish of Abdul
el Dhib. The pain that was his was hers also. The thought was torment.
Had she not already enough to bear without this additional burden of a
love that could never be satisfied, that would bring her only grief and
the torturing remembrance of what might have been? What did his own
suffering matter compared with the fact that because of him she too must
suffer? It would have been better, a thousand times better, if he had
never returned from that last hazardous expedition that had ended in the
meeting in the deserted village by Blidah. And yet, to his fatalistic
reasoning, that same meeting had seemed a thing ordained; but for his
coming she must have experienced a fate too horrible even to
contemplate. It was almost as if he had been deliberately guided in the
choice of road he had taken, as if he had been led to her by some
inscrutable ruling of providence. And though at the time he had raged at
the necessity that had forced him to help her, though his whole soul had
revolted from his self-imposed task, he knew now that love had leaped
into being when he had carried her to his camp, and that it was love
struggling for recognition that had caused the misery and mental
upheaval of the succeeding weeks. But only tonight had he realised it,
only tonight had he awakened to a full understanding of the almost
unbelievable thing that had happened to him. And how or when during
their brief meetings she had come to care for him he did not know, nor
would he ever know. He only knew that for some strange inexplicable
reason she had given him her love, that though she would never be his he
would carry through life the knowledge that her heart was in his
keeping. And the knowledge humbled him. How could she care! What could
she see in him, a man nearly twice her age who, until tonight, had
treated her with scant civility, that she should stoop to bestow on him
the priceless treasure of her love. But what did it matter—enough that
she did care and that he would have to be content with just the fact of
her caring. Content! Good God, was the intolerable ache that filled him,
the mad longing that possessed him, contentment! He would never be
content. The mere knowledge of their love was not enough. He wanted her,
above his very hope of heaven he wanted her. The barriers of defense he
had raised about himself were torn away at last. The dead heart that had
lain cold and lifeless within him was alive once more. Passion swept,
and seething with jealousy he made no effort to stem the elemental
impulses that seemed suddenly let loose and for a time only the
primitive man in him existed urging his desperate need until even murder
seemed justifiable to obtain her—the murder of the one who stood
between him and what he wanted. Geradine! His fingers curled and
tightened as though they were about the throat of the man he hated with
all the force of his being. That strange hatred was no longer
incomprehensible, and the thought that had so appalled him the night at
the opera he viewed now with cold dispassion. What was the life of such
a brute compared with her happiness and well-being! Was it murder to rid
the earth of such scum, to free her from the tyranny that was killing
her, body and soul? Murder! A terrible smile flitted across his face.
For her sake he could do even that. Nothing mattered but her necessity.
Beside that justice, honour, the man-made laws of society seemed to fade
into utter insignificance. And the laws of God—was he to trample them
under foot as well? If it must be. He was willing to risk even his soul
to save her from further suffering. But was there need for such a
drastic measure—was there no easier way to follow? Was there not the
way that others had taken—the way that would free her from a life of
bondage, that would give him his heart’s desire? What was scruple to
stand between them? They had only one life to live—and she loved him.
She would come to him—_if_ he made her. And for her own sake he would
make her—for her sake, or for the sake of his own lust?
“_But I say unto you that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her
hath committed adultery with her already in his heart!_”
He started to his feet with a smothered groan. It was as if he saw the
words in letters of fire, blazing accusingly before his tired eyes. A
shudder passed over him and something seemed to snap suddenly in his
brain dispelling the madness of the last few moments and leaving him
aghast at the horror of his own thoughts. She was not for him to covet.
He had no right to love her, no right to think of her as he was thinking
now—yearning for her, desiring her with all the strength of his
manhood. Strength! What strength was left to him who had foresworn
himself, who had turned from his lofty ideals and yielded to a passion
that was ignoble! Conscience-smitten he saw himself as he was, fallen
from his high estate, crashed from his pinnacle of self-righteous
exaltation. It was repetition of history wherein his rôle was horribly
reversed. He was no better in intention than the man he had reviled
twelve years ago. The sin he had condemned was now his sin. He craved
another man’s wife, craved her with an intensity that had almost swamped
his sense of right and wrong. And she? A dull flush crept over his
tanned face. In his mind he had degraded and abased her, had dragged her
down to the sordid level of his own carnal desires. Was his love so vile
that he must think only of his bodily need? Was physical possession
merely the dominating factor of that love? Had the years spent in the
desert, the years of self-imposed abstinence, brutalised him so
completely that he was incapable of higher, purer sentiment? Did she
mean so little to him? Deep down in his heart he knew that she did not,
knew that his love was a greater, finer thing than that. It was only the
passionate impulse of the moment, the crushing sense of abnegation that
made him weak, that made him want her as he was wanting her now—for his
own, for that wonderful mating of soul and body that might have been
theirs. To take her from the life she loathed to the freer, wilder life
he had made his own; to know her safe and happy in his love; to watch
the awakening of new hope and peace that would chase the sorrow from her
tragic eyes; to be to her what she would be to him—comrade and helper,
lover and friend, a partnership made perfect by their mutual love. It
was what might have been. But now only a dream of joy that was
unattainable, a vision of heaven that made the bitter certainty of its
unfulfilment a foretaste of hell. God, how he longed for her! Marny,
Marny! With a strangled sob he buried his face in his hands. . . .
It was long before he stirred to move slowly with cramped limbs and
aching head to the edge of the verandah where he leant wearily against
the pillar that supported the green tiled roof, staring with haggard
eyes across the garden at the brightening dawn—a dawn that for once
gave him no pleasure.
It was over and done with—the wonderful glimpse of happiness that could
never be. There was only one road to follow, the lonely road that had
been his for so many years, but lonelier, more desolate now than it ever
had been. For her sake and for the sake of what honour was left to him
he must go, and go at once. Back to the desert, back to the work he had
chosen. Alone—and he must go without seeing her again. He dared not see
her. His confidence in himself was gone. And yet how could he go, how
could he leave her knowing what her life would be, knowing what she must
still endure and suffer at the hands of the drunken bully who possessed
her. Geradine, whose name was a by-word, whose brutality and viciousness
was discussed by all Algiers, whose behaviour to his girl wife was
openly hinted at! Was he to leave her at the mercy of such a man? Even
that he must do. She was not his—she was Geradine’s wife. Geradine’s
wife—God help her. And his daily, hourly torment would be to know her
so. Far from her, powerless to help her, he would have to live with the
thought of her continual agony and sorrow. Merciful God, would he be
able to bear it!
Made almost tangible by his longing she seemed to come to him where he
stood, as once before he had seemed to see her in a strip of brilliant
moonlight, and he stretched out his arms hungrily, whispering her name
with shaking lips till the mental picture faded and, muffling his face
in this thick burnous, he yielded to an agony that was greater than he
had ever known. The sky was aflame, the garden resounding with the early
songs of birds when he at last regained self-control. But he was blind
and deaf to the beauty and harmony about him as he lingered for a few
moments striving to bring something like order into the chaos of his
thoughts. He was going back to the camp near Blidah, a camp that would
be poignantly painful to him with the recollections it would induce. He
would see her at every turn, the big tent that had sheltered her would
be a perpetual reminder, dominated by the memory of her presence. Even
the locality would be hateful to him, but to go further was impossible
while Sanois’ arrangements were still incomplete. There was no other
course for him to take, no other way by which he could effectually
prevent any further meeting between them. With a little shiver he turned
and went heavily into the house. The study was rank with the fumes of
the lamps that had burnt out during the night, and he passed quickly
through to his bedroom beyond.
As he entered it the door on the further side of the room opened and
Hosein came in with his usual noiseless tread. He offered no explanation
for his appearance at an unusual hour and Carew asked for none, but
knowing the man he was positive that the big Arab, on his return to the
villa, had spent the remainder of the night in the adjoining dressing
room watching and waiting for his master’s coming. Though his gloomy
face was, if possible, more gloomy than usual, his mere presence was a
relief, and the customary stolidity with which he received his
unexpected orders made the giving of them easier. Only a quicker
service, a gentler handling of the garments tossed to him denoted an
understanding that was more profound than Carew even guessed at. He was
packing suit cases and holdalls with methodical deftness when Carew came
back from his bath. Taught by years of experience, he knew even better
than his master what was required for the protracted journeys in the
desert which were to him infinitely preferable to the life in Algiers,
and he took a certain pride in his work which was this morning
especially noticeable. His face had lightened somewhat and he was
patently pleased to be preparing for the road again. Of necessity Hosein
was fully aware of the political significance of the forthcoming
expedition, he knew also that it was the General Sanois who was
responsible for the delay that had kept them so long in Algiers, and
watching him as he moved swiftly and silently about the room Carew
wondered in what degree his servant connected his hasty departure with
the episode of last night. Distasteful as was the thought it was better
so than that even Hosein should have an inkling of the real truth.
The valet had already acquainted the household with the altered
arrangements and in the study, besides the coffee and rolls that were
waiting for him, Carew found Derar full of importance and weighed down
with account books and the necessary business devolving on himself that
his master’s absence would entail. And while he ate, Carew wrestled with
his elderly servitor’s endless questions and reiterated demands for
instructions with the patience he had learned in dealing with the native
mind. It was useless to remind Derar that the orders he gave were in
every particular similar to those given many times before, that there
was to be no departure from established precedent but that the villa was
to be run on the same lines that always prevailed while he was away.
Pessimistically inclined, Derar, as always, prepared for the worst. And
Carew, by this time writing cheques and orders at his desk, found
himself constrained to smile more than once at the gloomy anticipations
that were pronounced with melancholy fervour and interlarded with
lengthy passages from the Koran. He listened quietly to the old man’s
garrulous outpourings in which lamentations on his departure and pious
invocations for his welfare were inextricably jumbled with household
needs and requirements.
But the strain on his already overstrained nerves was greater than he
expected and when at last Derar, still somewhat tearful but armed with
plenary powers that made him swell with pride, finally salaamed himself
out of the room, Carew scribbled a few lines to General Sanois and then
leant back in his chair with a feeling of mental exhaustion. His mind
made up to leave Algiers the time that must elapse before his actual
departure hung heavily upon him. He glanced at the clock on his desk. It
would be half-an-hour or more before his men would be ready and,
depressed and restless as he was, the minutes seemed to drag with
maddening slowness.
To relieve the tedium of waiting he went out into the garden. Some
little distance from the house, amongst a grove of orange trees, he
found Saba. Squatting on the ground, his nervous little body clad only
in a gay striped gandhera, a fez perched rakishly on his small sleek
head, the boy was chattering eagerly to a tiny monkey that was clinging
to his shoulder. He was too absorbed in his newly acquired pet to notice
Carew’s almost noiseless approach and it was the monkey that twittering
shrilly with alarm made him realise he was no longer alone. He scrambled
to his feet, his blind eyes turning uncertainly from side to side until
Carew called to him when he darted forward, loosening his hold on the
monkey which fled dismayed up into the branches of the nearest tree.
The confidant of all the servants, Saba was already in full possession
of the new orders given to the household, and before Carew could speak
he was assailed with a torrent of excited questions that were hurled at
him to an accompaniment of joyous squeaks and prancings. The child’s
pleasure was so obvious that Carew almost wavered in his decision to
leave him at the villa with Hosein who was remaining a few days longer
in Algiers to finish the preparations for the journey into the desert.
But his crying need for solitude made the thought of even Saba’s
companionship unendurable, and very gently he explained his wishes. The
boy’s radiant little face clouded as he listened, but trained to
obedience he did not voice his disappointment and very soon he was
laughing again, childishly eager at the prospect of the journey and
speculating on the probable number of days Hosein would require to
complete his arrangements. And at the end of half-an-hour Carew left him
playing contentedly with his recovered monkey and happy in the assurance
that the separation should be a brief one.
The score of men who had come into Algiers from the camp were already
collected when Carew returned to the house, and the narrow road that ran
past the villa was blocked with horses whose riders, still dismounted,
were exchanging raucous and voluble badinage with the small army of
household servants assembled to watch the departure. Standing a little
apart from the noisy throng, reserved and taciturn as was his wont,
Hosein was holding Suliman, restraining with difficulty the spirited
animal’s manifest impatience.
Carew’s appearance occasioned a sudden silence among his followers and
the escort leapt to their horses while he himself mounted with less
haste and lingered for a few moments to give Hosein some final
directions. The actual moment come he would have given all he possessed
to be able to remain in the town he had been longing weeks to leave. It
took all his resolution to persevere in the course he had determined and
give the men the signal for which they were waiting. At the head of his
little troop he rode away with unaccustomed slowness and with a feeling
of reluctance that grew momentarily greater as each stride of the big
bay carried him further from the villa. He knew now what the house
wanted, why it had seemed so empty and desolate, and the knowledge was
an added pang to the bitterness that filled him. If his dream had been
possible; if he could have seen her in reality, as he visualised her in
his mind, the mistress of his home bringing life and happiness to the
chill and formal rooms her presence would enrich and beautify; if the
end of the journey he contemplated could have meant a return to her—Was
it strength or weakness that was driving him from her now? Again he
wrestled with the temptation of a few hours ago, a temptation that was
fiercer, more gripping even that it had been before. Her pitiful
helplessness seemed to make his flight the act of a craven. Of what use
were the physical powers with which he was endowed if his strength could
not save her from the life of misery to which she was condemned.
Geradine’s lack of control, the almost demoniacal rages that resulted
from his intemperance, was common talk. Thick drops of moisture gathered
on his face as he remembered the man’s huge bulk and pictured her in the
grip of those coarse, ape-like hands. To what lengths had he gone in the
past—what devilish torture would he yet inflict on the tender little
body Carew yearned to hold in his arms. His face was drawn with agony as
he swept the cold sweat from his forehead.
The road he was following led past de Granier’s villa and ran parallel
with the densely wooded hillside that shadowed its grounds. A sudden
impulse came to him to look on the house that held the woman he
loved—an impulse that was a species of subtle self-torture which even
to himself seemed incomprehensible and to which tie yielded with a
feeling of contempt. Pulling Suliman up sharply he swung to the ground
and flinging the reins to the Arab he beckoned forward bade his escort
ride on and wait for him beyond the villa. Standing where he had
dismounted he watched them pass, and the last couple were some distance
from him before he turned to the hillside where a tiny path wound upward
between the close growing trees. A few minutes’ stiff climb and then the
path curved abruptly to the left from whence it extended more or less
levelly in the same direction as the road that lay some fifty or sixty
feet below. His pace slackened as he neared the crossway track that led
down to the garden entrance of the Villa des Ombres, and in a revulsion
of feeling he cursed the weakness that had brought him there. But having
come thus far he was unwilling to retrace his steps and, jerking his
shoulders back with a characteristic gesture of impatience, he moved
slowly forward with noiseless tread along the winding path that curved
and twisted round the boles of the big trees. Their great girth
obstructed anything but a limited view beyond them and made only a few
yards of the way visible at a time.
It was still very early. Save for the birds twittering amongst the trees
and the long strings of woolly caterpillars joined one behind the other
pursuing their patient and meandering course over the rough ground, the
hillside appeared to be deserted. But as Carew rounded the trunk of an
exceptionally large tree, the jutting roots of which made necessary a
more than usually wide detour, he came to a sudden halt with a quick
intake of the breath that was almost a groan. With clenching hands and
madly racing heart he stared at the girlish figure lying huddled amongst
the undergrowth almost at his feet. Her face was hidden and she lay very
still, so still that a terrible thought came to him parching his mouth
and blanching his face under the deep tan. He tried to whisper her name
but no sound issued from his stiff lips and unable to speak, unable to
move, time was a thing forgotten while he struggled with the paralysing
fear that held him motionless.
He never knew how long it was before she stirred, before the faint echo
of a smothered sob allayed the dread that had taken hold of him and
lessened the strangling grip that seemed clutching at his throat. But
still he did not move. He would not go. He had tried to play the
game—and the game had turned against him. He had wrestled with himself
to no purpose. Fate had played into his hand and the meeting he had
sought to escape was now unavoidable. The sight of her prostrate in an
abandonment of grief had shattered all his strength—he could not leave
her like this. Not trusting himself to touch her he waited with an
almost bursting heart for her to realise his presence—and as once
before in the opera house, so now did she seem gradually to become aware
of the steady stare fixed on her. With a shuddering sigh she sat up
slowly, turning her head towards him. And the deathly pallor of her
face, the look of frozen misery in her tragic black-rimmed eyes sent a
rush of savage rage through him that almost choked him. God, what must
she have suffered to look like that! He sought for words but his own
suffering held him speechless.
It was she who spoke first. She had looked at him almost unknowingly,
then a wave of colour rushed into her pale cheeks to recede as quickly
leaving them whiter than before. Stumbling to her feet she stood before
him, swaying like a reed, struggling to regain her composure, striving
to formulate the conventional greeting her trembling lips could scarcely
utter. “Sir Gervas—” He guessed rather than heard the fluttering
whisper. But before he could answer, before he could wrench his gaze
from the pain-filled eyes that were wavering under his, he saw her
stiffen suddenly and shrink from him with a backward glance of fearful
apprehension. “What—who—” she muttered hoarsely. And, listening, he
too heard the sound that had startled her—the deep murmur of men’s
voices raised in heated altercation that came echoing up the hillside
from the roadway beneath them. The voices of his own men, as he knew.
But what did she think? And the anger and hatred that was seething
within him flamed anew into all but uncontrollable fury as he watched
her leaning white-lipped and shivering against the trunk of the giant
cork tree and wondered how long it would be before that delicate
organism and highly strung nervous system finally succumbed to the
brutal treatment that was slowly but steadily reducing her to a physical
and mental wreck. His hands clenched with the horrible pain of his own
helplessness. But with a supreme effort he mastered himself, stifling
the words that sprang to his lips and forcing his voice to naturalness
as he answered her reassuringly. “It’s only my men—arguing as usual,
the noisy devils.”
She looked at him strangely.
“Your men—” she repeated dully. And pulling herself erect she turned
abruptly and walked unsteadily to the edge of the steep descent. Through
the intervening trees she could see them clustered at the foot of the
hill. His men—the lucky ones who were fortunate enough to share his
life! A feeling of bitter envy came to her and she watched them through
a mist of tears. Picked men, men chosen for their loyalty and endurance.
Fierce sons of the desert these—differing altogether, even to her
unpractised eyes, from the Arabs she had seen lounging about
Algiers—and mounted on magnificent horses which they sat superbly. A
fit escort for the man who would lead them. What did this unusual
following portend? In Algiers, for she had seen him many more times than
he knew, he always rode alone. Was this the end at last, the time she
had looked forward to with dread—the time when he would ride out of her
life forever? Her lips quivered. Never to see him again, never to hear
the beloved voice whose low, soft intonations would ring in her ears
while life lasted, never to know again the restfulness and strength his
presence brought her! How could she bear it, oh, dear God, how could she
bear the desolation and misery that would be hers! Her trembling hands
crept upward to her breast, clenching convulsively over the heart that
was aching and throbbing with a pain that was intolerable. She must
know, though knowledge meant the agony of death.
Shuddering she turned and went slowly back to him. A cigarette between
his lips, he was leaning against the tree where she had leant, his face
an impassive mask that baffled her. Was the fleeting glimpse of a
totally different expression she had seemed to see in his eyes a few
minutes ago only the effect of her own overstrained imagination? Was she
such a fool that she could have thought for one moment of wild sweet
happiness, that her love and longing could have begotten his love? His
indifference seemed complete—the parting was nothing to him. How could
it be otherwise—it was only she who cared, only she whose heart was
breaking, only she who would be left comfortless and alone.
The restraint she imposed on herself made her voice cold and hard as she
uttered the question she nerved herself to ask.
“You are going away?”
“Yes.”
Despite herself she winced at the brief syllable of assent that was
voiced in a tone as cold and as hard as her own.
“Back to the desert?”
“Yes.”
“For good?”
“For good,” he answered firmly. She turned from him quickly to hide the
tears that blinded her. But a strangled sob she had not the strength to
restrain betrayed her. Almost inaudible it was but he heard it.
“_Marny!_” The cry was wrung from him. And the next moment she was in
his arms, clinging to him despairingly, weeping as he had not believed
it possible for a woman to weep. Unmanned by her sudden breakdown,
aghast at the terrible sobs that seemed to be tearing the slender little
body to pieces, he strained her to him with passionate strength. “Marny,
Marny, for God’s sake—don’t cry like that. Your tears are torturing
me.” But conscious only of the shelter of his arms, too weak to struggle
against the feelings she had so long suppressed, she was powerless to
check the storm of emotion that overwhelmed her. Lying inert against
him, her face hidden in his robes, she sobbed her heart out on his till
the violence of her grief terrified him and he caught her closer,
bending his tall head till his cheek was resting on her tumbled hair,
whispering words of love and entreaty.
“Have pity on me, child, you are breaking my heart. Do you think I can
bear to see you weep—Marny, my love, my love.”
Her arm slid up and round his neck. “Oh, let me cry,” she moaned, “for
five years I’ve had to be a thing of stone. If I don’t cry now I shall
go mad.” A spasm swept across his face and his own eyes were dim as he
ceased to urge her, waiting patiently till the tempest of her tears
should pass. And gradually the tearing sobs ceased and she regained
control of herself. Exhausted and ashamed, not daring to meet his eyes,
almost dreading the sound of his voice, she clung to him in silence,
wishing passionately that her life could end, thus, in his arms.
And to Carew the close contact of her trembling limbs was a mingled
rapture and pain that was agony. His face buried in her fragrant hair,
he prayed desperately for strength to leave her, for strength to meet
the parting that must come.
Still holding her he raised her head with gentle force. Her eyes were
closed, the thick, dark lashes lying wet on her tear-stained cheek, and
the hungry longing to touch them with his lips was almost more than he
could withstand.
“Won’t you look at me, Marny? Am I never to see your dear eyes again?”
he murmured huskily.
A tremor passed through her and for a moment she did not respond. Then
the dusky lashes fluttered faintly and slowly the heavy lids unclosed.
For long they looked, staring as though into each other’s souls, and
against her tender breasts she felt the violent beating of his heart.
A quivering sigh escaped her. “Gervas—oh, Gervas, Gervas,” she
whispered, and lifted her face to his. The sadness in his eyes deepened
into anguish and his firm mouth trembled as he shook his head.
“I mustn’t kiss you, dear. Your lips are his—not mine, God help me. I
haven’t even the right to touch you. I’m a cur to hold you in my arms
like this, but I can’t let you go—not yet, not yet, my darling.” His
voice broke, and insensibly his arm tightened round her, crushing her to
him with a force of which he was unaware. She turned her head with a
little sob. “How could we know that this would come to us—how could we
know that we would care,” she cried. “I never thought you loved me. I
thought it was only I who—who—” She clenched her teeth on her lip,
fighting the sobs that were rising in her throat. “Oh, why was it you
that came that night near Blidah!” she burst out passionately. “What did
my life matter? And I—I who would die for you, I’ve brought you
unhappiness. Gervas, why don’t you hate me!”
“I thought I did—once,” he answered with a twisted smile, and brushed
the shining hair tenderly from off her forehead.
Physical pain had been forgotten in the mental agony that swamped her
but now, remembering, too late she tried to stop him and he had seen the
ugly wound on her white brow before her flying hand reached his. A sharp
exclamation broke from him. “What have you done to yourself? _My God,
has he dared_—” His face was ghastly and the look in his blazing eyes
terrified her. Fearful of the consequences of his anger, fearful of she
knew not what, she lied to shield the husband who had struck her.
“No—no—” she panted. “I slipped—I slipped in my room last night.”
Love and intuition told him that she was lying and he put her from him
with a groan of helpless misery. And free of his supporting arm she slid
to the ground for her limbs were trembling under her. He sat down near
her, staring gloomily before him, wondering how he could bring himself
to leave her, tortured with what he had seen and cursing the man whom,
more than ever, he longed to kill.
Her sorrowful eyes never left his stern, set face and at last she could
bear the silence no longer. Her hand stole out timidly and touched his.
“What are we going to do?” She waited long for his answer, so long that
she wondered if he had heard the faint whisper, and her trembling
fingers tightened on his arm. “Gervas, speak to me,” she entreated.
“What is there for me to say,” he answered, and his voice was harsh with
the effort speech cost him. “There is nothing to do but the one hard
thing that is left to us. We have got to forget that this morning has
ever been. We have got to forget everything but the fact that you are
bound, that you are not free to come to me. If there was some other way,
if I could have taken you—” He tore his eyes from her face and leaped
to his feet. “But there is no other way,” he cried with sudden violence.
“I can’t take you. You’ve got to forget, and forgive me—if you can.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“Forget!” she wailed. “Will you forget?”
“Not in this life nor in the life to come,” he whispered swiftly.
With a sob that wrung his heart she flung out her arms appealing. “I
can’t bear it, Gervas, I can’t live without you.”
He caught the outstretched hands in his and drew her to her feet.
“Don’t make it harder for me, dear. God knows it’s hard enough,” he said
unsteadily. “I love you. I want you—more than anything in heaven and
earth I want you—but I’ve got to leave you. Help me to do the right
thing, Marny. Help me to go, now, while I have the strength.” But with a
broken little cry she clung to him, her eyes beseeching.
“I can’t, I can’t! I’m not strong like you. I can’t let you go yet—not
altogether—not back to the desert. Stay—only stay till we leave,” she
pleaded, “it won’t be long, only a few weeks—”
“My dear, what help will it be if I do stay?” he said wearily. “It will
only make it harder for both of us.” But frantically she urged him.
“Please, please,” she entreated. “Oh, I can’t explain—I don’t know what
I feel myself—but there seems to be something awful coming nearer and
nearer to me and I’m frightened—_I’m frightened_. If I could know you
were in Algiers it would make it easier—I shouldn’t feel so—alone.
Gervas, if you love me stay till we go.”
If he loved her! He clenched his hands to keep them from her and turned
away with a heavy sigh. “Must I prove my love?” he said sadly. A sob
broke from her. Did he think she doubted? Why was she such a coward as
to ask this thing of him! Humbly she went to him begging his forgiveness
but with a quick gesture of distress he stopped her.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said gently, “there can be no
misunderstanding possible between us, dear. If it will help you, if my
being in Algiers will make it easier for you, I will stay until you go.
But more I cannot do. This has got to be the end, Marny. We’ve got to
say goodbye to each other. I mustn’t see you again—I daren’t see you
again.”
A deadly faintness came over her. Numbly she felt him take her hands and
hold them crushed against his face. And through the surging in her ears
she heard his voice, far off and muffled as though coming from some
great distance.
“My dear, my dear—God keep you, now and always.”
And then she knew that he was gone. She struggled to move, to conquer
the inertia that seemed rooting her to the ground. Only to see him
again—to catch one last glimpse—
Tears were raining down her face as she stumbled to the edge of the
little path and, screened by the trees, looked down on the roadway
beneath. With her hands pressed over her lips to stifle the sobs that
were choking her she watched him standing beside his men till the little
troop vanished in a cloud of dust along the Blidah road and, left alone,
he leaped on to his own horse and sent him at a reckless gallop in the
opposite direction. Then a merciful blackness came over her and she fell
senseless amongst the tangled ferns.
* * * * *
There followed a week that for Carew was a period of uninterrupted
suffering, suffering that seemed to grow more acute, more unbearable
with each succeeding day. With nothing to look forward to, with no hope
to ease the burden of his loneliness and longing, with the bitter
knowledge burning into him that barely half-a-mile away in her prison
house of misery she too was suffering, he struggled through days that
seemed endless and nights that were torment.
Seeking for distraction, for anything that would occupy his enforced
leisure and turn the trend of his thoughts, he offered his services to
Morel and toiled in the scientist’s laboratory from early morning till
late in the evening, endeavouring by hard work to deaden the pain that
never left him. During the long hours of self-imposed labour he strove
to banish her from his mind, to concentrate solely on the experiments
that at any other time would have claimed his whole attention. But the
remembrance of her was with him continually. While he carried out
Morel’s instructions with mechanical precision he seemed to feel her
presence close beside him, to see clearly before his eyes the piteous
tear-stained face that would always haunt him, and through the stillness
of the silent workroom he could almost hear the sobbing tones of her
anguished voice. “Gervas, I can’t live without you!” And he had left
her, left her to Geradine’s mercy. If, in the grip of this tremendous
passion that had come to him so strangely, he had sought to entice her
from a husband who cared, or from one who—though indifferent—still
treated her with ordinary decency and respect, he would have known his
offence to be unforgivable. But chained as she was to a beast like
Geradine, the marks of whose brutality he had himself seen on her
delicate face, was there not excuse for his love, for the raging
temptation that still assailed him to take her from a life of martyrdom
and give her the happiness that was her youth’s prerogative? How had she
come to be the wife of that drunken, hectoring bully—what unthinkable
ordering could have linked her life with his? Impossible that she could
ever have loved him. Surely the mere brute strength of the man could not
have attracted her, inducing her to a step she had lived to rue. Five
years, she had said. Five years ago she must have been only a child—she
was little more now. What circumstances or what tragedy had thrust an
immature girl into the keeping of such a profligate! And what had those
five years meant to her! As the days dragged slowly by and he applied
himself to the work to which he forced his wandering attention he
wrestled with a problem he could not hope to solve, racking himself with
the thought of what she must have endured and would still have to
endure.
But it was the nights he dreaded most. The nights when, waking from
fitful sleep that, dream-haunted, gave him no rest, he stared wide-eyed
into the darkness murmuring her name, aching for her, till the pain of
it drove him out into the garden there to tramp the dark tree-bordered
alleys and star-lit stretches of grass until bodily fatigue brought him
back to the house to toss wakefully and watch for the dawn when he could
start for the early morning rides that were his only alleviation. It was
in the lonely hours of the night that the thought of her suffering was
strongest with him. It was then that his fevered mind, unchecked in his
solitude, became the prey of ghastly imaginings until, half mad with his
own thoughts, he almost yielded to the temptings of the insidious inward
voice that bade him forego honor and take the happiness he had
sacrificed. Was he to stand aside while her youth and health were
wrecked? Was she to be offered up on the altar of his conscience? Must
she be the victim of his scruple? “She would have gone with you—she
would have gone with you that morning—” Night after night the mocking
voice rang in his ears, and night after night he fought the same fight
in anguish of soul, battling with the promptings of his heart.
Then came a day when a telephone message from Morel, who had received an
urgent summons to Paris, put a stop to the work at the laboratory and
left him to face inactivity he viewed with dismay. In no mood for the
society of either General Sanois or the officers at the barracks,
resolved to run no chance of a further meeting with the woman he had
determined never to see again, he passed the long hours of the morning,
sitting on the verandah with a medical book in his hand which he did not
read, and in restless wandering about the lovely garden whose loveliness
was lost on him.
Utterly weary of himself, for the first time in days, he would have
welcomed the companionship of Saba. But the blind boy was at the camp
near Blidah whither he had been despatched when Carew had decided to
remain on in Algiers. The day seemed interminable.
Worn out with sleepless nights he slept heavily for the greater part of
the afternoon and was awakened with difficulty by Hosein in time for the
solitary dinner he thought would never end. Afterwards, ordering coffee
to be brought to him, he strolled through the silent halls and empty
rooms back to the verandah where he had spent most of the day.
The night was singularly dark but the darkness agreed with his own
gloomy thoughts and after he had finished his coffee he extinguished the
reading lamp on the table near him and sat for a long time staring
fixedly into blackness.
Inaction became at last impossible. He had sat for two hours and his
limbs were cramped and his head throbbing for need of physical exercise.
Two more hours and he would be ready to blow his brains out, he
reflected with a dreary laugh. Going to his bedroom he changed quickly
into Arab dress and left the house unseen.
Beyond the door in the wall he hesitated frowning. Then with a shrug and
a muttered oath he turned in the direction of de Granier’s villa. To
torture himself by gazing on the house was not to see her, he argued. By
no reasoning could he be said to be breaking the resolution he had made.
The road was free to him as to any other. And what chance was there of
seeing her at this time of night! Jerking his heavy cloak back he
stopped to light a cigarette and then strode on with the slow step to
which flowing robes had accustomed him.
For a time it appeared as if no other midnight wanderers were abroad,
but as he neared the high enclosing wall of the Villa des Ombres his
quick ears caught the sound of hurrying, stumbling feet and the raucous
intonations of a voice he recognised. Instinctively he shrank into the
deeper shadow of the wall as Tanner, the English groom, reeled past him
with words that seemed to turn the blood in his veins to ice. “The
swine, the swine—the blasted swine! ’E’ll do ’er in, by Gawd, ’e will!
_Christ_, ’ow she screamed—and the damned door locked so as I couldn’t
get in! And ’im mad drunk—the beast! My Gawd, my Gawd, what’ll I do?
I’ll ’ear them screams till I die!” And sobbing and blaspheming in
impotent rage the little man tore on and vanished into the night.
But towards the house from which the groom had fled, Carew was racing
with a deadly fear knocking at his heart. The gates were open and,
panic-driven, he dashed along the carriage drive and up the steps of the
villa hurling himself against the door which, unbarred, gave way before
him. In the dimly-lit entrance hall he stumbled and almost fell headlong
over the prostrate figure of an Arab who moaned and writhed on the
marble floor. Callous to everything but the one ghastly fear that
gripped him, Carew kicked his feet clear of the man’s robes and shook
him roughly. But the fiercely uttered question died on his lips as a
piercing shriek rang through the silent house. A shriek that was
followed by others so terrible, so frenzied, that for a moment he reeled
under the horror of them. And with the agonizing screams was mingled the
sound of a man’s raving and other more pregnant sounds that drove Carew
to the verge of madness. With a groan he leaped to the door of the room
where was the woman he loved, but, locked from within, it resisted his
furious onslaught and, as well acquainted with the villa as he was with
his own, he knew that to force in was impossible. Desperately he
wrenched at the handle, then a sudden thought came that sent him flying
down the corridor. There was another door leading into the drawing room,
a secret door that, flush with the wall and hidden by curtains, was
possibly unknown to the tenants who had rented the house. Reaching the
ante-room with which it communicated and tearing aside the embroidered
hangings he flung his whole weight against the fragile panels, crashing
through into the room beyond. One sweeping glance sufficed him. Dragging
his eyes from the battered little body stretched almost at his feet he
crouched for an instant, stiffening like a wild beast preparing to
spring, his face the face of a madman.
And startled by his sudden appearance, too blind with passion to
recognise the man who had gone through the sandstorm with him, Geradine
saw in the tall, robed figure facing him only an unknown Arab who had
dared to force a violent entrance into his house and he flung forward
with a savage snarl, brandishing the heavy hunting crop with which he
had flogged his wife into insensibility.
“You damned nigger,” he bellowed. “What the hell—”
But with the sound of his voice Carew sprang, his clenched fist driving
straight at the other’s mouth. For a second Geradine staggered, then
with a roar of mingled pain and fury he slashed with the crop at Carew’s
face. But the blow fell short and the next moment two powerful arms
closed round him. Though strong above the average, his life of
intemperance had unfitted him for any protracted struggle and tonight,
wearied already by his outburst of savagery and not sober enough to use
with advantage what strength he had, he was helpless in the grip of the
muscular hands that seemed to be crushing the life out of him. Choked
with the strangling hold on his throat he was almost unconscious when
the clutching fingers slid suddenly to his arm and he was forced to his
knees.
And with the whip that was still wet with her blood Carew avenged the
woman who lay so deathly still beside him. Maddened with the thought of
her suffering, he wielded the heavy weapon till Geradine’s coat and
shirt were torn to ribbons, crimson stained and sticky, till his moans
became fainter and finally died away, till his own arm grew tired with
the punishment he inflicted. Only then did he fling the whip from him.
Scarcely glancing at the inert figure sprawled face downwards on the
floor, indifferent whether he had killed him or not, he turned slowly to
that other pitiful little figure and, hardly conscious of what he did,
tore the burnous from his shoulders, and wrapping it round her lifted
her into his arms and carried her away.
The hall was empty as he passed through it. But he was oblivious of the
apparently deserted house, oblivious of everything but the slight burden
he held. As if in a dream, his mind almost a blank, he followed
mechanically the road by which he had come half an hour before. And not
until he had reached his own villa, until, led by instinct rather than
definite reasoning, he found himself in his own bedroom, did the
dream-like feelings pass and he awoke to realize what he had done. But
that could wait. At the moment only she mattered.
Laying her on the bed he stripped the blood-wet silken rags from her
lacerated shoulders, wincing in agony as they clung to the delicate
broken flesh his trembling lips covered with passionate kisses. But he
was doctor as well as lover and, forcing his shaking fingers to
steadiness, he bathed the cruel wounds with tender skill, doing all that
was possible for her comfort before he dropped to his knees to wait till
she should regain consciousness. And when at last she stirred it was
some time before recognition dawned in the dazed eyes that were gazing
blankly into his. But the sudden joy that filled them faded swiftly into
a look of terrible fear.
With a cry that greyed his face she flung herself into his arms.
“Don’t let him get me! Don’t—let—him—get me,” she shrieked, again and
again, till the horror of it was more than he could bear and he crushed
her face against him to stifle the sounds he knew would ring in his ears
while life lasted.
“Hush, hush,” he whispered, almost fiercely. “It’s done—it’s finished.
He will never touch you again. You need never see him again. Lie still
and rest. There’s not a soul who knows where you are but me.” And even
in the extremity of her terror his voice had power to soothe her and she
relaxed in his arms with a shuddering sob. For a long time he held her
silently, fighting the biggest battle of his life, striving to subdue
self, to think only for her. But her nearness made thought impossible
and at last, in despair, he sought to rise. She clung to him with a
murmur of entreaty.
“Let me go, dear,” he muttered. “I’ve got to think—I’ve got to think
what is best to do.” And tenderly he put aside her trembling hands.
Fear fled back into her eyes as she watched him cross the room to the
open window, and slipping from the bed she waited for what seemed an
eternity, shaking with weakness, afraid to question him, afraid for the
moment of the man himself.
And when at length he spoke, in a voice that was almost unrecognisable,
he did not look at her. “I can get you out of Algiers—that is easy. But
to whom shall I take you? Where are your people?”
For a moment she stared in dazed unbelief, then with a pitiful sob, she
staggered nearer to him. “Gervas, don’t you love me—don’t you want me?”
His face was anguished as he flung towards her. “Want you? _My God!_” he
groaned, “but it’s not what I want that matters. It is you I am thinking
of. You are Geradine’s wife—I can’t take you. I can’t dishonour you. I
can’t drag you through the mud—”
“Mud!” she echoed, with a terrible laugh, “what mud could you drag me
through that would be worse than the mud that has choked me for five
ghastly years? Gervas, Gervas, I’ve come to the end. I can’t fight any
more. I can’t bear any more. I’ve no one to turn to—no people—no
friends. There’s nobody in all the world who can help me—but you. If
you won’t save me I will kill myself. I swear it. Oh, Gervas, have pity!
Take me away. I’m safe only with you. I’ll be your servant—your
slave—anything you will—only save me, save me! If I see him again I
shall go mad—_mad_—” She was at his feet, clasping his knees, her
upturned face wild and distorted with terror. And as he swept her up
into his arms with a gasp of horrified protest and looked into her
frenzied eyes, he knew that she was very near to madness now. But still
he hesitated.
“You know what it will mean if I take you with me into the desert?”
“I know, I know,” she sobbed, “it will mean heaven and rest and joy
unspeakable. And I—who have lived in _hell_! Oh, Gervas, give me the
chance of happiness!”
It was not what he meant, but he saw that she was past understanding.
Only by keeping her could he avert the mental breakdown which was
imminent. To save her reason he must do that for which his heart was
clamouring, that which he had determined never to do.
And in the light that leaped involuntarily to his eyes she read his
answer even before he stooped his lips to her trembling mouth.