Very early in the morning, in the dark hour that precedes the dawn,
Marny Geradine rode out from Algiers in the guise of an Arab boy, her
slender figure concealed in the voluminous folds of a long white
burnous, her fair face hidden by the haick that was pulled far forward
over her brow. Beside her Hosein was riding with a wary eye on her
horse, ready at any moment to catch the bridle should the nervous
strength that was supporting her fail suddenly. A few paces ahead of
them, Carew, in the dark blue burnous he affected, was hardly
distinguishable in the gloom. Trembling with bodily weakness and the
still lingering fear she could not conquer, she strained her eyes to
keep him in sight. Only with him near her was she safe. On him and on
his strength she was utterly dependent, for she had no longer any
strength of her own. The courageous spirit that had sustained her for so
long was broken at last, and spent in mind and body her only hope was in
him. He had sworn that she was safe, that he had passed unrecognised
through the Villa des Ombres, that he had brought her unseen to his own
house. But the words that had soothed her as he held her in his strong
embrace seemed to lose power when he was absent. He had been obliged to
leave her almost at once and the touch of his first kiss was still warm
on her lips when he had hurried away to make the arrangements for which
so little time was available. He had bade her rest, but nerve racked and
overwrought, rest had been impossible as she lay starting and shivering
at every noise that echoed through the strange house. Like a terrified
child that requires repeated and audible consolation, she longed for the
sound of his voice, for the tangible comfort of his shielding arms.
And now as she rode through the deserted streets of the sleeping suburb,
fear for herself was mingled with a new and terrible fear for him. She
had as yet no knowledge of what had passed in the Villa des Ombres after
she had lost consciousness and she was obsessed with the thought of her
husband. She saw him in every shadow, the very sound of the horses’ feet
seemed to her excited fancy like hurrying pursuing footsteps. She hated
herself for her want of confidence. At the bottom of her heart she knew
that her trust in Carew was implicit, that it was only her overstrained
nerves that made her shiver with dread, that turned her sick each time
her horse quickened his pace or swerved from some object that only he
could see. She tried to fight against her weakness, to believe that her
disguise was complete, but she knew that she would have no peace until
the town was left behind, until, the open country reached, she could
abandon the rôle of attendant and ride beside the man to whom she had
given herself and gain fresh strength and courage from his nearness. And
from time to time unconsciously she strove to lessen the distance
between them, checking her horse again with a sharp little sigh as she
heard Hosein’s voice “_Doucement, doucement_” repeated warningly.
The way seemed never ending.
To avoid passing the Villa des Ombres a wide detour was necessary and
Marny began to think they would never win clear of the tree-lined
avenues and succession of silent villas that appeared to extend
indefinitely.
There were few abroad at this early hour, but the occasional passing of
some chance pedestrian made her shrink within the folds of the
enveloping burnous, wild eyed with apprehension and faint with the heavy
beating of her tired heart. And once the sound of galloping hoofs behind
them came near to shattering what little self-control was left to her
and with a choking cry she drove her horse against Hosein’s, clutching
frantically at the man’s arm and reeling weakly in the saddle. But it
was only an Arab, wraith-like in the darkness and immersed in his own
concerns, who tore by at breakneck speed on a raking chestnut that
squealed an angry defiance at the other horses as he clattered past. She
recovered herself with a feeling of shame for her own cowardice,
wondering miserably if she would ever regain the strength and nerve that
five years of crushing experience had slowly sapped from her. Once she
had not known what it meant to be tired or afraid. Weariness and pain to
her had been merely terms, without meaning, without significance. But in
those five years she had learnt a bitter lesson. Physically and mentally
she had suffered until suffering had become the dominant factor in her
existence, until she had wondered how far endurance went, how long
before her burden would become heavier than she could bear. And now,
still dazed with the horror of the last few hours, she could hardly
believe in the fact of her deliverance. Was it really over, the life of
pain that had transformed her from a happy carefree child into a
sorrowful disillusioned woman who had prayed for death to release her
from bondage that was intolerable. And death had been very near to her
last night. She had realised it when, seeking to prevent what she knew
to be an injustice, she had thrown herself between her husband and the
wretched Arab valet and Geradine, mad with drink and rage, had turned to
wreak on her the same punishment he had inflicted on his servant. His
face had been the face of a devil, distorted almost beyond recognition,
and in his glittering red flecked eyes she had read her fate.
Temporarily insane he was past knowing what he did and, helpless against
his strength, she was well aware now that but for the coming of Carew
the ghastly scene must have ended in tragedy, that body or brain must
have succumbed to the fury of his passion. Never while she lived would
she forget. Still close to hers she seemed to see that savage bestial
face, the staring bloodshot eyes blazing with merciless ferocity, her
lacerated shoulders still quivered as if they shrank again under the
cruel blows that had rained on her till consciousness fled. The
brutality of years had reached culmination when, with words whose
foulness had scorched her soul, he had beaten her like a dog. That was
what she had been! His dog—kicked or caressed as the mood took him. A
thing of no account. His chattel—sold to him like a slave in an eastern
market, taken by him merely to satisfy his basest instincts.
Shudderingly she tried to banish thought, to put him from her mind, but
her shaken brain was beyond control and over and over again she lived
through the cruelty of the years that were past until every nerve in her
aching body seemed strained to breaking point.
Trembling from head to foot and bathed in perspiration she wondered if
the horror of it would ever leave her, if all her remaining life was to
be a nightmare of hideous recollection.
Drooping with fatigue, her wet hands slipping on the bridle she grasped
mechanically, she prayed desperately for the open country that meant
freedom and happiness. And gradually, yielding to the physical pain that
was swamping all other feeling, she ceased to notice the locality
through which they were passing and she had almost drifted into
unconsciousness when the sound of the voice she had longed for roused
her to the fact that at last the town was left behind. Slowly she raised
her head to meet the grave eyes that looked searchingly into hers. And
at sight of her face Carew reined nearer, and she felt his cool strong
fingers close with practised touch about her wrist.
“Can you hold out a bit longer, dear? We’re rather close to Algiers
yet,” he said. And the tender anxiety of his voice made her set her
teeth to keep back the sob that rose in her throat, a sob of joy and
wonder at the consideration to which she was so unused. She drew herself
straighter in the saddle and smiled at him bravely.
“I’m all right,” she gasped, “if—if I can ride beside you,” she added,
faintly. His lips tightened as he eyed her doubtfully. Then without
answering he wheeled Suliman towards the south.
The movements of her horse were easy, and away from the metalled roads
the slow canter at which they rode was less jarring, but it took all her
resolution to maintain the upright carriage she had adopted and hide
from him the weakness that was steadily overcoming her. The nervous
strength that had upheld her at first was slipping from her fast now
that the immediate fear of discovery was past, and in the reaction of
relief she feared the collapse that was threatening momentarily. She
pulled the haick closer about her face that he might not see the
moisture lying thick on her forehead and rode on with compressed lips
fighting the spells of faintness that made her head reel and the
surrounding landscape appear to waver in curious undulations before her
eyes.
The dawn was brightening. Already it was light enough to see distinctly,
and despite her fatigue, Marny looked with interest on a district that
was new to her.
For some time still their way led past farms and fruit gardens, but of
human life they saw little. And the few field workers and goatherds they
met were absorbed in their own affairs and paid no heed to their
passing, or at most bestowed on them a perfunctory salaam that was due
to Carew’s supposed rank. He looked like a chief, she thought with a
strange new feeling of pride. It was difficult seeing him thus to
remember that he was an Englishman. To her he would always be an Arab, a
man of the open, a desert dweller. And in the sandy wastes of the great
wilderness towards which her thoughts had turned so longingly she would
live with him the wild free life of her dreams, a life that might prove
hard and dangerous but a life that would be made sweet by his love and
companionship. If only she need not have come to him like this! If only
he had found her in the time of her unfettered girlhood when he could
have taken her unstained and without dishonour! But over their love now
hung the shadow of disgrace. And it was for her sake that he had done
what would be held up to him as a reproach. For her sake—He heard the
strangled sob she tried to smother and winced, his eyes sweeping the
horizon impatiently. He knew that she had almost reached the limit of
her endurance and his arms were aching to hold her, to ease the pain of
her weary little body against his own strong limbs, but while the
scattered farms still stretched about them he dared not risk the chance
of passing observation. Neither, because of her weakness, did he dare to
quicken their slow pace—an unaccustomed pace at which Suliman was
fretting and protesting, rearing from time to time as he tried to break
into the usual gallop.
But at length the last outlying vineyard was passed, and screened by the
rising ground of the foothills they were approaching, precaution was no
longer necessary. With a sigh of relief Carew swung his horse close to
hers and, bending sideways, lifted her easily out of the saddle. She
yielded without demur, relaxing against him with a moan of utter
exhaustion. He knew that she was crying, but he knew also that the tears
which hurt him so poignantly were necessary to relieve the excited brain
that had gone so perilously near to destruction and he made no attempt
to check them. Tightening his arm about her he gave Suliman his head.
And with a snort of pleasure the big bay leaped forward, free to go his
own pace at last, galloping as he had galloped when once before he had
carried double. The memory of that midnight ride came to Carew as he
glanced down at the girl he held before him. With what different
feelings he had carried her then! How he had revolted at her proximity,
hating the slight burden that was now so precious. Every moment had been
torture. Now, in the ecstasy that filled him, he wished that the way
were longer, that the moment might never come when he would have to
waken from his dream ride of almost unbelievable happiness and face the
stern realities of the difficult course that lay before them. For an
instant his sombre eyes grew stern and brooding, then he thrust the
thought of the future from him. There was time, and enough to think of
that. Now he could only think of her. His face grew very tender, very
pitiful as he looked at her. Poor little tired child, bruised and broken
with appalling experience—would even his love, great as it was,
compensate for the suffering that had wrecked her young life? All that
was best in him rose up as he caught her closer with a stifled whisper.
That he might never fail her, that she might never regret the step she
had taken, never regret the faith she had in him, was the prayer that
burst from his innermost soul—a prayer that was deeper, more fervent
than any he had ever uttered in his life.
But as the bay tore on with long swinging strides that were the
perfection of movement, Carew put from him everything but the joy of the
moment. After the enforced stay in a town he had come to loathe, after
the tedious days of comparative inactivity made hideous by mental
struggle, he felt like a man released from prison. Behind him lay all he
wished to forget. Before him lay a new life, new happiness, new hope. He
could hardly realise yet what it meant to him. No longer alone, with
something more than his work to live for, he seemed to see the world
suddenly with new eyes—a world of new wonder, a world transformed and
beautified. Eagerly he looked at the brightening sky. The dawn had
almost come, a dawn that was to him symbolical.
A feeling of exultation came over him. The wild rush through the air,
the cool wind blowing against his face, was like an intoxicant stirring
him as it always stirred him, and today more powerfully than ever
before. For did he not hold in his arms his heart’s desire—was not the
woman he had craved his at last! With a quick fierce laugh he drove his
knees into Suliman’s ribs and swung him round to face the open hillside.
Gallantly the horse attacked the steep incline, but the gradient was
punishing and gradually his pace slackened till it dropped to a walk
and, picking his steps carefully amongst the scrub and boulders, he
wound his way laboriously up the twisting track till he reached the
summit to stand with heaving sides and wide distended nostrils.
And at the same moment the sun rose clear of the banking clouds of gold
and crimson, and the full light came with startling suddenness revealing
all the wild beauty of the desolate hills. A scene of more than ordinary
grandeur, or so it seemed to the man whose heart was throbbing with a
passion that almost frightened him and whose whole sensitive being was
thrilling and responding to the radiant glory of this most marvellous
sunrise he had ever witnessed. Behind them Hosein was on his knees
absorbed in rapt devotion, and alone with her he viewed the advent of
the new day, the new life that they would live together. The reins
dropped loose on Suliman’s neck as he raised her high in his arms till
their lips met and her shy eyes fell under the ardour of his burning
kiss. A kiss that with its hungry passion, its complete possessiveness
awoke her to a fuller realisation of the step she had taken.
She was trembling when at last he released her, her quivering face
scarlet with shame. Miserably she stared at him, struggling to free
herself.
“Let me go,” she moaned. “I hadn’t any right to ask you—I hadn’t any
right to make it difficult for you.” But in her piteous eyes he read the
despair that gave the lie to her stumbling sobbing words.
“You _want_ to go—back to him?” he said, slowly. And he was answered in
the sharp cry that burst from her as she shuddered closer into his arms,
clinging to him with all her feeble strength. With a soft little laugh
of triumph he kissed her again and turned in the saddle to shout to
Hosein who had finished his prayers and was waiting discreetly in the
background with no sign of his inward astonishment visible in his
imperturbable face. That the master he worshipped had been stricken with
sudden madness was to him the only possible explanation for the
departure from established principle, that in his years of service he
had become thoroughly acquainted with. Shrewdly observant he had seen
and wondered at the gradual change that had come over Carew since the
night when he had amazed his retainers by bringing a woman to the camp
from which women had always been religiously excluded. And now that same
woman was lying across his saddle, a willing captive to the man who was
bending over her with a face that was transfigured. That his master had
no right to her, that she was the wife of the foreign Sidi who had made
himself so notorious in Algiers, were matters of indifference to Hosein.
It was no business of his. If his lord had at last found happiness—who
was he to judge him! He had been mad with that same madness himself
once—
As he ranged alongside leading the spare horse, Marny tried to raise
herself.
“I’m rested now—let me ride,” she murmured. But Carew saw her face
contract with the pain that movement caused her, and shook his head.
“You are not fit to ride. Lie still and rest,” he said, decisively.
“But you can’t carry me all the way, I’m so heavy—” she objected,
faintly.
“Heavy!” he laughed, “about as heavy as an extra carbine.”
And following his swift glance she noticed for the first time the
leathern holster that projected beyond his knee. The sight of it
reminded her of the hazardous life that would be hers and made her rebel
against the weakness that seemed to make her so unfit a companion for
him.
“Let me try,” she pleaded. But he shook his head again.
“Do as you’re told my dear,” he said, with a smile that softened the
peremptoriness of his tone. “You’re worn out, and you are on the
highroad to fever unless you take things easily. I can’t have you
knocking up out in the desert. You’ll want all your strength where we’re
going.”
Where were they going? She wondered without caring. She knew nothing of
his plans. She was content to go where he took her, content to follow
where he led. She had given her life into his keeping, she was satisfied
to leave to him the ordering of that life. With a tired sigh she dropped
her head on his breast, thankful for the support of the strong arm
crooked about her, yielding to the strength that was so strangely
gentle.
A drowsiness she did not attempt to combat stole over her as she lay
with closed eyes listening to the murmur of the two men’s voices. They
were speaking in Arabic which she did not understand, but it seemed to
her that Carew was giving certain orders to which his servant responded
with his usual brevity. Then there was silence and dreamily she became
aware that Hosein had left them and that they were alone on the top of
the sun warmed hill. Dead with sleep she felt Carew’s arm tighten round
her, heard without fully comprehending his explanation that he had sent
the Arab on to prepare the camp for their coming, and slept as his lips
touched hers.
* * * * *
It was late in the afternoon when she woke. Still heavy and confused
with sleep, at first she was conscious only of the feeling of bodily
comfort that enveloped her. Her tired limbs were at rest and she lay
propped against soft cushions that eased the dull ache of her wounded
shoulders. With a little sigh of physical content, she nestled deeper
into the silken pillows, inhaling the faint oriental perfume that clung
about them, wondering vaguely when Ann would come to waken her. Ann? Ann
would never come to her again! Ann was gone, the victim of petty spite
and tyranny. And she—With a strangled cry she started up, trembling
violently, staring around her in bewilderment. Then remembrance came
with a rush, and sobbing with relief she sank back on the cushions of
the wide divan where once before she had slept with such curious
confidence.
Wonderingly she looked about the room, at the simple but costly Arab
furnishings, at the well stocked gun rack that stood near the couch on
which she was lying, at the litter of masculine belongings that with
their suggestion of intimacy served to bring home to her even more fully
than before the significance of what she had done. His room! The hot
blood flamed into her cheeks and she hid her face in the pillows,
whispering his name, shivering with a new sweet fear and joy that made
her long for him and yet shrink from even the thought of his coming.
How long since he had brought her here? How long since she had fallen
asleep in his arms on the top of the sun-bathed hill? The room was
perceptibly darker when at last she raised her head and sat up,
listening for some sound to penetrate from the adjoining room that
should assure her of his nearness. But she heard only the distant hum of
the scattered camp—the shrill squeal of an angry stallion, the doleful
long-drawn bray of a donkey and, near at hand, the monotonous creak and
whine of some unknown piece of mechanism whose use she could not guess.
Strange, unfamiliar noises that yet seemed so oddly familiar, like the
faint echoes of a far-off memory urging the remembrance of another long
forgotten life when she had lived and loved in close proximity to the
sounds that now thrilled her with vague wonderings. Did love ever
die—was this passion that had overwhelmed her so suddenly only the
reawakening of a love that had been born in bygone ages? Had she loved
him then! Had he too lived in that remote past that seemed struggling
for recognition? Had their wandering souls, long desolate and alone
triumphed over the barrier that separated them to converge once more and
know again the transient rapture of earthly happiness?
With a tremulous smile she slipped from the couch and went slowly to the
little dressing table at the further end of the room. Curiously she
stared at herself in the tiny mirror, frowning at the weary white face
she saw reflected.
The close-drawn haick had been removed and, tumbled by the heavy
head-dress, her hair lay loose in curling waves about her shoulders. The
colour crept into her cheeks again as she strove to roll it up into
something approaching order. And as she wrestled with the few pins that
remained to her, two hands placed suddenly on her shoulders made her
start violently. “Must you hide it all away? It was very pretty as it
was.” There was a new note in his voice, a new hint of definite
ownership in his manner as he coolly unloosened the soft coils she had
hastily bound up and drew her to him. But she dared not meet his look
and, surrendering to his arms, she hid her face against him in an agony
of shyness.
With a tender word of expostulation he slipped his hand under her chin
and raised her head. His ardent love was crying out for expression but
the shamed piteousness of her eyes checked the passionate words that
rushed to his lips. What was his love worth if self came before
consideration? He stooped his cheek to hers.
“Do you think I don’t understand,” he murmured, “do you think I don’t
realise how—strange it is? But you can’t be shy with me, dear. Only
remember that I love you, that I’d give my life to keep you happy. I’ll
do all I can to make it easy for you—” But even as he spoke the
restraint he imposed on himself slipped for a moment and he crushed her
to him conclusively. “Child, child, if you knew how I have longed for
you! If you knew what it means to me to hold you in my arms—_here_—to
know that you are mine, mine, utterly. Marny—” He pulled himself up
sharply with a gesture of compunction, his hands dropping to his sides.
“Forgive me, dear,” he said, gently, “I didn’t mean to be rough with
you—I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
The tears that were so near the surface welled into her eyes and she
looked at him strangely.
“Rough?” she whispered, slowly. “I wonder if you know what roughness
means—I wonder if you could hurt me if you tried!” Then her face
contracted suddenly and her hands went out to him in shuddering appeal.
“Keep me from remembering!” she cried, wildly, “help me to blot out the
past. I can’t tell even you. I want to forget—everything—everything
but your love. Oh, my Desert Healer, you heal others, heal me too! Make
me strong again—strong and fit to share your life, to be your
helper—Don’t let me think! Oh, Gervas, don’t—let—me—think!”
The look he had dreaded to see again was back in her eyes and her whole
body was shaking as she clung to him with all her shyness forgotten in
the greater mental distress that made her seek his help and consolation.
With almost womanly tenderness he soothed her, holding her till the
nervous trembling passed and she lay still in his arms.
“It’s over,” he said, at last, “over and done with. It’s a new life
we’ve begun together, dearest. A new life that will bring you health and
strength and, God helping me, a greater joy than we have ever known. The
desert will heal you, Marny, as it healed me years ago. Shut your mind
to the past. Think only of the future—and of our happiness.”
A bitter sob escaped her.
“We haven’t any right to be happy,” she moaned. He did not answer but
she felt him stiffen suddenly and her eyes leaped to his with a new fear
dawning in them.
“Gervas—” she gasped, “what will you do—if he won’t divorce me? Oh,
you don’t know him as I do, you don’t know of what he is capable. He
would do it just to feel that his power was over me still, just to keep
me bound, just to hurt us. Gervas, if I can never be free, if I can
never be your wife—what then?”
A shadow passed over his face as he looked down at her.
“Will the price of our happiness be too big for you to pay, Marny—or is
it me that you doubt?” he asked, slowly.
“_Gervas_—” But his kisses stopped her frantic protestations and there
was only love and pity in his eyes as he gathered her closer. “You will
always be my wife—as you are my wife to me, now. Nothing can ever alter
that. Nothing shall ever come between us. God knows how you’ve suffered,
and He can judge me for what I have done when the time comes. But while
I live you’re mine and no power on earth shall take you from me.” His
deep voice was vibrant with passion and for a moment the fierce pressure
of his arms was pain. Then as if ashamed of his own display of feeling
he put her from him.
“I’m a brute,” he exclaimed, remorsefully. “Come and eat, you pale
child. I hadn’t the heart to wake you before, you were sleeping so
soundly.”
Shyness fell on her again as he led her into the adjoining room. And
throughout the meal that followed she was very silent, eating
mechanically what was put before her and studiously avoiding his eyes as
from time to time she glanced with furtive curiosity about the big tent.
His heart ached for her as he watched her with an intentness he was
careful to conceal. He was longing to help her, longing to make easier
the difficult situation which he knew she was only now realising in its
entirety, fearful of augmenting her constraint by any word or gesture
that should emphasise the new relationship between them. Love made it
easy for him to guess her thoughts. With fine intuition he understood
perfectly the struggle that complete realisation must have awakened in
her mind. Though she loved him, though she had given herself to him,
still he knew that she must be shrinking sensitively from the
consequences of her own act. His arms had been a refuge she had turned
to in her need, but they were the arms of the man who loved her and
here, in his tent, she must be facing the hard fact of her obligation,
facing the payment of her freedom—a payment that only love could make
endurable. More than ever did his own love clamour for utterance but he
gripped himself resolutely, playing the part of impassive host with
almost cold courtesy while he attended to her wants and keeping the
conversation strictly to trivialities, and trivial conversation was not
easy. They knew so little the one of the other. He had as yet no
knowledge of her tastes, no knowledge of her interests. In spite of the
love that had swept them both off their feet they were, to all intents
and purposes, strangers to each other, and further hindered by her shy
reserve a common meeting ground was difficult to find.
But when the short twilight had faded and the lamps were lit in the
tent, when Hosein had come and gone for the last time leaving them
alone, he found it impossible to maintain the detached attitude he had
adopted, impossible to avoid reference to certain subjects that must of
necessity be discussed between them. The sense of their aloneness, the
intimacy of the moment, was stirring him deeply and the sight of her
lying amongst the heaped up cushions of the divan, lovelier than he had
ever seen her, infinitely pathetic as she seemed in her utter dependence
on him, was an appeal that was too strong to be resisted and his heart
was beating furiously as he went to her.
And affected no less than he, her breath came fast and her shy eyes met
his for only a moment as she moved to make place for him. Sitting down
beside her he caught her slim hands up to his lips. Then, still holding
them in his firm grasp, he crashed through the faint barrier that had
risen between them and spoke with unreserved frankness of the future and
the life that they would share together. And afterwards, because he
believed that only by mutual confidence and trust could their love be
perfected, he broke the silence of years and told her the story of his
life, the tragedy that had wrecked his early manhood and driven him to a
self-imposed exile, and of the consolation he had found in the work that
had become so dear to him. And his own confidence ended, he drew from
her, bit by bit, the history of her girlhood and pitiful marriage. But
of what she had suffered at the hands of the brute to whom her brother
had sold her she would say nothing.
“You know,” she whispered, with quivering lips, “you saw—the morning
after the Governor’s ball. I can’t speak of it. It hurts me.” For a
moment he held her closely, his eyes blazing as once before she had seen
them blaze, then he rose abruptly and striding across the room flung
back the closed entrance flap and stood in the open doorway staring out
into the night.
She twisted on the divan to watch him, wondering what chain of thought
her words had set in motion, wondering if he was vexed at her reticence.
But he gave no explanation of his hasty movement, and after a time he
came back slowly, his face inscrutable as she had ever known it, and
squatted, Arab fashion, on a pile of cushions near her. Lighting a
cigarette, for a while he talked fitfully, his brief remarks punctuated
by lengthy silences she did not know how to break. And as the evening
wore on he grew more and more distrait until finally he ceased to speak
at all, sitting motionless with his eyes fixed on the rug, smoking
cigarette after cigarette.
She knew that it was late. The tom-toms and pipes, that earlier in the
evening had resounded from the men’s quarters, had long since died away.
She was conscious of a silence that could be almost felt, she found
herself straining her ears to catch some sound that should moderate the
deep quiet that was reminiscent of long ago nights in Ireland. But for
once there was peace amongst the picketed horses and not even the wail
of a jackal came to break the intense stillness. It was as if all the
world slept and only she was awake—she and the man to whom she must
soon yield the final proof of her love and surrender. She slid her arm
across her burning face and shrank closer against the silken pillows,
shivering uncontrollably, torn with the conflict that raged within her.
She loved him, with her whole being she loved him—madly, utterly. To
give him all he demanded would be joy beyond expression—but, oh, dear
God, why must their love be stained with sin! Last night he had loved
her well enough to let her go—and her coward body had driven her to
plead with him until his renunciation became impossible. It was she who
was responsible. It was her sin, not his—and let her be the only one to
pay. Passionately she prayed it, clenching her teeth to smother the
sounds of agony that rose in her throat. Weak with emotion, vaguely
frightened by his continued abstraction, she was aching for the clasp of
his arms, hungering for his kisses, longing for the comfort and
reassurance of his voice. Of what was he thinking as he sat motionless,
scowling heavily as he stared into space, no longer even smoking. Was it
the remembrance of the early sorrow of which he had told her that made
his face so stern and sad? A swift spasm of jealousy shook her. But she
crushed it down, her tender brooding eyes growing misty with tears. What
need had she to be jealous! The past was over—and his love was hers. He
had proved it beyond all doubt. And he had done so much already, it was
foolish to expect that every moment of his time could be given to her.
He had other matters beside herself to engage his attention, matters
that now, because of her, must necessarily have become more complex. It
was only natural that he should be pre-occupied and silent. She must be
content to wait. He would turn to her again in his own good time.
And when at last he stirred and rose with swift noiselessness to his
feet, she was lying so still that he thought she was asleep. For a
moment he bent over her, his hands reaching out to the little recumbent
body, his strong limbs shaking with the fierce tide of emotion that was
pouring over him, his passionate eyes aflame with love and longing.
Hungrily he gazed at the woman he had taken for his own. Why did he
hesitate? Was she not his, his of her own free will, his to give him all
he asked! Of what use to refrain? Who, after what he had done, would
believe that he had spared her! And if her fears were justified, if she
failed to win release—what would either of them have gained? If not
tonight—then sooner or later, for he would never let her go. Wife or
mistress, whichever it was to be, he would keep her while the breath of
life was in him. Lower and lower he bent till the warm sweet nearness of
her, the faint intoxicating perfume of her fragrant hair, and his own
desperate need combining shattered the last remnant of his self-control
and he swept her up into his arms, straining her to his heaving chest,
raining kisses on her lips, her eyes, her palpitating throat, till,
panting and exhausted with the force of his ardent embrace, her head
fell back against his shoulder and he carried her white-lipped and
trembling towards the inner room. But as he reached the screening
curtains that barred his impetuous way he came to a sudden halt and the
quivering eagerness of his face gave way to a look of doubt and bitter
misery. Yearningly he stared into her frightened eyes, then with a
gasping sob he slid her slowly to her feet and pushed her gently through
the silken hangings. “Go—for God’s sake go,” he muttered, and wrenched
the curtain into place.
Not yet! Not while there still remained a chance that he might take her
without dishonour. What the world would not believe was yet possible to
him who loved her. Until he was sure, beyond all doubt, that she could
never be legally free to marry him he would hold her unscathed, unsoiled
by his passion. And, Merciful God, how long would that be? How long
would he be able to hold out! He was pledged to Sanois and he had sworn
to take her with him. Was he strong enough to withstand the temptation
of long months spent in close proximity, riding day after day at her
side under the burning sun, sleeping night after night with only a frail
curtain between them? He did not know. He only knew that tonight his
strength was gone and that he dared not stay beside her. The calm
radiance of the star-lit sky, the deep stillness of the night mocked his
as he fled from the tent he did not trust himself to look back on. A
night of mystical beauty, redolent with the subtle odours of the east,
languorous and heavy scented—a night for love and the fulfillment of
desire.
With a groan he swept his hand across his eyes, wrestling with physical
agony that was intolerable, cursing the scruple that kept him from her,
cursing the man who stood between them. The blood was beating in his
ears and his brain was on fire as he stumbled through the shadowy
darkness of the little valley, striving to subdue the longing that
possessed him, striving to banish the torturing thought of her nearness.
Blind to the road he was taking, he saw only the sweet pale face that
had flushed to the touch of his burning kisses, saw only the tempting
beauty of the slender loveliness he craved. Was she asleep, as he prayed
with all his soul she might be—or was she too awake, longing for him as
he was longing for her, suffering as he was suffering? Just now she had
trembled in his arms and he had seen the fear that leaped to her
flickering eyes, but she had made no effort to repulse him, had made no
plea for release. Instead she had clung to him. And it seemed to him
that he could still feel the touch of her fingers, ice-cold and shaking
against his, still feel the rapid beating of her heart, the tumultuous
rise and fall of her delicate bosom as he carried her swiftly across the
room. She had been willing, and he—He flung out his hands with a bitter
cry and dropped like a log, burying his head in his arms.
Hour after hour he lay motionless on the soft warm sand, too passion
swept to sleep, till at last the raging fever that consumed him abated,
and he knew that, for the time being, his victory over himself was
complete.
But there was no peace in his mind. There was another decision that had
to be made before the stars faded and the sun rose on a new day—a
decision he knew in his heart was already determined. By acceding to the
frenzied appeal of the woman he loved, in his endeavour to save her from
further suffering, he had done a thing unpardonable. That did not
trouble him. He did not regret it, he would never regret it. Her
happiness was the only thing that weighed with him. Last night her need,
and only her need, had been his sole consideration. Mad with fear she
had implored him to take her from Algiers and, trembling for her reason,
he had consented. But tonight his thoughts were centered on the husband
from whom he had taken her. He would never give her up—but he would
steal no man’s wife in secret. He was going back to Algiers—going back
to face the man he had wronged. And what would be the outcome of that
interview? No matter what Geradine had done—she was his wife. No matter
what she had suffered at his hands—he was her husband. No extenuating
circumstances could gloss over the hard indisputable fact or lessen his
own culpableness.
What would Geradine do?
Carew rose deliberately to his feet with a harsh mirthless laugh. He
knew what he would do himself if the position were reversed, what he
would unhesitatingly have done twelve years ago if the opportunity had
been given him. And if Geradine shot him like a dog, as he deserved to
be shot, what would become of the girl who trusted to him? To stay—and
forfeit his own self-respect. To go—knowing that he might never return.
Heavens above, what a choice! But there was no other way thinkable. His
mind was fixed, and the rest lay with Geradine. Would the cur who had
stooped to strike a woman fight to regain possession of her, fight to
avenge his honour? If he only would—by God, if he only would! The
breath hissed through Carew’s set teeth and his strong hands clenched in
fierce anticipation as his mind leaped forward to the coming meeting.
The primitive man in him was uppermost as he thought with curious
pleasure of Geradine’s huge proportions and powerful limbs. There was
not much to choose between them. True he had thrashed him last night,
but the man had been drunk. Heaven send that he was sober this time!
With a strange smile he swung on his heel and strode back to the
sleeping camp.
But as he neared the tent his swift pace lessened and his sombre eyes
were dull with pain as he passed under the lance-propped awning into the
empty living room. How could he leave her to wait alone until he came
again—or did not come! What would be the effect of those long-drawn
hours of suspense on the nervous brain that was already dangerously
overstrained and excited? His stern lips quivered as he parted the
curtains and felt his way to the long low couch that was only dimly
visible.
His tentative whisper was answered by a stifled sob, and out of the
darkness two soft bare arms came tremblingly to close about his neck and
drew his head down to the pillow that was wet with her tears. That she
had wept bitterly was evident, and shaken by the distress his resolution
almost failed. But he crushed the momentary weakness that came over him.
“My dear, my dear,” he murmured, huskily, “have I made you weep so soon?
Have I failed you tonight of all nights when you needed me most? Did you
think I didn’t care—that I didn’t want you! Do you think it was easy
for me to go from the heaven of your arms to a hell of loneliness under
those cursed stars? God knows it was hard—as hard as it is for me to
say what I’ve got to say to you now.” And with characteristic directness
he told her plainly the course he had decided.
At first she did not seem to understand, then as she grasped the meaning
of his words a cry of terror burst from her. “You can’t go—you can’t,
you can’t. Oh, Gervas, stay with me, don’t leave me! If you go you’ll
never come back and I—” she shuddered, horribly, and her frenzied voice
sank to an agonised whisper. “He’ll kill you. _Gervas, he’ll kill you!_”
“Pray God, I don’t kill him,” he retorted, grimly, and with gentle force
he unloosened the tightly clasped arms that were locked about his neck.
“I’ve got to go, dear,” he said, steadily, “it’s the only thing I can
do.” And unable to bear the sound of her passionate weeping he turned
away. But with a wail of anguish she leaped to her feet, striving with
all her strength to hold him.
“Gervas, Gervas, don’t leave me like that—tell me you love me, tell me
you’ll come back to me—”
For a long moment his lips clung to hers, then he laid her on the bed.
“You know I love you, Marny,” he answered, “it is because I love you
that I am going back to Algiers.” There was a note of intense sadness in
his voice that made her bury her face in the pillow to stifle the sobs
that were fast growing beyond control, but there was also in it a ring
of finality that made further pleading impossible. Nothing she could say
would move him. His will was stronger than hers and she knew that,
despite the love and consideration that henceforward would make
possession so different, she had but exchanged one master for another.
When she raised her head again she was alone and she started up,
trembling with dread, listening till her ears ached that she might hear
the last sound of his voice. But there was only silence in the adjoining
room and, driven by an irresistible impulse, she fled through the
communicating curtains. The loose entrance flap was only partially
closed and, screened by the looped-back draperies she waited scarcely
breathing, straining her eyes through the gloom, praying that she might
see him once more.
And when he came it was only a momentary glimpse, a fleeting impression
of two shadowy horsemen who flashed past the tent to vanish in the
darkness beyond as though they had never been, and sobbingly she
stumbled back to the inner room, flinging herself in a passion of tears
on the bed where she had wept throughout the lonely hours of the night.
She did not question his action, it was enough for her that he had done
what he thought best. And there was no bitterness in her grief.
Selfless, she did not think of herself. It was only of him she was
thinking, only for him she was agonising. The brutal strength she knew
by terrible experience, the savage unbridled nature she had learned so
thoroughly—what would he do? What ghastly tragedy would ensue from the
meeting of these two men so strangely opposite, so strangely linked by a
common desire? Tortured by horrible imaginings, mad with fear, she
writhed in mental anguish that took from her all power of reasoning, and
tossing to and fro on the soft bed that still gave no rest to her aching
limbs, she wept until she had no more tears, until exhausted she fell
asleep.
It was mid-day before she woke. The room was filled with light, hot with
the vertical rays of the sun blazing down on the roof of the tent.
Slipping from the bed she stood for a moment holding her throbbing head
between her hands, then moved languidly towards the dressing table. At
the further end of the room she found a little bathroom, Spartan-like in
its appointments but containing all that was needful and half-an-hour
later, bathed and refreshed, she went listlessly into the living room.
As she came through the curtain, Hosein, who was squatting on his heels
by the doorway, rose to his feet with a deep salaam. And listening to
his low-voiced inquiry whether it was her pleasure to eat, she wondered
how long he had been waiting there, wondered what lay behind his
inscrutable face and suave deferential manner. She had learned from
Carew last night of his Arab servant’s devotion, and of the confidence
that existed between them, and his presence now gave her a curious
feeling of reassurance. She knew without being told that Carew must have
left her in his keeping, knew also that Hosein must be perfectly aware
of the reason of his master’s absence, and his calm demeanour and
untroubled expression seemed insensibly to soothe her own agitation of
mind. But when the meal which had appeared with almost magical quickness
was finished, when Hosein had gone again and she was alone once more,
the temporary courage that had come to her faded as new doubts and fears
crowded in upon her more overwhelmingly than before. How could she rest!
How could she bear the torture of long hours of waiting—waiting that
might never end!
And mingling with the present agony came the memory of past suffering.
Why had the way of life been made so difficult for her? To what end the
misery she had endured? Was it that through sorrow and pain she might
attain to a greater perfection hereafter? Her lips quivered. The goal
had been too high for her endeavour. Her faith had not been strong
enough to trust only in the Divine Comforter. In her despair she had
turned to earthly consolation, and the clamouring of her starved heart
had driven her into the arms of the man who loved her. And stronger than
she, he had striven to save her from the consequences of her weakness.
But she had tempted him—tempted him with her fear, tempted him with her
threat of suicide. Why didn’t he hate her for the vile despicable thing
she was! Gervas! Gervas! Cold and shivering, tortured with suspense,
unconscious of the passing hours, she huddled on the divan, hoping,
despairing, until concrete thought became at last impossible, until all
her senses seemed merged into one dominant perception as she lay
listening, listening for the soft thud of galloping hoofs.
And in the end, it was no actual sound that roused her, but an
instinctive intuition, an indefinite something penetrating to her brain
that sent her flying with shaking limbs and palpitating heart to the
open doorway.
The sun was setting and every detail of the rosy-tinged landscape stood
out in sharp and clear relief. But her wild dilated eyes saw nothing of
the peaceful beauty of her surroundings as she waited, sick with
apprehension for the moment that should determine her fate.
The camp was curiously silent. There was no sign of life, nothing to
impede her view except the odd blur that came over her eyes at
intervals. How long she stood there she never knew. One thought only
held her motionless, one question that her pallid lips repeated
monotonously. Which—which?
And then, quite suddenly, she _knew_—knew even before the three swift
moving horses swept into sight from behind the angle of jutting rocks
that framed the entrance to the little valley. Faint with the shock of
relief she clung to the curtains for support, watching them gallop
towards the tent as though the hounds of hell were at their heels. Why
were there three? Only one attendant had gone with him. And the horseman
who rode so closely behind was no Arab. Her heart seemed to miss a beat
as she recognised the slim little figure whose crouching seat in the
saddle was so familiar to her. Oh, God, what had happened! Why was
Tanner with him!
But she had no time for reflection. She saw the foam flecked black
horse, savage and intractable still in spite of the punishing ride, race
to the very entrance of the tent; saw his rider drag him, screaming and
fighting, to a standstill. Then as Carew leaped to the ground, an
overmastering panic seized her and she shrank back into the room wide
eyed and trembling.
He came through the doorway slowly, reeling slightly as he walked, and
took her into his arms without a word. His face was grey with dust and
fatigue and there was a strangeness in his manner that forced utterance
from her.
“Geradine—” The fearful whisper was barely audible, but he heard it and
his arms tightened round her with a quick convulsive movement.
“Dead,” he said tensely.
She did not flinch from him but her face went ghastly and a terrible
shudder passed through her.
“Not you, oh, Gervas, not you?” she breathed, imploringly.
His tired eyes looked into hers with infinite tenderness, infinite
understanding.
“No, thank God, it was not I,” he said quietly. “Malec killed him. They
killed each other. Tanner found them when he went back to the house
early the next morning. The other servants had cleared out—the place
was empty. I can’t tell you any more, dear. It’s too—beastly.”
She was leaning weakly against him, her face hidden in his robes,
shivering from head to foot. And as he broke off abruptly, she shuddered
closer to him, clutching at his burnous with shaking fingers.
“Was it my fault—was it _our_ fault?” she gasped, with a ring of horror
in her voice.
“No,” he answered, almost violently, “it was his own fault. He brought
it on himself. But he’s dead, poor devil, and God knows I haven’t the
right to judge him.”
He held her silently for a moment, then the strained rigidity of his
features relaxed and a great gladness dawned in his eyes as he stooped
his tall head to the soft curls lying on his breast.
“Marny,” he whispered, impellently, “Marny—my wife!” And with a little
cry that was love and trust and joy unutterable, she lifted her tear wet
face and yielded her lips to his.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES
Mis-spelled words and printer errors have been fixed.
Inconsistency in hyphenation has been retained.