A Soldier of the Legion

by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson

  CHAPTER XIV

  TWO ON THE ROOF

  "Come up on the roof with me, and I will tell you that thing I have beenwaiting to tell you," said Ourieda. "Aunt Mabrouka will not follow usthere, because she hates going up the narrow stairs with the high steps.Besides, she will perhaps think I really want to show you the sunset."

  Sanda had been in the Agha's house for three days, and always since thefirst evening a fierce simoon had been hurling the hot sand against theshut windows like spray from a wild golden sea. It had not been possibleto sit in the fountain court of the harem, the hidden garden of thewomen, protected though it was by four high walls. Sanda and Ourieda hadscarcely been alone together for more than a few minutes at a time, andeven if they had been, Ourieda would not have spoken. As she said, shehad been waiting. Sanda had felt, during the three days, that she wasbeing watched and studied, not only by Lella Mabrouka, but by the girl.Their eyes were always on her; and though Sanda DeLisle was very young,and had never tried consciously to become a student of human character,it seemed to her, in these new and strange conditions of life whichsharpened her powers of discernment, that she could dimly read what thebrains behind the eyes were thinking.

  Lella Mabrouka's eyes, though old (as age is counted with Arab women)were beady-bright and keen as a hawk's, yet she was clever enough toveil thought by wearing the expressionless mask of an idol in thepresence of the girls. Sanda had to pierce that veil; and she felt as iffrom behind it a hostile thing peered out, spying for treachery in thenew inmate of the house, hoping rather than fearing to find it, andready to pounce if a chance came. The stealthy watcher seemed to besaying, "What are you here for, daughter of Christian dogs? You musthave some scheme in your head to defeat our hopes and wishes; but if youhave, I'll find out what it is, and break it--break you, too, if needbe."

  No sinister thing looked out from the eyes of Ourieda, but somethinginfinitely sad and wistful kept repeating: "Can I trust you? Oh, I thinkso, I believe so, more and more. But it is so desperately important tobe certain. I must wait a little while yet."

  Always, through the countless inquiries of Lella Mabrouka and the girlabout France and England (Ireland meant nothing to them) and Sanda'sbringing up, and the life of women in Europe, the visitor was consciousof the real questions in their souls. But on the third day the feverishanxiety had burnt itself out behind Ourieda's topaz-brown eyes. Theywere eager still, but clear, and her wistful smile was no longerstrained. Whatever the burden was that she hid, she had decided to begSanda's help in carrying or getting rid of it. And instinctivelyrealizing this, Sanda ceased to feel that the Arab girl was of anentirely different world from hers, remote as a creature of anotherplanet. The Agha's daughter was transformed in the eyes of her guest.From a mere picturesque figure in a vivid fairy tale, she becamepathetically, poignantly human. Sanda began to hear the call of anothersoul yearning to have her soul as its friend, and all that was warm andimpulsive in her responded. A thrill of expectation stirred in her veinswhen, on the evening of the third day, after the wind had died a sudden,swift death, Ourieda whispered the real reason for going up to the roof.

  Sanda had been looking forward to mounting those narrow stairs (with thesteep steps which Lella Mabrouka hated), because Ourieda had severaltimes spoken of the view far away to the dunes, and the wonderfulcolours of sunrise and sunset, when the sky flowered like a hanginggarden. Perhaps the Arab girl had been cleverly "working up" to thismoment, so that the suggestion, made instantly after the death of thesimoon, might seem natural to her aunt. In any case it was as Ouriedahad hoped. Lella Mabrouka did not follow the girls.

  When they came out on the flat white expanse of roof, Sanda gave a cryof surprised admiration. She had known it would be beautiful up there,to see so far over the desert, but the real picture was more wonderfulthan her imagination could have painted. The sun had just dropped behindthe waving line of dunes and dragged the fierce wind with him like atiger in leash. All the world was magically still after the constantpurring and roaring of the new-conquered beast. The voice of the Muezzinchanting the sunset call to prayer--the prayer of _Moghreb_--seemed onlyto emphasize the vast silence. Up from the shimmering gold of thewestern sky, behind the gold of the dunes, slowly moved along separatespears of flame-bright rose, like the fingers of a gigantic Hand ofFatma spread across the sapphire heaven to bless her father's people.From this flaming sign in the west poured a pink radiance as of fallingrubies. The wonderful light rained over the marble whiteness of thedistant mosque--the great mosque of Djazerta--and fired the whole massof the piled oasis-town behind its dark line of palms. The lightshowered roses over the girls' heads and dresses, stained the snow ofthe roof, with its low, bubbling domes, and streaming eastward turnedflat plain and far billowing dune into a sea of flame.

  Sanda's spirit worshipped the incredible beauty of the scene, and thenflew northward to the two men whom she loved. She thought of her father,and wondered where Richard Stanton was at that moment. Then Max Doran'sface came between her and the man she had named "Sir Knight." Sheremembered her dream of herself and Max in the desert, and was vexedbecause she had not dreamed the same dream about Stanton instead.

  "How wonderful it is here!" she half whispered, and Ourieda answeredimpatiently:

  "Yes, it is wonderful; but don't let us talk of it, or even think of itany more, because I have so much to say to you, and Aunt Mabrouka willsend to call us if my father comes. Besides, we can see this on anynight when the wind does not blow."

  She had in her hand a large silk handkerchief tied in the form of a bag;and sitting down on the low, queerly battlemented wall which protectedthe flat roof, she untied and opened the bundle on her lap. It was fullof yellow grain, and she gave Sanda a handful. "That's for the doves,"she said. "They will know somehow that we are here, and presently theywill come. If Aunt Mabrouka sends her own woman, Taous, up to listen andspy on us she will find us feeding the doves."

  "But why should Lella Mabrouka do such a thing?" Sanda ventured to ask,taking the grain, and seating herself beside Ourieda.

  "You will understand that, and a great many other things, when I havetold you what I am going to tell," answered the "Little Rose." "Frombooks my father has let me read, and from things you have said, I haveseen that Roumia girls are not like us, even in their thoughts. Perhapsyou are thinking now that I am very sly; and so I am, but not because Ilove slyness. It is only because I have to be subtle in self-defenceagainst those who are older and wiser than I am. Everything in our livesmakes us women stealthy as cats. It is not our fault. At least, it isnot mine. Some women--some girls--may enjoy the excitement, but not I.Perhaps I am different from others, because I have the blood of Europein my veins. My father's mother was Sicilian. My own mother was Spanish.And he, my father, is an enlightened man, with broader views and moreknowledge of the world than most Caids of the south. They all pridethemselves on knowing a little French in these days, he tells me, andsome have even made visits to Paris once in their lives. But you knowalready what he is."

  "Yes, he is a magnificent man," Sanda agreed, "even greater than Iexpected from what my father said of him."

  She had met the Agha only once, for a ceremonious half-hour on theevening of her arrival at his house, when he had begged permission as ofa visiting princess to see and welcome her; yet this punctiliousness wasnot neglect, but Arab courtesy; and Ben Raana had talked to her of theworld in general and Paris in particular, in French, which, thoughsomewhat stilted and guttural, was curiously Parisian in wording andexpression. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen, scarcelydarker in colour than many Frenchmen of the Midi, and marvellouslydignified, with his long black beard, his great, sad eyes whoseoverhanging line of brow almost met above the eagle nose, and themagnificent gray, silver embroidered burnous worn in the guest's honour.He had appeared to Sanda years younger than the widowed Mabrouka; andthough she was a dark, withered likeness of him, it was not surprisingto learn that Lella Mabrouka was only a half-sister of the Agha, bor
n ofan Arab mother.

  "You know he has had but one wife, my own mother," Ourieda said proudly."That is considered almost a sin in our religion, yet he could neverbring himself to look with love on any woman, after her, nor to give hera rival, even for the sake of having a son. I adore him for that--howcould I help it, since he says I am her image?--and for letting me learnthings Arab girls of the south are seldom taught, in order that I mayhave something of her cleverness that held his love, as her beauty wonit. Yet, if he had married a second wife when my mother died, and shehad given him a son, my life would be happier now."

  "How can that be?" asked Sanda. "I couldn't love my father in the way Ido if he had put somebody else in my mother's place, and spoiled all thebeautiful romance."

  "My father's romance with my mother was like a strange poem, for she wasthe daughter of Catholic Spanish people, who had an orange plantationnear Blida, and wished her to enter a convent. But my father rode bywith some French officers and saw her on her way to church. That onelook decided their whole lives. Yes, it would have been a pity to spoiltheir romance; yet, keeping its poetry is spoiling mine."

  "You mean your Aunt Mabrouka. But a stepmother might be worse."

  "No, it isn't only Aunt Mabrouka I am thinking of. It is her son, who ismy father's heir because he has no son of his own. My father is veryenlightened in many ways, but in others he is as narrow and hard as therest of our people, who hold to their old customs more firmly than theyhold to life. My father intends me for the wife of Si Tahar, who met andbrought you to our house."

  Sanda could not keep back a little gasp of dismay. "Oh, no! it's notpossible!" she cried. "You're so beautiful, and so fair. He'sso--so----"

  "Hideous. Don't be afraid to say the word to me. I love you for it. Butbecause Tahar's not deformed from birth, and the strength and beauty ofthe line isn't threatened, his looks make no difference to my father. Tohim it seems far more important that I should be the wife of the heir,so that money and land need not be divided after his death, than that Ishould love my husband before my marriage. You see, that can hardlyever happen to a girl of our race and religion. If Tahar were not mycousin I should never even have seen him, nor he me. And if I had notseen him, it would perhaps be a little better, for there would be theexcitement and mystery of the unknown. We are brought up to expect that;and if already I hadn't learned to dislike Tahar for his own sake andhis mother's, I should be no worse off than other girls--except for onething: _the great thing of my life_."

  Her voice fell lower than before, and her companion on the wall had tobend close to catch the whisper. "What is that thing?" Sanda dropped thewords into a frightened pause, while Ourieda's glance went quickly tothe well of the staircase.

  "It is what I came here to tell you about," the Arab girl answered. "Iforced myself to wait, but now I am sure of you as if you were my ownsister. We are going to open our hearts to each other. Do you know whatit is to have a man in your life--a man who is not father or brother,and yet is of great importance to you; so great that you think of him byday and dream of him by night?"

  "Yes, there are two such men in my life," Sanda replied; and wassurprised at herself that she should have said two. More truly there wasonly one man, not counting her father, who had a place in her thoughts.

  "Two men!" Ourieda echoed, looking shocked. "But how can there be two?"

  Sanda felt herself blushing and ashamed before the woman of anotherrace. She tried to explain, though it was difficult, because she hadgiven the answer without stopping to think: indeed, it had almostspoken itself. "I fancy I said that because you asked me about dreams,"she apologized. "The man who has been my hero all my life--and alwayswill be, I suppose, though he doesn't care for me and thinks of me as achild--I can't dream of, for some strange reason. He's seldom out of mythoughts by day for very long, I believe; but the other--I hardly knowwhy I mentioned him!--is only a friend, and quite a new friend. He'snothing to me at all, really, though I'm interested in him because ofthe strange way we met and were thrown together. But the odd thing is, Idream of him--often."

  "The women of my people say it is the man you dream of who has touchedyour soul," Ourieda said thoughtfully.

  "That's a very poetical idea, but I'm sure it isn't true!" Sandaexclaimed. "Now tell me about yourself, because if Lella Mabrouka shouldsend----"

  "Yes, I am, oh, so anxious to tell you! But what you said about the manof your thoughts and the man of your dreams was very queer, and made meforget for an instant. I am glad you love some one, for that will helpyou to understand me, and by and by you will tell me more. Already I cansee that you must be almost as unhappy as I am, because you say the oneyou care for doesn't care for you. That must be terrible, but you arefree, and perhaps some day you can make him care. As for me, if I am notsaved soon, I shall be married to Tahar and lost forever."

  "But surely your father, who loves you so dearly, won't actually forceyou to marry against your will?"

  "He will expect me to obey, and I shall have to obey or--kill myself.Rather that, only--oh, Sanda, I am a coward! At the last minute mycourage might fail. The one thing my father would promise was that Ishould be left as I am till my seventeenth birthday. That very day isfixed for the beginning of the marriage feast. We shall have a wholeweek of rejoicing. Think of the horror of it for me! I had a year ofhope when he made the promise. Now I have less than six months. And inall that time nothing has happened."

  Sanda saw by the girl's look and guessed by the quiver of her voice thatshe was not speaking vaguely. There was something in particular whichshe had been praying for, counting upon from day to day. And that thinghad not happened.