The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  THE MIDDY OBTAINS A DECIDED ADVANCE, AND MAKES PETER THE GREAT HISCONFIDANT.

  Many months passed, after the events narrated in the last chapter,before George Foster had the good-fortune to meet again with HughSommers, and several weeks elapsed before he had the chance of anotherinterview with the daughter.

  Indeed, he was beginning to despair of ever again seeing either the oneor the other, and it required the utmost energy and the most originalsuggestions of a hopeful nature on the part of his faithful friend toprevent his giving way altogether, and having, as Peter expressed it,"anoder fit ob de blues."

  At last fortune favoured him. He was busy in the garden one dayplanting flowers, when Peter came to him and said--

  "I's got news for you to-day, Geo'ge."

  "Indeed," said the middy, with a weary sigh; "what may your news be?"

  "You 'member dat pictur' ob de coffee-house in de town what you doo'd?"

  "Yes, now you mention it, I do, though I had almost forgotten it."

  "Ah! but I not forgit 'im! Well, yesterday I tuk it to massa, an' hebery much pleased. He say, bring you up to de house, an' he gib yousome work to do."

  "I wish," returned Foster, "that he'd ask me to make a portrait oflittle Hester Sommers."

  "You forgit, Geo'ge, de Moors neber git deir portraits doo'd. Dey'fraid ob de evil eye."

  "Well, when are we to go up?"

  "Now--I jist come for you."

  Throwing down his garden tools, Foster followed the negro to the house,and was ushered into a small chamber, the light of which was renderedsoft and mellow, by the stained glass windows through which it passed.These windows were exceedingly small--not more than a foot high by eightinches broad--and they were placed in the walls at a height of nine feetor more from the ground. The walls of the room were decorated withrichly-coloured tiles, and the floor was of white marble, but the partthat attracted our hero most was the ceiling, which was arched,according to Moorish form, and enriched with elaborate designs instucco--if not in white marble, the difference being difficult todistinguish. On the marble floor lay several shawls, richly embroideredin coloured silk and gold, a pair of small scarlet slippers, coveredwith gold thread, a thin veil, and several cushions of different sizes.On one of these last reposed a little tame gazelle, whose bright eyesgreeted the two slaves with an inquiring look as they entered.

  From all these things Foster judged that this was one of the women'sapartments, and wondered much that he had been admitted into such ajealously-guarded sanctuary, but relieved his mind by setting it down tothat eccentricity for which Ben-Ahmed was noted.

  He had just arrived at this conclusion when a door opened, and Ben-Ahmedhimself entered with the sketch of the coffee-house in his hand.

  "Tell him," said the Moor to Peter, "that I am much pleased with thisdrawing, and wish him to make one, a little larger in size, of thisroom. Let him put into it everything that he sees. He will find paperin that portfolio, and all else that he requires on this ottoman. Lethim take time, and do it well. He need not work in the garden whilethus employed."

  Pointing to the various things to which he referred, the Moor turned andleft the apartment.

  "Now, Geo'ge, what you t'ink ob all dat?" asked Peter, with a broadgrin, when he had translated the Moor's orders.

  "Really I don't know what to think of it. Undoubtedly it is a stepupwards, as compared with working in the garden; but then, don't yousee, Peter, it will give me much less of your company, which will be atremendous drawback?"

  "Das well said. You's kite right. I hab notice from de fus' dat youhab a well-constitooted mind, an' appruciates de value ob friendship. Ilub your smood face, Geo'ge!"

  "I hope you love more of me than my smooth face, Peter," returned themiddy, "otherwise your love won't continue, for there are certainindications on my upper lip which assure me that the smoothness won'tlast long."

  "Hol' your tongue, sar! What you go on jabberin' so to me when you'sgot work to do, sar!" said Peter fiercely, with a threatening motion ofhis fist. "Go to work at once, you white slabe!"

  Our hero was taken aback for a moment by this sudden explosion, but thepresence of a negro girl, who had entered softly by a door at his back,at once revealed to him the truth that Peter the Great had donned thegarb of the hypocrite. Although unused and very much averse to suchcostume, he felt compelled in some degree to adopt it, and, bowing hishead, not only humbly, but in humiliation, he went silently towards hisdrawing materials, while the girl placed a tumbler of water on a smalltable and retired.

  Turning round, he found that Peter had also disappeared from the scene.

  At first he imagined that the water was meant for his refreshment, buton examining the materials on the ottoman he found a box of water-colourpaints, which accounted for its being sent.

  Although George Foster had never been instructed in painting, hepossessed considerable natural talent, and was intensely fond of theart. It was, therefore, with feelings of delight which he had notexperienced for many a day that he began to arrange his materials andset about this new and congenial work.

  Among other things he found a small easel, which had a very Anglicanaspect about it. Wondering how it had got there, he set it up, with asheet of paper on it, tried various parts of the room, in order to findout the best position for a picture, and went through that interestingseries of steppings back and puttings of the head on one side which seemto be inseparably connected with true art.

  While thus engaged in the profound silence of that luxurious apartment,with its "dim religious light," now glancing at the rich ceiling, anonat the fair sheet of paper, he chanced to look below the margin of thelatter and observed, through the legs of the easel, that the gorgeouseyes of the gazelle were fixed on him in apparent wonder.

  He advanced to it at once, holding out a hand coaxingly. The prettycreature allowed him to approach within a few inches, and then boundedfrom its cushion like a thing of india-rubber to the other end of theroom, where it faced about and gazed again.

  "You gaze well, pretty creature," thought the embryo artist. "Perhapsthat's the origin of your name! Humph! you won't come to me?"

  The latter part of his thoughts he expressed aloud, but the animal madeno response. It evidently threw the responsibility of taking theinitiative on the man.

  Our middy was naturally persevering in character. Laying aside hispencil, he sat down on the marble floor, put on his most seductiveexpression, held out his hand gently, and muttered soft encouragements--such as, "Now then, Spunkie, come here, an' don't be silly--" and thelike. But "Spunkie" still stood immovable and gazed.

  Then the middy took to advancing in a sitting posture--after a mannerknown to infants--at the same time intensifying the urbanity of his lookand the wheedlement of his tone. The gazelle suffered him to approachuntil his fingers were within an inch of its nose. There the middystopped. He had studied animal nature. He was aware that it takes twoto love as well as to quarrel. He resolved to wait. Seeing this, thegazelle timidly advanced its little nose and touched his finger. Hescratched gently! Spunkie seemed to like it. He scratchedprogressively up its forehead. Spunkie evidently enjoyed it. Hescratched behind its ear, and--the victory was gained! The gazelle,dismissing all fear, advanced and rubbed its graceful head on hisshoulder.

  "Well, you _are_ a nice little beast," said Foster, as he fondled it;"whoever owns you must be very kind to you, but I can't afford to wastemore time with you. Must get to work."

  He rose and returned to his easel while the gazelle trotted to itscushion and lay down--to sleep? perchance to dream?--no, to gaze, asbefore, but in mitigated wonder.

  The amateur painter-slave now applied himself diligently to his workwith ever-increasing interest; yet not altogether without anuncomfortable and humiliating conviction that if he did not do it withreasonable rapidity, and give moderate satisfaction, he ran the chanceof being "whacked" if not worse!

  Let no
t the reader imagine that we are drawing the longbow here, andmaking these Moors to be more cruel than they really were. ThoughBen-Ahmed was an amiable specimen, he was not a typical Algerine, forcruelty of the most dreadful kind was often perpetrated by thesemonsters in the punishment of trivial offences in those days. At thepresent hour there stands in the great square of Algiers an imposingmosque, which was designed by a Christian slave--an architect--whosehead was cut off because he had built it--whether intentionally oraccidentally we know not--in the form of a cross!

  For some hours Foster worked uninterruptedly with his pencil, for hebelieved, like our great Turner in his earlier days, (though Turner'ssun had not yet arisen!) that the preliminary drawing for a picturecannot be too carefully or elaborately done.

  After having bumped himself against the wall twice, and tripped over anottoman once--to the gazelle's intense surprise--in his efforts to takean artistic view of his work, Foster at last laid down his pencil,stretched himself to his full height, with his hands in the air by wayof relaxation, and was beginning to remember that midday meals were notunknown to man, when the negress before mentioned entered with a smallround brass tray, on which were two covered dishes. The middy loweredhis hands in prompt confusion, for he had not attained to the Moors'sublime indifference to the opinion or thought of slaves.

  He was about to speak, but checked the impulse. It was wiser to holdhis tongue! A kindliness of disposition, however, induced him to smileand nod--attentions which impelled the negress, as she retired, todisplay her teeth and gums to an extent that no one would believe if wewere to describe it.

  On examination it was found that one of the dishes contained a savourycompound of rice and chicken, with plenty of butter and othersubstances--some of which were sweet.

  The other dish contained little rolls of bread. Both dishes appeared toFoster to be made of embossed gold--or brass, but he knew and cared notwhich. Coffee in a cup about the size and shape of an egg was hisbeverage. While engaged with the savoury and altogether unexpectedmeal, our hero felt his elbow touched. Looking round he saw the gazellelooking at him with an expression in its beautiful eyes that saidplainly, "Give me my share."

  "You shall have it, my dear," said the artist, handing the creature aroll, with which it retired contentedly to its cushion.

  "Perhaps," thought the youth, as he pensively sipped his coffee, "thisroom may be sometimes used by Hester! It obviously forms part of theseraglio."

  Strange old fellow, Ben-Ahmed, to allow men like me to invade such aplace.

  The thought of the ladies of the harem somehow suggested his mother andsister, and when poor George got upon this pair of rails he was apt tobe run away with, and to forget time and place. The reverie into whichhe wandered was interrupted, however, by the gazelle asking for more.As there was no more, it was fain to content itself with a pat on thehead as the painter rose to resume his work.

  The drawing was by this time all pencilled in most elaborately, and themiddy opened the water-colour box to examine the paints. As he did so,he again remarked on the familiar English look of the materials, and wasabout to begin rubbing down a little of one of the cakes--moist colourshad not been invented--when he observed some writing in red paint on theback of the palette. He started and flushed, while his heart beatfaster, for the writing was, "_Expect me. Rub this out. H.S_."

  What could this mean? H.S? Hester Sommers of course. It was simple--too simple. He wished for more--like the gazelle. Like it, too, he gotno more. After gazing at the writing, until every letter was burnt intohis memory, he obeyed the order and rubbed it out. Then, in a disturbedand anxious frame of mind, he tried to paint, casting many a glance, notonly at his subject, but at the two doors which opened into the room.

  At last one of the doors opened--not the one he happened to be lookingat, however. He started up, overturned his stool, and all but knockeddown the easel, as the negress re-entered to remove therefreshment-tray. She called to the gazelle as she went out. Itbounded lightly after her, and the young painter was left alone torecover his composure.

  "Ass that I am!" he said, knitting his brows, clenching his teeth, andputting a heavy dab of crimson-lake on the ceiling!

  At that moment the other door opened, yet so gently and slightly that hewould not have observed it but for the sharp line of light which it letthrough. Determined not to be again taken by surprise, he becameabsorbed in putting little unmeaning lines round the dab of lake--not sobusily, however, as to prevent his casting rapid furtive glances at theopening door.

  Gradually something white appeared in the aperture--it was a veil.Something blue--it was an eye. Something quite beyond descriptionlovely--it was Hester herself, looking--if such be conceivable--like ascared angel!

  "Oh, Mr Foster!" she exclaimed, in a half-whisper, running lightly in,and holding up a finger by way of caution, "I have so longed to seeyou--"

  "So have I," interrupted the delighted middy. "Dear H---ah--MissSommers, I mean, I felt sure that--that--this _must_ be your room--no,what's its name? boudoir; and the gazelle--"

  "Yes, yes--oh! never mind that," interrupted the girl impatiently. "Myfather--darling father!--any news of _him_."

  Blushing with shame that he should have thought of his own feelingsbefore her anxieties, Foster dropped the little hand which he hadalready grasped, and hastened to tell of the meeting with her father inthe Kasba--the ease with which he had recognised him from herdescription, and the few hurried words of comfort he had been able toconvey before the slave-driver interfered.

  Tears were coursing each other rapidly down Hester's cheeks while he wasspeaking; yet they were not tears of unmingled grief.

  "Oh, Mr Foster!" she said, seizing the middy's hand, and kissing it,"how shall I _ever_ thank you?"

  Before she could add another word, an unlucky touch of Foster's heellaid the easel, with an amazing clatter, flat on the marble floor!Hester bounded through the doorway more swiftly than her own gazelle,slammed the door behind her, and vanished like a vision.

  Poor Foster! Although young and enthusiastic, he was not a coxcomb.The thrill in the hand that had been kissed told him plainly that he washopelessly in love! But a dull weight on his heart told him, he thoughtas plainly, that Hester was _not_ in the same condition.

  "Dear child!" he said, as he slowly gathered up the drawing materials,"if that innocent, transparent, almost infantine creature had been oldenough to fall in love she would sooner have hit me on the nose with herlovely fist than have kissed my great ugly paw--even though she _was_overwhelmed with joy at hearing about her father."

  Having replaced the easel and drawing, he seated himself on an ottoman,put his elbows on his knees, laid his forehead in his hands, and beganto meditate aloud.

  "Yes," he said, with a profound sigh, "I love her--that's as clear asdaylight; and she does not love me--that's clearer than daylight.Unrequited love! That's what I've come to! Nevertheless, I'm not inwild despair. How's that? I don't want to shoot or drown myself.How's that? On the contrary, I want to live and rescue her. I couldserve or die for that child with pleasure--without even the reward of asmile! There must be something peculiar here. Is it--can it bePlatonic love? Of course that must be it. Yes, I've often heard andread of that sort of love before. I _know_ it now, and--and--I ratherlike it!"

  "You don't look as if you did, Geo'ge," said a deep voice beside him.

  George started up with a face of scarlet.

  "Peter!" he exclaimed fiercely, "did you hear me speak? _What_ did youhear?"

  "Halo! Geo'ge, don't squeeze my arm so! You's hurtin' me. I hear yousay somet'ing 'bout plotummik lub, but what sort o' lub that may be ismore'n I kin tell."

  "Are you _sure_ that is all you--But come, Peter, I should have nosecrets from _you_. The truth is," (he whispered low here), "I haveseen Hester Sommers--here, in this room, not half an hour ago--and--andI feel that I am hopelessly in love with her--Platonically, that is--butI fear you won't understand w
hat that means--"

  The midshipman stopped abruptly. For the first time since they becameacquainted he saw a grave expression of decided disapproval on the faceof his sable friend.

  "Geo'ge," said Peter solemnly, "you tell me you hab took 'vantage obbein' invited to your master's house to make lub--plo--plotummikilly oroderwise--to your master's slabe?"

  "No, Peter, I told you nothing of the sort. The meeting with Hester waspurely accidental--at least it was none of my seeking--and I did _not_make love to her--"

  "Did _she_ make lub to you, Geo'ge--plo--plotummikilly."

  "Certainly not. She came to ask about her poor father, and I saw thatshe is far too young to _think_ of falling in love at all. What I saidwas that _I_ have fallen hopelessly in love, and that as I cannot hopethat she will ever be--be _mine_, I have made up my mind to love herhopelessly, but loyally, to the end of life, and serve or die for her ifneed be."

  "Oh! das all right, Geo'ge. If dat's what you calls plo--plotummiklub--lub away, my boy, as hard's you kin. Same time, I's not kite sosure dat she's too young to hub. An' t'ings ain't allers as hopeless asdey seems. But now, what's dis you bin do here? My! How pritty. Oh!das _real_ bootiful. But what's you got in de ceiling--de sun, eh?"

  He pointed to the dab of crimson-lake.

  Foster explained that it was merely a "bit of colour."

  "Ob course! A cow wid half an eye could see dat!"

  "Well--but I mean--it's a sort of--a kind of--tone to paint up to."

  "H'm! das strange now. I don't hear no sound nowhar!"

  "Well, then, it's a shadow, Peter."

  "Geo'ge," said the negro, with a look of surprise, "I do t'ink yourplo-plotummik lub hab disagreed wid you. Come 'long to de kitchen an'hab your supper--it's all ready."

  So saying, he went off with his friend and confidant to the culinaryregion, which was also the _salle a manger_ of the slaves.