by E. M. Hull
CHAPTER VI
Diana was sitting on the divan in the living-room of the tent lingeringover her _petit dejeuner_, a cup of coffee poised in one hand andher bright head bent over a magazine on her knee. It was a Frenchperiodical of fairly recent date, left a few days before by a Dutchmanwho was touring through the desert, and who had asked a night'shospitality. Diana had not seen him, and it was not until the travellerhad been served with dinner in his own tent that the Sheik had sent theusual flowery message conveying what, though wrapped in honeyed words,amounted practically to a command that he should come to drink coffeeand let himself be seen. Only native servants had been in attendance,and it was an Arab untinged by any Western influence who had receivedhim, talking only Arabic, which the Dutchman spoke fluently, andplacing at his disposal himself, his servants and all his belongingswith the perfunctory Oriental insincerity which the traveller knewmeant nothing and accepted at its own value, returning to the usual setphrases the customary answers that were expected of him. Once or twiceas they talked a woman's subdued voice had reached the Dutchman's earsfrom behind the thick curtains, but he knew too much to let anyexpression betray him, and he smiled grimly to himself at the thoughtof the change that an indiscreet question would bring to the stern faceof his grave and impassive host. He was an elderly man with a tenderheart, and he wondered speculatively what the girl in the next roomwould have to pay for her own indiscretion in allowing her voice to beheard. He left the next morning early without seeing the Sheik again,escorted for some little distance by Yusef and a few men.
Diana read eagerly. Anything fresh to read was precious. She lookedlike a slender boy in the soft riding-shirt and smart-cut breeches, oneslim foot in a long brown boot drawn up under her, and the otherswinging idly against the side of the divan. She finished her coffeehastily, and, lighting a cigarette, leaned back with a sigh of contentover the magazine.
Two months had slipped away since her mad flight, since her dash forfreedom that had ended in tragedy for the beautiful Silver Star and sounexpectedly for herself. Weeks of vivid happiness that had been mixedwith poignant suffering, for the perfect joy of being with him wasmarred by the passionate longing for his love. Even her surroundingshad taken on a new aspect, her happiness coloured everything. TheEastern luxury of the tent and its appointments no longer seemedtheatrical, but the natural setting of the magnificent specimen ofmanhood who surrounded himself by all the display dear to the heart ofthe native. How much was for his own pleasure and how much was for thesake of his followers she had never been able to determine. Thebeauties and attractions of the desert had multiplied a hundred times.The wild tribesmen, with their primitive ways and savagery, had ceasedto disgust her, and the free life with its constant exercise and simpleroutine was becoming indefinitely dear to her. The camp had been movedseveral times--always towards the south--and each change had been asource of greater interest.
And since the night that he had carried her back in triumph he had beenkind to her--kind beyond anything that she had expected. He had nevermade any reference to her fight or to the death of the horse that hehad valued so highly; in that he had been generous. The episode over,he wished no further allusion to it. But there was nothing beyondkindness. The passion that smouldered in his dark eyes often was notthe love she craved, it was only the desire that her uncommon type andher utter dissimilarity from all the other women who had passed throughhis hands had awakened in him. The perpetual remembrance of those otherwoman brought her a constant burning shame that grew stronger everyday, a shame that was only less strong than her ardent love, and a wildjealousy that tortured her with doubts and fears, an ever-present demonof suggestion reminding her of the past when it was not she who lay inhis arms, nor her lips that received his kisses. The knowledge that theembraces she panted for had been shared by _les autres_ was anopen wound that would not heal. She tried to shut her mind to the past.She knew that she was a fool to expect the abstinence of a monk in thestrong, virile desert man. And she was afraid for the future. Shewanted him for herself alone, wanted his undivided love, and that hewas an Arab with Oriental instincts filled her with continual dread,dread of the real future about which she never dared to think, dread ofthe passing of his transient desire. She loved him so passionately, socompletely, that beyond him was nothing. He was all the world. She gaveherself to him gladly, triumphantly, as she would give her life for himif need be. But she had schooled herself to hide her love, to yieldapathetically to his caresses, and to conceal the longing thatpossessed her. She was afraid that the knowledge that she loved himwould bring about the disaster she dreaded. The words that he had onceused remained continually in her mind: "If you loved me you would boreme, and I should have to let you go." And she hid her love closely inher heart. It was difficult, and it hurt her to hide it from him and toassume indifference. It was difficult to remember that she must make ashow of reluctance when she was longing to give unreservedly. Shedropped the end of the cigarette hissing into the dregs of the coffeeand turned a page, and, as she did so, she looked up suddenly, themagazine dropping unheeded on the floor. Close outside the tent thesame low, vibrating baritone was singing the Kashmiri love song thatshe had heard last the night before she left Biskra. She sat tense, hereyes growing puzzled.
_"Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who liesbeneath your spell?"_
The voice came nearer and he swept in, still singing, and came to her._"Pale hands, pink tipped,"_ he sang, stopping in front of her andcatching her fingers in his up to his lips, but she tore them awaybefore he kissed them.
"You do know English?" she cried sharply, her eyes searching his.
He flung himself on the divan beside her with a laugh. "Because I singan English song?" he replied in French. "_La! la!_ I heard aSpanish boy singing in 'Carmen' once in Paris who did not know a wordof French beside the score. He learned it parrot-like, as I learn yourEnglish songs," he added, smiling.
She watched him light a cigarette, and her forehead wrinkledthoughtfully. "It was you who sang outside the hotel in Biskra thatnight?" she asked at last, more statement than question.
"One is mad sometimes, especially when the moon is high," he repliedteasingly.
"And was it you who came into my bedroom and put the blank cartridgesin my revolver?"
His arm stole round her, drawing her to him, and he lifted her head upso that he could look into her eyes. "Do you think that--I would haveallowed anybody else to go to your room at night?--I, an Arab, when Imeant you for myself?"
"You were so sure?"
He laughed softly, as if the suggestion that any plan of his could beliable to miscarriage amused him infinitely, and the smoulderingpassion flamed up in his dark eyes. He strained her to him hungrily, asif her slim body lying against his had awakened the sleeping fireswithin him. She struggled against the pressure of his arm, averting herhead.
"Always cold?" he chided. "Kiss me, little piece of ice."
She longed to, and it almost broke her heart to persevere in herefforts to repulse him. A wild desire seized her to tell him that sheloved him, to make an end once and for all of the misery of doubt andfear that was sapping her strength from her, and abide by the issue.But the spark of hope that lived in her heart gave her courage, and shefought down the burning words that sought utterance, forcingindifference into her eyes and a mutinous pout to her lips.
His black brows drew together slowly. "Still disobedient? You said youwould obey me. I loathe the English, but I thought their word----"
She interrupted him with a quick gesture, and, turning her face to his,for the first time kissed him voluntarily, brushing his tanned cheekwith swift, cold lips.
He laughed disdainfully. "_Bon Dieu_! Has the hot sun of thedesert taught you no better than that? Have you learned so little fromme? Has the vile climate of your detestable country frozen you sothoroughly that nothing can melt you? Or is there some man in Englandwho has the power to turn you from a statue to a woman?" he added, withan angry snarl.
She clenched her hands with the pain of his words. "There is no one,"she muttered, "but I--I don't feel like that."
"You had better learn," he said thickly. "I am tired of holding anicicle in my arms," and sweeping her completely into his masterfulgrasp he covered her face with fierce, burning kisses.
And for the first time she surrendered to him wholly, clinging to himpassionately, and giving him kiss for kiss with an absolute abandon ofall resistance. At last he let her go, panting and breathless, andleaped up, drawing his hand across his eyes.
"You go to my head, Diane," he said, with a laugh that was half anger,and shrugging his shoulders moved across the tent to the chest wherethe spare arms were kept, and unlocking it took out a revolver andbegan to clean it.
She looked at him bewildered. What had he meant? How could shereconcile what he said with the advice that he had given her before?Was he totally inconsistent? Did he, after all, want the satisfactionof knowing that he had made her love him--of flattering himself on thepower he exercised over her? Did he care that he was able to tortureher heart with a refinement of cruelty that took all and gave nothing?Did he wish her to crawl abjectly to his feet to give him the pleasureof spurning her contemptuously, or was it only that he wanted hersenses merely to respond to his ardent, Eastern temperament? Her facegrew hot and shamed. She knew the fiery nature that was hidden underhis impassive exterior and knew the control he exercised over himself,knew, too, that the strain he put upon himself was liable to be brokenwith unexpected suddenness. It was an easy thing to rule his wildfollowers, and she guessed that the relaxation that he looked for inthe privacy of his own tent meant more to him than he would ever haveadmitted, than perhaps he even know. The hatred and defiance with whichshe had repelled him had provoked and amused him, but it had also attimes angered him.
He was very human, and there must have been moments when he wanted awilling mate rather than a rebellious prisoner. She gave a quick sighas she looked at him. He was so strong, so vigorous, so intenselyalive. It was going to be very difficult to anticipate his moods and besubservient to his temper. She sighed again wearily. If she could butmake him and keep him happy. She ruffled her loose curls, tugging themwith a puzzled frown, a trick that was a survival of her nursery days,when she clutched frantically at her red-gold mop to help her settleany childish difficulty.
She knelt up suddenly on the cushions of the divan. "Why do you hatethe English so bitterly, Monseigneur?" She had dropped almostunconsciously into Gaston's mode of address for some time; it was oftenawkward to give him no name, and she shrank from using his own; and thetitle fitted him.
He looked up from his work, and, gathering the materials together,brought them over to the divan. "Light me a cigarette, _cherie_,my hands are busy," he replied irrelevantly.
She complied with a little laugh. "You haven't answered my question."
He polished the gleaming little weapon in his hand for some timewithout speaking. "_Ma petite_ Diane, your lips are of an adorableredness and your voice is music in my ears, but--I detest questions.They bore me to a point of exasperation," he said at last lightly, andstarted humming the Kashmiri song again.
She knew him well enough to know that all questions did not bore him,but that she must have touched some point connected with the past ofwhich she was ignorant that affected him, and to prove her knowledgeshe asked another question. "Why do you sing? You have never sungbefore."
He looked at her with a smile of amusement at her pertinacity."Inquisitive one! I sing because I am glad. Because my friend iscoming."
"Your friend?"
"Yes, by Allah! The best friend a man ever had. Raoul de Saint Hubert."
She flashed a look at the bookcase with a jerk of her head, and henodded. "Coming here?" she queried, and the dismay she felt sounded inher voice.
He frowned in quick annoyance at her tone. "Why not?" he saidhaughtily.
"No reason," she murmured, sinking down among the cushions again andpicking up the magazine from the floor. The advent of a stranger--aEuropean--was a shock, but she felt that the Sheik's eyes were on herand she determined to show no feeling in his presence. "What time willyou be ready to ride?" she asked indifferently, with a simulated yawn,flirting over the pages.
"I can't ride with you to-day. I am going to meet Saint Hubert. Hiscourier only came an hour ago. It is two years since I have seen him."
Diana slipped off the couch and went to the open doorway. A detachmentof men were already waiting for him, and, close by the tent, Shaitan ofthe ugly temper was biting and fidgeting in the hands of the grooms.She scowled at the beautiful, wicked creature's flat-laid ears androlling eyes. She would have backed him fearlessly herself if the Sheikhad let her, but she was nervous for him every time he rode the viciousbeast. No one but the Sheik could manage him, and though she knew thathe had perfect mastery over the horse, she never lost the feeling ofnervousness, a sensation the old Diana had never, never experienced,and she wished to-day that it had been any other horse but Shaitanwaiting for him.
She went back to him slowly. "It makes my head ache, to stay in allday. May Gaston not ride with me?" she asked diffidently, her eyesanywhere but on his face. He had not allowed her to ride with any oneexcept himself since her attempted escape, and to her tentativesuggestions that the rides with the valet might be resumed he had givena prompt refusal. He hesitated now, and she was afraid he was going torefuse again, and she looked up wistfully. "Please, Monseigneur," shewhispered humbly.
He looked at her for a moment with his chin squarer than usual. "Areyou going to run away again?" he asked bluntly.
Her eyes filled slowly with tears, and she turned her head away to hidethem. "No, I am not going to run away again," she said very low.
"Very well, I will tell him. He will be delighted, _le bon_Gaston. He is your very willing slave in spite of the trick you playedhim. He has a beautiful nature, _le pauvre diable_. He is not anArab, eh, little Diane?" The mocking smile was back in his eyes as heturned her face up to his in the usual peremptory way. Then he held outthe revolver he had been cleaning with sudden seriousness. "I want youto carry this always now when you ride. Ibraheim Omair is still in theneighbourhood."
She looked at it blankly.
"But----" she stammered.
He knew what was in her mind, and he stooped and kissed her lightly. "Itrust you," he said quietly, and went out.
She followed him to the door, the revolver dangling from her hand, andwatched him mount and ride away. His horsemanship was superb and hereyes glowed as they followed him. She went back into the tent andslipped the revolver into the holster he had left lying on a stool,and, tucking it and Saint Hubert's novel, which she took from thebookcase, under her arm, went into the bed-room and, calling to Zilahto pull off her riding-boots, threw herself on the bed to laze away themorning, and to try and picture the author from the book he hadwritten.
She hated him in advance; she was jealous of him and of his coming. TheSheik's sudden new tenderness had given rise to a hope she hardly daredallow herself to dwell upon. Might not the power that she had exercisedover other men be still extended to him in spite of the months that hehad been indifferent to anything except the mere physical attractionshe had for him? Was it not possible that out of that attraction mightdevelop something finer and better than the primitive desire she hadaroused? Oriental though he was, might he not be capable of a deep andlasting affection? He might have loved her if no outside influence hadcome to interrupt the routine that had become so intimately a part ofhis life. Those other episodes to which he had referred so lightly hadbeen a matter of days or weeks, not months, as in her case. He mighthave cared but for the coming of this Frenchman. She hurled SaintHubert's book across the room in a fit of girlish rage and buried herhead in her arms. He would be odious--a smirking, conceited egotist!She had met several French writers and she visualised himcontemptuously. His books were undoubtedly clever. So much the worse;he would be correspondingly inflated. His novel revea
led a passionate,emotional temperament that promised to complicate the situation if heshould be pleased to cast an eye of favour on her. She writhed at thevery thought. And that he was to see her was evident; the Sheik hadleft no orders to the contrary. It was not to be the case of the Dutchtraveller, when the fact that she belonged to an Arab had been broughthome to her effectually by Ahmed Ben Hassan's peremptory commands, andshe had experienced for the first time the sensation of a woman kept inseclusion.
The emotions of the morning and the disappointment of the intendedride, together with the dismay produced by the unexpected visitor, allcombined to agitate her powerfully, and she worked herself up into afever of self-torture and unhappiness. She ended by falling asleep andslept heavily for some hours. Zilah waked her with a shy hand on herarm and a soft announcement of lunch, and Diana sat up, rubbing hereyes, flushed and drowsy. She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment atthe Arab girl, and then waved her away imperiously and buried her headin the pillows again. Lunch, when her heart was breaking!
Mindful of her lord's deputy, who was waiting in the next room, andwhom she regarded with awe, Zilah held her ground with a timidinsistence until Diana started up wrathfully and bade her go in tonesthat she had never used before to the little waiting-girl. Zilah fledprecipitately, and, thoroughly awakened, Diana swung her heels to theground and with her elbows on her knees rested her hot head in herhands. She felt giddy, her head ached and her mouth was parched anddry. She got up languidly, and going to the table studied her face inthe mirror intently. She frowned at the reflection. She had never beenproud of her own beauty; she had lived with it always and it had seemedto her a thing of no consequence, and now that it had failed to arousethe love she wanted in Ahmed Ben Hassan she almost hated it.
"Are you going to have fever or are you merely bad-tempered?" she askedout loud, and the sound of her own voice made her laugh in spite of herheavy heart. She went into the bathroom and soused her head in coldwater. When she came back a frightened Zilah was putting a small trayon the brass-topped table by the bed.
"M'sieur Gaston," she stammered, almost crying.
Diana looked at the tray, arranged with all the dainty neatness dear tothe valet's heart, and then at the travelling clock on the table besideit, and realised that it was an hour past her usual lunch-time and thatshe was extremely hungry, after all. A little piece of paper on thetray caught her eye, and, picking it up, she read in Gaston's clearthough minute handwriting, "At what hour does Madame desire to ride?"
The servant clearly had no intention of giving up the programme for theafternoon without a struggle. She smiled as she added a figure to theend of the note, and went to the curtains that divided the rooms."Gaston!"
"Madame!"
She passed the paper silently through the curtains and went back to herlunch. When she sent Zilah away with the empty tray she rescued theVicomte de Saint Hubert's book from the floor where she had thrown itand tried to read it dispassionately. She turned to the title-page andstudied the pencilled scrawl "Souvenir de Raoul" closely. It did notlook like the handwriting of a small-minded man, but handwriting wasnothing to go by, she argued obstinately. Aubrey, who was the essenceof selfishness, wrote beautifully, and had once been told by an expertthat his writing denoted a generous love of his fellow-men, whichdeduction had aroused no enthusiasm in the baronet, and had given hissister over to helpless mirth. She turned the pages, dipping here andthere, finally forgetting the author altogether in the book. It was awonderful story of a man's love and faithfulness, and Diana pushed itaside at last with a very bitter sigh. Things happened so in books. Inreal life they happened very differently. She looked round the roomwith pain-filled eyes, at the medley of her own and the Sheik'sbelongings, her ivory toilet appointments jostling indiscriminatelyamong his brushes and his razors on the dressing-table, and then at thepillow beside her where his head rested every night. She stooped andkissed it with a little quivering breath. "Ahmed. Oh, Monseigneur!" shemurmured longingly. Then, with an impatient jerk of the head, shesprang up and dragged on her boots. She pulled a soft felt hat downover her eyes and picked up the revolver the Sheik had given her. Shepaused a moment, looking at it with an odd smile before buckling itround her slim waist. Gaston's face lit up with genuine pleasure whenshe came out to the horses. She had felt a momentary embarrassmentbefore she left the tent, thinking of the last time he had ridden withher, but she had known from the moment he came back that night that hebore no malice, and the look on his face and his stammered words to theSheik had indicated that the fear he felt for her was not for whatmight have happened in the desert, but for what might yet happen to herat the hands of his master and hers.
The horse that she rode always now was pure white, not so fast asSilver Star and very tricky, called The Dancer, from a nervous habit ofdancing on his hind-legs at starting and stopping, like a circus-horse.He was difficult to mount, and edged away shyly as Diana tried to gether foot into the stirrup. But she swung up at last, and by the timeThe Dancer had finished his display of _haute ecole_ Gaston wasmounted. "After riding The Dancer I feel confident to enter for the_Concours Hippique_," she laughed over her shoulder, and touchedthe horse with her heel.
She wanted exercise primarily, hard physical exercise that would tireher out and keep her mind occupied and prevent her from thinking, andthe horse she rode supplied both needs. He required watching all thetime. She let him out to his full pace for his own sake and hers, andthe air and the movement banished her headache, and a kind ofexhilaration came over her, making her almost happy. After a while shereined in her horse and waved to Gaston to come alongside. "Tell me ofthis Vicomte de Saint Hubert who is coming. You know him, I suppose, asyou have been so long with Monseigneur?"
Gaston smiled. "I knew him before Monseigneur did. I was born on theestate of Monsieur le Comte de Saint Hubert, the father of Monsieur leVicomte. I and my twin brother Henri. We both went into Monsieur's leComte's training stables, and then after our time in the Cavalry Henribecame valet to Monsieur le Vicomte, and I came to Monseigneur."
Diana took off her hat and rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. Fifteenyears ago Ahmed must have been about twenty. Why should an Arab chiefof that age, or any age, indulge in such an anomaly as a French valet,or for that matter why should a French valet attach himself to an ArabSheik and exile himself in the wilds of the desert? Whichever way sheturned, the mystery of the man she loved seemed to crop up. She startedarguing with herself in a circle--why should the Sheik have a Europeanservant or why should he not, until she gave it up in hopelessconfusion.
She turned to Gaston with the intention of asking further of the comingvisitor, and, keeping The Dancer as still as she could, sat looking atthe valet with great, questioning eyes, fanning her hot face with herhat. Gaston, whose own horse stood like a rock, was frankly mopping hisforehead. Dianna decided against any more questions. Gaston wouldnaturally be hopelessly biased, having been born and brought up in theshadow of the family, and after all she would rather judge for herself.One inquiry only she permitted herself: "The family of Saint Hubert,are they of the old or the new _noblesse?"_
"Of the old, Madame," replied Gaston quickly.
Diana coaxed her nervous mount close beside his steadier companion,and, thrusting his bridle and her hat into Gaston's hands, slipped tothe ground and walked away a little distance to the top of a smallmound. She sat down on the summit with her back to the horses and herarms clasped round her knees. All that the coming of this strange manmeant to her rushed suddenly over her. He was a man, obviously, whomoved in the world, her world, since he apparently travelledextensively and his father was wealthy enough to run a racing stable asa hobby and was a member of the dwindling class of _anciennenoblesse_. It was characteristic of her that she put first what shedid. How could she bear to meet one of her own order in the position inwhich she was? She who had been proud Diana Mayo and now--the mistressof an Arab Sheik? She laid her face on her knees with a shudder. Theordeal before her cut like a knife into her hear
t. The pride that AhmedBen Hassan had not yet killed flamed up and racked her with humiliationand shame, the shame that still seared her soul like a hot iron, sothat there were moments she could not bear even the presence of the manwho had made her what she was, in spite of the love she bore him, and,pleading fever, prayed to be alone. Not that he ever granted herprayer, for he knew fever when he saw it, but would pull her downbeside him with a mocking laugh that still had the power to hurt somuch. The thought of what it would be to her to meet his friend hadpresumably never entered his mind, or if it had it had made noimpression and been dismissed as negligible. It was the point of view,she supposed drearily; the standpoint from which he looked at thingswas fundamentally different from her own--racially and temperamentallythey were poles apart. To him she was only the woman held in bondage, athing of no account. She sat very still for a while with her facehidden, until a discreet cough from Gaston warned her that time wasflying. She went back to the horses slowly with white face andcompressed lips. There was the usual trouble in mounting, and herstrained nerves made her impatient of The Dancer's idiosyncrasies, andshe checked him sharply, making him rear dangerously.
"Careful, Madame," cried Gaston warningly.
"For whom--me or Monseigneur's horse?" she retorted bitterly, andignoring her hat, which Gaston held out to her with reproachful eyes,she spurred the horse viciously, making him break into a headlonggallop. It had got to be gone through, so get it over as soon aspossible. And behind her, Gaston, for the first time in all his longservice, cursed the master he would cheerfully have died for.
The horse's nerves, like her own, were on edge, and he pulled badly,his smooth satiny neck growing dark and seamed with sweat; Diana neededall her knowledge to control him, and she began to wonder if when theycame to the camp she would be able to stop him. She topped anundulation that was some little distance from the tents withmisgivings, and wrapped the reins round her hands to prevent themslipping through her fingers. As they neared she saw the Sheik standingoutside his tent, with a tall, thin man beside him. She had only aglimpse of dark, unruly hair and a close-cut beard as she shot past,unable to pull up The Dancer. But just beyond the tent, with the reinscutting into her hands, she managed to haul him round and bring himback. A couple of grooms jumped to his head, but, owing to his peculiartactics, landed short, and he pranced to his own satisfaction andDiana's rage, until the amusement of it passed and he let himself becaught. Diana had done nothing to stop him once she had managed to turnhim. If the horse chose to behave like a fool she was not going to bemade to look foolish by fighting him when she knew that it was useless.In the hands of the men he sidled and snorted, and, dropping the reins,Diana pulled off her gloves and sat for a moment rubbing her sorehands. Then the Sheik came forward and she slid down. Before looking athim she turned and, catching at The Dancer's head, struck him angrilyover the nose with her thick riding-gloves and watched him led away,plunging and protesting, pulling the gloves through her fingersnervously, until Ahmed Ben Hassan's voice made her turn.
"Diane, the Vicomte de Saint Hubert waits to be presented to you."
She drew herself up and the colour that had come into her face drainedout of it again. Slowly she glanced up at the man standing before her,and looked straight into the most sympathetic eyes that her own sad,defiant ones had ever seen. Only for a moment, then he bowed with aconventional murmur that was barely audible.
His lack of words gave her courage. "Monsieur," she said coldly inresponse to his greeting, then turned to the Sheik without looking athim. "The Dancer has behaved abominably. Gaston, my hat, please!Thanks." And vanished into the tent without a further look at any one.
It was late, but she lingered over her bath and changed with slowreluctance into the green dress that the Sheik preferred--a concessionthat she despised herself for making. She had taken up the jadenecklace when he joined her.
He turned her to him roughly, with his hands on her shoulders, and themerciless pressure of his fingers was indication enough without theblack scowl on his face that he was angry. "You are not very cordial tomy guest."
"Is it required of a slave to be cordial towards her master's friends?"she replied in a stifled voice.
"What is required is obedience to my wishes," he said harshly.
"And is it your wish that I should please this Frenchman?"
"It is my wish."
"If I were a woman of your own race----" she began bitterly, but heinterrupted her.
"If you were a woman of my own race there would be no question of it,"he said coldly. "You would be for the eyes of no other man than me. Butsince you are not----" He broke off with an enigmatical jerk of thehead.
"Since I am not you are less merciful than if I was," she criedmiserably. "I could wish that I was an Arab woman."
"I doubt it," he said grimly. "The life of an Arab woman would hardlybe to your taste. We teach our women obedience with a whip."
"Why have you changed so since this morning," she whispered, "when youtold me that you trusted no one to climb to my balcony in the hotel butyourself? Are you not an Arab now as then? Have I become of so littlevalue to you that you are not even jealous any more?"
"I can trust my friend, and--I do not propose to share you with him,"he said brutally.
She winced as if he had struck her, and hid her face in her hands witha low cry.
His fingers gripped her shoulder cruelly. "You will do as I wish?" Thewords were a question, but the intonation was a command.
"I have no choice," she murmured faintly.
His hands dropped to his sides and he turned to leave the room, but shecaught his arm. "Monseigneur! Have you no pity? Will you not spare methis ordeal?"
He made a gesture of refusal. "You exaggerate," he said impatiently,brushing her hand from his arm.
"If you will be merciful this once----." she pleaded breathlessly, buthe cut her short with a fierce oath. "If?" he echoed. "Do you makebargains with me? Have you so much yet to learn?"
She looked at him with a little weary sigh. The changing mood that shehad set herself to watch for had come upon him suddenly and found herunprepared. The gentleness of the morning had vanished and he hadreverted to the tyrannical, arbitrary despot of two months ago. Sheknew that it was her own fault. She knew him well enough to know thathe was intolerant of any interference with his wishes. She had learnedthe futility of setting her determination against his. There was onemaster in his camp, whose orders, however difficult, must be obeyed.
His attention had concentrated on a broken fingernail, and he turned tothe dressing-table for a knife. She followed him with her eyes andwatched him carefully trimming the nail. She had often, amongst themany things that puzzled her, wondered at the fastidious care he tookof his well-manicured hands. The light of the lamp fell full on hisface, and there was a dull ache in her heart as she looked at him. Hedemanded implicit obedience, and only a few hours before she had madeup her mind to unreserved submission, and she had broken down at thefirst test. The proof of her obedience was a hard one, from which sheshrank, but it was harder far to see the look of anger she had provokedon the face of the man she loved. For two months of wild happiness ithad been absent, the black scowl she had learned to dread had not beendirected at her, and the fierce eyes had looked at her with onlykindness or amusement shining in their dark depths. Anything could beborne but a continuance of his displeasure. No sacrifice was too greatto gain his forgiveness. She could not bear his anger. She longed sodesperately for happiness, and she loved him so passionately, soutterly, that she was content to give up everything to his will. If shecould only get back the man of the last few weeks, if she had notangered him too far. She was at his feet, tamed thoroughly at last, allher proud, angry self-will swamped in the love that was consuming herwith an intensity that was an agony. Love was a bitter pain, a tormentthat was almost unendurable, a happiness that mocked her with itshollowness, a misery that tortured her with visions of what might havebeen. She went to him slowly, and he turned to h
er abruptly.
"Well?" His voice was hard and uncompromising, and the flash of hiseyes was like the tiger's in the Indian jungle.
She set her teeth to keep down the old paralysing fear.
"I will do what you want. I will do anything you want, only be kind tome, Ahmed," she whispered unsteadily. She had never called him by hisname before; she did not even know that she had done so now, but at thesound of it a curious look crossed his face, and he drew her into hisarms with hands that were as gentle as they had been cruel before. Shelet him lift her face to his, and met his searching gaze bravely.Holding her look with the mesmerism that he could exert when he chose,he read in her face her final surrender, and knew that while it pleasedhim to keep her he had broken her utterly to his hand. A strangeexpression grew in his eyes as they travelled slowly over her. She waslike a fragile reed in his strong grasp that he could crush without aneffort, and yet for four months she had fought him, matching hisdetermination with a courage that had won his admiration even while ithad exasperated him. He knew she feared him, he had seen terror leapinto her flickering eyes when she had defied him most. Her defiance andher hatred, which had piqued him by contrast with the fawning adulationto which he had been accustomed and which had wearied him infinitely,had provoked in him a fixed resolve to master her. Before he tired ofher she must yield her will to him absolutely. And to-night he knewthat the last struggle had been made, that she would never oppose himagain, that she was clay in his hands to do with as he would. And theknowledge that he had won gave him no feeling of exultation, instead avague, indefinite sense of irritation swept over him and made him swearsoftly under his breath. The satisfaction he had expected in histriumph was lacking and the unaccountable dissatisfaction that filledhim seemed inexplicable. He did not understand himself, and he lookeddown at her again with a touch of impatience. She was very lovely, hethought, with a strange new appreciation of the beauty he hadappropriated, and very womanly in the soft, clinging green dress. Theslim, boyish figure that rode with him had a charm all its own, but itwas the woman in her that sent the hot blood racing through his veinsand made his heart beat as it was beating now. His eyes lingered amoment on her bright curls, on her dark-fringed, pleading eyes and onher bare neck, startlingly white against the jade green of her gown,then he put her from him.
"_Va_," he said gently, "_depeche-toi_."
She looked after him as he went through the curtains with a long,sobbing sigh. She was paying a heavy price for her happiness, but shewould have paid a heavier one willingly. Nothing mattered now that hewas not angry any more. She knew what her total submission meant: itwas an end to all individualism, a complete self-abnegation, anabsolute surrender to his wishes, his moods and his temper. And she wascontent that it should be so, her love was prepared to endure whateverhe might put upon her. Nothing that he could do could alter that, andnothing should make her own her love. She had hidden it from him, andshe would hide it from him--cost what it might. Though he did not loveher he wanted her still; she had read that in his eyes five minutesago, and she was happy even for that.
She turned to the glass suddenly and wrenched the silk folds off hershoulder. She looked at the marks of his fingers on the delicate skinwith a twist of the lips, then shut her eyes with a little gasp and hidher bruised arm hastily, her mouth quivering. But she did not blamehim, she had brought it on herself; she knew his mood, and he did notknow his own strength.
"If he killed me he could not kill my love," she murmured, with alittle pitiful smile.
The men were waiting for her, and with a murmured apology for herlateness she took her place. The Sheik and his guest resumed theconversation that her entrance had interrupted. Diana's thoughts werein confusion. She felt as if she were in some wild, improbable dream.An Arab Sheik, a French explorer, and herself playing the conventionalhostess in the midst of lawless unconventionalism. She looked aroundthe tent that had become so familiar, so dear. It seemed differentto-night, as if the advent of the stranger had introduced a foreignatmosphere. She had grown so accustomed to the routine that had beenimposed upon her that even the Vicomte's servant standing behind hismaster seemed strange. The man's likeness to his twin brother wasstriking, the only difference being that while Gaston's face wasclean-shaven, Henri's upper lip was hidden by a neat, dark moustache.The service was, as always, perfect, silent and quick.
She glanced at the Sheik covertly. There was a look on his face thatshe had never seen and a ring in his voice that was different even fromthe tone she had heard when Gaston had come back on the night of herflight. That had been relief and the affection of a man for a valuedservant, this was the deep affection of a man for the one chosenfriend, the love passing the love of women. And the jealousy she hadfelt in the morning welled up uncontrollably. She looked from the Sheikto the man who was absorbing all his attention, but in his pale, cleverface, half hidden by the close beard, she saw no trace of theconceited, smirking egotist she had imagined, and his voice, as low asthe Sheik's, but more animated, was not the voice of a man undulyelated or conscious of himself. And as she looked her eyes met his. Asmile that was extraordinarily sweet and half-sad lit up his face.
"Is it permitted to admire Madame's horsemanship?" he asked, with alittle bow.
Diana coloured faintly and twisted the jade necklace round her fingersnervously. "It is nothing," she said, with a shy smile that hissympathetic personality evoked in spite of herself. "With The Dancer itis all foolishness and not vice. One has to hold on very tightly. Itwould have been humiliating to precipitate myself at the feet of astranger. Monseigneur would not have approved of the concession to TheDancer's peculiarities. It is an education to ride his horses,Monsieur."
"It is a strain to the nerves to ride _beside_ some of them,"replied the Vicomte pointedly.
Diana laughed with pure amusement. The man whose coming she had loathedwas making the dreadful ordeal very easy for her. "I sympathise,Monsieur. Was Shaitan very vile?"
"If Monsieur de Saint Hubert is trying to suggest to you that hesuffers from nerves, Diane," broke in the Sheik, with a laugh,"disabuse yourself at once. He has none."
Saint Hubert turned to him with a quick smile. _"Et toi,_ Ahmed,eh? Do you remember----?" and he plunged into a flood of reminiscencesthat lasted until the end of dinner.
The Vicomte had brought with him a pile of newspapers and magazines,and Diana curled up on the divan with an armful, hungry for news, but,somehow, as she dipped into the batch of papers her interest waned.After four months of complete isolation it was difficult to pick up thethreads of current events, allusions were incomprehensible, andcontroversies seemed pointless. The happenings of the world appearedtame beside the great adventure that was carrying her on irresistiblyand whose end she could not see and dared not think of. She pushed themaside carelessly and kept only on her knee a magazine that served as apretext for her silence.
When Gaston brought coffee the Vicomte hailed him with a gay laugh."_Enfin,_ Gaston, after two years the nectar of the gods again!There is a new machine for you amongst my things, _mon ami,_providing it has survived Henri's packing."
He brought a cup to Diana and set it on a stool beside her. "Ahmedflatters himself I come to see him, Madame. I do not. I come to drinkGaston's coffee. It has become proverbial, the coffee of Gaston. Ipropitiate him every time I come with a new apparatus for making it.The last is a marvel of ingenuity. Excuse me, I go to drink it with thereverence it inspires. It is a rite, Madame, not a gastronomicindulgence."
Once more the sympathetic eyes looked straight into hers, and the quickblood rushed into her face as she bent her head again hurriedly overthe magazine. She knew instinctively that he was trying to help her,talking nonsense with a tact that ignored her equivocal position. Shewas grateful to him, but even his chivalry hurt. She watched him underher thick lashes as he went back to the Sheik and sat down beside him,refusing his host's proffered cigarettes with a wry face of disgust anda laughing reference to a "perverted palate," as he searched for hisow
n. The hatred she had been prepared to give him had died away duringdinner--only the jealousy remained, and even that had changed from itsfirst intensity to an envy that brought a sob into her throat. Sheenvied him the light that shone in the Arab's dark eyes, she envied himthe intonation of the soft slow voice she loved. Her eyes turned to theSheik. He was leaning back with his hands clasped behind his head,talking with a cigarette between his teeth. His attitude towards hisEuropean friend was that of an equal, the haughty, peremptory accentthat was noticeable when he spoke to his followers was gone, and a flatcontradiction from Saint Hubert provoked only a laugh and a gesture ofacceptance.
As they sat talking the contrast between the two men was stronglymarked. Beside the Frenchman's thin, spare frame and pale face, whichgave him an air of delicacy, the Sheik looked like a magnificent animalin superb condition, and his quiet repose accentuated the Vicomte'squick, nervous manner. Under the screen of her thick lashes Dianawatched them unheeded. Their voices rose and fell continuously; theyseemed to have a great deal to say to each other, and they talkedindiscriminately French and Arabic so that much that they said wasincomprehensible to her. She was glad that it should be so, she did notwant to know what they were saying. It seemed as if they had forgottenher presence with the accumulated conversation of two years. She wasthankful to be left alone, happy for the rare chance of studying thebeloved face unnoticed. It was seldom she had the opportunity, for whenthey were alone she was afraid to look at him much lest her secretshould be betrayed in her eyes. But she looked at him now unobserved,with passionate longing. She was so intent that she did not noticeGaston come in until he seemed suddenly to appear from nowhere besidehis master. He murmured something softly and the Sheik got up. Heturned to Saint Hubert.
"Trouble with one of the horses. Will you come? It may interest you."
They went out together, leaving her alone, and she slipped away to theinner room. In half-an-hour they came back, and for a few minuteslonger stayed chatting, then the Vicomte yawned and held out his watchwith a laugh. The Sheik went with him to his tent and sat down on theside of his guest's camp-bed. Saint Hubert dismissed the waiting Henriwith a nod and started to undress silently. The flow of talk and readylaugh seemed to have deserted him, and he frowned as he wrenched histhings off with nervous irritability.
The Sheik watched him for a while, and then took the cigarette out ofhis mouth with a faint smile. "_Eh, bien!_ Raoul, say it," he saidquietly.
Saint Hubert swung round. "You might have spared her," he cried.
"What?"
"What? Good God, man! Me!"
The Sheik flicked the ash from his cigarette with a gesture ofindifference. "Your courier was delayed, he only came this morning. Itwas too late then to make other arrangements."
Saint Hubert took a hasty turn up and down the tent and stopped infront of the Sheik with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and hisshoulders hunched up about his ears. "It is abominable," he burst out."You go too far, Ahmed."
The Sheik laughed cynically. "What do you expect of a savage? When anArab sees a woman that he wants he takes her. I only follow the customsof my people."
Saint Hubert clicked his tongue impatiently. "Your people!--whichpeople?" he asked in a low voice.
The Sheik sprang to his feet with flashing eyes, his hand droppingheavily on Saint Hubert's shoulder.
"Stop, Raoul! Not even from you----!" he cried passionately, and thenbroke off abruptly, and the anger died out of his face. He sat downagain quietly, with a little amused laugh. "Why this sudden access ofmorality, _mon ami?_ You know me and the life I lead. You haveseen women in my camp before now."
Saint Hubert dismissed the remark with a contemptuous wave of the hand."There is to comparison. You know it as well as I," he said succinctly.He moved over slowly to the camp table, where his toilet things hadbeen laid out, and began removing the links from the cuffs of hisshirt. "She is English, surely that is reason enough," he flung overhis shoulder.
"You ask me, _me_ to spare a woman because she is English? My goodRaoul, you amuse me," replied the Sheik, with an ugly sneer.
"Where did you see her?" asked Saint Hubert curiously.
"In the streets of Biskra, for five minutes, four months ago."
The Vicomte turned quickly. "You love her?" he shot out, with all thesuddenness of an American third degree.
The Sheik exhaled a long, thin cloud of blue smoke and watched iteddying towards the top of the tent. "Have I ever loved a woman? Andthis woman is English," he said in a voice as hard as steel.
"If you loved her you would not care for her nationality."
The Sheik spat the end of his cigarette on to the floor contemptuously."By Allah! Her cursed race sticks in my throat. But for that----" Heshrugged his shoulders impatiently and got up from the bed on which hewas sitting.
"Let her go then," said Saint Hubert quickly. "I can take her back toBiskra."
The Sheik turned to him slowly, a sudden flame of fierce jealousyleaping into his eyes. "Has she bewitched you, too? Do you want her foryourself, Raoul?" His voice was as low as ever, but there was adangerous ring in it.
Saint Hubert flung his hands out in a gesture of despair. "Ahmed! Areyou mad? Are you going to quarrel with me after all these years on sucha pretext? _Bon Dieu!_ What do you take me for? There has been toomuch in our lives together ever to let a woman come between us. What isa woman or any one to me where you are concerned? It is for quite adifferent reason that I ask you, that I beg you to let this girl go."
"Forgive me, Raoul. You know my devilish temper," muttered the Sheik,and for a moment his hand rested on Saint Hubert's arm.
"You have not answered me, Ahmed."
The Sheik turned away. "She is content," he said evasively.
"She has courage," amended the Vicomte significantly.
"As you say, she has courage," agreed the Sheik, without a particle ofexpression in his voice.
_"Bon sang----"_ quoted Saint Hubert softly.
The Sheik swung round quickly. "How do you know she has good blood inher?"
"It is very evident," replied Saint Hubert drily.
"That is not what you mean. What do you know?"
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders, and, going to his suit-case, tookfrom it an English illustrated paper, and opening it at the centralpage handed it to the Sheik silently.
Ahmed Ben Hassan moved closer to the hanging lamp so that the lightfell directly on the paper in his hands. There were two largefull-length photographs of Diana, one in evening dress and the other asthe Vicomte had first seen her, in riding breeches and short jacket,her hat and whip lying at her feet, and the bridle of the horse thatwas standing beside her over her arm.
Under the photographs was written: "Miss Diana Mayo, whose protractedjourney in the desert is causing anxiety to a large circle of friends.Miss Mayo left Biskra under the guidance of a reputable caravan-leaderfour months ago, with the intention of journeying for four weeks in thedesert and returning to Oran. Since the first camp nothing has beenheard of Miss Mayo or her caravan. Further anxiety is occasioned by thefact that considerable unrest is reported amongst the tribes in thelocality towards which Miss Mayo was travelling. Her brother, SirAubrey Mayo, who is detained in America as the result of an accident,is in constant cable communication with the French authorities. MissMayo is a well-known sports-woman and has travelled widely."
For a long time the Sheik studied the photographs silently, then withslow deliberation he tore the page out of the paper and rolled it up."With your permission," he said coolly, and held it over the flame ofthe little lamp by the bedside. He held it until the burning papercharred to nothing in his hand and then flicked the ashes from his longfingers. "Henri has seen this?"
"Unquestionably. Henri reads all my papers," replied Saint Hubert, witha touch of impatience.
"Then Henri can hold his tongue," said the Sheik nonchalantly,searching in the folds of his waist-cloth for his case and lightinganother cigarette with elaborate care
lessness.
"What are you going to do?" asked Saint Hubert pointedly.
"I? Nothing! The French authorities have too many affairs on hand andtoo high an appreciation of Ahmed Ben Hassan's horses to prosecuteinquiries in my direction. Besides, they are not responsible.Mademoiselle Mayo was warned of the risks she ran before she leftBiskra. She chose to take the risks, _et voila!"_
"Will nothing make you change your mind?"
"I am not given to changing my mind. You know that. And, besides, whyshould I? As I told you before, she is content."
Saint Hubert looked him full in the face. "Content! Cowed is the betterword, Ahmed."
The Sheik laughed softly. "You flatter me, Raoul. Do not let us speakany more about it. It is an unfortunate contretemps, and I regret thatit distresses you," he said lightly; then with a sudden change ofmanner he laid his hands on the Vicomte's shoulders. "But this can makeno difference to our friendship, _mon ami;_ that is too big athing to break down over a difference of opinion. You are a Frenchnobleman, and I----!" He gave a little bitter laugh. "I am anuncivilised Arab. We cannot see things in the same way."
"You could, but you will not, Ahmed," replied the Vicomte, with anaccent of regret. "It is not worthy of you." He paused and then lookedup again with a little crooked smile and a shrug of defeat. "Nothingcan ever make any difference with us, Ahmed. I can disagree with you,but I can't wipe out the recollection of the last twenty years."
A few minutes later the Sheik left him and went out into the night. Hetraversed the short distance between the tents slowly, stopping tospeak to a sentry, and then pausing outside his own tent to look up atthe stars. The Persian hound that always slept across the entranceuncurled himself and got up, thrusting a wet nose into his hand. TheSheik fondled the huge creature absently, stroking the dog's shaggyhead mechanically, hardly conscious of what he was doing. A greatrestlessness that was utterly foreign to his nature had takenpossession of him. He had been aware of it growing within him for sometime, becoming stronger daily, and now the coming of Raoul de SaintHubert seemed to have put the crowning touch to a state of mind that hewas unable to understand. He had never been given to thinking ofhimself, or criticising or analysing his passing whims and fancies. Allhis life he had taken what he wanted; nothing on which he had ever laideyes of desire had been denied him. His wealth had brought himeverything he had ever wished. His passionate temper had beencharacteristic even when he was a child, but these strange fits ofunreasonable irritability were new, and he searched for a cause vainly.His keen eyes looked through the darkness towards the south. Was it thenearness of his hereditary enemy, who had presumed to come closer thanhe had ever done before to the border of the country that Ahmed BenHassan regarded as his own, that was causing this great unrest? Helaughed contemptuously. Nothing would give him greater pleasure thancoming into actual collision with the man whom he had been trained fromboyhood to hate. As long as Ibraheim Omair remained within his ownterritory Ahmed Ben Hassan held his hand and kept in check his fiercefollowers, whose eyes were turned longingly towards the debatable land,but once let the robber Sheik step an inch over the border, and it waswar, and war until one or both of the chiefs were dead. And if he diedwho had no son to succeed him; the huge tribe would split up innumerous little families for want of a leader to keep them together,and it would be left to the French Government to take over, if theycould, the vast district that he had governed despotically. And at thethought he laughed again. No, it was not Ibraheim Omair who wastroubling him. He pushed the hound aside and went into the tent. Thedivan where Diana had been sitting was strewn with magazines andpapers, the imprint of her slender body still showed in the soft,heaped-up cushions, and a tiny, lace-edged handkerchief peeped outunder one of them. He picked it up and looked at it curiously, and hisforehead contracted slowly in the heavy black scowl. He turned hisburning eyes toward the curtains that divided the rooms. Saint Hubert'swords rang in his ears. "English!" he muttered with a terrible oath."And I have made her suffer as I swore any of that damned race shouldif they fell into my hands. Merciful Allah! Why does it give me solittle pleasure?"