by M. M. Kaye
“You mean because you are now a ‘Fallen Woman’?” Rory’s pale eyes were amused. “I don’t think you need worry. For one thing, no one in his senses could blame you for something that you could not possibly have prevented. And for another, your fortune if not your virtue is presumably still intact, so I expect he’ll be magnanimous and agree to overlook this distressing incident.”
Hero said: “Even if he were willing to do so, how could I allow it? Knowing he would always know, and remember? I could not let him make such a sacrifice.”
“I’m delighted to hear it. Don’t let him talk you out of it. If it isn’t too personal a question, what has this paragon done to make you believe in him in the face of all the evidence?”
“What evidence?” asked Hero in the same controlled and expressionless voice. “You have given me no shred of evidence. Do you think I would convict a dog on the strength of wild verbal charges brought by such a person as yourself? I know Mr Mayo. I also know you; and if it is a case of his word against yours I shall know whose to accept.”
“Not even if I tell you—”
“There is nothing you can tell me that will make me believe ill of him,” said Hero, cutting him short. “I will not argue with you, because I am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that you think you are telling me the truth. But then you do not know him, and I do.”
“And you really love him?” enquired Rory, but without mockery.
Hero hesitated for a barely perceptible moment, and then she said quietly, and quite definitely: “Yes.”
Rory laughed and stood up, stretching himself “You deceive yourself. Miss Hollis—as usual. I can see that I shall have to do something about it Meanwhile I hope you will make yourself at home. I’m not sure how soon I can arrange to return to you to the arms of the immaculate Mayo, because it depends on how much mayhem my fellow lawbreakers are creating in the city. Once they really get the bit between their teeth it may be a little difficult to stop them, so you might have to spend another night here. But this time I shall behave like a perfect gentleman and leave you the key.”
He stooped and picked up the lamp that he had overturned the previous night, and went out, and Hero did not see him again until late that evening.
It had been an odd, unreal day; and not the least curious thing about it had been the dress she had been given to wear. Her riding-habit had not been returned to her, and when she emerged from her bath she found in its place the dress and ornaments of an Arab lady neatly laid out on the divan. As she could hardly spend the day draped in a bed-sheet she had put them on; remembering as she did so the other occasions on which she had worn Arab dress. Those ill-advised visits to The Dolphins’ House, and the disastrous night when she had run through the streets to Beit-el-Tani to help smuggle the Heir-Apparent out of his house to Marseilles and the bitter end of his brief rebellion.
That wild night seemed almost as far away and as long ago as the days of Hollis Hill and Miss Penbury, and she felt infinitely old and tired and disillusioned—because she had imagined herself, then, to be playing a heroic part, and discovered too late that she had merely been an insignificant pawn in an ignoble game. And now once again she was being used as a pawn, and in an even more ignoble one.
The loose silk tunic and thin trousers were at least pleasantly cool, and in the matter of comfort a vast improvement on her own laced, boned and buttoned garments with their complements of petticoats and pantelettes: though for the sake of the moral support they lent her she would at that moment have greatly preferred the latter. She glanced at the ornaments and discarded them with a shiver of distaste, for they reminded her of Zorah and might even have once belonged to her and been worn by her in this house. But there was also a curious half-mask such as she had sometimes seen Cholé wear during those morning calls at Beit-el-Tani: a thing of stiffened silk elaborately embroidered in gold thread and spangles and edged with a little fringe of beads.
Hero picked it up, and trying it on before the glass found that it gave her a comfortable feeling of anonymity, because the woman she could see reflected there was no longer herself: the eyes that looked out through the embroidered slits were shadowed and unreadable, and the mouth below the dangling fringe of beads expressed nothing and gave nothing away. She drew courage from the sight, and turning from it, tried the door of her room and found that it was no longer locked.
Opening it cautiously, she saw that the key had been left in the lock, and she took it out and stood looking at it, turning it over and frowning. It was a clumsy iron thing that might have been made for a dungeon door in medieval England, and for a moment she considered locking herself in and refusing to come out again until Uncle Nat or Clayton came to fetch her. But the silence of the house and the apparent emptiness of the long, pillared verandahs that surrounded the open well of the courtyard made her decide against it, and removing a strand from the twisted silk cord that tied the trousers about her waist, she hung the key round her neck, hidden from sight by the loose tunic, and went boldly out into the verandah and down the shallow, curving stairs to the courtyard and the garden.
A solitary, white-bearded retainer, drowsing in the shade of a pillar, rose and saluted her gravely as she passed, but except for a murmur of voices from somewhere at the back of the house and an elderly negro, presumably a gardener, who was lazily smoothing the crushed shell of the garden paths with a primitive rake, there was little evidence of activity, and no one made any attempt to stop her. But the sight of her own reflection in the placid water of the lily pool made her abandon any idea of flight, for the graceful Arab dress and glittering mask, though completely obliterating the identity of Hero Hollis, were far too colourful and arresting to avoid arousing considerable attention if their wearer were to be found wandering along the road or the open shore in broad daylight.
There was obviously nothing for it but to wait until Captain Frost arranged to return her to the Consulate, since she would not get far on foot in this unsuitable attire; and if she attempted it she might well fall into the hands of the dhow Arabs and end up in a far worse situation than she was in at present—if such a thing were possible! She would have to stay, even if it meant spending another night here: and at least she now possessed the key to her room. She could feel it hanging warm and heavy under the soft silk of the tunic, and touching it, was reassured.
The garden was full of butterflies and the scent of strange flowers, and a bougainvillæa scattered its bright blossoms on to the lily pads and the quiet water as the breeze shook it. Under the orange trees the ground was still damp from the last heavy fall of rain, and the buzzing of innumerable bees made a sound as drowsy and as soothing as the warm wind stirring the leaves overhead and die lazy surf creaming on the shore beyond the sea wall. It was, thought Hero, a very peaceful spot; which surprised her, for considering its past history and present lawless associations it should not have been.
The sudden creak of a hinge disturbed the morning silence, and she turned to see a second elderly negro come through the door in the wall and go away down a path that lay parallel to the dark, creeper-hung cells that had once been guardrooms and granaries. He had not seen her, and neither had he closed the door behind him. It stood ajar, showing her a brilliant glimpse of sunlight and blue water beyond the solid stone and the dense tree shadows of the garden, and she waited for a minute or two to see if he would return, and when he did not, went quickly and cautiously to the door and out on to the rocks above the bay.
The tide was out and the shadows of the palms and pandanus that fringed the shore lay black and sharp-edged on the wet, shelving beach where the sand was alive with little scuttling ghost-crabs, industriously digging holes that the waves would obliterate within an hour or two. The surf broke dazzlingly white on the curving shore and the sea was once again sapphire and turquoise, emerald and jade. But today there were no cloud shadows—and no ships. The bay was empty and the Virago had gone.
Hero went swiftly down the steep
path to the beach, and keeping in the shadow of the palms, reached one of the tall outcrops of wind-worn coral that formed a natural breakwater on either side of the small bay; and rounding it, found herself looking down the long stretch of coast that she had last seen on the day of Aunt Abby’s picnic. Somewhere along there, beyond the green headlands and the mangrove swamps, lay Zanzibar city. But she could see no sign of any sail and not even a fishing kyack moved upon the blue.
Had the Virago returned to harbour? and if so, why had they not taken her with them? It would surely have been a simpler matter to take her back in the same way as they had brought her, land her at the water-steps and let her find her own way back to her uncle’s house, instead of making arrangements to have her sent or fetched by road. Unless that last had been a lie to keep her quiet? She could believe anything of Rory Frost, and if it were not for these wretched clothes she would walk along the shore now and get home by herself: it could not be more than ten miles at most, and was probably less. But there would be villages in between, and roving bands of Gulf Arabs. It was not possible…
Hero sat down tiredly in the shade of the coral rocks and stared at the sea and watched the busy ghost-crabs, and she must have fallen asleep, because the shadows had shortened and the sunlight was hot on her lap when a sound that was not the surf or the breeze made her look round, and there was Jumah; salaaming politely and informing her that the midday meal was prepared and waiting for her.
It had been served on Moorish china in a cool, colonnaded apartment strewn with Persian rugs, but she had eaten very little of it, and afterwards she had gone up to the room in which she had spent the previous night, and locking herself in, stayed there all the long, hot afternoon. Listening to the waves and the warm wind and the drowsy cooing of the pigeons, and trying to think clearly—and finding that she could not do so, because her mind was a jumble of foolish, trivial and disconnected thoughts of no importance.
As the shadows lengthened the quiet garden of The House of Shade began to fill once again with chattering birds coming home to roost, and beyond the windows and far away on the horizon Hero could see the lilac-coloured hills of Africa, clear and sharp in the evening light and looking closer than she had ever seen them look before: so close that it seemed as though one might reach them in an hour. The sun plunged behind them in a blaze of glory and green twilight enfolded the Island; and suddenly it was night and there were a million stars in the sky.
The wind died with the day, but though the birds were now silent the night was full of sound. Frogs croaked in chorus from the lily pool and cicadas shrilled among the leaves, a distant drum throbbed with the soft insistent rhythm that is the heart-beat of Zanzibar, and the faint, phosphorescent line of the surf was still murmurous on the beach. In the garden the trees were full of fireflies; and the moon was rising.
Hero became aware of footsteps and voices, and leaning over the window-sill saw someone carrying a lantern along the terrace. A few minutes later Jumah came tapping at her door with the announcement that the master had returned and requested the honour of her presence below.
Hero considered replying that if the master had anything to say to her he could come up and say it through the door. But on second thoughts there seemed to be little point in that, since it could only serve to antagonize him, and if he really had made arrangements to send her back to the city she would have to open the door in order to leave. She asked instead for her own clothes, and found that Jumah had not waited for a reply, but merely delivered the message and gone away again. There was nothing for it but to unlock the door and go down; and she did so: wearing the Arab dress, and the spangled mask that hid her face and made her expression unreadable.
The moon had already topped the palm trees, and Rory was standing on the terrace, his tall shadow black on the silver-washed stone. He turned when he heard her step, and though he grinned at the sight of the mask, he did not comment on it A table had been laid on the terrace, and the lamplight gleamed on glass and silver and the white robes of Jumah who stood beside it.
Rory said: “I hope you will not object to dining with me. We are a little short of staff, because it became necessary to send the Virago on a voyage to the coast.”
He walked over to the table and drew back a chair, but Hero did not move. She said: “When are you sending me back?”
“Tomorrow, I hope. The situation in the city is still a bit disturbed, but I have received information from a reliable source that the Daffodil is on the way back here and should make harbour about dawn. If I know anything about Dan he’ll make the place a deal too hot for our friends from the dhows, so I imagine that peace will be reigning around mid-morning, or at latest by the afternoon, and it should be safe enough for you to ride back to the city after dusk tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you send me back on the Virago?”
“Because as soon as Dan drops anchor he’s going to hear the whole sad story, and since I have no desire to have my ship boarded or sunk and my crew clapped in irons, I thought it best to send them out of harm’s way until this has all blown over.”
“Then why didn’t you go with them? Why are you still here?”
“Someone had to see that you got back safely, and Dan isn’t in the least likely to catch me. And neither is your uncle!”
“They will some day.”
“I doubt it But while there’s Life, there’s Hope. Sit down and have something to eat. You must be hungry, for Jumah says you’ve eaten almost nothing today, and you don’t seem to have had much yesterday.”
“Thank you,” said Hero frigidly, “but I am not in the least hungry, and if you have said all that you have to say I should prefer to go back to my room.”
“And I should prefer you to stay down here. So that settles the question, doesn’t it?”
Hero looked at him for an appreciable time, her eyes showing still and watchful through the slits of the concealing mask. She knew that he was quite capable of fetching her back by force if she were to turn and walk away, and even if she ran he could easily catch her; which would be undignified and humiliating. It had been a tactical error to leave her room, but having done so it would be better to humour him.
She accepted the chair he offered, but found that she could not force herself to eat, though she had taken little food that day and less the day before, and only an hour ago had been feeling distinctly hungry. Jumah poured her a glass of white wine, and she sipped it and found that it was ice cold and refreshing, and having finished it, discovered that it gave her courage and enabled her to reply in a cool, disinterested voice to her host’s bland flow of small-talk. But the food still seemed to stick in her throat and taste of nothing at all, and she toyed with her fork and made no more than a pretence of eating.
Rory watched Jumah refill her glass, saw her empty it and have it filled again, and presently remarked in a detached and conversational voice that wine taken on an empty stomach, and by someone unaccustomed to it, was apt to have unexpected effects, and was she not afraid of reaching a stage that he might be tempted to take advantage of?
“No,” said Hero positively.
“Don’t tell me that you are trusting to my honour?”
“Naturally not—as you do not appear to possess such a thing. But you seem to forget that there is no longer anything that you could do to me that you have not already done.”
Rory laughed and said: “My dear innocent! What a lot you have to learn! However, if that’s the way you feel about it, far be it from me to discourage you. Only don’t blame me if you regret it in the morning.”
He signed to Jumah to fill her glass again, and told him to take the lamp away, for the flame was attracting the attention of too many night-flying moths and insects who battered their wings against the glass and fell into the food and wine. Without it the moonlight seemed brighter and the hot night pleasantly cool, and Hero pushed her chair back from the table and looked at the star-spangled sky and the shimmering fireflies that filled the shadows w
ith glancing points of light, and wondered why nothing seemed to matter any more.
She supposed that it was the wine she had drunk that was giving her this lofty feeling of detachment; as though she were merely an onlooker, standing somewhere outside herself and supremely uninterested in the problems and strivings and emotional agonies of Hero Hollis. The man sitting opposite her with the moonlight full on his face was equally unimportant, for he could not harm her any more. Nothing and no one could harm her any more. She need not even think about him, because tomorrow she would go away and forget him, and no one could blame her for what he had done to her; not even Clay.
Not that Clay’s opinion mattered either, for she was not going to marry him. Or anyone! She had learned things about men that she had never dreamt of or imagined, and knowing them she would never again give any man the opportunity, let alone the right, to touch her. Miss Penbury had been right when she had once described them as ‘Animals’ and women as their ‘Poor, helpless victims’; though at the time Hero had very little idea what she was talking about, and had certainly not looked upon herself as either poor or helpless.
She was helpless now. But she was not poor, and she could go back to Hollis Hill and become…What would she become? Not a nun. One had to have a vocation to become a nun. A recluse, perhaps? But that would be selfish. No, she would do what cousin Josiah Crayne had advised her to do: devote herself and her fortune to doing good in her ‘own back yard.’ She might even turn Hollis Hill into a home for Fallen Women, which would horrify the Craynes but be quite understood by Aunt Abby and Uncle Nat, and by Clay…
She must have spoken that last name aloud without knowing that she had done so, for Rory said abruptly: “What about him? Are you still so sure he is Sir Galahad—sans peur et sans reproche? Or are you beginning to have your doubts about him?”
“It doesn’t matter, does it? He won’t want me now, so I don’t have to worry any more. Not about anything.”