by Grant Allen
‘Cover it up! Bury it!’ he cried more than once in an agony of despair, or perhaps of penitence. ‘They’re coming up from behind! They’ll see it and discover us! Just heap the sand above it a little with your hands, so, so! How hot the sand feels! O God, how hot! It makes one’s hands sting. It burns one as one touches it!’
Cyrus soothed him gently with his cool palm.
‘Come here, Corona,’ he murmured in an undertone to his sister. ‘The poor fellow’s delirious! Come you here and look after him! A little eau de Cologne on his forehead, if you can. There, there, that’ll ease him.’
The stranger shrank back in horror at the touch. It was more than delirium. It was the temporary unhinging that often follows a great crisis.
‘How it bleeds!’ he exclaimed in dismay, looking down at his hands, his eyes all bloodshot. ‘How it bleeds as one touches it! How pale, how white! I can hear them coming up even now from behind! Fiends that they are, if they find the body they’ll mangle it and mutilate it!’
Corona drew a tiny bottle from the charms of her chatelaine, and poured a few drops of eau de Cologne on her palm with quiet tenderness. Then she pressed it to his head.
‘That’ll relieve him a bit, I guess,’ she whispered, leaning over him. ‘One can see he’s terribly anxious in his mind about something.’
‘Seems like remorse,’ Cyrus suggested in an undertone.
Corona shook her head in charitable doubt.
‘More like terror,’ she answered, with a scrutinizing look. ‘They must have chased him hard. He ran for his life, and just got off with his bones whole, I reckon. These Arabs must pretty nearly have made a corpse of him.’
At the sound of that word the mysterious patient, drinking it in greedily, cried out once more in a wild cry of alarm:
‘The corpse! The corpse! I must bury it! bury it!’
‘He’s stronger now,’ the White Brother remarked in French, as the patient clutched Corona’s arm spasmodically. ‘He couldn’t have clutched like that, I’m sure, at Ouargla. The quinine’s done him good. But ever since we’ve had him he’s talked this way. He’s terribly troubled in spirit about something.’
The patient lay stretched on the bed in a nightshirt supplied by the people at the hotel. His own Arab clothes hung up from a peg behind the bedroom door. A happy thought seized Corona.
‘Perhaps his underclothing’s marked, Cy,’ she suggested hopefully. ‘If so, we could see which of the two it is — if it’s really either of them.’
Cyrus rose and examined the clothes with anxious care. Not a sign or a mark could be found upon them anywhere. He shook his head with a despondent sigh.
‘No good,’ he answered gloomily. ‘The man’s dying. And he’ll die without our ever having been able to identify him.’
The White Brother understood the action, though not quite the words.
‘Inutile, monsieur,’ he put in with a decisive air. ‘We searched everything. Not a scrap of writing about him anywhere, except the papers detained at Ouargla. Du reste, it would be hopeless to expect a name. He could only escape by assuming Islam. Through that fanatic population, so lately roused to a pitch of savage enthusiasm, no confessed Christian could possibly make his way in peace or safety. We wouldn’t even venture to penetrate there ourselves. To be suspected of Christianity in such a case is to sign one’s death-warrant. A name written in European letters on an article of clothing would suffice to condemn any man to instant massacre.’
‘We must give it up, then, Corona,’ Cyrus exclaimed, with a groan. ‘We can only describe what he’s like to Miss Dumaresq; and he ain’t like much except a scarecrow at present. But perhaps she’ll be able to say, even so, if it’s him. We could get the body photographed, if he dies in the hotel here.’
That evening, in the salon of the little inn, a new guest, a big-bearded Englishman, joined the small party of desert travellers. He was a bluff engineer of the rougher type, with much-bronzed face and unpolished manners, who had seen service in South America and Mexico long enough to forget his aboriginal position as an English gentleman. His present business, he told them, with the frankness of his kind, was to explore the desert region, with a view to satisfying himself as to the feasibility of the famous Roudaire scheme for flooding a portion of the Saharan depression, and converting the area into an inland sea. He didn’t exactly think the thing could be done, but he thought if only you could float your company there was a jolly good engineering job in it. Like everybody else at Biskra, however, he was deeply interested in the story of the stray refugee from Khartoum, and asked many curious questions of Cyrus as to the man’s appearance, state, and chances of recovery. It was seldom indeed that the little forlorn Saharan town had possessed so striking a sensation; and it made the most of it. Biskra gossip lived for the moment on nothing at all but the name and fame of the survivor of the Soudan.
‘There were a pair of them at first!’ the engineer repeated thoughtfully, as Cyrus finished his uncertain tale. ‘And they ran away from a caravan on camels! Two camels or one, I wonder? One of them dead, and one escaped! A curious coincidence. Reminds me exactly of that singular story old Juarez told me when I was over in Mexico!’
‘What story?’ Cyrus asked, anxious for anything that might cast any light upon the stranger’s mysterious history.
‘Well, perhaps it ain’t quite fair to this man to tell the circumstance,’ the engineer answered, with a tinge of hesitation. ‘It seems like raising suspicion against him without due ground, when, for all I know, he may be all right — as right as ninepence. But it does look odd, certainly, this raving about the corpse. Fishy, decidedly. Reminds me to a T of that curious story of poor old Juarez’s. Juarez, you know, was a Mexican president: president, they call it, for the sake of the sound: dictator or despot comes nearer the mark — just what the old Greeks we read about at school used to call a tyrant.’
Cyrus nodded a cautious assent, though his personal acquaintance with ancient Hellas was strictly confined to the information contained in Cornell’s ‘Universal History for the Use of the Common Schools of the State of Ohio.’
‘Well,’ the engineer continued, stroking his beard with his hand in a contemplative way, ‘it was like this, you see. On one occasion, when they were getting up what they call in those parts a revolution — a jolly good riot, we’d call it in Europe — old Juarez had to fly for his life from Mexico City, away across the plain, with a small band of devoted adherents. So he turned out at dead of night and ran for it like wildfire. They rode on and on across the plain of Mexico, hotly pursued the whole night through by the opposite party, till, one by one, the devoted adherents, finding the pursuit a good deal too warm for their sensitive natures, dropped off at a tangent in different directions, and left Juarez at the dawn of day almost unattended. At last the old blackguard found himself reduced, as luck would have it, to a single companion, almost dead-beat, and with the hue and cry still full pelt after them. He told me the story himself, at Mexico, long afterwards. He was a rare hand at a story, was old Juarez. Well, at the end of his ride, as he was nearing a little mountain fort still held in force by his own party, blessed if his horse didn’t give way all at once, and come down a cropper on the plain under him. Juarez, in a dead funk, called out to his friend to halt and save him. The friend halted, like a fool as he was, and took the old reprobate up behind him — two together on the same tired beast, you understand — and on they rode for dear life once more, full pelt to the shelter. Presently Juarez, looking back over his shoulder, saw the enemy were gaining on them fast; and, making sure the horse could never reach the gates of the fort, burdened as he was with two riders abreast, he decided like a shot on immediate action.
‘“And what did you do?” said I, when he reached that point, just as I’m telling it to you myself this moment.
‘“Why, fortunately,” said he, “I had the presence of mind to draw my pistol and shoot the other man dead on the horse before me.” His friend, you must recollect
, who’d risked his own life to stop and save him. “I’d the presence of mind,” says he, “to draw and shoot him.”’
‘My goodness!’ Corona cried; ‘you don’t mean to say he actually killed him!’
‘Yes, he did, honour bright, I give you my word,’ the bearded engineer responded cheerfully. ‘A rare old blackguard, old Juarez was. And what’s more, he boasted of it, too, just as I told you. “I had the presence of mind,” he said, “to draw my pistol straight off and shoot him.” He thought no more of it than that, I assure you. An episode of his life — that was all — to Juarez.’
At the door of her room that night, as she went to bed, Corona paused, candle in hand, and looked anxiously at Cyrus.
‘Cy,’ she said, ‘I don’t know why, but I wish to goodness that engineer hadn’t told us that awful story about the wicked old Mexican.’
‘So do I,’ Cyrus answered, with averted eyes. ‘It’s — it’s made me feel uncomfortable, some, about the man on the bed in the room down yonder.’
‘I can’t help fancying, myself,’ Corona went on, ‘that this is the wrong one, and he either killed or deserted the right one to save his own life at a critical point, just like the Mexican.’
Cyrus’s face grew gloomier still.
‘We ain’t got any right to judge,’ he answered leniently. ‘But suppose it was the right one, though — eh, Coroney? — and he’d either killed or run away from the wrong one? Wouldn’t that be worse, almost, in the end, for Miss Dumaresq?’
Corona’s honest heart recoiled with horror from the bare insinuation of so hideous a solution. Psyche’s lover could do no wrong.
‘Oh no, Cy!’ she exclaimed loyally. ‘It couldn’t be that. I’d stake my life on it. I’d bet my bottom dollar against that, any way. If there’s anything wrong, it must be the other one. Psyche couldn’t ever fall in love with a man who could go and do a thing like that, you may be certain.’
CHAPTER XLI.
THE MYSTERY SOLVED.
To Haviland Dumaresq’s delight and surprise, Psyche still bore up bravely. Why, it would have been hard indeed to say. Whether, in spite of herself and her gloomy presentiments, she still cherished internally some secret hope that Linnell after all might have escaped from Khartoum and across the desert to Biskra, he hardly knew; but in any case, he was pleased to find her still so buoyant. He hugged himself on the discovery. This trouble would pass over in the end, he felt sure. The mistress of such a splendid fortune as hers must surely be happy!
Poor sordid old thinker! For himself, he would have scouted all ideas of gain; but for Psyche — he was as greedy as the veriest money-grubber in the city of London. Nay, in his own mind, Haviland Dumaresq already gave himself, on Psyche’s behalf, all the airs and importance of a wealthy person. Psyche was now a lady of position. He could hardly help letting Sirena feel the difference in his treatment of herself. And even to Psyche he often implied by a half-uttered side-hint that he regarded her as the possessor of a great estate, with infinite possibilities for the future still lying before her.
But Psyche, poor Psyche, only shrank back in horror from the hideous thought, and cried to herself with unspeakable remorse, a thousand times over, ‘His money! His money! And I sent him to his death! I could never touch a single penny of it.’
And still she bore up, till despair should deepen into perfect certainty. For her father’s sake, and with all the force of her father’s nature, she strove to be calm; she schooled herself to fortitude — till news should come from Biskra.
One bright afternoon Sirena and Dumaresq had taken her between them out upon the dry African hillside, where the pine-trees grew green and the broom blossomed yellow, and the chirp of the cicadas resounded from the rosemary. They seated her down on the arid rocks, under the shadow of a tall and flowery eucalyptus. Birds sang and bees hummed, and in the valley beneath the murmur of water plashed among the stickles. The highroad to Birmandreis ran just below them as they sat, and Psyche, looking down at it with all her might, half fancied she could dimly make out a long white line that threaded the valley; for her eyes were almost wholly blinded now, and she never expected to see any more with them.
As she looked, however, and strained her eyeballs, dark objects passed now and then in shadowy show along the white strip, as one may sometimes see reflections from the street thrown up in vague outline on the ceiling through the curtains. One of them, Sirena said, was an Arab on a donkey; another, a cart going in to Algiers with fruit for the market; a third, a group of veiled Moorish women, coming home from their weekly visit to the cemeteries. Psyche could dimly realize, when told, how each object answered to Sirena’s description.
And then came a fourth, a smaller one than the rest; and that, Sirena imprudently blurted out, was a telegraph boy from the office at Mustapha Palais.
At the word, Psyche’s heart rose up to her mouth within her. She followed the dark spot vaguely along the dim white line.
‘He’s going to the Orangers,’ she cried with a start, as the object halted against a second white blur in the distance. Then the truth flashed across her with a wild surmise: ‘Sirena, Sirena, it’s a telegram from Biskra!’
Sirena, alarmed at her own impudence, ran down the hill in hot haste and tore it open hurriedly. It was addressed outside to Haviland Dumaresq; but in her flurry and excitement she did not pause for a moment to hesitate over a trifle like that. A question of life and death was at issue now. She unfolded the paper and glanced at the contents. Her heart stood still within her in horror as she read:
‘Patient convalescent and quite sensible, though very weak. He gives his name as Sir Austen Linnell, and has come direct through the Soudan from Khartoum. His cousin also escaped from the massacre, and accompanied him on his retreat as far as the desert, but was shot through the heart by Arabs near Ouargla some ten days since, and died without pain. Break the news gently to Miss Dumaresq. — Vanrenen.’
So it was all over! The refugee was the wrong one!
She hurried back, panting, but restraining her tears with a terrible effort, for Psyche’s sake, and handed the paper without one word of note or comment to Dumaresq. The gray old philosopher read doom in her face, but spoke not a syllable, lest the shock should come too suddenly upon Psyche. He took the telegram from her hands and read it through in silence. Psyche gazed up at him with appealing inquiry from those sightless orbs of hers. ‘What does it say, papa?’ she murmured, gasping.
Dumaresq pressed her hand in his. His eyes were full. His voice was too choked for distinct utterance. ‘My darling,’ he whispered in a very low tone, ‘try to bear up. For my sake, Psyche, don’t let it kill you.’
Psyche glanced over his shoulder anxiously at the paper. Her eyes, too, were flooded with rising tears. She brushed them away and tried hard to spell it out. But it was too late now. No effort of will could bring back sight any more to those blinded pupils. Not even her eager desire to know the whole truth — to end this suspense, to face the worst — enabled her to break through that thick black cloud that obscured her vision. The world of form and colour was gone, gone utterly. She could not see even in dim outline. Nothing but darkness rose up before her.
‘I can’t make it out,’ she murmured, grasping her father’s arm hard. ‘Read it to me, papa. I can bear it. I can bear it.’
Dumaresq’s voice faltered terribly.
‘I can’t read it,’ he cried in turn, breaking down in the effort. ‘Read it to her, Sirena. I’ve no voice left. The worst will be better than this suspense she’s been living in.’
Sirena read on as far as the words, ‘Sir Austen Linnell;’ then Psyche’s breath came and went suddenly, and she clenched her hands hard to keep herself from fainting.
‘And Him?’ she said slowly, holding up with an effort. ‘Does your brother know anything about Him, Sirena?’ And those dim eyes fell upon her faithful new friend with unspeakable pathos.
Sirena hesitated a second in doubt. Then, in a voice half broken by irrepress
ible sobs, she went on once more till she came to the words, ‘the Arabs at Ouargla,’ ‘died without pain.’
Psyche drew a deep breath again, and sighed once. Strange to say, she seemed more composed now at the last moment than either of the others. Surely the bitterness of death was past. Compared to her worst fears — her worst dreams of unspeakable Oriental torture — that ‘died without pain’ was almost comfort.
‘I know when he died,’ Psyche murmured low, after a short pause— ‘I had a presentiment. That day when I saw him lying dead by himself on the sands in the desert!’
Her unnatural composure terrified Dumaresq. Such deadly calm at such an awful moment could bode no good. He peered down into her eyes — those deep, clear eyes of hers, and saw they were now tearless as well as sightless.
‘Cry, darling, cry!’ he exclaimed in his terror, clasping her to his bosom in an access of wild despair. ‘Cry, Psyche, for my sake, try to cry! If you don’t, your grief will surely kill you.’
‘I can’t, papa,’ Psyche answered quietly, as pale as death, but horribly calm and immovable. ‘I cried so much at Petherton — in the nights, alone, when nobody knew I was crying at all — that I taught myself how to cry internally, somehow. And now, when I’d like to let the tears come most, I feel I can’t. They won’t break through. My eyes are so hard — like iron balls. There’s no cry left in them.’
The old man seated her gently on the rocks once more. Those great blind eyes of hers gazed blankly and despairingly over the dark, dark world that stretched in front of her. She had nothing left to live for in it all now. She sat bolt upright, immovable as stone. Her heart stood still like a stone within her. She said nothing, she saw nothing, she thought of nothing. A great numbness seemed to steal over her senses. She wasn’t even unhappy in any active sense. She was conscious only in a dreary, weary, half dead-alive way of a vast calm blank spread for ever before her.
She was sinking, in fact, into utter lethargy. Long grief and despair had driven her senseless.