diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-0.txt | 10834 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/76971-h.htm | 11463 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 254071 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/frontis.jpg | bin | 0 -> 260518 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i004.jpg | bin | 0 -> 248579 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i026.jpg | bin | 0 -> 248023 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i062.jpg | bin | 0 -> 254139 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i073.jpg | bin | 0 -> 259302 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i090.jpg | bin | 0 -> 260165 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i130.jpg | bin | 0 -> 248121 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/i144.jpg | bin | 0 -> 259280 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76971-h/images/title.jpg | bin | 0 -> 70465 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
15 files changed, 22313 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76971-0.txt b/76971-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..564ac3a --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10834 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76971 *** + + + +[Illustration: “MURDERER!” I SAID, “MURDERER!”] + + + + + THE + BLACK SPANIEL + + _And Other Stories_ + + BY + ROBERT HICHENS + + Author of “The Garden of Allah,” “The Woman + With the Fan,” “Felix,” etc. + + WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY + A. FORESTIER + + [Illustration] + + + NEW YORK + FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY + PUBLISHERS + + + Copyright, 1905, by + ROBERT HICHENS + + _This edition published in October, 1905_ + + + Presswork by The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A. + + + + + CONTENTS + + + PAGE + + +The Black Spaniel+ 1 + + +The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne+ 147 + + +Desert Air+ 231 + + “+Fin Tireur+” 255 + + +Halima and the Scorpions+ 269 + + +The Desert Drum+ 287 + + +The Princess and the Jewel Doctor+ 307 + + +The Figure in the Mirage+ 321 + + +Safti’s Summer Day+ 337 + + +Smaïn+ 343 + + +The Spinster+ 351 + + +Pancrazia’s Hair+ 371 + + + + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + + “Murderer!” I said, “Murderer!” _Frontispiece_ + + FACING + PAGE + + She and her Companions were obviously Italians 4 + + As I walked back I thought over Vernon’s last words 26 + + As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door 63 + + “That dog there,” said Vernon; “how long have you had him?” 73 + + “Poor beast! Poor beast!” 90 + + While I was there Deeming came back unexpectedly 131 + + I went out into the night carrying it in my arms 145 + + + + + _PART I—THE DEATH_ + + + I + +In the big hall of the Grand Hotel at Rome I introduced Peter Deeming +to Vernon Kersteven. + +The two men were friends of mine, and I wanted them to like each +other; and, perhaps because they were both fond of me, I thought that +they would get on well together, and that we should form a happy and +a lively trio at dinner. Was this the fancy of an egoist? I have +sometimes wondered since. + +At the time I speak of I had known Deeming for over two years, having +met him first in London at a friend’s house. Vernon was a comparatively +recent acquaintance whom I had encountered when I was travelling in +Algeria; but already in my heart I gave him the dearer title, for I had +come to like him greatly, and I knew that my sympathy was returned. + +The two men were very different—in their appearance, their natures, +their ways of life—but differences sometimes seem to make for pleasant +intercourse, and even for intimacy. We often love ourselves; but do we +generally love those who markedly resemble us? + +Vernon usually spent his winters in Rome, where he had a delightful +house on the Trinità dei Monti. Deeming had come from England to take a +long holiday, as his health had partially broken down from overwork. He +was a very successful London doctor, devoted to his profession. Vernon +was a rich man, passionately interested in the arts and in travel. How +well I remember that first evening we spent together, that—I had almost +written fatal evening! We were dining in the restaurant, and directly I +had made my friends known to each other we went in and sat down at our +table, which was in the middle of the room. + +Deeming was a very thin man, nearly forty, clean shaven, with iron-grey +thick hair, narrow clear-cut features, and a tremendously decisive +mouth and chin, betokening power and resolution. His face was pale, and +bore traces of his recent illness. In his long, rather colourless grey +eyes, penetrating and usually calm, one could see the slightly anxious +and irritable expression of a man whose nerves had been, and still +were, overwrought. His hands were delicate, with thin fingers curving +backward perceptibly at the tips. He leaned forward as he sat in his +chair, glancing over the crowd of English, Americans, and foreigners +who were busily eating and talking round us. + +Vernon was tall and fair, younger than Deeming by some five or six +years, with meditative, almost gentle, and very kind brown eyes, a +sensitive, though not handsome, face, with a clear boyish colour in it, +a voice that was generally low unless he got much interested in the +subject he was discussing, and an extremely fascinating manner, whose +fascination sprang from his great courtesy, combined with a perfectly +natural self-possession, as of a man who seldom thought about himself, +and who was desirous of making things go easily and pleasantly for +those with whom he was brought into contact. + +I saw Deeming look at him steadily, rather as a doctor looks at a new +patient, more than once as we drank our soup, and I knew that with +his invariable acuteness he was taking stock of his new acquaintance. +Vernon, on the other hand, showed at first no special interest in +Deeming, did not regard him earnestly, but was gracefully agreeable to +him as he was to everyone. He was far more what is generally called a +man of the world than Deeming, whose devotion to, and great success in, +his profession had kept him bound to the wheel of work in London, and +had prevented him from having the opportunity of knowing the nations +and mixing perpetually with society which Vernon had enjoyed. + +At first we talked quietly, almost languidly, of Rome, of its changes +and its tourists, of the influence of America upon its society, of its +climate, of the differences between life in England and life abroad, +and so forth. It was not till the middle of dinner that anything +occurred to wake us up into great animation. Then a stout, dark, and +very vivacious little lady, with a commanding air, came into the +restaurant followed by two men, and sat down at a table near us. She +and her companions were obviously Italians, and almost directly she +screwed up her eyes at Vernon and nodded to him. He returned her salute +with _empressement_. + +“Would you mind telling me who that lady is?” said Deeming. + +“Margherita Terrascalchi,” replied Vernon. + +“What—the famous authoress?” I said. “The writer of ‘Pietà’?” + +“Yes.” + +Deeming stared hard at the little lady, who was beginning to eat with +extraordinary, almost comical, gusto. + +“I have read that book,” he said. “In a translation.” + +“What do you think of it?” asked Vernon. + +“No doubt it is well done and calculated to move the ordinary reader.” + +“Only the ordinary reader?” said Vernon, with a slight upward movement +of his eyebrows. + +“I think it wrongheaded and sentimental,” said Deeming, with more +energy than he had yet shown. “She appears to wish to elevate the +animals above humanity, to take them out of their proper place.” + +[Illustration: “SHE AND HER COMPANIONS WERE OBVIOUSLY ITALIANS.”] + +“What would you say is their proper place?” + +“They are in the world, in my opinion, to be the servants of humanity, +to minister to our comfort, our pleasure, our necessities, to help to +increase our knowledge and satisfy our appetites, to give us ease and +to gain us money. Don’t you think so?” + +“No doubt many scientists, many sportsmen, and most, if not all, +butchers do.” + +I laughed. + +“But you, Vernon,” I said, “are neither scientist, sportsman, nor +butcher, and Deeming asks you what you think.” + +Vernon was looking less tranquil, less gentle than usual at this +moment. His face was lit up by a fire I had never seen burning in his +eyes before. + +“My sympathies march with Madame Terrascalchi’s,” he answered, “though +perhaps she expresses them with a feminine enthusiasm that may seem to +some almost hysterical, and is carried away by her passion of pity into +an excess of animosity against men and women, who often err against the +animal world more from lack of imagination than from any definite bias +towards cruelty.” + +“The question is, are we to be the servants of the animals or they to +be our servants?” Deeming said rather drily. “I notice that Madame +Terrascalchi is eating something that looks remarkably like a veal +cutlet at this very moment.” + +“Oh,” said Vernon, with his pleasant smile. “I hold no brief for her. +I believe her, in fact, to be very—shall I say human? But as to what +you were saying. Is it wholly a matter of whether we are to be masters +or slaves? Cannot we and the animals—we are not, of course, discussing +dangerous wild beasts—be friends, or, let us say, could we not be +friends, good and close friends, they serving us in their way, we +serving them in ours?” + +“How are we to serve the animals?” asked Deeming, still drily. + +“By considering them far more than we generally do, by studying them, +their natures, habits, desires, likes and dislikes far more closely, by +encouraging their affection for us, and giving them more of ours.” + +“I think that would be a great waste of time.” + +“Deeming is a terribly busy man, Vernon,” I said. + +“I know my London well enough to know it,” Vernon remarked politely. +“Still, I think we might find time for that; even that we ought to find +time for it. I am rather what you might call a ‘crank’ on the subject +of the animal world.” + +“I didn’t know it,” I said. + +“Oh, yes, I am.” + +The almost fierce light again shone in his eyes. + +“I love all animals. Ouida speaks of their ‘mysterious lives,’ spent +side by side with ours, and comparatively little noticed, little +sympathised with by us. I know that many animal-lovers would raise a +cry of protest against this. ‘Look,’ they would say, ‘how dogs are +worshipped and petted, how horses are loved by their owners, how +cats are stroked and fondled!’ and so forth. Yes, it is true. Out +of the great world of the animals, we—those of us who are fond of +animals—select a few who, we think, can minister to our pleasure, and +we give them, or think we give them, a good time. But these pet animals +who enjoy life are few in number compared with the many who are made +to suffer by man; the dogs that are kept everlastingly tied up, or are +half-starved, or are perpetually cuffed and kicked and beaten; the cats +that are abandoned to die when their thoughtless owners change home; +the horses that are overdriven, tortured by tight bearing-reins, lashed +with the whip, made to draw loads that are too heavy for them; the +birds—let me include them—that are forced to spend their lives in tiny +cages in dark places. To any real, observant lover of animals, even +of the so-called pet animals—excluding the beasts of burden, donkeys, +mules, oxen, and the beasts that form part of our food supply, and +the dumb creatures that are given over to the tender mercies of the +sportsman: the hares that are coursed, the foxes and stags and deer +that are hunted, the pigeons that are let out of traps (their eyes +pierced to make them fly in a given direction) to be shot and are often +left maimed to die, the sea-birds that the Cockney ‘wings’ and abandons +to starve and rot, floating helpless on the waves of the sea, the +pheasants that, wounded in a battue, are crushed one on the top of the +other into bags to perish of suffocation; excluding all these—to any +real and observant lover of animals the lack of sympathy, or the actual +cruelty of man, is a perpetual source of disturbance, of anxiety, even +of lively distress and misery.” + +I was quite amazed at the energy with which Vernon had spoken, at the +vigour and force of his manner. He paused for a moment, then he added— + +“My love of animals has given me very many horrible moments in my +life, moments in which I confess that my heart has been turned to +bitterness and I have longed to make men suffer as they were making +animals suffer. Yes, I have longed to see the cursed Cockney sportsman +drifting face to face with a lingering death upon the sea, the callous +game-preserver wounded in one of his traps and alone in the darkness of +night in the forest, the careless hunter at bay with hounds rushing in +upon him. But especially have I known the longing to turn one whom I +have seen being cruel to a pet animal into that animal, and to be his +master for a little while. You know some hold that theory.” + +“What theory?” said Deeming. + +“That what we do is eventually done to us in another life; for +instance, that if a man has been brutal to an animal, at death his soul +passes into a similar animal, which endures the fate he once meted out +when he was a man.” + +“Good heavens!” exclaimed Deeming. “You surely can’t believe such +unscientific nonsense!” + +“I did not say I believed it, but I should not be sorry to.” + +He sipped his champagne. Then, more lightly, he said— + +“I told you I was a bit of a crank. I am even hand-in-glove with Arthur +Gernham.” + +At the mention of this name, Deeming moved, and I saw his eyes flash. + +“The prominent anti-vivisectionist?” he said. + +“Yes.” + +“And you share his views?” + +“To a considerable extent, though I don’t always approve of what he +writes or of what he says.” + +“I’m glad of that. We doctors, you know, ab—well, we don’t love +that eager gentleman. If he had his way humanity would undoubtedly +suffer far more in the future than it will. For I don’t think his +sentimentalities and wild exaggerations will ever gain over our +legislators to his views.” + +“Perhaps not. But I sometimes wonder whether anyone has the right, +whether anyone was intended by the Creator to have the right, to avoid +suffering at the cost of inflicting it, even to save life by causing +death. However, the vivisection question is hardly a pleasant one for +the dinner-table, eh!” + +There was a moment’s silence. Then Deeming said— + +“Of course you never shoot or hunt?” + +“Never.” + +“I do,” I said. “But I am not such a contemptible hypocrite as to deny +that cruelty, and often very gross cruelty, enters into sport.” + +Deeming slightly smiled. + +“Do you keep any pets?” said Vernon to him, rather sharply. + +“Yes. I have a dog at home, a black spaniel; and you?” + +“No. For years I have kept no animals. I shall never keep one again.” + +“That surprises me. You would give them a remarkably good time, I feel +sure.” + +“I have a reason.” + +“May I ask what it is?” + +“Certainly. I once had a dog that I—that I cared about. She was out +with me one day in London and disappeared. I made every possible +inquiry, offered a reward, went to the Dogs’ Home, but I couldn’t find +her. Eventually, through an odd chain of circumstances that I needn’t +trouble you with, I learnt her fate.” + +“What was it?” I asked. + +“She had been picked up by a dog-stealer and sold to the proprietor of +an establishment called ‘Lilac Hall,’ near London.” + +“An establishment?” I said, struck by the tone in which he had uttered +the words. + +“Where a large number—stock, I’ll say—of animals of all kinds, horses, +cats, rabbits, guinea-pigs, dogs, was kept on hand for scientific +purposes. My companion and friend died under the knife of the +vivisector. What do you think of the food here? They’ve got a new +_chef_.” + +“I—I—oh, it’s very good, I think; it’s excellent.” + +Deeming seemed startled by the sudden change of topic, and when we went +into the hall to smoke he tried to return to the discussion. But Vernon +did not rise to the bait he threw out, and at last frankly said— + +“You’d much better not get me on to the subject of animals. I am really +a bore when I let myself loose, as I did at dinner. And I am quite sure +you”—and he met Deeming’s eyes—“don’t agree with my views. Are you +staying long in Rome?” + +“Till I feel quite set up again and ready for work.” + +“Then I’ll hope you’ll come and see me.” + +He gave his card to Deeming, and soon after went away. + +I felt sure he had asked Deeming to call in order to please me. My two +friends, I feared, had not taken a fancy to each other. One curious +thing struck me as I watched Vernon’s tall figure going out through +the doorway to the street. It was this—that I knew a side of Vernon’s, +and a side of Deeming’s character that had been hitherto completely +concealed from me. Each had elicited a frankness from the other that I, +of whom they were fond, had not been able to bring forth. + +Their two enmities—so I thought of it—had clashed together and struck +out sparks of truth. + +By the way, Vernon’s last remark to me in the outer hall of the hotel, +whither I had accompanied him, leaving Deeming in the winter-garden, +was this— + +“I shouldn’t care to be Deeming’s black spaniel.” + + + II + +A day or two afterwards Deeming said to me, “I’m going to call on your +friend Vernon this afternoon. When is he likely to be in?” + +“He’s generally at home between six and seven,” I said. After a moment +I added, “You want to find him then?” + +“Why—yes. He’s a very agreeable fellow. Did you think I disliked him?” + +“Disliked him—no, hardly that. But, somehow, I scarcely fancied you two +were quite in sympathy the other night.” + +“Oh, you mean that animal-versus-human-being discussion. Now it is just +because of that I want to meet him again.” + +“To win him over to your views?” + +“Well, I confess that I should like to get him to see how harmful +such a man as his friend Gernham is or may become to the world—of men +understood. He’s probably got all kinds of absurd notions as to how +vivisection is carried on. I should like to have a quiet, reasonable +talk with him.” + +“Go to-day, then, at six. You’re almost sure to find him.” + +“I will.” + +And Deeming set his lips together with determination. + +I was, I confess, a little curious as to the result of the interview. I +heard something about it the same evening from Vernon, who sent round a +note asking me to dine with him alone. + +“Your friend Deeming has been here,” he said, almost directly I was in +the house. + +“I know. Did you have a pleasant time?” + +“He’s extremely intelligent—got a great deal of character, real force. +That ruthless mouth and chin of his tell the truth.” + +At this moment the servant said that dinner was ready. We continued our +conversation in the dining-room, which was hung with sacred pictures, +gentle-eyed Madonnas—one by Luini—Saints, an Agony in the Garden by +an unnamed painter, the little children coming to Christ, the Magi +offering their gifts, watched by calm-eyed beasts in a dim stable. + +“Yes,” I said. “Deeming is very decisive.” + +“To me there’s something very strange in the thought that he is a +healer.” + +“Why?” + +“Well—do you mind my speaking frankly about a friend of yours?” + +“Not a bit.” + +“I shall startle you, perhaps. You know one reads sometimes in the +papers of people who are afflicted with what is called the mania to +persecute. There was a trial of a woman not long ago—a Mrs. Denby.” + +“I know. But⸺” + +“And there have been various instances in distant Colonial possessions +of France and Belgium—and, perhaps, of other countries—various +instances of men placed practically in the position of tyrants who have +indulged in orgies of persecution of natives.” + +“But, my dear Vernon, you surely don’t mean that you think Deeming has +the bloodlust because he believes good can come of vivisection. Upon my +word, if you don’t take care, I shall begin to think you really are a +crank.” + +“It isn’t that. It isn’t what the man says. I can quite understand that +as a doctor he wishes by every means to advance the spread of medical +knowledge. No, no; it’s the man himself. Do you know him well?” + +“I have seen a good deal of him in London. Not a great deal, because +he’s such a busy man. But I have often been with him.” + +“Often in his house?” + +“More often at his club, and in my own house and at restaurants. Being +a bachelor, when he entertains he nearly always does so at Claridge’s, +or the Savoy, or one of those places. But, of course, I have been in +his house.” + +“Have you ever seen his dog, that black spaniel he spoke of?” + +“No, I can’t remember that I have.” + +For a moment Vernon spoke of a certain dish that had just been brought +in, a special _plat_ for which his cook was famous. Then he said— + +“That dog I spoke of the other night—the dog I lost—you remember?” + +“Yes.” + +“She was a black spaniel.” + +His tone in saying this was so peculiar that I was misled and +exclaimed: “But you told us the poor beast was killed in that house—in +Lilac Hall!” + +“So she was.” + +“I thought—really, by the way you spoke, you led me to imagine that +perhaps you fancied Deeming had got possession of your dog.” + +“Oh, dear no! Whisper is dead, years ago. I seldom speak of her.” + +“I never heard you mention her till the other night.” + +“The other night I showed you a side of me that you had never suspected +the existence of, didn’t I?” + +“You did indeed.” + +“Well, having broken through my reserve, I feel that I don’t mind being +frank with you.” + +His eyes began to shine as they had shone in the restaurant when he +spoke of man’s cruelty to animals. + +“My dog was the greatest solace in my life,” he said. “I am not a +sentimental fool. There is nothing either sentimental or foolish +in loving that which, with a whole heart and perfectly, loves you. +And a dog’s devotion really is one of the most perfect, one of the +most touching, and one of the most complete sentiments that can be +manifested by one living creature to another. Not to respond to it +would be absolutely devilish. But one can’t help oneself if one isn’t +made of stone. I won’t bore you with a long account of Whisper’s +devotion and fidelity. Why should I? It’s enough to say that she +loved me as much as a dog can love, and in a dog’s way, with absolute +unselfishness, with entire singleheartedness. I never felt lonely when +she was with me, scarcely ever even dull. When I had been out without +her, and, on my return, she met me at the door, almost hysterically +eager to show her rapture, I—well, I was glad to be alive, and felt +that life was worth while so long as I could evoke such a tempest of +delight in any living creature. A faithful dog, believe me, is the +best bulwark against the coming of cynicism. You can’t be a cynic +when a dog’s cold nose is pushed into your hand, or a dog’s paw is +placed gently and solemnly upon your knee. When I lost Whisper, when I +found out what had been her fate, I felt something that was more than +grief”—he leaned over the table and laid his hand on my arm—“I felt +hatred, burning hatred, against those who had snared and murdered her, +against all who use animals cruelly for the purposes of men.” + +His face was transformed. I seemed to see before me a man whom I had +never seen before. This man, I felt, could be not only gentle, but +vindictive, and would be quite capable of expressing himself not only +in words, but also through actions. + +“I can understand your bitterness,” I said. “But does not this +recalling of a painful event only stir up recollections that⸺?” + +He interrupted me almost roughly. + +“That doesn’t matter at all. I want to tell you now. I prefer to.” + +“Go on, then,” I said. + +He took his hand from my arm, and continued— + +“The fate of my companion altered me. It either stirred from sleep, +or actually woke into life, a fierceness that till then I had not +known existed, or could exist, in me. It made me understand that, in +certain circumstances and to certain people, I could be implacable, +almost ferocious; that I could deny the sole right of Providence—you +know the text: why quote it?—to administer that gorgeous justice we +name vengeance; that I could stand up and exclaim, ‘I will repay,’ +and repay without fear, without flinching, and even to the uttermost +farthing. But that was not all it did to me. With this awakening, or +this creation of fierceness in me, there came a deepening of pity, +of tenderness for the slaves of man. Yet I was selfish, and I have +remained selfish.” + +“How?” I asked, wondering. + +“It was, and is, in my power to make at least some animals happy, as I +had made my dead dog happy. I could not, and cannot, bring myself to do +that. I feared and I fear too much to suffer again as I suffered when +I lost Whisper, and when I learnt the truth about her end. That end +has been a nightmare to me ever since. I cannot think of it even now +without torture.” + +“My dear fellow,” I said. “Don’t dwell upon it. To do so is really +morbid.” + +“I don’t dwell upon it, as a rule. Have I ever even mentioned this +subject to you before?” + +“No, no. But⸺” + +“That man, your friend Deeming, has roused me up. I—I tell you that I +hate—that it is almost unbearable to me to think of his having a dog—a +black spaniel, like Whisper—in his power.” + +He said the last words with extraordinary vehemence. + +“That was what you meant then!” I exclaimed. + +“When you mistook me just now? Yes, that!” + +He relapsed into silence, but kept his still glowing eyes fixed upon +me. I seemed to read in them that he had more to tell me, to see that +there was some project, some intention of action, blazing in his mind. + +“Look here, Vernon,” I said, determined to be quite frank with him at +whatever cost, “Deeming is a friend of mine.” + +“I know.” + +“That being so, I don’t think you can expect me to be ready to harbour +foul suspicions of him without any reason for them being adduced. If he +were to be suspicious of you, and told me so, I should speak to him as +I speak to you now. What on earth has the man done or said to make you +so violent—yes, my dear friend, that is the word—against him?” + +He did not look angry at my energy, but, on the other hand, he did not +look doubtful or disposed towards modification. He only said, “How well +do you know Deeming?” + +“Not very intimately, but well enough to feel sure that he is a humane +man. Patients of his have spoken to me of him, of his skill, his care, +and devotion in the highest terms.” + +“I don’t doubt it. I don’t doubt that he is humane as a doctor. Anyone +can see that he is devoted to his profession, and his profession is to +heal human suffering. Ambition alone would cause him to be humane—as a +doctor.” + +“You said yourself you were a bit of a crank. Aren’t you ever afraid +that your crankiness may lead you—now do forgive me!—into something +approaching malice?” + +I thought he might be angry, but he wasn’t. + +“My intuition—apart from anything else,” he said—“my intuition tells me +that Deeming is a cruel man.” + +“I don’t believe it. Vivisection⸺” + +“I’m not thinking of that now. What I am thinking is that I should like +to see Deeming’s dog.” + +“That wouldn’t be difficult, I imagine.” + +“You don’t mean that she is with him here, in Rome?” + +“Oh no. A dog in a hotel is apt to be a nuisance.” + +“I don’t agree with you.” + +“Well, well; but you always come to London in the late summer. I +suppose you’ll do so this year?” + +“Probably.” + +“Call on Deeming. He’s a hospitable man, and if you entertain him here +in Rome, he is sure to ask you out in London. There you can see for +yourself whether his dog isn’t properly treated, as I’ll swear she is, +and as happy as dog can be.” + +I spoke lightly, even with a deliberately jocose and chaffing air. He +listened to me gravely. + +“I will invite Deeming here,” he said. “Indeed, I intended to in any +case, as he is a friend of yours.” + +“Thank you.” + +“But you say he usually entertains in restaurants when he is in London. +I have no reason to think I shall ever set my foot inside his house.” + +The extreme gravity of his manner, the earnestness of the eyes that +were fixed upon me, made me realise how strong was his strange desire, +and therefore, how strong was his—as I thought then—absurd and +unreasonable suspicion. I might have continued to laugh at it, and +chaff him about it, but I did not. Something in his face and manner +made me unable to do so, made me suddenly conscious that, however much +I laughed, I could never laugh him out of his curious, and surely +morbid, anxiety to verify, or lull to rest, his fears. And I must +confess—so easily are we influenced by certain convinced people whom we +care for—that I, too, was becoming, at that moment, oddly interested in +this matter of Deeming and his black spaniel. Why had I never seen the +dog, never heard Deeming mention it till the other night? + +“If Deeming doesn’t invite you to his house,” I said, changing my tone, +“there’s a very easy method of getting into it.” + +“What method?” said Vernon eagerly. + +“Go to him as a patient.” + +I had scarcely said the words before I felt uncomfortable, almost +traitorous. Here was I entering into something that was like a plot +with one friend to get at a knowledge of another which that other had +never voluntarily tendered to me. I was angry with myself. + +“Upon my word, Vernon,” I exclaimed, “I’m ashamed of myself! Don’t let +us discuss this matter any longer. Deeming and you are both my friends, +and I wish to act always fairly and squarely by you both.” + +“What unfairness is there in enabling me to prove the folly and +falseness of my suspicions?” he rejoined quickly. + +“I know—I know; but—oh, the whole thing is really absurd. It is madness +to think such things of a man with no evidence to go upon.” + +“How do you know that I have no evidence?” + +“How can you have any?” + +“Are a man’s words no evidence? Is his face while he says them no +evidence?” + +“Did you talk about his dog when he was here this afternoon?” I asked +abruptly, moved by a sudden impression that he was keeping something +from me. + +“He wouldn’t talk about her. I am quite certain of one thing.” + +“What is that?” + +“That Deeming wishes now that he had never mentioned to us that he had +a dog.” + +I suppose I looked incredulous, for he added, without giving me time to +speak— + +“When you see him again, try to turn the conversation upon the black +spaniel, and see how he takes it. And now let us talk of something +else.” + +During the rest of the evening Deeming and his dog were not mentioned. +Vernon resumed, almost like a garment, his old self, the self I had +always known, cultured, gentle in manner, full of interest in every +topic that lent itself to quiet discussion and amiable debate. The evil +spirit—I thought of it as almost that—had departed out of him, and +when I got up to go I could hardly believe that I had ever been the +recipient of his vehemence, or seen his eyes blazing with the light of +scarcely controlled passion. He came with me to the hall-door and let +me out into the quiet night. + +“Good-bye,” he said, pressing my hand. + +“Good-bye,” I answered. + +I hesitated. Then I said— + +“Doesn’t this calm of the night embracing Rome make you—make you feel +that in your suspicions of Deeming you have been unreasonable; that, +after all, it is unlikely he should be what you have fancied him to be?” + +In an instant all the calmness, all the gentleness went out of his +face. But he only answered— + +“When you get back to the hotel talk to him about his black spaniel, +and see how he takes it. Good-night.” + +Before I could say anything more he had drawn back into his house and +shut the door quickly behind him. + + + III + +As I walked back to the Grand Hotel I thought over Vernon’s last words +and the way in which he had said them. Should I obey his injunctions? +I confessed to myself with reluctance that my conversation with him +that evening had made me suspicious of a friend. Yet I had Vernon’s +own word for it that he was a crank on the subject of animals, and +my recent experience of him almost forced me to the conclusion that +in his nature, usually so gentle, there must be an odd strain of +fanaticism. My mind was troubled, and I reached the hotel without +coming to a decision as to whether I would speak to Deeming about his +dog or not. As I came into the outer hall I saw him through the glass +door sitting alone in the winter garden, smoking, with a paper, which +he was not reading, lying on his knee. He did not see me, and, for a +moment, I watched him with a furtive curiosity of which I was secretly +half-ashamed. Perhaps stirred by my gaze, he suddenly looked up, caught +sight of me, smiled, and made a slight gesture, as if beckoning me to +come in and have a talk. I took off my overcoat and joined him. + +“I’ve just come from Vernon,” I said, sitting down and lighting a cigar. + +[Illustration: “AS I WALKED BACK, I THOUGHT OVER VERNON’S LAST WORDS.”] + +“Ah!” said Deeming. + +He uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and added: + +“He’s got a beautiful house.” + +“Yes, one of the most beautiful in Rome. He wants you to dine with him +one night, I believe. Probably he’ll ask you in a day or two.” + +“Very good of him.” + +His voice was scarcely cordial. + +“He’s a curious fellow,” he continued. “Easy in his manner, but +difficult really to know, I fancy.” + +“If you dine with him you may find him less reserved,” I said, rather +perfunctorily. + +“I don’t suppose he’ll ask me alone.” + +“Oh, I shouldn’t wonder.” + +“I don’t think he cares much about me,” Deeming continued abruptly. “Do +you?” + +“My dear fellow, he hardly knows you,” I exclaimed. “You haven’t been +quarrelling over the animal world this afternoon, have you?” + +And I laughed, but without much cordiality, I fear. + +“Did he say we had?” + +“Good heavens, no! But you differ on the dog question, and so⸺” + +Deeming frowned. + +“The dog question!” he said. “Why on earth should you call it that?” + +“Well, I mean that he’s very sensitive since he lost his dog, and +that perhaps makes him a little unreasonable at times, though I must +say that till the other night when he dined here I never heard him +mention the subject of animals and their relation with man. And, by the +way, you’ve been equally silent. Till the other night I never knew you +possessed a dog.” + +“Is it such an important matter that I should go about proclaiming it?” + +His tone was suddenly hard and impatient. + +“No, of course not.” + +“I hate people who bother their friends about their pets. It’s almost +as bad as the women who are always talking about the marvellous beauty +and genius of their squalling babies.” + +He set his lips together as if he never meant to open them again, and +I saw a look as of acute nervous irritation in his eyes. It warned me +not to persevere in the conversation, and made me vexed with myself for +having given way to Vernon’s desire. + +“Let’s have a nightcap,” I said. “What do you think of doing to-morrow? +What do you say to getting a carriage and driving over to lunch at +Tivoli?” + +He looked more easy. + +“If it is fine I should enjoy it immensely,” he said in a calmer voice. + +And we talked of old gardens and the beauty of rushing water. + +We spent the following day together at Tivoli. When we came back +towards evening, the hall-porter handed to Deeming a note. It was from +Vernon, inviting him to dine two days later. + +“You see how he hates you!” I said chaffingly when he told me. “Do you +mean to go?” + +“Oh, yes. Why not?” + +He spoke lightly, holding the note open in his hand. + +He did not go, however, and for this reason. On the morning of the day +he was to dine with Vernon, he left Rome for England. An urgent summons +from a patient, he told me, made it necessary for him to go to London +without a moment’s delay. + +I remonstrated with him, but in vain. + +“I’ve had quite enough rest,” he said. “I’m all right. And this is an +important matter. It means a very large sum of money.” + +“Health’s more than money.” + +“Certainly, but I feel quite my own man again.” + +He did not look it, but I said no more. + +I knew that argument would be useless. He sent a note to Vernon, and, +when I bade him good-bye, begged me to express his regret at being +obliged to cancel the dinner. + +“But I hope some day he’ll come to dine with me in London. Do tell him +so,” he said, as he stepped into the omnibus to go to the station. “I +should like to meet him again.” + +Those were his last words. I repeated them to Vernon. + +“I shall not forget that invitation, I assure you,” he said quietly. +“And I may be able to enjoy Deeming’s hospitality sooner than he, +perhaps, expects.” + +“Why? You’re surely not going to London yet awhile? I thought you loved +your June in Rome better than any other month of the year.” + +“But I’ve had so many Junes in Rome that I think I shall make a change. +By the way, when will you be in London?” + +“Oh, certainly by the last week in April.” + +“If I asked to travel back with you, would you object to my company?” + +“My dear fellow! Of course I should be delighted.” + +“Let us consider it a bargain, then.” + +He spoke decisively, and shook me by the hand as if to clinch the +bargain. Nor did he forget it. + +The third week in April found us in Paris, and on the twenty-second of +that month we stepped into the _rapide_ at the Gare du Nord, bound for +England. + +We sat opposite to one another in the compartment, with, at first, +ramparts of London papers between us; but, as we drew near to Boulogne, +first Vernon’s rampart fell, and then mine. The thought of the +nearness of England had got hold of us both. London ideas were taking +possession of us, and, as the train rushed on towards the sea, we +became restless, as if the roar of the great city were already in our +ears. + +“Do you know,” I said, breaking our mutual silence, “that, familiar as +I am with London, I can never return to it after an absence without a +feeling of apprehension. It always seems to me that in its black and +smoky arms it must hold some disaster which it is waiting to give to +me.” + +“I’ve had that sensation, too,” said Vernon. “Among the cities of the +world London is the monster, not merely by right of size but by other, +and more mysterious rights. It affects my imagination more than any of +the European capitals, but rather frightfully than agreeably. I feel +that it is the city of adventure, but that every adventure there must +have a fearsome ending.” + +“No doubt we are affected by its climate and its atmosphere.” + +“I dare say. Still, if anything very strange, very uncommon, should +ever happen to me, I am quite sure that it will be in London.” + +I smiled. + +“My experience,” I said, “has been that in London I am perpetually +expectant of gloomy and mysterious events, but that my life there is +remarkably unromantic and commonplace.” + +“You speak almost regretfully. Do you wish for gloomy and mysterious +events in your life?” + +“I suppose not. Yet there is a spirit hidden in one which does sigh +plaintively for the strange.” + +“Perhaps this time it will be gratified.” + +Something in the tone of his voice moved me to say— + +“Do you expect it to be gratified?” + +“I! Why should I?” + +“I don’t know. Something in your voice made me fancy that you did.” + +He laughed. + +“The London atmosphere is, perhaps, affecting me already,” he said. +“The London influence is taking hold of me. I told you it always +stirred my imagination.” + +“At Boulogne-sur-mer!” I said, as the train ran into the station. “The +monster’s arms are longer than Goliath’s!” + +The stoppage of the train interrupted our conversation. We got out +to stretch our legs for a moment, and as we did so I found myself +wondering why Vernon, generally a very frank man, at any rate with +me, should have met my plain question with an attempt at laughing +subterfuge. It was a very slight matter, of course. In another man I +should, perhaps, scarcely have noticed it. But it was not Vernon’s way, +and therefore it struck me. I felt that he wished to prevent me from +getting at the truth of his mind at this moment. Usually, his desire +certainly was that the truth of his mind should be known to me. + +We travelled to Calais in silence. Then came the bustle of going +aboard the steamer and fortifying ourselves against the painful +attentions of a sharp north-easterly wind. When we were established +in our deck-chairs, and closely wrapped in rugs, we glanced round to +see whether we had any acquaintances among our fellow-passengers. +The steamer was just casting off, and some, like ourselves, were +already settled down for the voyage, while others were tramping up and +down briskly, with an air of determination, as if bent upon making +their blood circulate, and getting the maximum of benefit out of the +crossing. Among the latter was an elderly man, with pepper-and-salt +hair and a thin, aristocratic face. + +“Hullo,” I said, “there’s Lord Elyn. I wonder where he’s come from.” + +Turning in his walk, he was in front of us almost as I said the words, +and, seeing me, stopped, and, bending down, shook my hand. + +“Where do you hail from?” he asked. + +“Paris,” I answered. “I’ve been in Rome. And you?” + +“Calais.” + +“You’ve been staying at Calais?” + +“No. I’m here for my medicine. I live on the Channel at present, or +nearly. My doctor, Peter Deeming—he’ll be Sir Peter before long, +I suppose—has prescribed the double voyage, from Dover and back, +every day of the week for a month. I sleep at the Burlington and eat +bœuf-à-la-mode at the Calais buffet every midday of my life just now.” + +“Deeming’s a friend of mine—of ours,” I said. “May I introduce Mr. +Kersteven—Lord Elyn.” + +The two men bowed. + +“It’s a pity he doesn’t take his own medicine,” said Lord Elyn. “I’ve +tried to persuade him, but in vain so far. However, I’ve got his +promise to come down to-night—Saturday, you know—and stay till Monday, +and make the voyage with me to-morrow. I expect to find him at the +Burlington when I get back.” + +I saw a sharp look of eagerness come into Vernon’s face. + +“Is Deeming looking ill, Lord Elyn?” he asked. “You say it is a pity he +doesn’t take the medicine he prescribes for you.” + +“I think him looking very ill—pale and worried and played out. He is +too great a success and pays the penalty—works too hard, like most +successful men. He ought to have prolonged his holiday in Rome. I can’t +imagine why he hurried back to town so unexpectedly.” + +“Oh,” I said, “I can explain that. He was summoned to town by an +important patient.” + +“Really!” said Lord Elyn. “I never heard of it.” + +He sounded slightly incredulous. + +“I saw him almost directly he arrived,” he added; “and when I inquired +why he had shortened his trip to Italy, he merely told me that he was +all right and had got sick of doing nothing.” + +“Well,” I answered, “he left Rome at a moment’s notice, and gave me the +reason I told you.” + +“Oh! Well, then, of course, it was so. A pity for him—though not for +us, eh? He’s a wonderful doctor. No one like him. And now, if you’ll +excuse me, I must take exercise. I keep walking the whole time, by +command.” + +He nodded, and went off up the deck at a brisk pace. + +“I’m sorry to hear that about Deeming,” I said to Vernon. + +“Yes. It’s a pity he was called away from Rome.” + +His voice, too, sounded incredulous. + +“Why d’you say it like that?” I asked. “You don’t think he told us a +lie?” + +“Why put it so cruelly? He may have made an excuse. When one receives a +boring dinner-invitation, one has sometimes a previous engagement.” + +“A dinner-invitation! Surely you don’t⸺?” + +“Well, he was to have dined with me the night of the day he left. But, +of course, it may have been a pure coincidence.” + +Lord Elyn passed us again, and repassed. + +“I say, Luttrell,” Vernon added, “what do you say to one more night out +of London? What do you say to a night at the Burlington?” + +“At Dover?” + +“Yes.” + +“But the luggage! It’s all registered through.” + +“We’ve got our dressing-cases, and my man has a bag with my pyjamas. +Evening dress doesn’t matter for a night. I’m sure the Burlington will +forgive us, especially if we engage a sitting-room.” + +“Oh, yes, that doesn’t matter.” + +“What do you say, then?” + +“I don’t know that I mind, but—what’s made you think of it all of a +sudden? Have you taken a violent fancy to Lord Elyn?” + +My voice was challenging. He only smiled quietly. + +“A very violent fancy. I like obedient men.” + +Lord Elyn passed once more with a serious, determined air. He did not +look at us. He was intent on his medicine. + +“You’re joking.” + +“So were you.” + +I laughed. + +“Of course. You don’t choose to tell me your reason for wishing to stop +at Dover?” + +“I think you’ve guessed it.” + +He unrolled the rug from his legs and got up. + +“I’m going to take some medicine, too. Think over the Burlington and +tell me presently.” + +In a moment I saw him join Lord Elyn, and they walked up and down +together, talking busily. + +Of course, I had “guessed it.” He wanted to meet Deeming again, to +meet him directly we landed in England. My previous suspicion—it had +been almost more than a suspicion—was confirmed. I felt positive now +that Vernon had cut short his stay in Rome, given up his June there, +in order to follow Deeming to London and try to see more of him. The +obsession of the black spaniel—I called it that now in my mind for +the first time—was still upon him, had been upon him ever since the +night when I had made my two friends acquainted with each other in the +winter garden of the Grand Hotel. And Deeming? Had he really invented +an imaginary patient in order to have a good excuse for leaving Rome +and so avoiding Vernon’s dinner? If that were so, then I was assisting +at a sort of man-hunt, in which two of my friends were pursued and +pursuer. I began to feel as if I were going to be involved in +something extraordinary. And yet how vague, how fantastic it all was! +And my own position? I tried to review it. If I assisted Vernon in any +way, could I be called—or rather, should I be, that was the only thing +that mattered—disloyal to Deeming? I felt rather uncomfortable, and +yet—and this was strange—rather excited. I thought of my conversation +with Vernon about London. I had been absent from it for some time, +yet already, and on the sea, I felt affected by its powerful and +dreadful influence, felt that curious sense of apprehension which I had +mentioned to Vernon in the train. Suddenly I resolved to fall in with +my friend’s wish to stay the night at Dover. After all, what did it +matter? He and Deeming would certainly meet in London. Why strive to +postpone the meeting? It seemed to me—I was thinking somewhat absurdly, +I acknowledge it—that it would be better, safer, that the encounter +should take place at Dover, under the white cliffs, with the sea-wind +coming in, perhaps, through open windows. London was mephitic, and +turned one to gloomy and morbid imaginations. The sea-wind might blow +away Vernon’s extraordinary suspicions of Deeming, and lay to rest the +obsession of the black spaniel. + +Moved by this idea, when Vernon presently stopped before me with Lord +Elyn, I said— + +“I give my vote for a night at the Burlington.” + +“Capital!” said Vernon. “I’ve been telling Lord Elyn we thought of +staying, and he is sure our tweeds and coloured ties will be forgiven +us.” + + + IV + +At the Burlington in the hall we found Deeming. I saw him before he +was aware of us, and was startled by the change in his face. There was +the stamp of nervous exhaustion upon it. The complexion was grey, the +mouth was drawn, the eyes were anxious, almost feverish. When he turned +and faced us fully he made an abrupt movement which was certainly not +caused by pleasure, and I saw the fingers of his two hands clench +themselves violently in the palms. Then he recovered himself, came +forward, and greeted us with self-possession. + +“I never expected to see you in England so soon,” he said to Vernon. “I +thought you usually spent part of the summer in Rome.” + +“I often do. But this year something has called me to London.” + +“Oh. Well, all the better. We shall see something of you. I hope we +shall bring off our dinner together in town. Only you must let me be +the host.” + +“Thank you. I shall be delighted.” + +The note of cordiality was, I thought, forced by both men. Few more +words were spoken, for it was getting late, and the hour of dinner was +approaching. As we went upstairs I said to Vernon— + +“Deeming does certainly want medicine of one sort or another. Don’t you +think he looks horribly ill?” + +“He has a strung-up expression. I should say he’s overworking. Did you +notice how he started when he saw us?” + +“Did he?” I answered, disingenuously I confess. “Naturally he was +surprised. He had no idea we were in England.” + +“Exactly. Here are our rooms. _Au revoir_ at dinner.” + +The dinner I need not chronicle at length. It took place downstairs, +although we had engaged the sitting-room to appease a management +shocked at our lack of evening clothes. The talk ran easily enough, +helped by Lord Elyn’s unconsciousness of the obsession of the black +spaniel, which sometimes seemed to me to be hovering about our table, +creeping beneath our chairs, a shadow importunate, servile, yet +menacing. I felt that the thoughts of Deeming and Vernon, interlacing +and inimical, were on this whining, whimpering, uneasy shadow, that had +called the latter from his home in Italy, that had stopped him here +by the grey sea. I knew it as if those thoughts were spread before +me by my plate. And all the time we chatted, glancing from subject +to subject without great earnestness, laughing lightly at the last +London absurdity, or discussing with apparent animation the chances +of politics and the trend of art, I felt that our conversation was +but a thin veil spread over a depth in which were other voices than +ours, murmuring, in which the pale forms of future events glided, like +spectres, to and fro. + +Directly after dinner Lord Elyn excused himself. + +“The eyes of the nurse are upon me,” he said, jocosely. “I see them +saying: ‘Master Elyn, it’s time for you to go to bed!’ Eh, Deeming?” + +“Quite right, Lord Elyn,” answered Deeming, smiling. + +“Well, good-night. You’d much better come too, Deeming.” + +“Oh, I couldn’t sleep yet. I haven’t been on the sea. I think I shall +go out and take a breath of air on the front.” + +“Perhaps it may do you good. I feel full of sleep.” + +And he went off, leaving us in the hall. + +“Will you come out?” asked Deeming. + +The invitation seemed addressed to both of us. I expected Vernon +to accept it with alacrity, but, to my surprise, he took up the +_Westminster Gazette_. + +“I’m a bit tired,” he answered. “I think I’ll stay here.” + +“I’ll come with you,” I said. + +“Right. I want a turn or two to summon slumber.” + +There was something almost pathetic in his voice. It moved me to +ask, as we went down the steps, and along the row of houses to the +sea-front— + +“Have you been sleeping badly, then?” + +“Pretty badly. I say, what’s brought Vernon over so soon?” + +The question was sharply suspicious. + +“He didn’t tell me,” I answered. + +“Then you don’t know?” + +We turned to the left and walked along the parade towards the cliff. No +one was about in the cold and gusty night. Now and then a light flashed +out across the sea, swept it in a half circle, and vanished in the +darkness. + +“Oh, I’m not in all Vernon’s secrets,” I said. + +Directly I had spoken I regretted my choice of words. + +“Secrets!” he said. + +“I only mean that Vernon’s not specially given to making confidences. +If he has any particular reason for coming to England at this time +of year, he hasn’t told it to me. But why should he have any special +reason?” + +Deeming shrugged his shoulders. + +“Where is he going to stay in town?” he asked. + +“At Claridge’s, I believe; at any rate, for a time.” + +“Then he means to make a long stay?” + +His voice still sounded intensely suspicious. Suddenly I felt as if +I could not stand all this subterfuge, as if I must brush away from +me the spider’s web of mutual distrust in which my two friends were +entangling me with each other. + +“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “You really make me feel as if I were +under cross-examination. I begin to wish I had never introduced you and +Vernon to each other.” + +Deeming stopped dead, and looked at me. + +“Perhaps it would have been better,” he said. “Much better.” + +“You think so, too? Why?” + +“Can’t you see that Vernon hates me?” he said, with violence. + +“What earthly reason can he have for hating you?” + +“Some men don’t ask for reasons. There is something about me which +is antipathetic to Vernon, and he’s a strange fellow. You think him +gentle, I know. But I—well, I believe that underneath his apparent +gentleness hides the soul of a fanatic, a black fanatic.” + +We were still standing face to face. Now I looked into his eyes and +said: + +“I’m going to be very rude to you.” + +“Go on. I’ll bear it.” + +“I am perfectly certain you are suffering from nervous exhaustion. +You have all the symptoms. You are horribly pale and shaky, and full +of irritability and suspicion, ready to entertain any dark idea that +may present itself to you, unable to see things in a clear light of +reason.” + +“And you, Luttrell; do you know what you are?” + +“I!” + +“Yes. I’m going to be rude to you. You are either a self-deceiver or +a—well, something one doesn’t care to call a man. You know quite well, +in your heart, that Vernon has come over so soon because—because⸺” + +Suddenly he hesitated, faltered, broke off. + +I seemed to hear the whimper of a dog near us in the night. + +“I’ve had enough of the wind,” he said. “I’m going in.” + +And we went back to the hotel without another word. + +Next morning, Vernon and I went up to town by an early train, leaving +Lord Elyn and Deeming to take their Channel trip. At Charing Cross, +as we were parting, Vernon to go to Claridge’s and I to my flat in +Albemarle Street, Vernon said, “By the way, what is Deeming’s address?” + +“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” I said. + +He took out a card and a pencil. + +“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” he repeated slowly, as he wrote it +down. “Good-bye. Let’s meet to-morrow. Come and lunch with me.” + +He got into a hansom and drove away. I followed in a moment. As my +cab came out of the station yard and crossed Trafalgar Square I was +enveloped in what I called to myself “the London feeling.” The day was +warm, but dull and grey. The tall buildings, the statue of Gordon, the +Nelson column, the lions, looked sad and phantom-like to my eyes, for +many months accustomed to the pellucid clearness of African landscapes, +to the brilliant blue of Italian skies. And the well-known depression +which always settles down upon me like a fog when I first return to +London came to me once more, bathing me in a gloom which I strove in +vain to shake off. In this gloom I seemed to see, like shadows passing +in a fog, the forms of Vernon, of Deeming, and another form, small, +black, and cringing, the form of a dog. + +“P’f!” I said to myself. “Am I going to be the slave of a too sensitive +imagination?” + +And I resolutely began to think of pleasant things, of the friends, +of the amusements, of the occupations that would solace me. Yet, when +I reached Albemarle Street, I was heavy-hearted, and all that day and +the next my depression persisted. Even a cheerful lunch with Vernon +at Claridge’s and the renewal of many old acquaintanceships failed to +restore me to my normal temper. + +A week passed by, and I had not seen Deeming. I was beginning to wonder +what had become of him, when I received from him a note asking me to +dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening to meet Vernon. +I was, unfortunately, already engaged to dine with some American +friends and go to the play; so I wrote to excuse myself, and added this +postscript— + +“May your dinner banish your mutual misunderstanding. Remember that it +will always be a grief to me if my two friends are at cross-purposes.” + +The day after the dinner, when I had just come in from the club at +seven o’clock in the evening, my servant announced “Doctor Deeming,” +and Deeming walked into the room. I saw at once that he was in a +condition of unusual excitement. We shook hands, and directly my man +had gone out and the door was shut, Deeming, who was still standing and +who did not seem to see the chair I offered to him, exclaimed— + +“Of course, you have heard about Number 301?” + +“Number 301? What the deuce do you mean?” I asked. + +“Number 301, Wimpole Street, the house next door to mine.” + +“What about it? Has it been burgled, or burnt down, or what?” + +“Burnt down! Nonsense! It’s been to let for the last three months. +Yesterday morning I found the board was down, and last night Vernon +told me that he has taken it. He’s taken it as it is, furnished, and +is going in at once.” + +I was surprised, and, I suppose, showed that I was in my face, for he +continued— + +“Oh, then you didn’t know! He hadn’t told you!” + +“He has told me nothing.” + +“It’s a strange business. I—I⸺” + +He began to walk to and fro. + +“Why should he come to live next door to me? Why should he⸺?” + +He stopped in front of me. + +“Did you tell him where I lived?” he said, almost menacingly. + +I resented his tone. + +“Look here, Deeming,” I said, quietly. “If we are to continue friends, +there must really be an end of all this mystery and suspicion about +nothing. Why shouldn’t I tell Vernon where you live?” + +“Did you tell him?” + +“Certainly. He asked me, and of course I answered. Are you a criminal +hiding from justice, and is Vernon a detective? Upon my word⸺” + +I felt I was getting hot, and was silent. He stood quite still, staring +at me for a moment with eyes that were almost fierce. Then he sat down +on a sofa a little way from me, and said in a calmer voice— + +“Yes, of course there was no reason. Still, it’s very odd. You must see +that.” + +“What is there odd in it? If it’s a good house, why shouldn’t Vernon +take it as well as anyone else?” + +“It’s a fairly good house.” + +He moved, and leaned towards me. + +“Originally,” he said, speaking slowly, “originally it was one with +mine. The two houses were thrown into one. That was when Renold, the +author, lived there. Afterwards, it was as it is now. But it’s still +almost like one house.” + +“How can that be?” + +“Well, the alteration was very flimsily carried out, I suppose; for +in the one house one can—I hope to goodness Vernon isn’t much of a +musician.” + +“You’re afraid of being disturbed?” + +“If he plays the piano—by Jove!” + +He burst into a laugh. + +“Look out in the papers very soon,” he said. “I shall probably be +bringing a case against him for annoyance. I can’t stand a hullabaloo +next door after I’ve finished my day’s work. I want rest and peace. +It’s no joke being a successful physician, I can tell you.” + +I laughed too, almost as unnaturally as he had. + +“Oh,” I said, “you needn’t be afraid. Vernon does play, but I’m sure, +if you ask him, he’ll put his piano against the wall of the other +house, and keep the windows shut when he is practising. Why didn’t you +speak about it last night?” + +“I’ll ask no favours of Vernon,” he said sternly. + +Then he got up. + +“I thought I’d just tell you,” he said. “Now I can’t stop. I’ve got a +patient to see.” + +He gave me a feverish hand, and went quickly out of the room. + +While he was with me, I had endeavoured to make light of his news, to +deceive him into the belief that I thought Vernon’s action a chance +one, but directly I was alone I felt, though less agitated, nearly as +angry at this affair as he did. It was a strange business—this pursuit. +Deeming had said to me at Dover that Vernon was a “black fanatic”; +what if it were so? What if my friend, so kind, so calm, even so +unusually gentle in ordinary life, well balanced and eminently sane in +his outlook upon men and affairs, really had a “screw loose”—to use +the current phrase? What if the fate of his dog had actually affected +his mind? I knew that there are men in the world who are sound on +all subjects except one. Touch upon that subject, and they show an +eccentricity that is akin to madness. It might be so with Vernon. I +began to feel as if it must be so, and a great restlessness, a great +uneasiness, beset me. Driven by it, I caught up my hat, hurried +downstairs, hailed a hansom, and went to Claridge’s. + +The hall-porter informed me that Mr. Kersteven was out. + +“Do you happen to know where he has gone?” I asked. + +“No, sir; he didn’t leave any word.” + +My cab was waiting. I jumped into it again and called to the man— + +“Go to 301, Wimpole Street.” + +My instinct told me that I should find Vernon there. + +Night was now falling. It was the hour when, to me, London presents +its dreariest aspect. The streets are not yet thronged with those who, +having worked during the day, are beginning to seek their nocturnal +pleasures. The just-lit lamps are waging a feeble combat with the last +fading rays of the flickering twilight. There is a sense of something +closing in, like a furtive enemy, upon the great city. As I neared +Wimpole Street I noticed that a fine rain was beginning to fall. The +air was damp, without freshness, oppressive. In the gloom the cabman +mistook the number and stopped at Deeming’s door. I got out quickly, +paid and dismissed him, and was about to move on to Number 301, when +it seemed to me that I heard the shrill, short whine of a dog. It +startled me, and I remained where I was, listening in the rain. The +sound was not repeated. I looked down the dismal street, but I saw no +animal. I had not been able to locate the noise. I glanced at Deeming’s +house. It was dark. Only from a window in the area shone a pale +gleam of light. After two or three minutes’ hesitation I moved away, +ascended the step of Number 301, and pressed the electric-bell. There +was no response. I pressed it again and kept my finger upon it for at +least a minute. This time my summons was answered, though in a rather +unorthodox fashion. A window on the first-floor was pushed up, and I +saw a vague face looking out at me from above. + +“Vernon,” I said, “is it you?” + +No voice replied, but the window was shut down, and almost directly, +through some glass above the hall-door, I saw a bright light start +up, and I heard a faint movement within. Then the door was opened and +Vernon stood before me. He looked greatly surprised. + +“You?” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?” + +“I didn’t know it. Can I come in?” + +“Yes. Why not?” + +But he still stood in the doorway, blocking up the entrance. + +“You’re alone?” he asked, rather suspiciously. + +“Quite alone.” + +“Come in.” + +I stepped into a hideous passage, and he at once shut the door. + +“Well?” he said. + +Not only his voice, but his attitude questioned me. + +“I went to Claridge’s. They told me you were out, so I came on here on +the chance that you might be looking over your new abode.” + +“So Deeming’s been with you!” + +“Yes, he came in for a minute, and mentioned casually that you had +taken this house.” + +“Oh! he mentioned it casually, did he? Well, come and have a look at +it, won’t you?” + +“If you don’t mind.” + +He spoke with constraint, and so did I. Indeed, I had never before felt +so uncomfortable with Vernon as I did at this moment. I did not know +exactly what I had expected of him if I found him at the house; but it +certainly was not this cold reserve, as of one who scarcely knew me, +and to whom my appearance was unwelcome. + +“It’s not a bad house,” he said, as we went towards the stairs. “It +will do very well for me for the season.” + +“You’re in luck, then.” + +The words faltered on my lips even while I strove to speak carelessly, +for, in truth, knowing Vernon as I did, knowing his house in Rome, it +was almost impossible not to express my amazement at his choice—or, +no, perhaps not that, for I could no longer be in any doubt as to why +he had rented Number 301—but it was almost impossible to keep up the +ridiculous pretence, forced upon me by his words and manner, that +I thought he had rented Number 301 because it had seemed to him a +suitable London home. + +A more dreadful house I have seldom seen. The stamp of bad taste, +of pretentious middleclass vulgarity, was upon it, showing in every +detail, in the colouring of walls, in the patterns of carpets, in the +shapes of the furniture, in the tiles of the hearths, in the very +balusters and fire-irons. The mirrors were painted with bulrushes, +poppies, tulips. Cushions of brown and sulphur-coloured plush lay +upon settees that imitated shells. Chocolate-hued portières hung +across double doors, upon which were views of Swiss lakes and Alpine +heights. There were ceilings that represented the starry firmament, +and there were floors that suggested the vegetable-monger’s shop. In +“cosy corners,” thick with dusty draperies, nestled imitation beetles +and frogs, among Japanese fans and squads of photographs of possibly +well-known actresses, roofed in by open umbrellas of paper, from whose +spokes hung gilded balls. + +And there were yellow spotted palms in pots, wrapped, like a face +distraught with toothache, in smothering cloths of bilious yellow and +of shrieking green. + +“Not a bad house, is it?” said Vernon once more, when we had partially +explored it. By the words, by his manner, I was made at once to +realise that from this moment he intended to keep me out of his +confidence. Why this was so I could only try to surmise. As to action, +all I could do was to accept the situation and follow him in travesty +with as good a grace as possible. It was evident that Vernon’s +suspicions of my good faith had been aroused by my unexpected visit, +following so immediately upon Deeming’s announcement of the taking of +the house, and that he had resolved to show me that he would not permit +any criticism, even any discussion of his doings, however strange, +however hostile to Deeming they must seem to me in the light of recent +events. + +“Not at all bad,” I answered. + +We were standing at the moment in the terrible double drawing-room. I +carefully abstained from looking round. There was an instant of, to me, +rather embarrassing silence. Then Vernon said— + +“Well, shall we go out together? It’s getting rather late. You hadn’t +anything special to say to me, I suppose?” + +“No, nothing. I just called at the hotel, and thought, as you were out, +I might find you examining your new abode.” + +Even as I spoke I involuntarily shuddered; I thought at the idea of +Vernon living in this house, this inmost sanctuary of Philistinism. + +“Why did you do that?” he said sharply. + +“What?” + +“Shiver like that. Did you—did you hear anything?” + +His eyes searched mine; and once more I saw the fierce light in them. + +“Hear? No. What should I hear?” + +He did not answer; but continued to stare at me as if he doubted my +words. Then he said abruptly: + +“Let us be off, then.” + +We descended the stairs and let ourselves out into the darkness and +the rain. As we passed Deeming’s house I seemed once more to hear the +shrill whimper of a dog. I wondered if Vernon had heard it too, for he +hesitated by the step of the door, almost as if he thought of mounting +it, and glanced swiftly down to the area, from which still shone the +ray of light. But he said nothing, and we walked on, and were soon in +the bustle of Oxford Street. + + + V + +After seeing Vernon that evening in No. 301, Wimpole Street, I knew two +things for certain. One was that he had taken the house in order to be +next door to Deeming; the other, that whatever project he might have +formed, whatever intention or desire was driving him on into a strange +path, he did not mean me to know of it through him. I was to be shut +out from his confidence. + +This fact, while it irritated me, also relieved me. It rendered my +position as the friend of both men more tenable than it could have been +had Vernon confided in me. Now, if at any time Deeming were suspicious +of me, I should be able to confront him with the complacency of a +complete innocence, whereas hitherto I had more than once experienced +the discomfort of—I hope I may say it without offence—an honourable man +who is forced by circumstance to practise a mild deceit. This was a +relief. + +Nevertheless, I did feel both irritation and surprise at Vernon’s +attitude towards me. It seemed to throw a chill over our friendship. +If he had never spoken to me of Deeming and his black spaniel, the +matter would not have troubled me, but a confidence begun and then +abruptly discontinued surely implies that one’s friendship is doubted. +I could no longer feel quite at ease when I was with Vernon. A dark and +cringing shadow separated us. + +Vernon moved into his dreadful house two days after I had first seen +it. I naturally expected that, being a rich man, he would immediately +begin to tear down draperies, to get in new furniture, to lay down +carpets that did not recall the vegetable-monger’s, to turn out the +frogs and the beetles, and to do away with the paper umbrellas. I was +mistaken. He left things much as they were. + +“I don’t suppose I shall be here long,” he said. + +“I thought you had the house on a year’s lease?” I rejoined. + +“The owner wouldn’t let it for a shorter time. But I don’t expect to be +here for twelve months, or anything like it. I may be out of it in a +month. Who knows?” + +He glanced at me as if he expected me to find some hidden meaning in +his words, some meaning which he did not choose to put before me. + +“I’m not even going to be bothered with a staff of servants,” he +continued. “I shall only have my man, Cragg, and one woman who can do +all that is necessary for me.” + +“Really! What does Cragg think of it?” I ventured. + +“Oh, Cragg has been with me for years and thoroughly understands me.” + +I knew that; I knew, too, that Cragg was a rare being, a confidential +servant who was absolutely faithful. But, still, Cragg was unaccustomed +to such a peculiar kind of “roughing it” as was now in prospect. + +“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” I said, rather lamely. + +“Oh, yes. Of course, I don’t intend to entertain here. I shall imitate +Deeming. I shall exercise all my hospitality in restaurants. The +Englishman’s house is more than ever his castle since the restaurant +came into fashion.” + +And he laughed. + +“But perhaps, now I’m next door, Deeming may ask me in sometimes in the +evening,” he said. “We ought to be neighbourly.” + +Something in his voice, as he said the last words, turned me cold. I +felt quite sure, for the first time, that hatred was blazing in his +heart, hatred against Deeming. Of course, I could not speak of my new +certainty now that I was confronted by his reserve, but a sudden idea +sprang up within my brain. There was one way, and one way only, of +brushing aside this spider’s-web of suspicion and intrigue, which was +being woven day by day, and it was this. If I could only ascertain for +myself, and prove to Vernon, that the mysterious black spaniel was +happy as had been his “Whisper,” well-cared-for, well-loved, these two +men who were at secret enmity would doubtless at once be reconciled, +and I should no longer have to endure the vexation of being on uneasy +terms with both. Vernon knew me well enough to know that if I made a +solemn statement he could absolutely rely upon it. Deeming disliked +him, as men generally and naturally dislike those who, without good +reason, are suspicious of them. But though he was now cold and distant +with me, I could not think that he disliked me. Where Vernon would +probably fail, I might surely succeed. It was such a simple matter +after all. I merely wanted to see a dog with his master, Deeming +with his black spaniel. That could surely be managed without much +difficulty and before many days had elapsed. I said nothing to Vernon +of my project. Indeed, I resolved not to seek a meeting with him until +I had accomplished it. Our present intercourse was too restrained to +be particularly agreeable. The London season was setting in and there +was much to be got through. I could easily avoid Vernon for a few +days and, when I had the news I wanted, go to him and put an end to a +condition of things at once painful and—so I called it resolutely to +myself—ridiculous. + +Having made up my mind, I had only to act. I must see Deeming’s black +spaniel, and see him with his master. + +I began my campaign by calling one evening at Deeming’s house at an +hour when I thought it probable that the last sufferer would have gone. +But I had miscalculated his popularity as a doctor. His extremely +thin and sympathetic butler informed me in a whispering voice that the +waiting-room was still thronged with anxious patients. + +“When is he free?” I inquired. + +“He is engaged all day, Sir, at this season of the year.” + +“Does he never get out for a breath of air?” + +“Oh, yes, Sir, when he drives out to the hospital.” + +“And on a Sunday, I suppose. No doubt”—I tried to make my voice very +natural and careless at this point—“he goes out on a Sunday if it’s +fine, to give the dog a run, eh?” + +It seemed to me that the butler’s pale face slightly twisted as I said +the last words, as if he made a sudden effort not to show in it some +expression which would have betrayed a feeling; as if he suppressed, +perhaps, a smile, or concealed a knowing leer. + +“The Doctor’s generally shut up on a Sunday, writing, Sir,” he +murmured, “or pursuing his researches.” + +“Oh!” + +There seemed nothing more to be done just then, and as I saw a patient +coming out and looking for his hat in the hall, I went away. + +That evening I wrote to Deeming, telling him I had called to see if I +could persuade him to take a stroll, as I was sure his health needed +some rest, air, and relaxation. + +“Will you come for a walk in Regent’s Park some Sunday morning?” I +ended, regardless of the butler’s information. + +He answered, by return, that he would come, if I liked, on the +following Sunday. I replied, fixing the hour, and saying I would call +for him. This done, I went out and—bought a dog. + +It was a gay fox-terrier, young, full of abounding life, and quite +ready to attach itself to anyone who was kind to it. When Sunday +arrived, it was already devoted to me, and gleefully accompanied me to +Wimpole Street to fetch Deeming for the promised walk. While I rang +the bell it squatted on the step, wagging its short tail, and looking +eagerly expectant. The butler opened the door. + +“The Doctor is quite ready, Sir,” he said, when he saw me. “Will you +step in?” + +Suddenly he caught sight of the dog, who had jumped up when the door +was opened, and was evidently preparing for exploration. + +“Is that your dog, Sir?” + +“Yes,” I said. + +“I don’t think the Doctor⸺ Get back, you little beast!” + +The last exclamation came in a voice so different from the whispering +one I was accustomed to that I could hardly believe it was the +butler who had spoken. At the same moment my dog dodged his +outstretched foot and vanished, pattering, into the house. + +[Illustration: “AS HE VANISHED, DEEMING APPEARED AT THE HALL DOOR.”] + +“Call him back, Sir; call him back, for the Lord’s sake, or there’ll +be trouble!” exclaimed the butler, turning sharply with the evident +intention of trying to catch the little culprit. But he had no time to +act nor I to call. Almost as he spoke there came from within the house +the piercing cry of a dog in pain, and the fox-terrier darted out of +the hall, down the street, and disappeared, yelping shrilly as he went, +with his ears set flat against his head, and his tail tucked down in +his back. As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door. + +“How dare you let stray dogs into my house?” he said to the butler in a +savage voice. + +“I beg pardon, Sir,” stammered the butler; “but it was this gentleman’s +dog, and⸺” + +“It was your dog, was it?” said Deeming, turning to me. “I did not know +you had a dog.” + +I was feeling so angry that I could hardly trust myself to speak. + +“Certainly it’s mine,” I said curtly. “I must go and find it.” + +And without another word I walked away down the street. I could not +discover the dog. Its terror had evidently been so great that it had +fled blindly and far. From that day to this I have never seen it or +heard anything of it. When it rushed out of Deeming’s house it rushed +out of my life. Having failed to find it, after walking some distance, +I gave up the search and stood still. The natural thing, I suppose, +would have been to retrace my steps to Wimpole Street, where Deeming +was waiting for me. But this I did not do. I felt that I could not do +it. An invincible repulsion against Deeming’s society had come into my +heart. When I thought of him I saw the fox-terrier fleeing, with his +ears set back against his head; I heard the yelping of a dog. + +I stood, therefore, for a moment, and then walked home to Albemarle +Street. + +I had bought the dog in order to find out, if possible, how Deeming was +with animals, how they comported themselves towards him. Secondarily I +had thought of using the dog as a pretext for introducing the subject +of the black spaniel. I had meant, when Deeming came out, to point to +my dog and suggest that, as I had mine with me for the walk, he should +bring out his. + +Well, my curiosity had surely been satisfied. I had not, it is true, +seen the mysterious black spaniel; but I could hardly remain in doubt +as to Deeming’s attitude towards pet animals. The expression upon his +face as he came out from the hall had been ferocious. Vernon was right. +Deeming was a cruel man. + +As I realised that, I began to wonder more about the black spaniel. +Why should such a man keep a pet—a man, too, who was so incessantly +occupied that he had no time for amusement, for almost any relaxations? +And why had the butler—for I now felt sure that I had seen his face +contorted for an instant on the evening when I had spoken to him of +the black spaniel—why had the butler felt such amazement, or bitter +contempt, or sardonic amusement, when I had alluded to the possibility +of Deeming giving the black spaniel a run? + +It almost began to seem to me just then as if the black spaniel were a +baleful chimera, like the creation of a madman’s brain, a nothingness +that yet can govern, can terrify, can cause tragic events and lead to +bitterness and crime. Who had ever seen this creature? Where was it, +in what place of concealment? Did it ever come forth into the light of +day? I longed to know something of it, of its existence in that house, +of its relations with its master. + +Perhaps Vernon knew or would know. He lived next door. He had gone +there to discover; of that I was sure. He watched at his window to see +the spaniel let out. He listened at his wall at night, perhaps, to hear +its whining. + +Perhaps Vernon knew or would know. + +And when he knew, would he tell me? + +In the afternoon of that day I received a note from Deeming— + + I waited for you to come back for an age. What was the matter? I am + very sorry about your dog. The fact is I am not very well and in a + nervous condition, and it startled me to come suddenly upon it in + the dimly lighted hall. Let me know when we can meet. + + P. D. + +That was the note. I read it several times before I threw it into the +waste-paper basket. But I did not answer it. I felt that I did not want +to meet Deeming again for some time. + +I felt that. Fate willed it that I should never look upon him again as +mortal man. Within two days from that time I was called to the North +of England by the serious illness of my dear mother, who lived in +Cumberland. And there I remained until she died. Her death took place +on the twenty-seventh of June. Her funeral was three days later. After +it was over I returned to the house where I had been born, where I +was now quite alone with the servants. I had to wind up many affairs, +to put many things in order, to sort and examine papers and pay off +some of the household. Despite my grief I was obliged to be busy, to +be practical. For several days I was so much occupied that I did not +look at a newspaper. I even set aside the letters that came by the +post—letters of condolence, I felt sure they were, most of them—wishing +to read them and answer them all together when I had leisure, and felt +less miserable and deserted, and more able to take an interest in such +affairs as were not actually forced upon me. + +At last one evening I had got through everything. I had dined, and was +sitting alone in the drawing-room, where my mother had always sat, +feeling really almost as if I dwelt in a world unpeopled, or peopled +only by the spectres of those who once had lived, when a servant came +in with the last post. There were no letters, only two or three papers +from London. Without interest, merely to do something, I tore the +paper covering from one and unfolded it. My eyes fell at once upon the +following paragraph— + + As so many rumours have been put into circulation with regard to + the lamented decease of Dr. Peter Deeming, which took place on + the 30th of June, we are glad to be able to state authoritatively + that the actual cause of death was blood-poisoning, which was, it + seems, set up by the bite of a dog. Doctor Deeming, like many other + eminent medical men, while solicitous for the health of others, + was singularly careless about his own. The bite was severe, but + he took little heed of it, although he had the dog, which was a + pet, destroyed. He has now paid the penalty of his regrettable + carelessness, and society is the poorer. For no West End physician + was more trusted and esteemed by his patients than Dr. Deeming. + +The paper dropped from my hand. + +So Deeming and the black spaniel were dead! And each had destroyed the +other! + + + + + PART II—THE RESURRECTION + + + VI + +Peter Deeming died on the thirtieth of June, in the year 1900. In +June of the following year, as I was walking past the Knightsbridge +Barracks, I met Vernon strolling along in the sunshine, with a +cigarette in his mouth. When he saw me, he stopped, took my hand, and +clasped it warmly. + +“Back at last!” he said. + +“Yes. I only arrived yesterday. Did you winter in Rome, as usual?” + +“No. I’ve not been out of England.” + +“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been facing +the London fogs while I’ve been in Africa and Sicily?” + +He nodded. + +“What can have been your reason?” + +He put his arm through mine. + +“Let’s go into the Park,” he said. “We’ll take a stroll, and I’ll tell +you.” + +We turned into the Park by the nearest gate, and walked gently along +under the trees. It was a strangely radiant day for London—a day that +seemed full of hope and gaiety. Many children were about laughing, +playing, calling to each other. Poor people basked in the sunshine, +stretched upon the short grass. Carriages rolled by, drawn by fine +horses. In the trees the birds were singing, as innocently as they sing +in retired country places. And I felt glad and at ease. It was pleasant +to be with Vernon once more, pleasant to be once more in my own land +among my own people. + +“Well, Vernon?” I said. + +“First,” he answered, “you must tell me something. You must tell me why +you left England after the death of your mother, without coming to say +good-bye to me.” + +“I felt upset, broken down, as if I didn’t want to see anyone, as if I +wanted to get away and be alone among new scenes and people who were +strangers.” + +“That was it?” + +I heard the doubt in his voice, and added— + +“There was another reason, too, an under-reason.” + +“Yes?” + +“That sudden death of poor Deeming, coming just after my mother’s, +upset my nerves, I think. It made me feel as if—as if I had been cruel. +It filled me with regret.” + +“Cruel! I don’t understand.” + +“No. How could you? But when a man’s dead, one thinks very differently +about him often. And I had been suspicious of Deeming. At the end, +indeed, I had been unfriendly.” + +“I am quite in the dark,” he said, rather coldly, I thought. + +I explained to him what I meant. I told him of my last meeting with +Deeming, of the incident of the fox-terrier, of Deeming’s note to me, +of how I had left it unanswered. He listened with a profound attention. + +“When I read of his death in the paper I wished I had answered his +note,” I concluded. “I wished it more than I can tell you. And I +regretted bitterly that the last weeks of our intercourse had been +clouded by suspicion, by misunderstanding.” + +“Ah!” + +His voice still sounded cold. After a moment he said: + +“And you didn’t come to see me because⸺” + +“Well, you had been mixed up with my suspicion of Deeming, and⸺” + +“Now I understand. You felt a very natural longing to be away from all +that recalled sadness to you, that might deepen your grief or serve to +irritate your nerves.” + +“I suppose that was it. I went right away. I wanted to forget, to +escape out of a dark cloud into a clear atmosphere. But you? Why have +you been in London all this time?” + +“I’ve been working.” + +“Working! You?” + +“Even I—idler, dilettante.” + +“Music?” + +“I’ve been working with Arthur Gernham.” + +“For the animals?” + +“Exactly. For our brothers and sisters who do not speak our language. +I’ve been writing pamphlets, I’ve been gathering subscriptions, I’ve +been stirring people up, and by doing so I’ve been stirring myself up, +my slothful, sluggish, unpractical self.” + +“Wonderful!” + +“Isn’t it? Do you know that I’ve toured the United Kingdom giving +lectures on the subject of man’s duty to the animals, that I’ve helped +to form a league of kindness? Luttrell, I’m a busy man now, and I am an +enthusiastic man.” + +While he spoke his animation had been growing, and as he ended his +voice was full of energy. + +“And when did the impulse come to you to begin this new life?” I asked. + +“I can tell you the very day,” he said. “It was on June the 30th of +last year.” + +“June the 30th!” I said. “Why, that was the day that Deeming died!” + +“Well, it was on that day.” + +I looked at him sharply. I had never yet heard any details connected +with the accident that had brought about Deeming’s illness and so +caused his death. I wondered if Vernon knew any. He had lived next +door. I longed to ask him, but something, some inner voice of my +nature, advised me not to. + +“Is Gernham a good fellow?” I said carelessly. + +“A splendid fellow. You must know him.” + +“As you have changed so much,” I continued, “have you altered that +resolution of yours?” + +“What resolution?” + +“Never to make another animal happy as you made your spaniel, Whisper, +happy?” + +“Ah, that—no! I could never have another pet. I suffered too much from +my affection, Luttrell. I am resolved not to suffer again in that way. +The mountains may fall, but I shall never keep another dog.” + +He spoke with a decision that carried conviction. At that moment I +should have been ready to stake my entire fortune on his sticking to +his assertion and backing it up by his acts. If anyone had come to me +that night and said, “Your friend Vernon has just bought a dog and +taken it home to live with him,” I should have laughed, and answered +in polite terms, “You’re a liar.” But one cannot deny the evidence of +one’s own eyes. + +Now this is exactly what occurred. + +While we walked along beneath the trees, not very far from the Statue +of Achilles, I saw in the distance a man approaching us, leading a +number of dogs by strings and carrying a couple of puppies under his +arms. He wore a fur cap and earrings, a short, loud-patterned coat with +tails, and a pair of very tight trousers. As he drew near I saw that +among the dogs who accompanied him there was a fine black spaniel. + +[Illustration: “THAT DOG THERE,” SAID VERNON; “HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD + HIM?”] + +“Here comes a choice assortment of dumb friends,” I said to Vernon. + +“Yes.” + +I saw him looking at the dogs, which were sniffing the air, and pulling +at their leads in the endeavour to investigate delicious smells. +Suddenly he stopped short, just as the man was passing us. At the same +moment I saw the black spaniel shrink back and cower down against the +ground, pressing his broad, flapping ears against his head. + +“What is it, Vernon?” I said. + +He did not reply. He was staring at the spaniel. The owner of the dogs +saw a possible purchaser, and at once, in a soft and very disagreeable +voice, began to enumerate their merits. + +“H’sh!” Vernon hissed at him. + +The man stopped in astonishment. + +“That dog there,” said Vernon, pointing to the black spaniel, which was +still shrinking down, and pulling back from his lead in an effort to +get away. “How long have you had him?” + +“Ever since he was baun, gen’leman,” replied the man. “’E’s the +gentlenist, the best-mannered dawg as hiver⸺” + +“How old is he? What’s his age?” + +“Just upon a year, Sir, a year ’e’ll be this very selfsame month. ’E +was one of as fine a litter o’ pups as⸺” + +“You bred him?” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +“A year old, is he?” + +“Just upon, Sir. The thirtieth’s the day, Sir—the thirtieth of this +selfsame month. Law bless you, I knows the birthdays of hivery dawg as +hiver⸺” + +“What’s his price?” + +The man licked his lips, and I saw a gleam in his small eyes. + +“Well, Sir, I dunno as I’m dispoged to part with ’im. You see, I gets +to love⸺” + +“How much?” + +The tone was sharp. The words came almost like a pistol-shot. + +“Ten puns, Sir,” said the man. “I should say, fifteen puns, Sir.” + +“I’ll give you twelve.” + +“I reely couldn’t tike it, Sir. The dawg’s the very happle of⸺” + +“There’s my address—301, Wimpole Street.” He gave the man his card. +“Bring the dog there at six o’clock this evening, and you shall have +twelve pounds, not a penny more. Good-day.” + +“I’ll be there, Sir. You can trust me, you can⸺” + +We walked on. As we did so, the spaniel whimpered, ran to his master, +and fawned about his legs as if demanding protection. + +For several minutes neither Vernon nor I said a word. I was in +amazement. What had just happened may seem to some a very small matter. +To me it seemed extraordinary, mysterious, even—I could not tell +why—horrible. There had been something peculiar in Vernon’s attitude, +in his face, while he stood looking at the spaniel, something fatal +that had affected my nerves. Then my wonder was naturally great +that such a man should thus abruptly go back from his word. And the +spaniel’s cringing attitude of terror when Vernon had gazed at him, had +spoken to his master, was disagreeable to me, acutely disagreeable in +the remembrance of it! It seemed to me very strange and unnatural that +such an ardent lover of animals as Vernon was should inspire an animal +with fear. Animals have an instinct that always tells them who loves +them. This spaniel was apparently without this instinct. + +Perhaps it was this lack in him that made me now think of him with a +faint dislike, even a faint disgust, such as the healthy-minded feel +when brought into contact with anything unnatural. + +I broke the silence first. + +“I did not know you were a changeable man,” I said. + +“You mean that I have changed my mind about keeping a dog.” + +“Yes, and with such extraordinary suddenness.” + +“I suppose it does seem odd,” he remarked. “But who knows what he will +do?” + +“But—what was your reason?” + +He looked at me, very strangely, I thought. + +“A sudden impulse,” he answered. “A memory, perhaps, moved me.” + +“The memory of Whisper?” + +“Of Whisper—of course.” + +His voice seemed to me just then as strange as his face. Perhaps seeing +that I still wondered, he added— + +“That spaniel appeared to be nervous, terrified. Perhaps that man is +cruel to it.” + +“Oh, but⸺” I began, and stopped. + +“What is it?” + +“You didn’t think—it seemed to me that it was you who inspired the dog +with fear.” + +“I!” He laughed. “My dear fellow, a dog-lover like myself cannot +inspire a dog with fear. You must be mistaken. Animals always know who +loves them.” + +“Yes. It’s very strange,” I murmured. + +“What is strange?” he asked, in rather a hard voice. + +“Oh, I don’t know—nothing,” I answered evasively. “Here we are at the +gate.” + +“Yes. Well, you are coming to see me?” + +“Of course. You are still in that house?” + +“Oh, yes. It suits me. When will you come?” + +“Whenever you like.” + +He stood for a moment, making patterns with his stick on the pavement +and looking down. Then he glanced up at me. + +“Come and have a cup of tea this afternoon at half-past five, will +you?” he said. + +I immediately thought of the man with the earrings and the fur cap. +Then I was to see the transfer of the black spaniel. + +“I’ll come,” I answered. + +“Right!” + +Vernon nodded and walked away slowly in the direction of Hamilton Place. + + + VII + +At a quarter past five that day I started for Wimpole Street, filled +with a sensation of strong curiosity, for which, in mental debate +with myself, I could not quite satisfactorily account. It was a very +ordinary matter, surely, this selling and buying of a dog. Why, +then, did it seem to me an affair of importance? I asked myself that +question while I waited. The only answer I could find was that the +dog was a black spaniel, and that before the sad death of my friend +Deeming a black spaniel, the creature that had caused the tragedy, had +mysteriously complicated, and indeed altered, my pleasant relations +both with him and with Vernon. But all that was a year ago. The past +does not return, and therefore it was absurd to be—to be—what? What +was really the exact nature of the emotion that now beset me? Had I +been strictly truthful with myself I should, perhaps, have called +it apprehension. But we are not always strictly truthful even with +ourselves. I think that day I named it nervousness. I was nervous, out +of sorts, a little bit depressed. Vernon’s _volte-face_ had surprised +me. The dog’s cringing fear had made an unpleasant impression upon me. +And so, now, as I drew near to Wimpole Street I was slightly strung +up. That was the long and short of it. + +In some such fashion I think I spoke to myself, explanatorily, falsely. + +When I turned into Wimpole Street the image of poor Deeming was very +present in my mind, and I could scarcely believe that he did not still +inhabit the house to which I had come that Sunday morning. I wondered +who lived there now, who was Vernon’s neighbour; and when I reached +the house I looked towards it with a sad curiosity, which quickly +changed to surprise. The house was transformed. Where once had been a +doorstep there was now an area railing. The front door had vanished. In +its place was a window, with a box in which roses and geraniums were +blooming. In a moment I realised what had happened. Formerly the two +houses—Nos. 300 and 301—had been one house. Since I had been there they +had once more been thrown together. Vernon, then, was living now in the +house that had been Deeming’s. As I grasped this fact, Vernon appeared +at a window of what had been the second house. Seeing me, he smiled and +waved his hand. Before I could ring, the door was opened by Cragg, his +faithful man. + +“Glad to see you again, Sir,” said Cragg, with a respectful bow which +he had learnt, I think, in Italy. + +He had several little foreign ways, but was extremely English in +appearance—calm, solid, neat, and closely shaven. + +I returned his greeting and stepped in. + +“Ah,” I said, looking round. “So it’s all changed.” + +“Yes, Sir. After Doctor Deeming’s death we got rid of the old stuff, +and Mr. Kersteven bought the Doctor’s house and threw the two houses +into one. It’s more suitable now.” + +“It was awful before.” + +“Well, Sir, it was scarcely to Mr. Kersteven’s taste. We rather roughed +it for a time, Sir.” + +He took my hat and stick and showed me upstairs into a charming +drawing-room, in which I at once recognised many beautiful things from +Vernon’s house in Rome. Here Vernon met me with an outstretched hand. + +“By Jove, what a transformation!” I exclaimed. + +“To be sure, you haven’t seen it since⸺” + +“Since the frogs and the beetles and the Japanese umbrellas were turned +out. No. And so now you’ve got Deeming’s house too?” + +“Yes. I have joined the two together, but I use his chiefly for my work +in connection with our dumb friends.” + +“Oh!” + +His voice was significant in that last sentence, and I realised that in +him imagination was often the guide, leading him strangely, dominating +him powerfully. + +Tea was ready, and we sat down. + +Giving expression to my thought, I said, “Strange that you should be +living in Deeming’s house.” + +“Why so?” + +“Oh, well, you were antagonists, weren’t you?” + +“Could the difference between us be called antagonism?” he asked, +pouring out the tea. + +“Wasn’t it? Once Deeming told me that he knew⸺” + +I hesitated. + +“Knew what?” + +“Knew that you hated him.” + +“Really. Did he say that?” + +“Was it true?” + +“Why discuss it?” + +“You’re right. It’s all over now. And he, poor chap, has gone beyond +the reach of earthly love or hate.” + +He made no rejoinder, and I had an odd feeling as if he were silent +because I had said something with which he did not agree; yet that was +not possible. + +“Do you think,” I said, to change the subject, “do you think that +fellow will come?” + +“The dog-fancier? Oh, I suppose so. He won’t let slip a chance of +making twelve pounds. His dog isn’t worth more than six.” + +“Then why do you give double?” + +“A caprice.” + +“I begin to think you are a capricious man,” I said. + +“The dilettante generally is.” + +He drew out his watch. + +“It’s close upon six. That chap ought to be here in a moment. Ah, +there’s the bell! He’s come, no doubt.” + +I was conscious of a certain discomfort, but scarcely knew its cause. +Putting down my cup, I sat listening intently. Vernon, too, was +listening. There was in his face an expression of strained attention. +When the door opened gently, I started and looked hastily round. + +“Lord Elyn!” said Vernon, getting up from his chair. + +“Yes. Glad to find you at home. Hulloa, Luttrell! So you’re back at +last! I haven’t seen you since the death of our poor friend Deeming.” + +He shook my hand. + +“That was a sad business. No one to take his place. No one like him, is +there?” + +He sat down and stretched his legs. I said something suitable, but +with rather an uncertain voice. This unexpected arrival irritated +me. And yet I thoroughly liked Lord Elyn. Vernon, too—I felt sure of +it—was vexed by his arrival, but he was charmingly courteous, though, +in the trifling conversation that followed, he showed traces of +absent-mindedness. I knew he was listening for the sound of the bell. +I knew he was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the black spaniel. Six +o’clock struck. The hand of a clock on the mantelpiece pointed to five +minutes, then to ten minutes past six. Vernon began to betray a certain +restlessness, a certain uneasiness. He twice changed his place in the +room. Finally, he got up and remained standing. + +“You are expecting someone?” said Lord Elyn, looking at him in some +surprise. + +“Yes. The fact is I’ve bought a dog—or named my price for one—and he +ought to be brought here this evening.” + +“Oh, I’m very fond of dogs. Kept them all my life. What sort of animal +is this one?” + +“A black⸺there’s the bell!” + +He broke off, went swiftly over to the window and looked out. As he +stood with his back turned to us I heard him utter a low exclamation. + +“What did you say, Vernon?” I asked sharply. + +I had not heard a word, but there was a thrilling sound in his voice +which startled me. I got up also from my chair, possessed, gnawed by an +inexplicable restlessness. Vernon turned round from the window. I saw +the strange light in his eyes which I had sometimes noticed there when +he talked about the animals and their relation with man. + +“It’s the spaniel,” he said. + +The words were simple enough, but the way in which he said them was +not simple. It sounded cruel and triumphant. + +Lord Elyn looked more surprised. He also got up. + +“The arrival of this dog seems quite an event,” he said. + +“Yes, quite an event,” repeated Vernon, looking towards the door. “It’s +years since I’ve had a—pet.” + +“If you please, Sir, there’s a person here with a dog.” + +“I know. I expected him.” + +“Indeed, Sir. Am I to admit him?” + +“Certainly.” + +“And the dog, Sir? Is he to come in too?” + +“Of course. It’s the dog I want, not the man.” + +Cragg remained in the doorway, looking at his master. + +“What is it, Cragg?” asked Vernon. “What the deuce is the matter?” + +“Well, Sir, I don’t see—I don’t, really—how we are ever going to get +that dog into the house.” + +“What do you mean?” said Vernon. + +On his lips there was playing a slight smile. + +“I never see an animal in such a state, Sir; I really never did. Hark, +Sir!” + +He lifted his hand. From below there came to us the sound of a +long-drawn howling. Again I felt a cold chill go over me. Lord Elyn, +too, was unpleasantly affected. He shook his shoulders, and said— + +“Good God, what a dreadful noise! It sounds like something being +tortured.” + +Vernon was still smiling. + +“Oh!” he said; “it’s only the natural nervousness of a dog brought to a +strange house to change one master for another. Go along, Cragg. Show +the man into my study. I’ll come down in a moment.” + +Still looking very doubtful, Cragg disappeared, shutting the door. We +three remained silent for a moment. Then Vernon said— + +“I’m afraid you’re having a very fussy visit, Lord Elyn. Do sit down. +I’ll go and pay the man, and be back in a minute.” + +It was evident to me that he wanted—wanted ungovernably—to see the dog +brought into the house. As he stopped speaking he was gone. He had +almost darted out of the room. + +“Dear me!” said Lord Elyn. “Dear me.” + +He was a delicate, naturally nervous man, and highly sensitive. I could +see plainly that he was upset, mystified by this affair of the arrival +of the dog. He looked at me as if inquiring of me what it all meant. + +“I wonder⸺” he began. + +Then he broke off. After a pause he said— + +“If the dog often howls as he did just now, Vernon won’t have much +peace. I never in my life heard a more distressing noise, eh?” + +“It was very distressing,” I assented. + +Lord Elyn did not sit down, but went to and fro in the room like one +disturbed. + +“A most distressing noise!” he repeated, uncomfortably. “Most +distressing. It really almost sounded like a human being in agony, +didn’t it?” + +“Yes, it did.” + +“What sort of dog is it?” he asked presently, standing before me. “Do +you know?” + +“A black spaniel.” + +“A spaniel? They’re the most sensitive breed of dog I know, intensely +nervous and easily frightened, but very affectionate. They attach +themselves in an extraordinary manner to those who are kind to them.” + +“Hulloa!” he exclaimed. The door had reopened, and Vernon came in. + +“Well,” he said, “it’s all right. I’ve got the dog for twelve pounds.” + +“Where is it?” said Lord Elyn. + +“Downstairs in my study. I’ve had to tie him up for the moment. Poor +fellow, he’s nervous at getting into a strange house.” + +“Let’s have a look at him,” said Lord Elyn. + +I saw that Vernon hesitated, and thought he was going to refuse the +request, natural though it was. But if he had intended to do so, he +quickly changed his mind. + +“Certainly,” he said. “Come downstairs. My study is in the part of the +house that once belonged to Deeming.” + +Lord Elyn went out of the room, I followed, and Vernon came last. + +“To the right!” he said, when we reached the bottom of the staircase. +“This corridor unites the two houses.” + +We followed the direction indicated. + +“Here’s the study,” said Vernon. “It’s a real workroom, dedicated to +the cause of our dumb friends.” + +“The animals?” said Lord Elyn. “It seems to me, after this evening, +that dumb is scarcely the appropriate adjective to apply to them.” + +Vernon laughed. He had his hand on the door of his study, and was still +laughing as he opened it. + + + VIII + +Lord Elyn went in first. I followed. The study was, as Vernon had said, +a real workroom. There was little furniture in it, and what there was +was plain and serviceable. Near the one window, which looked out at the +back on to the backs of other houses, was a large writing-table covered +with documents, pamphlets, magazines, address-books, gum-bottles, +elastic bands, balls of string, a Remington typewriter, piles of paper +bands for fastening newspapers and manuscripts, etc. In the midst of +this ordered rummage stood a cabinet photograph of a man. I did not +examine it then, but I knew later that it was Arthur Gernham, the +notorious anti-vivisectionist. A few chairs, a thick Turkey carpet, and +two revolving bookcases completed the furniture. The walls were tinted +a dull red, and there were red curtains at the window. There were no +pictures or ornaments. On the mantelpiece stood a clock which struck +the quarter after six as we came in. + +“Where’s the—oh, there he is!” said Lord Elyn. + +The black spaniel was lying crouched upon the floor in a corner near +the window, a dark patch against the red of the curtain which touched +him. He had been tied by a piece of cord to the writing-table, but +had shrunk back, as if in an effort to escape, until he could go no +farther. Now he lay with his face turned towards the door, motionless, +staring. When we saw him he did not move. He only looked at us. + +He only looked at us, I have said. Then why did Lord Elyn stop short +just inside the door, as if startled? Why did I feel an almost +invincible desire to get out of this room, even out of this house of +my friend? It must have been the violence of terror in the dog’s eyes +contrasted with the absolute stillness, the stillness as of death, of +his body. Yes, I think it must have been that which affected us. For in +violence there is always contained the suggestion of intense activity, +the suggestion of movement, and the dog’s eyes conveyed to me the +feeling that his soul was rushing from us, while his body lay there +before us against the red curtain like a carven thing. + +“There he is!” Lord Elyn repeated in a low voice. + +He looked at me and then at Vernon. I thought he was going out of the +room, and I am sure he wanted to do so; but he stood where he was in +silence and again looked towards the spaniel. + +“Well, what do you think of him?” asked Vernon. + +The sound of his voice perhaps made Lord Elyn conscious that we were +behaving somewhat absurdly, that we were almost huddling together, he +and I, beside the door. For he took a step—but only a step—forward, and +answered, with an evident effort to speak more naturally: + +“Oh, he looks a good specimen. He’s well bred; I should say, well +bred—yes.” + +Again he glanced at me as if questioning me. All this time the spaniel +did not move, but lay staring at us with eyes full of horror. His +stillness appalled me. + +“And what do you think, Luttrell?” said Vernon. + +It was with a difficulty that was extraordinary to me that I answered +him. + +“You’ll have a lot of trouble with him,” I said. + +“Why?” said Vernon quickly. + +“Why? Why, he’s evidently a very nervous dog. I should think it’ll take +time to reconcile him with his new home and his new master.” + +“Good God!” said Lord Elyn. + +As I finished speaking the dog had suddenly howled again. Involuntarily +I stepped back. + +Vernon laughed once more. + +“Why, anybody would think you were afraid of him,” he said. “What’s the +matter?” + +[Illustration: “POOR BEAST! POOR BEAST!”] + +I tried to laugh too—to laugh at myself. + +“He gave tongue so very unexpectedly,” I said. “Poor fellow! Poor +fellow!” + +I was speaking to the dog, but I did not go towards him. The faint +disgust with which he had already inspired me in the Park was stronger +now that I was with him in a room. I was conscious of an almost +invincible desire to go straight out of the house, to get into the open +air, quickly, without delay. But with this feeling blended another, +more subtle, one that surprised me by its force. + +I longed, before I went, to untie that crouching dog, to let him escape +from the room, the house, to set him free. With the disgust of him +mingled a curious pity for him that was inexplicable to me then. + +I think Lord Elyn shared my feelings, but he acted differently from me. +For, whereas I now moved away to go, he suddenly, with determination, +walked forward towards the spaniel. Seeing this, I stopped just outside +the door in the corridor. From there I witnessed a sight that increased +my sensation of pity, and at the same time deepened my sensation of +disgust. + +Lord Elyn, when he was near the spaniel, bent down a little, snapping +his fingers and saying, “Poor beast! poor beast!” whereupon the dog +suddenly sprang up from the floor against his breast, in an obvious +attempt to nestle into his arms as if for protection against some +danger. Lord Elyn, surprised, tried to hold him, but failed, and let +him drop heavily to the floor. + +Vernon interposed. Going forward quickly he said, “I’m awfully sorry, +Lord Elyn. He’s muddied you. Come out and Cragg shall brush it off.” + +The dog shrank back against the curtain. + +“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Lord Elyn began. + +But Vernon took his arm and drew him with a sort of gentle +inflexibility towards the door and into the corridor where I was +standing. + +“Cragg,” Vernon called; “Cragg.” + +“Sir,” said the man coming from the hall. + +Vernon shut the door of the study sharply. + +“Just get a brush, will you? The dog has put his dirty paws on Lord +Elyn’s coat.” + +“Certainly, Sir.” + +He turned on the electric light. Lord Elyn stood under it to be +brushed. I noticed that his face looked very white, but thought it +might be the effect of the light upon it. When Cragg had finished, Lord +Elyn said— + +“Good-night, Vernon,” and walked hastily towards the hall door. + +“May I come with you?” I said. + +“Do.” + +I bade Vernon good-bye with a word and a hand-grasp, and in a moment +Lord Elyn and I were out in the street. + +“Ouf!” said Lord Elyn, blowing out his breath. + +He stood still, looking towards that part of the house which had been +Deeming’s. + +“By Jove!” he said, as if speaking to himself. + +Then, suddenly conscious that he was not alone, he exclaimed— + +“Pray forgive me, Luttrell, but the fact is I—well, I don’t know why, +but that dog has made a very disagreeable impression on me, very +disagreeable. D’you know, when he sprang upon me just now I felt a +sensation—by Jove, it was a sensation of horror, of abject horror.” + +He walked on slowly. + +“I noticed you were looking very pale in the hall,” I said. + +“Pale? I should think so! The whole business—I say, what did you think +of it, eh?” + +“How do you mean?” I asked evasively. + +“What d’you think of the dog?” + +“Poor beast! It seemed very nervous.” + +“Nervous! It was half-mad with terror. I never saw a dog in such a +state before. And Vernon such a lover of animals, too! That’s the +strange part of it.” + +“You think it was Vernon it was afraid of?” + +“To be sure. Didn’t you see it spring upon me for protection, and +directly he approached it shrank away like a thing demented? Now, I’ve +been with animals all my life—brought up among ’em—and never before +have I seen an animal’s instinct betray it. Animals know in a second +the men that are fond of ’em and the men who hate ’em. But this dog’s +all at sea. It thinks Vernon’s a regular devil—a dog-torturer. It’s +half-crazed with fear of him. That is as plain as a pikestaff. The +thing’s unnatural, Luttrell—it’s d⸺d unnatural!” + +He spoke with a vehemence that showed how greatly his nerves were +upset. I could not contradict, because I absolutely agreed with him. + +“That dog,” he added, “gives me the shudders.” + +“Poor wretch!” I said. + +“You pity him too?” he asked. + +“Yes. But when he gets to know Vernon it will be all right. Vernon has +a positive passion for animals.” + +I strove to speak with conviction, for I was trying to convince myself. + +“I know he has. And yet⸺” + +He hesitated. + +“What, Lord Elyn.” + +“Well, didn’t it strike you that he looked at the dog very queerly?” + +“Queerly?” + +“Yes, not as if he had a great fancy for it.” + +I said nothing. + +“What made him buy it?” said Lord Elyn. + +“I’ve no idea” I answered. + +And indeed at that moment I was wondering, wondering almost +passionately. + +“I’ll swear he doesn’t like the dog,” said Lord Elyn, still with +vehemence. “He may be as fond of animals as you like, but he isn’t fond +of this one.” + +“If he hadn’t taken a liking to it why should he buy it?” + +“That’s more than I can say. It’s a queer business. I had an idea +that—that you perhaps, had some inkling what was up.” + +And again his look questioned me. + +“I haven’t indeed,” I said. + +And I spoke the truth. I was in the dark, in blackness. + +A hansom passed us slowly at this moment. Lord Elyn hailed it. + +“I must get home,” he said. “I’m dining out. Shall I give you a lift?” + +“No, thank you. I’ll walk. I like the exercise.” + +“Good-bye, then.” + +He stepped into the cab and drove off, while I walked slowly back to +Albemarle Street. + +Lord Elyn had made my thoughts clearer to me by his blunt expressions. +He had asked me if I had any inkling of what was up, and, when he said +that, I knew quite certainly that, to use that slangy phrase, I thought +something was up. Vernon had been moved by some strange impulse to buy +the black spaniel, had some strange purpose in connection with it. I +felt sure of this. My instinct told me that it was so. What had caused +this impulse? What was this purpose? + +I wondered, but could not tell. + +I reviewed Vernon’s character as I knew it carefully, considered all +that I had heard of him from others, trying to find a clue that would +guide me to comprehension. But I remained perplexed. I knew good of +him. I had always heard praise of him, except from one person, the man +who was dead and in whose house he now lived. Deeming had said to me +once that Vernon was a black fanatic; the phrase was strong, brutal +even. It recurred to my mind as I walked, and stayed there. Then I +thought of the terror in the spaniel’s eyes as it lay motionless +against the red curtain of the workroom. And I was troubled, I was +strangely ill at ease. It seemed to me that in my friend, hidden away +like a thing hidden in a cave, was something mysterious, something even +terrible, and that the black spaniel was connected with it. But how +could that be? Vernon loved all animals. He was at this very moment +devoting his life to the advancement of their welfare. For them he had +thrown off his long idleness of the lounging traveller, the luxurious +art-lover, who wandered from country to country buying to please his +whim. For them he stayed in England and lived laborious days. Why, +then, when I thought of the spaniel shut up in his study, should I +be chilled with fear? I reasoned with myself, but in vain. The sense +of fear, of mystery, remained with me. It was deepened by an incident +which occurred six days later. + +During those days I had not seen Vernon; I had heard nothing of him or +of the black spaniel. + +The incident to which I alluded was my meeting for the first time with +Arthur Gernham. + +At a man’s dinner, given by a famous throat-specialist renowned not +only as a surgeon but as a host, I found myself sitting opposite to a +very remarkable-looking man of about forty years of age. I had not been +introduced to him, and had no idea who he was, but he at once attracted +my attention by his air of fiery vitality and his unconventional +attire. Instead of the ordinary evening dress, he wore a pair of black +trousers, a loose silk shirt with a turned-down collar and very small +black tie, and a double-breasted smoking-coat which concealed his +waistcoat, if he had one. His powerful, sinewy wrists were unfettered +by cuffs, and his powerful throat was free from the stiff linen +ramparts over which the average Englishman faces the world in the +evening. He was evidently a man who hated restraint. His face was pale, +of the hatchet type, with a long hooked nose, the bridge of which was +unusually marked; a large mouth, unsmiling but not unkind; a narrow, +very high forehead, and gleaming hazel eyes. His head was sparsely +covered with odd tufts of light-brown hair. + +During dinner Gernham talked a great deal in a rasping voice. His +conversation was interesting, for he was not only intelligent, but +obviously an enthusiast, and one who was entirely fearless of the +opinion of others. I wondered much who he was, and as we were getting +up from the table I found an opportunity to ask my host. + +“Arthur Gernham,” he said. “Very down on us doctors, but an interesting +fellow. In another age he’d have courted persecution for the faith that +is in him. Let me introduce you.” + +And he did so. + +Gernham shook me warmly by the hand. + +“My dear colleague Kersteven has often spoken of you,” he said. “You +sympathise with our efforts, don’t you?” + +He jerked his head upwards and looked at me keenly. I said +something—I’ve forgotten what—and he continued abruptly— + +“Come along. Let’s have a good talk. Have a cigar.” + +He gave me a very large one, flung himself down in an armchair, and +talked enthusiastically of Vernon. + +“I’ve been almost living in his house this last week,” he said. +“We’re preparing a fresh campaign on behalf of the blessed beasts, +our brothers. We’ve got together some statistics that’ll startle the +comfortable elbow-chair Englishmen, I can tell you. I’ll never rest +till I’ve roused the country to the horrors that are being perpetrated +every day, every hour, every minute, upon the defenceless animals God +has committed to us to be good to. And Vernon—what a splendid chap +he is! What a colleague! All pity! The man’s made of pity, made of +tenderness. Ah, but you know that!” + +“Yes!” I said. + +I thought of the black spaniel. Here was an opportunity to find out how +Vernon and his pet were getting on together. + +“You’ve been in the house with Vernon a great deal lately?” I began. + +“Every day and all day,” he said, “this last week.” + +“How’s that new pet of his?” I asked. “Reconciled and happy in his new +home?” + +“Pet?” said Gernham. + +“Yes, the dog.” + +“He hasn’t got one. Don’t you know the hideous story? He once had a +spaniel called⸺” + +“I know,” I interrupted. “And he’s got another.” + +“Not he!” rejoined Gernham, with sledge-hammer certainty. “He’ll never +have another. I understand the poor chap’s feelings. At the same time⸺” + +But here I interrupted again, and told Gernham the story of Vernon’s +acquisition of the spaniel. He heard me with an amazement he did not +try to conceal. + +“And you mean to say the dog’s in the house now?” he cried, when I had +finished. + +“I suppose so, unless he’s got rid of it already.” + +Gernham sat quite still with his thin hands spread out on his knees +staring at me hard. + +“This is extraordinary,” he said at last, with a sort of biting +decision. + +“You mean that he didn’t mention the fact that he had a dog?” + +“I mean more than that. I mean that he concealed it from me.” + +“Concealed it?” + +“Certainly. I’ve got any amount of animals—dogs, cats, the whole +show—and I’m always urging Kersteven to set up a happy family. We +preach kindness, he and I. We ought to practise it actively as much as +we can. But his feelings about his dead dog have always stood in the +way. I’m perpetually trying to convert him to my view. I’ve been at it +this week.” + +“And he said he hadn’t a dog?” + +“No. But he never said he had one. It’s much the same thing under +the circumstances. I should never have thought Kersteven could be +deceitful. I don’t like it. I—I hate it!” + +At this moment we were interrupted. Two of the other men came up and we +had no more private talk that evening. When I was going away Gernham +said— + +“Come and see me—will you? Here’s my card.” + +He gave it to me, shook my hand, and as I turned to go said— + +“You’ve spoilt my evening, I can tell you that.” + +I thought, “And you’ve spoilt mine,” but I did not say it. + + + IX + +I went home that night wondering whether Vernon had got rid of the +black spaniel. Perhaps he had found it impossible to reconcile it to +its new quarters, and had sold it or given it back to the man with the +fur cap. Or perhaps it was still in the house. If that were so, it was +very strange, very unlike Vernon to have concealed the fact from Arthur +Gernham. But, in either case, he had been deceitful, deliberately +deceitful, with a friend, and a friend whom he greatly admired and +respected. + +This incident of my meeting with Gernham deepened my sense of fear, +of mystery. My instinct—I now felt sure of it—was right. Some strange +under side of Vernon’s character was active at this moment. I knew him +only in part; much of him I did not know. A stranger now seemed to +confront me in the night, a stranger by whose feet crouched something +black and terrified. What was this stranger’s purpose? What could it be? + +I reviewed carefully my whole acquaintance with Vernon, but especially +the latter part of my acquaintance with him, when Deeming was in +relation with us both. It was then, when Deeming came into his life, +and only then, that Vernon had shown me for the first time a man in +him whose presence I had not suspected, whose exact nature I did not +know. This man was roused by Deeming. I should have let him sleep. But, +having been roused, he had surely been sleepless ever since. Yes, that +was so. Thus far, things were clear to me. Something—the strange man in +Vernon—had been wakeful, ardent ever since, was wakeful, ardent now. +This man it was who worked shoulder to shoulder with Gernham. This man +it was who had bought the black spaniel. + +So far, light. But now came the darkness. What had been Vernon’s +purpose in buying the black spaniel? When he saw it he had looked at +it fatally. At that moment, while he looked at it, his purpose had +sprung up full-grown in his mind, full-grown and fierce. I was not +to know that purpose. Arthur Gernham was not to know it. He now had +some purpose in connection with an animal that Arthur Gernham, his +close friend and colleague, his leader in a campaign of kindness, of +pity, to which he was dedicating all his activities and giving all his +enthusiasm, was not to know or even suspect. That purpose, since it was +in connection with an animal, must surely be one of kindness, of pity. + +But here my instinct rebelled violently against my knowledge of Vernon. +My instinct said that it was not so; that Vernon’s purpose in buying +the black spaniel had been sad, even perhaps terrible. Yet how could +that be? + +The dog’s eyes haunted me. They seemed to me to know what I did not +know, to know what Vernon’s purpose was. + +Deeming—again I thought of him, of Vernon’s short and strange +connection with him. Once Vernon had said to me that he believed +Deeming was a man haunted by a mania for persecution. He had spoken +without knowledge then. Later, he had travelled to England to gain +knowledge. He had taken the house in Wimpole Street to gain knowledge. +Had he gained it? I did not know. Vernon had never told me. Was that +why I was in the dark now? It began to seem to me that, perhaps, if +I could find out what Vernon knew of Deeming I should understand +something of his present purpose, of his purpose in buying the black +spaniel. + +At this stage in my mental debate I reached the Piccadilly corner of +Albemarle Street, and was just going to turn towards my house, when a +familiar face, a face respectable, close-shaven, English, looked upon +me in the lamplight, and a bowler hat was deferentially lifted. + +“Cragg!” I said. + +“Good-night, Sir,” said Cragg. “A fine night, Sir.” + +“Yes—wait a minute, Cragg.” + +“Certainly, Sir.” + +Vernon’s man stood still. + +“Just walk with me to my door, will you?” + +“With pleasure, Sir.” + +We turned side by side into the comparative quiet of Albemarle Street. + +“How is Mr. Kersteven, Cragg?” + +“Well, Sir⸺” The man slightly hesitated. “Oh, Sir, he’s in his usual +health, I think.” + +“Working hard, isn’t he?” + +“Very hard, Sir.” + +“With Mr. Gernham.” + +“Yes, Sir, with Mr. Gernham.” + +“And—and how’s the dog, Cragg?” + +I looked at him as I spoke, and saw his forehead contract. + +“The dog, Sir?—oh, the dog is getting on all right so far as I am +aware.” + +“How do you mean—so far as you are aware?” + +“Well, Sir, I don’t see much of it. That’s a fact.” + +“Really. How’s that?” + +I was pumping the man, I acknowledge it. I can make no excuse for it. +I was driven by something that seemed to me then more than an ignoble +curiosity. + +“Well, Sir, Mr. Kersteven keeps the dog shut up mostly. I suppose he +thinks that till it gets accustomed to the place and to us it’s better.” + +“But if it’s always shut up, how can it get accustomed to you?” + +“That’s more than I can say, Sir.” + +I could see that the man was constrained, was not telling me something +of which his mind was full. We had now reached my door, and I had no +further excuse for keeping him with me. + +“Well, Cragg,” I said. “Good-night.” + +“Good-night, Sir.” + +“I hope the dog will settle down and be friendly with you.” + +“Friendly with me, Sir! That dog! The Lord forbid!” cried Cragg. + +He seemed startled by the sound of his own lamentable exclamation, +looked at me as if asking pardon, lifted his hat, and walked quickly +away into the darkness. I stood staring after him. I longed to follow +him, to question him, to find out what he meant. But how could I? + +That night it was late before I went to sleep. The black spaniel seemed +to be crouching at the foot of the bed. I seemed to see its yellow eyes +fixed upon me, trying to tell me what I longed to know. + +Late in the afternoon of the next day I received a very unexpected +visit from Arthur Gernham. When I saw him come into my room, dressed in +a suit of homespun, with a flannel shirt and a red tie, and holding a +soft brown wideawake in his hand, I jumped up from my chair eagerly. +I guessed at once that he had something to say with reference to our +conversation of the previous night. + +“How are you?” he said, in his rasping, energetic voice. “I got your +address from the Red Book.” + +He sat down and stretched out his long legs. + +“I’m delighted to see you,” I said. “You’ve been at work with Vernon?” + +“I’ve been with him.” + +He ran one hand over his tufts of scanty hair. + +“I’m disappointed in Kersteven,” he said. “I never should have thought +he was a shifty fellow.” + +The word shifty, applied to Vernon, roused my sense of friendship. + +“Oh, you’re mistaken,” I exclaimed. “Vernon’s not a shifty man.” + +“I beg your pardon—he is.” + +I waited in silence for him to explain himself. I saw plainly that he +was going to. There was a sledge-hammer honesty about Gernham that was +startling but rather refreshing. He now proceeded to give me a specimen +of it. + +“I can’t stomach a friend who isn’t perfectly straight with me,” he +said; “and what’s more, I’m bound to tell him so. I can’t keep anything +in. Whatever I feel I have to out with it. That’s my nature. It’s got +me into plenty of trouble, and it will get me into plenty more. Fights +were my lot at Eton, and fights have been my lot, more or less, ever +since.” + +He unbuttoned one of the cuffs of his flannel shirt, pushed the flannel +higher up his arm, and went on: + +“With Kersteven I got on magnificently until to-day.” + +“Have you had a wordy fight with Vernon to-day, then?” I asked. + +“I went straight to him this morning and told him I’d met you last +night. He asked me how I liked you, and I told him, ‘Very much.’ Then I +said, plump out, ‘You’ve been tricky with me, Kersteven.’” + +“Oh!” I exclaimed. + +He took no notice of my interruption, and went on— + +“‘You’ve let me make a fool of myself with you. That’s nothing. One +makes a fool of oneself most days one way or another.’ ‘What do you +mean?’ he asked. ‘That you’ve allowed me to think that you would never +keep a dog or animal of any kind in your house, that you’ve sat here +and listened to me trying to persuade you to keep one, while all the +time there is—or was—one perhaps within a few feet of me. You’ve let +me think what wasn’t true, you’ve made me think what wasn’t true. I +don’t know what your reason is, but I know that I hate your action, and +that I never thought you were capable of doing such a low thing to a +friend.’” + +“Pretty strong,” I said. “How did he take it?” + +“That’s the nastiest part of all. He took it lying down.” + +“Lying down?” + +“Yes. Merely said the matter of the dog was such a trifle he hadn’t +thought it would interest me to know of it, that he wasn’t sure of +keeping it for any time, that he’d been so busy with me that—etc., +etc. The lamest excuses man ever offered to man. I was disgusted, and +showed it. It’s my way to show things—can’t help doing it. ‘Let’s get +to work,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t +work with you to-day. That’s certain.’ And I took up my hat and went.” + +“And you—you didn’t see the dog?” + +“Oh, dear no. But it wasn’t that I cared about.” + +“I wish you had seen it. I wish you would see it.” + +I was speaking almost involuntarily, as if the words were forced from +me, words scarcely prompted by any thought in me, words that were +uttered for me. + +“Why?” he asked. “Why? What do you mean?” + +His face and manner were always alert, but now they had suddenly become +intense with a sort of quivering vivacity. + +“What’s wrong about the dog?” + +“I don’t know that anything is wrong.” + +“Know! Do you suspect anything is wrong?” + +I waited a minute. I was repeating to myself Gernham’s question. + +“Yes,” I said at last, “I do. But I don’t know why I suspect, and I +don’t know what I suspect. That’s the honest truth and vague enough. +But I can’t help it.” + +He looked me straight in the eyes for a full minute, I should think. +Then he said— + +“I want you to be less vague, Luttrell; and I think you can. A man +doesn’t say such a thing as you’ve said without more meaning than +you’ve acknowledged.” + +“I assure you⸺” I began. + +But he stopped me. + +“Now look here,” he said. “One often has a thought behind one’s +thought, like a body behind its shadow. You’ve found the shadow; now +look for the body, and I’ll bet you’ll find that too.” + +His words seemed to clear away some mystery from my mind, but I shrank +from what was now revealed—the body behind the shadow. + +“I see you know now what you suspect,” he said, still looking into my +eyes with intensity. “What is it?” + +“I do know now,” I answered. “But it’s monstrous, and upon my word I’m +ashamed to say it. For you must know that I’ve a great regard for +Vernon.” + +“And so have—or had—I. His tenderness for the suffering of the animal +world drew me to him. I can’t forget that even now, after this beastly +affair of the dog.” + +“His tenderness for the animal world,” I repeated. “It’s just that—just +my knowledge of that, which makes my suspicion so monstrous.” + +“Let’s have it, I must have it!” he said. “You’re no backbiter, you’re +an honest fellow. I can see that. Go ahead. I shan’t mistake your +motives.” + +There was a compelling frankness about him. I yielded to it. + +“My suspicion is that perhaps Vernon is being cruel to that dog,” I +said. + +Gernham sat quite still. I saw that my words had deeply astonished him. +But he did not burst forth, as many another man would have done, in +a denial of the possibility of my suspicion being roused by a horrid +fact, being well founded. He was a very quick man, and full of finesse +despite his bluntness. + +“What are your reasons?” he said slowly. + +“I can scarcely say I have any. Let me think, though.” + +After a minute I described to him minutely how Vernon had regarded the +spaniel in the Park, the dog’s fear there, its much greater terror +on being brought into the house in Wimpole Street, Vernon’s strange +excitement on its arrival, and excitement in which there seemed to be +an admixture of triumph, his laughter as he opened the door of the +room in which the spaniel was confined; the dog’s rush for safety to +Lord Elyn, and shrinking away when Vernon approached it. When I had +finished, I added— + +“There’s one thing more.” + +“What is it?” + +Then I related to him my meeting with Cragg on the previous night, and +what the man had told me about Vernon’s keeping the spaniel perpetually +shut up. + +“That’s all,” I ended. “Not much, is it?” + +“D’you know,” he said, “what’s far the most striking fact in all that +you’ve told me?” + +“What?” I asked. + +“The dog’s horror of Kersteven. The rest may be nothing—fancy of yours +or oddity of manner on Kersteven’s part. But the dog’s horror of +Kersteven is very strange, and—unless your suspicion is correct, which +God forbid—very unnatural.” + +“Unnatural—that’s just what Lord Elyn called it.” + +“Ah!” + +“And his trying to keep the fact of the dog being in the house from +you. Isn’t that very strange?” + +“Certainly it is. But—by Jove!—the strangest thing of all would be +that Kersteven should be cruel to an animal.” + +“Yes, that’s true. I can’t—no, I can’t believe it possible.” + +“What could be his motive?” + +“I can’t conceive.” + +“I know the man. He has a passion of pity in him for the sufferings of +the animals, a real passion. Only one thing could account for his being +cruel, deliberately and persistently cruel, to a dog.” + +“What?” + +“If he were mad.” + +“Oh, that—impossible!” + +“It would be the only thing,” he repeated. “I know something of +insanity. A chief feature of it is this, that it often creates in a man +the reverse of what he was before it took possession of him. Thus the +kind, sane man becomes the cruel madman; the lively, mercurial sane man +the bitter, melancholy madman—and so on. You take me?” + +“Vernon isn’t mad,” I said with conviction. + +“Then he isn’t being cruel to his dog,” he said with equal conviction. + +“I can’t understand it,” I said dubiously. “The whole thing’s a +mystery. Why should he buy the dog after swearing he would never have +another? A whim, he said it was, a caprice. But I don’t believe that. +No, there was some deeper, stranger reason. What could it be?” + +I was asking myself, not him. + +Gernham got up to go. + +“One thing I promise you,” he said. “I’ll set at rest your doubts in a +very short time. I’ll find out for certain that Kersteven is treating +that dog properly. I devote my life to our dumb friends, as you know. +Well, they shan’t find me wanting now, though a man who has been my +chum and my colleague is concerned in this matter.” + +“What are you going to do?” + +“To-morrow I ought to be working with Kersteven. After to-day I didn’t +mean to go, I didn’t feel as if I could go. But now I will, and I’ll +see the spaniel and see him with Kersteven. Never fear!” + +He spoke with biting decision. I looked at him and felt that he would +do what he said. + +“Brush my suspicions away,” I said, “and I’ll be only too thankful. +Good-bye.” + +He went off quickly. + +When the door was shut behind him I thought how strange it was that +Gernham’s purpose in connection with Vernon was exactly the same as had +been Vernon’s in connection with Deeming when he left Rome for London. + +He had wanted to see a black spaniel with Deeming. Gernham wanted to +see a black spaniel with him. + + + X + +Just before lunch the next day Gernham was announced. + +“Good morning,” he said, coming into the room close upon the heels of +my man. “Can I lunch with you?” + +“Certainly. Lunch for two, Bates.” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +The man went out and shut the door. Then I turned to Gernham. + +“You’ve been to Wimpole Street?” I asked. + +“Yes. Do you remember I told you yesterday that Kersteven had taken my +punishment lying down?” + +“Of course I do.” + +“Well, since then he’s thought it over, and got up.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Yesterday I declined to work with him. To-day, he’s declined to work +with me. He’s refused me admittance to his house. See that!” + +He put a note down on the table beside me. I took it and read as +follows: + + +Dear Gernham+—I don’t know whether you will come to-day; but + should you do so, I’ve told Cragg to give you this. I did not care + to quarrel with a man in my own house; and so yesterday, when + you were impertinent to me, I did not appear to resent it. As you + know, I admire your character and respect your enthusiasm, and it + has been a great pleasure to me to be associated with you in a + work which I love with my whole heart and soul. But I allow no man + to criticise my conduct as you have chosen to criticise it. I am + sorry, therefore, that unless you feel inclined to apologise, I + cannot admit you to my house.—Believe me, faithfully, + + +Vernon Kersteven+. + +“What do you think of that, eh?” asked Gernham, when I finished reading +the note. “Pretty blunt, isn’t it?” + +“Vernon has decidedly got up,” I said. + +I looked again at the note. + +“Tell me just what you think,” Gernham said. + +“Well,” I answered, with some hesitation, “it’s an abrupt change of +front after his behaviour yesterday.” + +“Too abrupt,” he said. “I don’t like it; I don’t like it at all. You +were right, Luttrell; there is a mystery here—a mystery connected with +that dog. But I haven’t got your opinion yet!” + +He was a persistent man, and did not readily lose sight of his object. + +“You want to know how I explain Vernon’s change of front.” + +“Exactly.” + +“It seems to me that he has thought things over since yesterday, and +resolved to avail himself of this pretext to keep you out of his +house.” + +“That’s it!” exclaimed Gernham. “I’ve given him his opportunity like +a fool, and he’s taken it, like a clever man. But where an animal is +concerned I’m not so easily dished. A good many people who’ve appeared +in the London police-courts know that.” + +“When you got this note, what did you do?” + +“I tried to question Cragg.” + +“And the result?” + +“Nil. Directly I mentioned the dog, he looked as grim as death, and +became monosyllabic. There’s something up, and Cragg has an inkling +of it. But he’ll never tell it to me. You’ve got to go into this, +Luttrell.” + +At this moment lunch was announced, and the rest of the conversation +took place in the dining-room. Directly after lunch Gernham hurried +away, leaving me pledged to act where he could not act, pledged to +probe to the bottom, and without delay, the mystery of the black +spaniel. + +My relation with Vernon was now almost exactly similar to his former +relation with Deeming, and Gernham was to be the inactive watcher, the +waiter on events engineered by others, that I had formerly been. But +there was a difference in this new situation which had followed so +strangely upon the death of Deeming. Vernon had never been Deeming’s +friend. From the first moment when they met the two men had been +instinctively hostile to one another. But I was Vernon’s friend. I +cared for him. Till now I had believed in him. This fact complicated +matters painfully. And yet I did not hesitate, did not feel that in my +understanding with Gernham I was being treacherous, disloyal. + +For the eyes of the black spaniel haunted me, summoned me, seemed to +force me to go on, to investigate this mystery. By them I was driven +to do as I did. By them I was told that in my friend a new man, a +stranger, had arisen, and that in attacking this stranger—if attack +were necessary—I should not be false to my friendship with the man +who had lived in Rome, the quiet lover of pictures, the gentle, idle, +cultivated Vernon of the Trinità dei Monti. + +Vernon was generally at home after six in the evening. I resolved to +seek him at that hour on the same day, and carried my resolution into +effect. Cragg opened the door to me. + +“Mr. Kersteven at home, Cragg?” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +“Can I see him?” + +“If you’ll wait a moment, Sir, I’ll ask.” + +He paused, then added in explanation— + +“I don’t think Mr. Kersteven is very well to-day, Sir. Perhaps he may +not wish to be disturbed, even by you. You’ll excuse me, Sir.” + +“Of course. Go and see. I’ll stay here.” + +“Pray take a seat, Sir.” + +He placed a chair for me in the little hall, and went discreetly away +up the stairs. + +I sat down and waited. + +The hall was quiet and dim. Somewhere a large clock was ticking. Now +and then I heard a carriage roll by outside. As I sat there I fell into +deep thought. What was I going to do? I had come to the house without +making any plan. I could not make any plan till I had seen Vernon. His +demeanour, his action, must guide me. Would he see me? I thought it +probable. There was evidently no one with him. Had there been, Cragg +would have told me; and, if I saw him, should I find the black spaniel +with him? I glanced round me. On the opposite side of the hall, close +to where I was sitting, opened the short corridor, or passage, which +linked the two houses in one. I could see the darkness of what had +been Deeming’s house where the passage stretched away beyond the door +of Vernon’s workroom. Poor Deeming! Gone, with all his fine abilities, +his energy, his persistence, his ambition—his cruelty, perhaps! Had he +been cruel? Possibly Vernon knew. If he had, he was perhaps now being +punished in that other mysterious world of which we know nothing, of +which we seldom think in health, but which seems to loom near us when +we are ill, or weary, or in trouble of mind—to loom as a great vault +before whose entrance we stand, gazing but seeing naught. As I stared +down the corridor into the dimness of the other house, the thought of +Deeming haunted me, came to me vividly, till I almost fancied that +something of him, some thrown-out essence of his personality, of his +strong soul, still remained in the dwelling that had been his, still +knew what went on there, still watched the coming and going of the man +who governed where he had governed once. + +I fancied, did I say? It was more than that. I felt as if he were near +me, as if he were even intent upon me. + +Then from the thought of him, and still with that sensation of +his nearness, of his attention, upon me, my mind travelled to the +black spaniel. His dog, that mysterious creature never seen by me, +had pattered in the dimness towards which I was gazing. And now, +as Deeming’s place was taken by Vernon, its place was taken by the +black spaniel Vernon had first seen in the Park cowering down against +the earth, its ears laid back, its body trembling, its eyes full of +a message of voiceless fear. Perhaps it was close to me now, this +successor of Deeming’s pet or victim. Perhaps it was shut up in the +room in which I had seen it lying against the red curtain. I could see +the door of the room. It was shut. A few steps would bring me to it. I +glanced towards the staircase. Cragg was not coming down. I got up. +Again I had the sensation that Deeming was near me, was intent upon +me, wanted something of me, and with this sensation was mysteriously +linked my consciousness of the nearness of the black spaniel, till—till +the two sensations seemed to merge the one into the other, to become +one, in some indefinable, fantastic way. I can hardly explain exactly +what I felt at this moment, but my feeling was connected with Vernon’s +workroom. It was as if—as if I almost knew that, did I but take those +few steps to the shut door, did I but open that door, I should find +awaiting me within the room not only the black spaniel, but the dead +man, Deeming, with it. It was as if—as if⸺ + +I moved across the hall, walking softly, reached the corridor, gained +the door, stood by it, listening for the uneasy movement, for the +whimper of a dog, for the stir, for the murmur of a dead man. But there +was no sound within. There was no sound, and yet I felt positive that +the spaniel was inside the room, separated from me only by a piece of +wood. Once, twice, I put my fingers upon the handle of the door, yet +refrained from turning it. I felt a strong desire to open the door, yet +at the critical moment I was held back from doing so by an imperious +reluctance which seemed to me to be physical, as if my body sickened +and protested against what my mind told it to do. + +How long I stood thus uncertainly before the door I do not know. It +seemed to me a very long time. At last—in the struggle between mind +and body, if it were that—the body conquered. I turned to move away +without opening the door. I even took a step towards the hall. But I +was arrested by a sound that startled me, that sent—I could not tell +why—a chill through me. + +I heard the scratching of a dog against the inside of the door. + +I stood still, held my breath, and listened. The scratching was +repeated, prolonged. It was gentle, surreptitious almost, yet +insistent, a summons to me to return. + +Again my body sickened. I was physically afflicted. Nausea seized me. +But now my mind rose up and protested against the condition, against +the domination of my body, like a thing angry and ashamed. Suddenly I +took a resolution. I would open the door without delay in answer to the +appeal of the black spaniel. Swiftly I went back to the door, grasped +the handle, turned it, pushed. The door resisted me. It was locked. +As I realised this I heard from within the desolate whining of a dog +imprisoned. + +“Luttrell! Luttrell!” + +Vernon’s voice called to me from above, and at the same time I heard a +footstep. Cragg was coming down. I moved swiftly back into the hall and +met him. He glanced at me inquiringly, looked down the passage, then +at me again. His face for an instant was eloquent with inquiry—with—was +it sympathy? Then he was once more the discreet servant, saying in a +formal voice— + +“Please come up, Sir; Mr. Kersteven will be very glad to see you.” + +Vernon met me on the landing by the drawing-room door. I saw at once +that he was not well. His face was very pale, and had a peculiar look, +as if the skin were drawn upward towards the wrinkled forehead, which I +had sometimes noticed in people suffering from prolonged insomnia. It +gave a horribly strained appearance to his countenance, in which the +eyes looked unnaturally eager and full of curious observation. + +“Were you in the hall?” he said, taking my hand for the fraction of an +instant, and then dropping it as if with relief. + +“I waited in the hall,” I replied evasively. + +“You were there then while Cragg was up here?” + +“He asked me to wait there,” I said. “While he went to see if you were +well enough to receive me. I’m sorry to hear you’re seedy.” + +“Oh, it’s of no consequence. Come in.” + +We went into the drawing-room. + +“What’s been the matter?” I asked, as we sat down. + +“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been overworking, I suppose.” + +“With Gernham?” I said. + +“Gernham!”—he looked at me narrowly. “You—have you seen Gernham to-day?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh.” + +He sat silent for a moment. I could see that he was hesitating whether +to tell me about his breach with Gernham or not. + +“How d’you like Gernham?” he said at length. “He likes you. He told me +so.” + +“I know him very slightly, but one can’t help respecting such a genuine +fellow,” I replied. + +“Genuine—yes, he’s that.” + +“If he undertook a thing, nothing would stop him from going through +with it.” + +“You think so?” + +He slightly smiled. + +“But suppose he were to encounter an opposition as thorough as his own +attack? What then?” + +I knew at once that he was thinking of Gernham and himself. + +“Then,” I said, “there would be a battle royal.” + +“A battle royal, would there? Yes, no doubt.” + +With the last words his interest seemed to fail suddenly. He slightly +drooped his head, and sat like one listening for some distant sound. +I watched him closely. Gernham’s declaration that if Vernon were +maltreating the spaniel he must be mentally diseased was present in my +mind. I was looking for symptoms that would guide me to a conclusion +one way or the other. I saw a great change in Vernon—a painful change. +He looked like a man suffering under some terrible distress, which had +altered, for the time, his whole outlook upon life. But I felt that I +was with a perfectly sane man. As I regarded him he seemed to recover +his consciousness of my presence, glanced up, and met my scrutiny. + +“What is it?” he said. “Why do you look at me like that?” + +I felt embarrassed. + +“What’s Gernham been saying to you?” he added sharply. + +“Gernham—oh, you know him,” I answered. “You know where his heart is, +with the animals. What an enthusiast he is!” + +“He’s been talking to you about his work then. Well, did he tell you +that we’ve had a quarrel, he and I?” + +“He said your work together had come to a stop, for the moment. Why +should it?” + +“Why? Oh, well, sometimes Gernham is too blunt, says more than he, +than any man ought to say to another. There is a limit to frankness; +occasionally he oversteps it. He overstepped it with me, and I resented +it. Don’t you think I was right?” + +I felt that he was being strangely insincere with me as he had been +insincere with Gernham, trying to raise a cloud which would obscure the +reality of his mind, the true scope of his intentions. + +“I see no reason why two such men as you should quarrel,” I answered. +“Especially if it interrupts, and perhaps, to some extent, cripples +a splendid work. You should sink your little differences, and go on +together, hand in hand, to further the noble cause you love.” + +He had been trying to play me. I was now trying to play him. Yet, as I +finished, a genuine warmth came, I think, into my voice. It moved him. +I could see that, for he looked up at me as if demanding my sympathy. +Suddenly I felt a profound pity for him, a profound desire to help him. +But how? Against what? + +“Perhaps we shall be friends again,” he said. “But he misunderstands +me, and you, Luttrell, perhaps you misunderstand me too.” + +“I!” + +“Yes—you. Are you sure that, in these last days, you have never had any +cruel suspicions of me? Are you sure you have not any cruel suspicions +of me now?” + +“If I had, if I have, you could easily clear them up,” I answered. “By +the way, how’s the dog getting on? All right?” + +His face changed at once, hardened. + +“Oh, yes!” he said. + +“I should like to have another look at him,” I said. “Where is he?” + +“He’s downstairs in the study. Didn’t you know it?” + +“I—I did think I heard something scratching and whining. Why do you +keep him shut up?” + +“He hasn’t got accustomed to being with me yet. If I let him out he +might bolt.” + +“Oh!” + +“I don’t want to have spent my twelve pounds for nothing,” he added. + +His face had hardened. Now his voice was hard too—hard and fatal. + +“May I have a look at him?” I said. + +The sense of mystery was returning upon me. I tried to combat it by +speaking bluntly, expressing my desire plainly. At least, I would no +longer deal in subterfuge. Instead of answering my question he said, +throwing a curious, wavering glance upon me, “Are you engaged to-night?” + +I was, but I said at once, “I’m entirely at your service, Vernon.” + +“Dine with me, then.” + +“Here?” + +“Yes, here.” + +“Certainly.” + +“That’s right. And now let’s have some music. I’ve got a new piano +since last year.” + +We spent the next hour with Richard Strauss and Saint-Saëns. + + + XI + +Night had closed in. Vernon and I were seated opposite to one another +at the oval dining-table. Cragg waited upon us. Now and then, as he +moved softly to and fro, I glanced at him, and I thought I detected in +his well-trained face a flicker of anxiety as his eyes rested upon his +master, a flicker of appeal as they rested upon me. It seemed to me at +such times that he wanted me to do something to help Vernon, that he +was longing to have a word with me alone. + +The dinner was excellent, but Vernon ate scarcely anything. He talked, +however, a good deal, though hardly with his usual nerve and relish. +When dessert was on the table, he said— + +“Bring us our coffee here, Cragg; at least, one black coffee.” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +“I won’t take it,” Vernon said to me. “I’ve been sleeping wretchedly +lately. Morphia would be more the thing for me than coffee.” + +“I knew you had been suffering from insomnia.” + +He laughed drearily. + +“I don’t look up to much, do I?” + +Cragg brought my coffee and cigars. + +“You can leave us now, Cragg; go and have your supper; go downstairs.” + +The man looked slightly surprised, but said nothing and went away. + +When he had gone Vernon lit a cigar, puffed out some rings of smoke, +watched them curling up towards the ceiling, then said— + +“You wanted to have a look at the spaniel, didn’t you?” + +“Yes,” I said. + +“Well, if I bring him in, be careful with him, will you?” + +“Careful with him! Why? Is he dangerous?” + +“I don’t say that. But he’s got an odd temper. I keep him muzzled.” + +“In the house?” + +“Yes, always. I don’t want to be bitten. You remember how Deeming died? +Well, I don’t want to die like that.” + +His mention of Deeming gave me an opportunity of which I at once +availed myself. + +“That was a sad business,” I said. “Did you see much of him before he +died, as you were living next door?” + +“Oh,” he interrupted, “Deeming was not a friendly neighbour. Do you +know that I took your advice?” + +“What advice?” + +“To get into his house as a patient.” + +“You really did that!” + +“Yes. One morning, as he never invited me in as a friend, I went in as +a patient.” + +“How did he take it?” + +“Well, he could hardly decline to treat me. It happened that I was +really unwell at the time, so I had a good excuse.” + +“And—and—your strange suspicions”—I was almost stammering, conscious, +painfully conscious of my own—“your strange suspicions—did you ever +find out whether they were justified?” + +“They were justified, fully justified. But the dog took its own part in +the end and killed its persecutor.” + +I felt a sensation of horror take hold upon me. + +“Do you really mean that Deeming was treating his spaniel cruelly?” I +asked. + +“I do. He had the mania for persecution that I suspected. He was +venting it upon his dog. The servants had some inkling of the truth, +especially his butler. He knew, I believe, all that was going on. +But—he was well paid, very well paid.” + +I remembered my Sunday morning call, and the butler’s exclamation when +the fox-terrier ran into the house. + +“This is horrible, Vernon,” I said. “Are you sure of what you say?” + +“Quite sure. I heard—well, I heard things at night, and at last I saw +the dog.” + +“How?” + +[Illustration: “WHILE I WAS THERE DEEMING CAME BACK UNEXPECTEDLY.”] + +“I got into the house when Deeming was out. I bribed his butler, paid +him more than Deeming did, I suppose. Anyhow, I got in. I think the +man was sympathetic; was anxious really that an end should be put to +the disgusting business. I burst open the door of the room in which +the spaniel was confined, and then I saw—no matter what. It was quite +enough. While I was there Deeming came back unexpectedly.” + +“Good God!” I exclaimed. “What a ghastly situation!” + +“It was not exactly pleasant. I saw the man’s soul naked that +night—stark naked. It was on that occasion the dog bit him.” + +“Ouf!” I said. + +Again nausea seized me. + +Vernon looked at me steadily. + +“Don’t you think Deeming deserved anything he got?” he asked. “Anything +he could ever get?” + +“But he was mad—he must have been mad!” + +“I suppose that sort of thing is what might be called a form of +madness. Unfortunately a good many sane people have it—people as sane +as you or I in all other respects.” + +When he said the words “or I” a flush, I think, came to my cheek. It +seemed to me that he spoke with significance—as if he knew what Gernham +and I had spoken of the day before. + +“As sane as you or I,” he repeated. “This work I’ve been doing with +Gernham has opened my eyes to a good deal in human nature that they +were shut to before. I once said to you in Rome, to you and Deeming, +that man’s cruelty sprang often from a lack of imagination. Sometimes +it springs from just the opposite, from a diseased imagination that +lusts for gratification in ways we won’t discuss.” + +“But Deeming—that he should be such a man, he whose profession it was +to make whole!” + +“Yes, that made the thing more strange and, to him, more enticing.” + +“Enticing!” I exclaimed. + +My voice was full of the bitterness of disgust mingled with incredulity +that I was feeling. + +“Just that,” he said. “He healed, as it were, with one hand, and +destroyed with the other. Deeming was one of the human devils who have +an insatiable craze for contrast. They revel in virtue because it is so +different from vice. They revel in vice because it is so different from +virtue. Deeming quivered with happiness when the last patient was gone +and he could steal to the room where the spaniel⸺” + +“Enough! Enough!” I exclaimed. “I won’t hear any more! Thank God he’s +dead! Thank God it’s all over now! Why did you do that?” Vernon had +suddenly laughed. + +“Why did you do that?” I repeated. “What is there to laugh at?” + +“I was laughing at your certainty, Luttrell, at the calm assurance +with which we—poor, ignorant beings that we are—assert this or that +regarding the fate of a soul, without knowing anything of the purposes +of the Creator.” + +“I don’t understand.” + +“And yet you say—‘Thank God, it’s all over now!’” + +He looked at me so strangely that I was struck to silence. I opened my +lips to speak, but, while his eyes were upon me, I could say nothing. +He made me feel as if, indeed, I were plunged in a profound gulf of +ignorance, as if he watched me there from some height of understanding, +of knowledge. + +“Now I’ll go and fetch the spaniel,” he said. + +And he got up and quietly left the room. + +I turned in my chair and sat facing the door. The room was softly lit +by wax candles, and on the walls were the pictures of gentleness, of +mercy, of goodness and adoration which had hung upon the walls of +Vernon’s dining-room in Rome. My glance ran over them, while my mind +dwelt upon the horrors of Vernon’s narrative—horrors that seemed all +the greater because he had told me so little, had left my imagination +so unfettered. Then I looked again towards the door, and listened +intently. Presently I heard a door shut, the sound of a step. Vernon +was coming with the spaniel. I had asked to see the dog; I had wished +to see it. Yet now my wish was about to be gratified I felt an extreme +repugnance invade me. I longed to escape from the fulfilment of my +wish. I was seized with—was it fear? It was something cold, something +that lay upon my nerves like ice, that surely turned the blood in +my veins to water. But, I could do nothing now, nothing to escape. +Something within me seemed to make a furious effort to take up some +weapon and attack the cold heavy thing that was striving to paralyse +me. I was conscious of battle. In the midst of the battle the door +opened and Vernon came in. + +He was carrying the black spaniel in his arms. + +He walked in slowly, kicked the door backwards with his heel to shut +it, came to the table and sat down, still keeping the dog in his arms. + +The dog was muzzled, and had on a collar to which a steel chain was +attached; but, for the first moment, the only thing that struck me was +his thinness. He was excessively thin—almost emaciated. He sat on his +master’s knee, with his chin on the edge of the table and his yellow +eyes gazing at me. A long trembling ran through his body, ceased, and +was renewed with a regularity that reminded me of the ticking of a +clock. Vernon kept his two hands upon the spaniel. They shuddered on +the dog’s back when he shuddered. + +“Well,” Vernon said. “What do you think of him?” + +“He’s horribly thin,” I said. “Horribly.” + +I turned my eyes from the spaniel to Vernon’s face. + +“Do you think⸺” I began and hesitated. + +“What?” he asked calmly. + +“Do you think you give him enough to eat?” I said. + +“Oh, it’s very bad for dogs to overfeed,” he answered. “Nothing ruins +their health like overeating, and spaniels are like pugs, inclined to +be greedy.” + +I noticed that he had not answered my question. + +He lifted one hand, laid it on the spaniel’s head, and smoothed the +black hair, moving his hand backwards to the neck. The dog turned its +head back towards him and showed his white teeth, as if his master’s +hand drew him but to a demonstration of hatred, not of affection. +Vernon smiled, lifted his hand, and repeated the action. The dog gave a +low growl ending in a whine. + +“Now you haven’t told me what you think of him,” Vernon continued, “and +I want to know. I want very much to know.” + +I looked into the spaniel’s eyes, and again something cold lay upon my +nerves like ice. + +“Why?” I said. “What does it matter what I think?” + +“Do answer my question!” Vernon said with unwonted irritation. + +“There’s something about the dog,” I said, “that’s—that’s⸺” + +“Yes?” he said sharply. + +“That’s uncanny.” + +“Ah!” The word was a long-drawn sigh. “You think that!” + +“Yes, I shouldn’t care to have him about me. I shouldn’t care to sleep +with him in my room.” + +“Sleep! Heaven forbid!” + +His exclamation was almost shrill. It startled me. + +“Where does the dog sleep?” I asked. “Where do you put him at night?” + +“There’s a dressing-room opening out of my bedroom. He’s shut in there.” + +“And you—you say you’ve been sleeping badly lately?” + +“I haven’t been sleeping at all.” + +“Does he whine? Does he disturb you?” + +“He never makes a sound at night. I think he’s afraid that if he did I +should punish him. He’s evidently had an unkind master, poor fellow.” + +There was something so hideously insincere in Vernon’s voice as he +said the last words that I could not help expressing the thought, the +suspicion that had been, that was haunting me. + +“Has he got a kind master now?” I said. + +I fixed my eyes on Vernon’s. + +“Has he?” I repeated. + +At that moment I wanted to force things. The entrance of the dog had +deepened my sense of moving in mystery until it became absolutely +intolerable. A hard determination took hold upon me to compel Vernon +to explain—what? I did not know. But that there was something to +be explained, some strange undercurrent of motive, of desire, of +intention, deep and furtive, I seemed to be aware. + +“What do you mean?” Vernon said. “Surely you know my feeling for +animals.” + +“I do.” + +“Then what do you mean?” + +“I mean that as regards this animal, this spaniel, I don’t—I can’t +trust you,” I said. “I don’t know why it is, I don’t understand, I +don’t understand anything. But I don’t trust you, Vernon. That’s the +truth. It’s best to speak it.” + +To my great surprise, he did not indignantly resent my words, nor did +he look guilty or ashamed. Indeed, it seemed to me that an expression +of something like relief flitted across his face as I finished speaking. + +“I knew it,” he said. “I knew quite well you didn’t trust me. And +Gernham? Have you spoken to him of your mistrust?” + +“He knows I don’t understand why you bought this dog, and what you’re +going to do to him. He knows I’m—I’m afraid of—of what you may be +going to do.” + +He was silent, and again drew his hand across the spaniel’s soft black +coat. The dog struggled. He struck his open hand down on the dog’s +head, and the dog lay still, cowering upon his master’s knees. + +“Gernham doesn’t enter into this,” he said inflexibly. + +“And I?” + +“You! That’s different. You introduced me to Deeming.” + +Again the dog began to struggle upon his knees, but this time more +violently. + +Vernon lifted his hand again. + +“Put him down!” I said. “For God’s sake put him down! Don’t strike him!” + +“Very well.” + +He dropped the spaniel to the floor. The spaniel ran under the +dining-table. I sprang up from my seat. + +“Don’t, don’t!” I began. + +“It’s all right,” said Vernon. “I’ve got him by the chain.” He dragged +the spaniel out, and fastened him up to the sideboard at the far end of +the room. + +“Why, you’re trembling!” he said, as he came back to his chair. + +“Am I?” I said, ashamed. “I’m not a coward, but—but this dog—I can’t +stand him near me, close to me, when I can’t see what he’s doing.” + +I cleared my throat, went to the window, threw it open, leaned out, and +spat. Leaving the window open, I came back to the table. The spaniel +was now lying down on the floor, close to the sideboard. + +“What is it?” I said, almost fiercely, I think, in my inexplicable +physical distress, “what is it that’s wrong with the dog? What is it +that’s unnatural about him?” + +“You have no idea?” said Vernon. + +“Not the slightest. The poor beast seems harmless enough, though he’s +terrified. One can see that.” + +“Exactly. He is terrified.” + +“And the strange thing is that his terror terrifies me.” + +“Now you’re getting to it,” Vernon said. “Why should the spaniel be +terrified?” + +“Why? How should I know? Isn’t that for you to say?” + +“Sit down again,” he said. “The dog can’t get to you now.” + +As he spoke, he sat down. I glanced towards the dog, saw that what +Vernon had said was true, and followed his example. + +“The dog’s terror,” he said. “Think of that, Luttrell! Seek for an +explanation in that.” + +“I have, but I haven’t found one.” + +“Whom is it terrified of?” + +“Of you,” I answered. “The first time we saw him, I noticed that he +was abjectly terrified of you.” + +“Perfectly true. Why should that be? Is it natural?” + +“Utterly unnatural,” I said. “Unless he’s been badly, brutally treated, +and is afraid of everybody.” + +“He is not afraid of everybody. He is only afraid of me. Was he afraid +of Lord Elyn?” + +“No.” + +“He is only afraid of me.” + +“Are you certain?” + +“Would you like to test it?” + +“How?” I asked. + +“I will leave the room for a moment—leave you alone with the dog.” + +“No!” I exclaimed. + +“You are afraid?” + +“I’m not a coward, but there’s something about this spaniel which +horrifies my imagination as a spectre might horrify it.” + +“Nevertheless, you must summon your courage. I wish it. I wish to know +how the spaniel will be with you when you are alone together. Come, +make the experiment.” + +He got up and went towards the door. I did not try to keep him. + +“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said. + +And he went softly out of the room and shut the door behind him. + +When he had gone, I sat where I was, looking at the black blot on the +floor by the sideboard. A strong curiosity was awake in me fighting my +strange physical repulsion. I longed to put the thing to the test, yet +I feared to approach the spaniel. How long I sat there I do not know, +how long I might have sat there I cannot tell had nothing occurred to +bias me towards action. But something did occur. The spaniel suddenly +whimpered softly, as if to attract my attention, whimpered again and +struck his feathery tail upon the floor. Those natural sounds of +an anxious dog reassured me. I got up quickly and went over to the +sideboard. Instantly, with a sort of strangled wail, the spaniel sprang +up, put his forepaws on my legs, and thrust his hot nose into my hand, +pushing, pushing hard, as if he sought to hide himself in a friendly +shelter. I felt a wetness on my hand, the wetness of an animal’s tears. +Then all my horror vanished and only pity remained. I knelt down on +the carpet. I put my arms round the dog. I felt his trembling body +with my hands. He was thin, hideously thin. His piteous eyes begged +something of me. Still holding him with one arm, I stretched out the +other, and opened a door in the sideboard. Within I saw a basket with +some cut bread in it. I took out the bread. The spaniel sprang upon +it passionately, tore it out of my hand, and devoured it ravenously. +Then a wave of hot indignation went over me. At that moment I hated +Vernon with all my soul. I hated him so much that I lost all sense of +everything except my fury against him. I held the dog tightly as I +knelt on the floor, and, turning my head towards the door, I called out— + +“Vernon! Vernon!” + +Instantly the door opened and Vernon appeared. The dog looked as he had +looked when he was being brought into the house. + +“Vernon,” I said, “you’re a d⸺d blackguard!” + +“Why?” he said. + +“This dog is starving. You’re starving him! D’you hear? You’re starving +him!” + +“I know I am,” he answered. + +I got up. The spaniel rushed against my legs and leaned against them as +I stood. + +“Then Gernham was right,” I said. “You are a madman.” + +“Is it madness to see what is when others are blind to it?” + +“To see—to see?” I exclaimed. “What is there to see but this dog, this +spaniel that you are torturing?” + +“There is this spaniel—yes. Look at him. Look into his eyes. Look at +the soul in them.” + +There was something compelling, something almost mystical, in his +voice. I looked down into the yellow eyes of the spaniel. They met +mine, then looked away from mine as if unable to bear my gaze. + +“What is it?” I said, in a whisper. “What is it?” + +Again I was assailed by the sensation which had come to me when I +waited in the hall to know if Vernon would receive me, a sensation +that, with the black spaniel, linked with it, mysteriously mingled with +it, was something of the man who was dead—something of Deeming. + +“Deeming!” I stammered. “Deeming!” + +I did not know what I meant, but I was compelled to pronounce the name +of my friend. + +“Deeming?” I said once more, looking towards Vernon. + +“Don’t you feel that he is here?” said Vernon. + +“But he is dead.” + +“Don’t you feel that he is here?” + +“Yes,” I said. “But it can’t be. He is dead.” + +“His body is dead—yes. But his soul, is that dead?” + +When he said that, I understood what he meant, and I recoiled from the +black spaniel as from a nameless horror. + +“Vernon!” I said. “Vernon!” + +“Do you understand now?” he asked. “Do you understand why I bought +the spaniel, why I have kept the spaniel here in the house where he +tortured his dog? It was to punish him as he punished it, to torture +him as he tortured it. Directly I saw the spaniel crouching down in the +Park, directly I looked into his eyes, I knew. Deeming died on the +30th of June, the spaniel was born on that very day. The soul of the +dog-torturer passed at the death of the body of the man into the body +of the dog. I am not mad—no. I am only just. I am the instrument of the +justice of Providence. Deeming’s soul has been sent back into the world +to pay its penalty. And I am here to see that the penalty is paid.” + +There was blazing in his eyes the light which I had seen in them for +the first time in the restaurant in Rome, the light which had made +Deeming say that in Vernon there was the spirit of a black fanatic. + +“It’s not true!” I said. “It can’t be true!” + +“But Lord Elyn has felt it, Cragg has felt it, you have felt it—the +strangeness of the spaniel. You know now, you know that what I say is +true. Deny that you know it is true! Deny it then!” + +I opened my lips to deny it, but they refused to speak. I was filled +with a horror of the imagination, but I was resolved not to succumb to +it. I seized the steel chain that was attached to the collar of the +spaniel, and untied it from the sideboard. + +“What are you doing?” said Vernon sharply. + +“Good-night, Vernon,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm; “I am going +to take the spaniel with me.” + +As I spoke I moved towards the door. The spaniel slunk along beside +me, with its belly close to the floor, trying to press itself against +my legs. + +[Illustration: “I WENT OUT INTO THE NIGHT CARRYING IT IN MY ARMS.”] + +“What!” said Vernon, “to happiness—to affection!” + +I was close to the door. I had my fingers upon the handle. + +“That!” he cried with violence. “No! Rather than that, let it end now +and here!” + +He made a rapid movement; the spaniel howled and cowered against the +door. I heard the crack of a pistol-shot. I felt the chain leap in my +hand as the spaniel sprang upwards and fell on the floor. + +I bent down, touched him, turned him over. + +He was dead. + +Then I faced Vernon. + +“Murderer!” I said. “Murderer!” + +“But—he was only a black spaniel!” Vernon said, laying the revolver +down on the table. + +“Murderer!” I repeated. + +Then I lifted up the corpse of the spaniel, and went out into the night +carrying it in my arms. + + + + + _THE MISSION OF MR. EUSTACE GREYNE_ + + + I + +Mrs. Eustace Greyne (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead—that +noble, that startling forehead which had been written about in the +newspapers of two hemispheres—laid down her American Squeezer pen, +and sighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of +the rustle of dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and +Belgrave Square looked sad even to the great female novelist who had +written her way into a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman +on the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their +stertorous pantings sounded to Mrs. Greyne’s ears like the asthma of +dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto +voice: “It must be so.” Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian +carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her +earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell. + +Like lightning a powdered giant came. + +“Has Mr. Greyne gone out?” + +“No, ma’am.” + +“Where is he?” + +“In his study, ma’am, pasting the last of the cuttings into the new +album.” + +Mrs. Greyne smiled. It was a pretty picture the unconscious six-footer +had conjured up. + +“I am sorry to disturb Mr. Greyne,” she answered, with that gracious, +and even curling suavity which won all hearts; “but I wish to see him. +Will you ask him to come to me for a moment?” + +The giant flew, silk-stockinged, to obey the mandate, while Mrs. Greyne +sat down on a carved oaken chair of ecclesiastical aspect to await her +husband. + +She was a famous woman, a personage, this simply-attired lady. With +an American Squeezer pen she had won fame, fortune, and a mansion +in Belgrave Square, and all without the sacrifice of principle. +Respectability incarnate, she had so dealt with the sorrows and evils +of the world that she had rendered them utterly acceptable to Mrs. +Grundy, Mr. Grundy, and all the Misses Grundy. People said she dived +into the depths of human nature, and brought up nothing that need +scandalise a curate’s grandmother, or the whole-aunt of an archdeacon; +and this was so true that she had made a really prodigious amount of +money. Her large, her solid, her unrelenting books lay upon every +table. Even the smart set kept them, uncut—like pretty sinners who have +never been “found out”—to give an air of hap-hazard intellectuality to +frisky boudoirs. All the clergy, however unable to get their tithes, +bought them. All bishops alluded to them in “pulpit utterances.” +Fabulous prices were paid for them by magazine editors. They ran +as serials through all the tale of months. The suburbs battened on +them. The provinces adored them. Country people talked of no other +literature. In fact, Mrs. Eustace Greyne was a really fabulous success. + +Why, then, should she heave these heavy sighs in Belgrave Square? Why +should she lift an intellectual hand as though to tousle the glossy +chestnut bandeaux which swept back from her forcible forehead, and +screw her reassuring features into these wrinkles of perplexity and +distress? + +The door opened, and Mr. Eustace Greyne appeared, “What is it, +Eugenia?” upon his lips. + +Mr. Greyne was a number of years younger than his celebrated wife, +and looked even younger than his years. He was a very smart man, with +smooth, jet-black hair, which he wore parted in the middle; pleasant, +dark eyes that could twinkle gently; a clear, pale complexion; and a +nice, tall figure. One felt, in glancing at him, that he had been an +Eton boy, and had at least thought of going into the militia at some +period of his life. His history can be briefly told. + +Scarcely had he emerged into the world before he met and was married +to Mrs. Eustace Greyne, then Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. He had had +no time to sow a single oat, wild or otherwise; no time to adore a +barmaid, or wish to have his name linked with that of an actress; no +time to do anything wrong, or even to know, with the complete accuracy +desired by all persevering young men, what was really wrong. Miss +Eugenia Hannibal-Barker sailed upon his horizon, and he struck his +flag to matrimony. Ever since then he had been her husband, and had +never, even for one second, emerged beyond the boundaries of the most +intellectual respectability. He was the most innocent of men, although +he knew all the important editors in London. Swaddled in money by his +successful wife, he considered her a goddess. She poured the thousands +into Coutts’ Bank, and with the arrival of each fresh thousand he was +more firmly convinced that she was a goddess. To say he looked up to +her would be too mild. As the Cockney tourist in Chamonix peers at the +summit of Mont Blanc, he peered at Mrs. Greyne. And when, finally, she +bought the lease of the mansion in Belgrave Square, he knew her Delphic. + +So now he appeared in the oracle’s retreat respectfully, “What is it, +Eugenia?” upon his admiring lips. + +“Sit down, my husband,” she murmured. + +Mr. Greyne subsided by the fire, placing his pointed patent-leather +toes upon the burnished fender. Without the fog grew deeper, and the +chorus of the muffin bells more plaintive. The fire-light, flickering +over Mrs. Greyne’s majestic features, made them look Rembrandtesque. +Her large, oxlike eyes were fixed and thoughtful. After a pause, she +said: + +“Eustace, I shall have to send you upon a mission.” + +“A mission, Eugenia!” said Mr. Greyne in great surprise. + +“A mission of the utmost importance, the utmost delicacy.” + +“Has it anything to do with Romeike & Curtice?” + +“No.” + +“Will it take me far?” + +“That is my trouble. It will take you very far.” + +“Out of London?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“Out of—not out of England?” + +“Yes; it will take you to Algeria.” + +“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Greyne. + +Mrs. Greyne sighed. + +“Good gracious!” Mr. Greyne repeated after a short interval. “Am I to +go alone?” + +“Of course you must take Darrell.” Darrell was Mr. Greyne’s valet. + +“And what am I to do at Algiers?” + +“You must obtain for me there the whole of the material for book six +of ‘Catherine’s Repentance.’” “Catherine’s Repentance” was the gigantic +novel upon which Mrs. Greyne was at that moment engaged. + +“I will not disguise from you, Eustace,” continued Mrs. Greyne, looking +increasingly Rembrandtesque, “that, in my present work, I am taking a +somewhat new departure.” + +“Well, but we are very comfortable here,” said Mr. Greyne. + +With each new book they had changed their abode. “Harriet” took them +from Phillimore Gardens to Queensgate Terrace; “Jane’s Desire” moved +them on to a corner house in Sloane Street; with “Isobel’s Fortune” +they passed to Curzon Street; “Susan’s Vanity” landed them in Coburg +Place; and, finally, “Margaret’s Involution” had planted them in +Belgrave Square. Now, with each of these works of genius Mrs. Greyne +had taken what she called “a new departure.” Mr. Greyne’s remark is, +therefore, explicable. + +“True. Still, there is always Park Lane.” + +She mused for a moment. Then, leaning more heavily upon the carved +lions of her chair, she continued: + +“Hitherto, although I have sometimes dealt with human frailty, I have +treated it gently. I have never betrayed a Zola-spirit.” + +“Zola! My darling!” cried Mr. Eustace Greyne. “You are surely not going +to betray anything of that sort now!” + +“If she does we shall soon have to move off to West Kensington,” was +his secret thought. + +“No. But in book six of ‘Catherine’ I have to deal with sin, with +tumult, with African frailty. It is inevitable.” + +She sighed once more. The burden of the new book was very heavy upon +her. + +“African frailty!” murmured the astonished Eustace Greyne. + +“Now, neither you nor I, my husband, know anything about this.” + +“Certainly not, my darling. How should we? We have never explored +beyond Lucerne.” + +“We must, therefore, get to know about it—at least you must. For I +cannot leave London. The continuity of the brain’s travelling must not +be imperiled by any violent bodily activity. In the present stage of my +book a sea journey might be disastrous.” + +“Certainly you should keep quiet, my love. But then⸺” + +“You must go for me to Algiers. There you must get me what I want. I +fear you will have to poke about in the native quarters a good deal for +it, so you had better buy two revolvers, one for yourself and one for +Darrell.” + +Mr. Greyne gasped. The calmness of his wife amazed him. He was not +intellectual enough to comprehend fully the deep imaginings of a +mighty brain, the obsession work is in the worker. + +“African frailty is what I want,” pursued Mrs. Greyne. “One hundred +closely-printed pages of African frailty. You will collect for me +the raw material, and I shall so manipulate it that it will fall +discreetly, even elevatingly, into the artistic whole. Do you +understand me, Eustace?” + +“I am to travel to Algiers, and see all the wickedness to be seen +there, take notes of it, and bring them back to you.” + +“Precisely.” + +“And how long am I to stay?” + +“Until you have made yourself acquainted with the depths.” + +“A fortnight?” + +“I should think that would be enough. Take Brush’s remedy for +seasickness and plenty of antipyrin, your fur coat for the crossing, +and a white helmet and umbrella for the arrival. You have lead pencils?” + +“Plenty.” + +“A couple of Merrin’s exercise-books should be enough to contain your +notes.” + +“When am I to go?” + +“The sooner the better. I am at a standstill for want of the material. +You might catch the express to Paris to-morrow; no, say the day after +to-morrow.” She looked at him tenderly. “The parting will be bitter.” + +“Very bitter,” Mr. Eustace Greyne replied. + +He felt really upset. Mrs. Greyne laid the hand which had brought them +from Phillimore Gardens to Belgrave Square gently upon his. + +“Think of the result,” she said. “The greatest book I have done yet. A +book that will last. A book that will⸺” + +“Take us to Park Lane,” he murmured. + +The Rembrandtesque head nodded. The noble features, as of a strictly +respectable Roman emperor, relaxed. + +“A book that will take us to Park Lane.” + +At this moment the door opened, and the footman inquired: + +“Could Mademoiselle Verbèna see you for a minute, ma’am?” + +Mademoiselle Verbèna was the French governess of the two little +Greynes. The great novelist had consented to become a mother. + +“Certainly.” + +In another moment Mademoiselle Verbèna was added to the group beside +the fire. + + + II + +We have said that Mademoiselle Verbèna was the French governess of +little Adolphus and Olivia Greyne, and so she was to this extent—that +she taught them French, and that Mr. and Mrs. Greyne supposed her to +be a Parisian. But life has its little ironies. Mademoiselle Verbèna +in the house of this great and respectable novelist was one of them; +for she was a Levantine, born at Port Said of a Suez Canal father and a +Suez Canal mother. Now, nobody can desire to say anything against Port +Said. At the same time, few mothers would inevitably pick it out as the +ideal spot from which a beneficent influence for childhood’s happy hour +would be certain to emanate. Nor, it must be allowed, is a Suez Canal +ancestry specially necessary to a trainer of young souls. It may not +be a drawback, but it can hardly be described as an advantage. This, +Mademoiselle Verbèna was intelligent enough to know. She, therefore, +concealed the fact that her father had been a dredger of Monsieur de +Lesseps’ triumph, her mother a bar-lady of the historic coal wharf +where the ships are fed, and preferred to suppose—and to permit others +to suppose—that she had first seen the light in the Rue St. Honoré, +her parents being a count and countess of some old régime. + +This supposition, retained from her earliest years, had affected her +appearance and her manner. She was a very neat, very trim, even a very +attractive little person, with dark brown, roguish eyes, blue-black +hair, a fairy-like figure, and the prettiest hands and feet imaginable. +She had first attracted Mrs. Greyne’s attention by her devotion to St. +Paul’s Cathedral, and this devotion she still kept up. Whenever she had +an hour or two free she always—so she herself said—spent it in “_ce +charmant_ St. Paul.” + +As she entered the oracle’s retreat she cast down her eyes, and +trembled visibly. + +“What is it, Miss Verbèna?” inquired Mrs. Greyne, with a kindly English +accent, calculated to set any poor French creature quite at ease. + +Mademoiselle Verbèna trembled more. + +“I have received bad news, madame.” + +“I grieve to hear it. Of what nature?” + +“Mamma has _une bronchite très grave_.” + +“A what, Miss Verbèna?” + +“Pardon, madame. A very grave bronchitis. She cries for me.” + +“Indeed!” + +“The doctors say she will die.” + +“This is very sad.” + +The Levantine wept. Even Suez Canal folk are not proof against all +human sympathy. Mr. Greyne blew his nose beside the fire, and Mrs. +Greyne said again: + +“I repeat that this is very sad.” + +“Madame, if I do not go to mamma to-morrow I shall not see her more.” + +Mrs. Greyne looked very grave. + +“Oh!” she remarked. She thought profoundly for a moment, and then +added: “Indeed!” + +“It is true, madame.” + +Suddenly Mademoiselle Verbèna flung herself down on the Persian carpet +at Mrs. Greyne’s large but well-proportioned feet, and, bathing them +with her tears, cried in a heartrending manner: + +“Madame will let me go! madame will permit me to fly to poor mamma—to +close her dying eyes—to kiss once again⸺” + +Mr. Greyne was visibly affected, and even Mrs. Greyne seemed somewhat +put about, for she moved her feet rather hastily out of reach of the +dependant’s emotion, and made her scramble up. + +“Where is your poor mother?” + +“In Paris, madame. In the Rue St. Honoré, where I was born. Oh, if she +should die there! If she should⸺” + +Mrs. Greyne raised her hand, commanding silence. + +“You wish to go there?” + +“If madame permits.” + +“When?” + +“To-morrow, madame.” + +“To-morrow? This is decidedly abrupt.” + +“_Mais la bronchite, madame_, she is abrupt, and death, she may be +abrupt.” + +“True. One moment!” + +There was an instant’s silence for Mrs. Greyne to let loose her brain +in. She did so, then said: + +“You have my permission. Go to-morrow, but return as soon as possible. +I do not wish Adolphus to lose his still uncertain grasp upon the +irregular verbs.” + +In a flood of grateful tears Mademoiselle Verbèna retired to make her +preparations. On the morrow she was gone. + +The morrow was a day of much perplexity, much bustle and excitement +for Mr. Greyne and the valet, Darrell. They were preparing for +Algiers. In the morning, at an early hour, Mr. Greyne set forth in the +barouche with Mrs. Greyne to purchase African necessaries: a small +but well-supplied medicine chest, a pith helmet, a white-and-green +umbrella, a Baedeker, a couple of Smith & Wesson Springfield revolvers +with a due amount of cartridges, a dozen of Merrin’s exercise-books—on +mature reflection Mrs. Greyne thought that two would hardly contain a +sufficient amount of African frailty for her present purpose—a packet +of lead pencils, some bottles of a remedy for seasickness, a silver +flask for cognac, and various other trifles such as travellers in +distant continents require. + +Meanwhile Darrell was learning French for the journey, and packing his +own and his master’s trunks. The worthy fellow, a man of twenty-five +summers, had never been across the Channel—the Greynes being by no +means prone to foreign travel—and it may, therefore, be imagined that +he was in a state of considerable expectation as he laid the trousers, +coats, and waistcoats in their respective places, selected such boots +as seemed likely to wear well in a tropical climate, and dropped those +shirts which are so contrived as to admit plenty of ventilation to the +heated body into the case reserved for them. + +When Mr. Greyne returned from his shopping excursion the barouche, +loaded almost to the gunwale—if one may be permitted a nautical +expression in this connection—had to be disburdened, and its contents +conveyed upstairs to Mr. Greyne’s bedroom, into which Mrs. Greyne +herself presently entered to give directions for their disposing. Nor +was it till the hour of sunset that everything was in due order, the +straps set fast, the keys duly turned in the locks—the labels—“Mr. +Eustace Greyne: Passenger to Algiers: _via_ Marseilles”—carefully +written out in a full, round hand. Rook’s tickets had been bought; +so now everything was ready, and the last evening in England might +be spent by Mr. Greyne in the drawing-room and by Darrell in the +servants’ hall quietly, socially, perhaps pathetically. + +The pathos of the situation, it must be confessed, appealed more to +the master than to the servant. Darrell was very gay, and inclined to +be boastful, full of information as to how he would comport himself +with “them there Frenchies,” and how he would make “them pore, godless +Arabs sit up.” But Mr. Greyne’s attitude of mind was very different. As +the night drew on, and Mrs. Greyne and he sat by the wood fire in the +magnificent drawing-room, to which they always adjourned after dinner, +a keen sense of the sorrow of departure swept over them both. + +“How lonely you will feel without me, Eugenia,” said Mr. Greyne. “I +have been thinking of that all day.” + +“And you, Eustace, how desolate will be your tale of days! My mind runs +much on that. You will miss me at every hour.” + +“You are so accustomed to have me within call, to depend upon me for +encouragement in your life-work. I scarcely know how you will get on +when I am far across the sea.” + +“And you, for whom I have labored, for whom I have planned and +calculated, what will be your sensations when you realize that a +gulf—the Gulf of Lyons—is fixed irrevocably between us?” + +So their thoughts ran. Each one was full of tender pity for the other. +Towards bedtime, however, conscious that the time for colloquy was +running short, they fell into more practical discourse. + +“I wonder,” said Mr. Greyne, “whether I shall find any difficulty +in gaining the information you require, my darling. I suppose these +places”—he spoke vaguely, for his thoughts were vague—“are somewhat +awkward to come at. Naturally they would avoid the eye of day.” + +Mrs. Greyne looked profound. + +“Yes. Evil ever seeks the darkness. You will have to do the same.” + +“You think my investigations must take place at night?” + +“I should certainly suppose so.” + +“And where shall I find a cicerone?” + +“Apply to Rook.” + +“In what terms? You see, dearest, this is rather a special matter, +isn’t it?” + +“Very special. But on no account hint that you are in Algiers for +‘Catherine’s’ sake. It would get into the papers. It would be cabled to +America. The whole reading world would be agog, and the future interest +of the book discounted.” + +Mr. Greyne looked at his wife with reverence. In such moments he +realized, almost too poignantly, her great position. + +“I will be careful,” he said. “What would you recommend me to say?” + +“Well”—Mrs. Greyne knit her superb forehead—“I should suggest that +you present yourself as an ordinary traveler, but with a specially +inquiring bent of mind and a slight tendency towards the—the—er—hidden +things of life.” + +“I suppose you wish me to visit the public houses?” + +“I wish you to see everything that has part or lot in African frailty. +Go everywhere, see everything. Bring your notes to me, and I will +select such fragments of the broken commandments as suit my purpose, +which is, as always, the edifying of the human race. Only this time I +mean to purge it as by fire.” + +“That corner house in Park Lane, next to the Duke of Ebury’s, would +suit us very well,” said Mr. Greyne reflectively. + +“We could sell our lease here at an advance,” his wife rejoined. “You +will not waste your journey, Eustace?” + +“My love,” returned Mr. Greyne with decision, “I will apply to Rook on +arrival, and, if I find his man unsatisfactory, if I have any reason +to suspect that I am not being shown everything—more especially in +the Kasbah region, which, from the guide-books we bought to-day, is, +I take it, the most abandoned portion of the city—I will seek another +cicerone.” + +“Do so. And now to bed. You must sleep well to-night in preparation for +the journey.” + +It was their invariable habit before retiring to drink each a tumbler +of barley water, which was set out by the butler in Mrs. Greyne’s +study. After this nightcap Mrs. Greyne wrote up her anticipatory +diary, while Mr. Greyne smoked a mild cigar, and then they went to +bed. To-night, as usual, they repaired to the sanctum, and drank their +barley water. Having done so, Mr. Greyne drew forth his cigar-case, +while Mrs. Greyne went to her writing-table, and prepared to unlock the +drawer in which her diary reposed, safe from all prying eyes. + +The match was struck, the key was inserted in the lock, and turned. +As the cigar end glowed the drawer was opened. Mr. Greyne heard a +contralto cry. He turned from the arm-chair in which he was just about +to seat himself. + +“My love, is anything the matter?” + +His wife was bending forward with both hands in the drawer, telling +over its contents. + +“My diary is not here!” + +“Your diary!” + +“It is gone.” + +“But”—he came over to her—“this is very serious. I presume, like +all diaries, it is full of⸺” Instinctively he had been about to say +“damning”; he remembered his dear one’s irreproachable character and +substituted “precious secrets.” + +“It is full of matter which must never be given to the world—my secret +thoughts, my aspirations. The whole history of my soul is there.” + +“Heavens! It must be found.” + +They searched the writing-table. They searched the room. No diary. + +“Could you have taken it to my room, and left it there?” asked Mr. +Greyne. + +They hastened thither, and looked—in vain. By this time the servants +were gone to bed, and the two searchers were quite alone on the ground +floor of their magnificent mansion. Mrs. Greyne began to look seriously +perturbed. Her Roman features worked. + +“This is appalling,” she exclaimed. “Some thief, knowing it priceless, +must have stolen the diary. It will be published in America. It will +bring in thousands—but to others, not to us.” + +She began to wring her hands. It was near midnight. + +“Think, my love, think!” cried Mr. Greyne. “Where could you have taken +it? You had it last night?” + +“Certainly. I remember writing in it that you would be sailing to +Algiers on the _Général Bertrand_ on Thursday of this week, and that on +the night I should be feeling widowed here. The previous night I wrote +that yesterday I should have to tell you of your mission. You know I +always put down beforehand what I shall do, what I shall even think +on each succeeding day. It is a practice that regulates the mind and +conduct, that helps to uniformity.” + +“How true! Who can have taken it? Do you ever leave it about?” + +“Never. Am I a madwoman?” + +“My darling, compose yourself! We must search the house.” + +They proceeded to do so, and, on coming into the schoolroom, Mrs. +Greyne, who was in front, uttered a sudden cry. + +Upon the table of Mademoiselle Verbèna lay the diary, open at the +following entry:— + + On Thursday next poor Eustace will be on board the _Général + Bertrand_, sailing for Algiers. I shall be here thinking of + myself, and of him in relation to myself. God help us both. Duty + is sometimes stern. _Mem_. The corner house in Park Lane, next the + Duke of Ebury’s, has sixty years still to run; the lease, that is. + Thursday—poor Eustace! + +“What does this portend?” cried Mrs. Greyne. + +“My darling, it passes my wit to imagine,” replied her husband. + + + III + +The parting of Mr. and Mrs. Greyne on the following morning was very +affecting. It took place at Victoria Station, in the midst of a +small crowd of admiring strangers, who had recognised the commanding +presence of the great novelist, and had gathered round to observe her +manifestations. + +Mrs. Greyne was considerably shaken by the event of the previous night. +Although, on the discovery of the diary, the house had been roused, and +all the servants closely questioned, no light had been thrown upon its +migration from the locked drawer to the schoolroom table. Adolphus and +Olivia, jerked from sleep by the hasty hands of a maid, could only weep +and wan. The powdered footmen, one and all, declared they had never +heard of a diary. The butler gave warning on the spot, keeping on his +nightcap to give greater effect to his pronunciamento. It was all most +unsatisfactory, and for one wild moment Mrs. Greyne seriously thought +of retaining her husband by her as a protection against the mysterious +thief who had been at work in their midst. Could it be Mademoiselle +Verbèna? The dread surmise occurred, but Mr. Greyne rejected it. + +“Her father was a count,” he said. “Besides, my darling, I don’t +believe she can read English; certainly not unless it is printed.” + +So there the matter rested, and the moment of parting came. + +There was a murmur of respectful sympathy as Mrs. Greyne clasped +her husband tenderly in her arms, and pressed his head against her +prune-coloured bonnet strings. The whistle sounded. The train moved on. +Leaning from a reserved first-class compartment, Mr. Greyne waved a +silk pocket-handkerchief so long as his wife’s Roman profile stood out +clear against the fog and smoke of London. But at last it faded, grew +remote, took on the appearance of a feebly-executed crayon drawing, +vanished. He sank back upon the cushions—alone. Darrell was travelling +second with the dressing-case. + +It was a strange sensation, to be alone, and _en route_ to Algiers. +Mr. Greyne scarcely knew what to make of it. A schoolboy suddenly +despatched to Timbuctoo could hardly have felt more terribly +emancipated than he did. He was so absolutely unaccustomed to freedom, +he had been for so long without the faintest desire for it, that to +have it thrust upon him so suddenly was almost alarming. He felt +lonely, anxious, horribly unmarried. To divert his thoughts he drew +forth a Merrin’s exercise-book and a pencil, and wrote on the first +page, in large letters, “_African Frailty, Notes for_.” Then he sat +gazing at the title of his first literary work, and wondering what on +earth he was going to see in Algiers. + +Vague visions of himself in the bars of African public-houses, in +mosques, in the two-pair-backs of dervishes, in bazaars—which he +pictured to himself like those opened by royalties at the Queen’s +Hall—in Moorish interiors surrounded by voluptuous ladies with large +oval eyes, black tresses, and Turkish trousers of spangled muslin, +flitted before his mental gaze. When the train ran upon Dover Pier, +and the white horses of the turbulent Channel foamed at his feet, he +started as one roused from a Rip Van Winkle sleep. Severe illness +occupied his whole attention for a time, and then recovery. + +In Paris he dined at the buffet like one in a dream, and, at the +appointed hour, came forth to take the _rapide_ for Marseilles. He +looked for Darrell and the dressing-case. They were not to be seen. +There stood the train. Passengers were mounting into it. Old ladies +with agitated faces were buying pillows and nibbling biscuits. Elderly +gentlemen with yellow countenances and red ribands in their coats were +purchasing the _Figaro_ and the _Gil Blas_. Children with bare legs +were being hauled into compartments. Rook’s agent was explaining to a +muddled tourist in a tam-o’-shanter the exact difference between the +words “_Oui_” and “_Non_.” The bustle of departure was in the air, but +Darrell was not to be seen. Mr. Greyne had left him upon the platform +with minute directions as to the point from which the train would +start and the hour of its going. Yet he had vanished. The most frantic +search, the most frenzied inquiries of officials and total strangers, +failed to elicit his whereabouts, and, finally, Mr. Greyne was flung +forcibly upward into the _wagonlit_, and caught by the _contrôleur_ +when the train was actually moving out of the station. + +A moment later he fell exhausted upon the pink-plush seat of his +compartment, realising his terrible position. He was now utterly +alone; without servant, hair-brushes, toothbrushes, razors, sponges, +pajamas, shoes. It was a solitude that might be felt. He thought of +the sea journey with no kindly hand to minister to him, the arrival +in Africa with no humble companion at his side, to wonder with him at +the black inhabitants and help him through the customs—to say nothing +of the manners. He thought of the dread homes of iniquity into which +he must penetrate by night in search of the material for the voracious +“Catherine.” He had meant to take Darrell with him to them all—Darrell, +whose joyful delight in the prospect of exploring the Eastern +fastnesses of crime had been so boyish, so truly English in its frank, +its even boisterous sincerity. + +And now he was utterly alone, almost like Robinson Crusoe. + +The _contrôleur_ came in to make the bed. Mr. Greyne told him the +dreadful story. + +“No doubt he has been lured away, monsieur. The dressing-case was of +value?” + +“Crocodile, gold fittings.” + +“Probably monsieur will never see him again. As likely as not he will +sleep in the Seine to-night, and at the morgue to-morrow.” + +Mr. Greyne shuddered. This was an ill omen for his expedition. He drank +a stiff whisky-and-soda instead of the usual barley water, and went to +bed to dream of bloody murders in which he was the victim. + +When the train ran into Marseilles next morning he was an unshaven, +miserable man. + +“Have I time to buy a tooth-brush,” he inquired anxiously at the +station, “before the boat sails for Algiers?” + +The _chef de gare_ thought so. Monsieur had four hours, if that was +sufficient. Mr. Greyne hastened forth, had a Turkish bath, purchased a +new dressing-case, ate a hasty _déjeuner_, and took a cab to the wharf. +It was a long drive over the stony streets. He glanced from side to +side, watching the bustling traffic, the hurry of the nations going to +and from the ships. His eyes rested upon two Arabs who were striding +along in his direction. Doubtless they were also bound for Algiers. He +thought they looked most wicked, and hastily took a note of them for +“African Frailty.” Beside his sense of loss and loneliness marched the +sense of duty. The great woman at home in Belgrave Square, founder of +his fortunes, mother of his children, she depended upon him. Even in +his own hour of need he would not fail her. He took a lead pencil, and +wrote down: + + Saw two Arab ruffians. Bare legs. Look capable of anything. Should + not be surprised to hear that they had⸺ + +There he paused. That they had what? Done things. Of course, but what +things? That was the question. He exerted his imagination, but failed +to arrive at any conclusion as to their probable crimes. His knowledge +of wickedness was really absurdly limited. For the first time he +felt slightly ashamed of it, and began to wish he had gone into the +militia. He comforted himself with the thought that in a fortnight +he would probably be fit for the regular army. This thought cheered +him slightly, and it was with a slight smile upon his face that he +welcomed the first glimpse of the _Général Bertrand_, which was lying +against the quay ready to cast off at the stroke of noon. Most of the +passengers were aboard, but, as Mr. Greyne stepped out of his cab, +and prepared to pay the Maltese driver, a trim little lady, plainly +dressed in black, and carrying a tiny and rather coquettish hand-bag, +was tripping lightly across the gangway. Mr. Greyne glanced at her as +he turned to follow, glanced, and then started. That back was surely +familiar to him. Where could he have seen it before? He searched his +memory as the little lady vanished. It was a smart, even a _chic_ back, +a back that knew how to take care of itself, a back that need not go +through the world alone, a back, in fine, that was most distinctly +attractive, if not absolutely alluring. Where had he seen it before, +or had he ever seen it at all? He thought of his wife’s back, flat, +powerful, uncompromising. This was very different, more—how should he +put it to himself?—more Algerian, perhaps. He could vaguely conceive +it a back such as one might meet with while engaged in adding to one’s +stock of knowledge of—well—African frailty. + +At this moment the steward appeared to show him to his cabin, and his +further reflections were mainly connected with the Gulf of Lyons. + +Twilight was beginning to fall when, so far as he was capable of +thinking, he thought he would like a breath of air. For some moments +he lay quite still, dwelling on this idea which had so mysteriously +come to him. Then he got up, and thought again, seated upon the cabin +floor. He knew there was a deck. He remembered having seen one when he +came aboard. He put on his fur coat, still sitting on the cabin floor. +The process took some time—he fancied about a couple of years. At last, +however, it was completed, and he rose to his feet with the assistance +of the washstand and the berth. + +The ship seemed very busy, full of almost American activity. He thought +a greater calm would have been more decent, and waited in the hope +that the floor would presently cease to forget itself. As it showed no +symptoms of complying with his desire he endeavoured to spurn it, and, +in the fulness of time, gained the companion. + +It was very strange, as he remembered afterwards, that only when he had +gained the companion did the sense of his utter loneliness rush upon +him with overwhelming force: one of the ironies of life, he supposed. +Eventually he shook the companion off with a good deal of difficulty, +and found himself installed upon planks under a grey sky, and holding +fast to a railing, which was all that interposed between him and +eternity. + +At first he was only conscious of greyness and the noise of winds +and waters, but presently a black daub seemed to hover for a second +somewhere on the verge of his world, to hover and disappear. He +wondered what it was. A smut, perhaps. He rubbed his face. The daub +returned. It was very large for a smut. He strove to locate it, and +found that it must be somewhere on his left cheek. With a great +effort he took out his pocket-handkerchief. Suddenly the daub assumed +monstrous proportions. He turned his head, and perceived the lady in +black whom he had seen tripping over the gangway on his arrival. + +She was a few steps from him, leaning upon the rail in an attitude of +the deepest dejection, with her face averted; yet it struck him that +her right shoulder was oddly familiar, as her back had surely been. The +turn of her head, too—he coughed despairingly. The lady took no notice. +He coughed again. Interest was quickening in him. He was determined to +see the lady’s face. + +This time she looked around, showing a pale countenance bedewed with +tears, and totally devoid of any expression which he could connect with +a consciousness of his presence. For a moment she stared vacantly at +him, while he, with almost equal vacancy, regarded her. Then a thrill +of surprise shook him. A sudden light of knowledge leaped up in him, +and he exclaimed: + +“Mademoiselle Verbèna!” + +“Monsieur?” murmured the lady, with an accent of surprise. + +“Mademoiselle Verbèna! Surely it is—it must be!” + +He had staggered sideways, nearing her. + +“Mademoiselle Verbèna, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne, the +father of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?” + +An expression of stark amazement came into the lady’s face at these +words. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne’s then +gave a little cry. + +“_Mon Dieu!_ It is true! You are so altered that I could not recognise. +And then—what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from madame?” + +“I was just about to ask you the very same question!” cried Mr. Greyne. + + + IV + + +“Alas, monsieur!” said Mademoiselle Verbèna in her silvery voice, “I go +to see my poor mother.” + +“But I understood that she was dying in Paris.” + +“Even so. But, when I reached the Rue St. Honoré, I found that they +had removed to Algiers. It was the only chance, the doctor said—a warm +climate, the sun of Africa. There was no time to let me know. They took +her away at once. And now I follow—perhaps to find her dead.” + +Large tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Greyne was deeply affected. + +“Let us hope for the best,” he exclaimed, seized by a happy inspiration. + +The Levantine strove to smile. + +“But you, monsieur, why are you here? Ah! perhaps madame is with you! +Let me go to her! Let me kiss her dear hands once more⸺” + +Mr. Greyne mournfully checked her fond excitement. + +“I am quite alone,” he said. + +A tragic expression came into the Levantine’s face. + +“But, then⸺” she began. + +It was impossible for him to tell her about “Catherine.” He was, +therefore, constrained to subterfuge. + +“I—I was suddenly overtaken by—by influenza,” he said, in some +confusion. “The doctor recommended change of air, of scene. He +suggested Algiers⸺” + +“_Mon Dieu!_ It is like poor mamma!” + +“Precisely. Our constitutions are—are doubtless similar. I shall take +this opportunity also of improving my knowledge of African manners +and—and customs.” + +A strange smile seemed to dawn for a second on Mademoiselle Verbèna’s +face, but it died instantaneously in a grimace of pain. + +“My teeth make me bad,” she said. “Ah, monsieur, I must go below, to +pray for poor mamma—” she paused, then softly added, “and for monsieur.” + +She made a movement as if to depart, but Mr. Greyne begged her to +remain. In his loneliness the sight even of a Levantine whom he knew +solaced his yearning heart. He felt quite friendly towards this poor, +unhappy girl, for whom, perhaps, such a shock was preparing upon the +distant shore. + +“Better stay!” he said. “The air will do you good.” + +“Ah, if I die, what matter? Unless mamma lives there is no one in the +world who cares for me, for whom I care.” + +“There—there is Mrs. Greyne,” said her husband. “And then St. +Paul’s—remember St. Paul’s.” + +“Ah _ce charmant_ St. Paul’s! Shall I ever see him more?” + +She looked at Mr. Greyne, and suddenly—he knew not why—Mr. Greyne +remembered the incident of the diary, and blushed. + +“Monsieur has fever!” + +Mr. Greyne shook his head. The Levantine eyed him curiously. + +“Monsieur wishes to say something to me, and does not like to speak.” + +Mr. Greyne made an effort. Now that he was with this gentle lady, with +her white face, her weeping eyes, her plain black dress, the mere +suspicion that she could have opened a locked drawer with a secret key, +and filched therefrom a private record, seemed to him unpardonable. +Yet, for a brief instant, it had occurred to him, and Mrs. Greyne had +seriously held it. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbèna, and a sudden +impulse to tell her the truth overcame him. + +“Yes,” he said. + +“Tell me, monsieur.” + +In broken words—the ship was still very busy—Mr. Greyne related the +incident of the loss and finding of the diary. As he spoke a slight +change stole over the Levantine’s face. It certainly became less pale. + +“But you have fever now!” cried Mr. Greyne anxiously. + +“I! No; I flush with horror, not with fever! The diary, the sacred +diary of madame, exposed to view, read by the children, perhaps the +servants! That footman, Thomas, with the nose of curiosity! Ah! I +behold that nose penetrating into the holy secrets of the existence of +madame! I behold it—ah!” + +She burst into a fit of hysterics, the laughing species, which is +so much more terrible than the other sort. Mr. Greyne was greatly +concerned. He lurched to her, and implored her to be calm; but she only +laughed the more, while tears streamed down her cheeks. The vision of +Thomas gloating over Mrs. Greyne’s diary seemed utterly to unnerve her, +and Mr. Greyne was able to measure, by this ebullition of horror, the +depth of the respect and affection entertained by her for his beloved +wife. When, at length, she grew calmer he escorted her towards her +cabin, offering her his arm, on which she leaned heavily. As soon as +they were in the narrow and heaving passage she turned to him, and said: + +“Who can have taken the diary?” + +Mr. Greyne blushed again. + +“We think it was Thomas,” he said. + +Mademoiselle Verbèna looked at him steadily for a moment, then she +cried: + +“God bless you, monsieur!” + +Mr. Greyne was startled by the abruptness of this pious ejaculation. + +“Why?” he inquired. + +“You are a good man. You, at least, would not condescend to insult a +friendless woman by unworthy suspicions. And madame?” + +“Mrs. Greyne”—stammered Mr. Greyne—“is convinced that it was Thomas. In +fact—in fact, she was the first to say so.” + +Mademoiselle Verbèna tenderly pressed his hand. + +“Madame is an angel. God bless you both!” + +She tottered into her cabin, and, as she shut the door, Mr. Greyne +heard the terrible, laughing hysterics beginning again. + +The next day an influence from Africa seemed spread upon the sea. Calm +were the waters, calm and blue. No cloud appeared in the sky. The +fierce activities of the ship had ceased, and Mademoiselle Verbèna +tripped upon the deck at an early hour, to find Mr. Greyne already +installed there, and looking positively cheerful. He started up as he +perceived her, and chivalrously escorted her to a chair. + +Everyone who has made a voyage knows that the sea breeds intimacies. +By the time the white houses of Algiers rose on their hill out of the +bosom of the waves Mademoiselle Verbèna and Mr. Greyne were—shall we +say like sister and brother? She had told him all about her childhood +in dear Paris, the death of her father the count, murmuring the name +of Louis XVI., the poverty of her mother the countess, her own resolve +to put aside all aristocratic prejudices and earn her own living. +He, in return, had related his Eton days, his momentary bias towards +the militia, his marriage—as an innocent youth—with Miss Eugenia +Hannibal-Barker. Coming to later times, he was led to confide to the +tender-hearted Levantine the fact that he hoped to increase his stock +of knowledge while in Africa. Without alluding to “Catherine,” he +hinted that the cure of influenza was not his only reason for foreign +travel. + +“I wish to learn something of men and—and women,” he murmured in the +shell-like ear presented to him. “Of their passions, their desires, +their—their follies.” + +“Ah!” cried Mademoiselle Verbèna. “Would that I could assist monsieur! +But I am only an ignorant little creature, and know nothing of the +world! And I shall be ever at the bedside of mamma.” + +“You will give me your address? You will let me inquire for the +countess?” + +“Willingly; but I do not know where I shall be. There will be a message +at the wharf. To what hotel goes monsieur?” + +“The Grand Hotel.” + +“I will write there when I have seen mamma. And meanwhile⸺” + +They were coming into harbour. The heights of Mustapha were visible, +the woods of the Bois de Boulogne, the towers of the Hotel Splendid. + +“Meanwhile, may I beg monsieur not to⸺” She hesitated. + +“Not to what?” asked Mr. Greyne most softly. + +“Not to let anyone in England know that I am here?” + +She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbèna +drooped her head. + +“The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I—that +monsieur—a man young, handsome, fascinating—the same ship—I have no +chaperon—_enfin_⸺” + +She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr. +Greyne to tears. + +“Not a word,” he said. “You are right. The world is evil, and, as you +say, I am a—not a word!” + +He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressed +it. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs. +Eustace Greyne the world might attribute—Goodness gracious! What might +not the militia think, for instance? + +He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog. + +They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have +stayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbèna, but she bade him go. She +whispered that she thought it “better” that they should not seem +to—_enfin_! + +“I will write to-morrow,” she murmured. “_Au revoir!_” + +On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and +hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more. + +That very evening, after a cup of tea, he presented himself at the +office of Rook near the Place du Gouvernement. As he came in he felt a +little nervous. There were no tourists in the office, and a courteous +clerk with a bright and searching eye at once took him in hand. + +“What can we do for you, sir?” + +“I am a stranger here,” began Mr. Greyne. + +“Quite so, sir, quite so.” + +The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring. + +“And being so,” Mr. Greyne went on, “it is naturally my wish to see as +much of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand.” + +“You want a guide? Alphonso!” + +Turning, he shouted to an inner room, from which in a moment emerged a +short, stout, swarthy personage with a Jewish nose, a French head, an +Arab eye with a squint in it, and a markedly Maltese expression. + +“This is an excellent guide, sir,” said the clerk. “He speaks +twenty-five languages.” + +The stout man, who—as Mr. Greyne now perceived—had on a Swiss suit +of clothes, a panama hat, and a pair of German elastic-sided boots, +confessed in pigeon English, interspersed occasionally with a word or +two of something which Mr. Greyne took to be Chinese, that such was +undoubtedly the case. + +“What do you wish to see? The mosque, the bazaars, St. Eugène, La +Trappe, Mustapha, the baths of the Etat-Major, the Jardin d’Essai, the +Villa-Anti-Juif, the⸺” + +“One moment!” said Mr. Greyne. + +He turned to the clerk. + +“May I take a chair?” + +“Be seated, sir, pray be seated, and confer with Alphonso.” + +So saying, he gave himself to an enormous ledger, while Mr. Greyne took +a chair opposite to Alphonso, who stood in a Moorish attitude looking +apparently in the direction of Marseilles. + +“I have come here,” said Mr. Greyne, lowering his voice, “with a +purpose.” + +“You wish to see the Belle Fatma. I will arrange it. She receives every +evening in her house in the Rue⸺” + +“One minute! One minute! You said the something ‘Fatma’?” + +“The Belle Fatma, the most beautiful woman of Africa. She receives +every⸺” + +“Pardon me! One moment! Is this lady⸺” + +Mr. Greyne paused. + +“Sir?” said Alphonso, settling his Spanish neck-tie, and gazing +steadily towards Marseilles. + +“Is this lady—well, sinful?” + +Alphonso threw up his hands with a wild Asiatic gesture. + +“Sinful! La Belle Fatma! She is a lady of the utmost respectability +known to all the town. You go to her house at eight, you take coffee +upon the red sofas, you talk with La Belle, you see the dances and hear +the music. Do not fear, sir; it is good, it is respectable as England, +your country⸺” + +“If it is respectable I don’t want to see it,” interposed Mr. Greyne. +“It would be a waste of time.” + +The clerk lifted his head from the ledger, and Alphonso, by means of +standing with his back almost square to Mr. Greyne, and looking over +his right shoulder, succeeded at length in fixing his eye upon him. + +“I have not travelled here to see respectable things,” continued Mr. +Greyne, with a slight blush. “Quite the contrary.” + +“Sir?” + +The voice of Alphonso seemed to have changed, to have taken on a hard, +almost a menacing tone. Mr. Greyne thought of his beloved wife, of +Merrin’s exercise-books, and clenched his hands, endeavouring to feel, +and to go on, like a militiaman. + +“Quite the contrary,” he repeated firmly; “my object in coming to +Africa is to—to search about in the Kasbah, and the disrep⸺” He +choked, recovered himself, and continued: “Disreputable quarters of +Algiers—hem⸺” + +“What for, sir?” + +The voice of Alphonso was certainly changed. + +“What for?” said Mr. Greyne, growing purple. “For frailty.” + +“Sir?” + +“For frailty—for wickedness.” + +A slight cackle emanated from the ledger, but immediately died away. A +dead silence reigned in the office, broken only by the distant sound of +the sea, and by the hard breathing of Alphonso, who had suddenly begun +to pant. + +“I wish to go to all the wicked places—_all_!” + +The ledger cackled again more audibly. Mr. Greyne felt a prickling +sensation run over him, but the thought of “Catherine” nerved him to +his awful task. + +“It is my wife’s express desire that I should do so,” he added +desperately, quite forgetting Mrs. Greyne’s injunction to keep her dark +in his desire to stand well with Rook’s. + +The ledger went off into a hyena imitation, and Alphonso, turning still +more away from Mr. Greyne, so as to get the eye fuller upon him, +exclaimed, in a mixture of Aryan and Eurasian languages: + +“Sir, I am a respectable, unmarried man. I was born in Buenos Ayres, +educated in Smyrna, came of age in Constantinople, and have practised +as guide in Bagdad and other particular cities. I refuse to have +anything to do with you and your wife.” + +So saying, he bounced into the inner room, and banged the door, while +the ledger gave itself up to peals of merriment, and Mr. Greyne +tottered forth upon the sea-front, bathed in a cold perspiration, and +feeling more guilty than a murderer. + +It was a staggering blow. He leaned over the stone parapet of the low +wall, and let the soft breezes from the bay flit through his hair, and +thought of Mrs. Greyne spurned by Alphonso. What was he to do? Kicked +out of Rook’s, to whom could he apply? There must be wickedness in +Algiers, but where? He saw none, though night was falling and stout +Frenchmen were already intent upon their absinthe. + +“Does monsieur wish to see the Kasbah to-night?” + +Was it a voice from heaven? He turned, and saw standing beside him a +tall, thin, audacious-looking young man, with coal-black moustaches, +magnificent eyes, and an air that was half-languid, half-serpentine. + +“Who are you?” + +“I am a guide, monsieur. Here are my certificates.” + +He produced from the inner pocket of his coat a large bundle of dirty +papers. + +“If monsieur will deign to look them over.” + +But Mr. Greyne waved them away. What did he care for certificates? +Here was a guide to African frailty. That was sufficient. He was in a +desperate mood, and uttered desperate words. + +“Look here,” he said rapidly, “are you wicked?” + +“Very wicked, monsieur.” + +“Good!” + +“Wicked, monsieur.” + +“Right!” + +“Wrong, monsieur.” + +“I mean that it is good for me that you are wicked.” + +“Monsieur is very good.” + +“Yes; but I wish to be—that is, to see the other thing. Can you +undertake to show me everything shocking in Algiers?” + +“But certainly, monsieur. For a consideration.” + +“Name your price.” + +“Two hundred pounds, monsieur.” + +Mr. Greyne started. It seemed a high figure. + +“Monsieur thought it would be more? I make a special price, because I +have taken a fancy to monsieur. I remove fifty pounds. Monsieur, of +course, will pay all expenses.” + +“Of course, of course.” + +It was no time to draw back. + +“How long will it take?” + +“To see all the shocking?” + +“Precisely.” + +“There is a good deal. A fortnight, three weeks. It depends on +monsieur. If he is strong, and can do without sleep⸺” + +“We shall have to be up at night?” + +“Naturally.” + +“I shall go to bed during the day, and get through it in a fortnight.” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Be at the Grand Hotel to-night at ten o’clock precisely.” + +“At ten o’clock I will be there. Monsieur will pay a little in advance?” + +“Here are twenty pounds,” cried Mr. Greyne recklessly. + +The audacious-looking young man took the notes with decision, made a +graceful salute, and disappeared in the direction of the quay, while +Mr. Greyne walked to his hotel, flushed with excitement, and feeling +like the most desperate criminal in Africa. If the militia could see +him now! + +At dinner he drank a bottle of champagne, and afterwards smoked a +strong cigar over his coffee and liqueur. As he was finishing these +frantic enjoyments the head waiter—a personage bearing a strong +resemblance to an enlarged edition of Napoleon the First—approached him +rather furtively, and, bending down, whispered in his ear: + +“A gentleman has called to take monsieur to the Kasbah.” + +Mr. Greyne started, and flushed a guilty red. + +“I will come in a moment,” he answered, trying to assume a nonchalant +voice, such as that in which a hardened major of dragoons announces +that in his time he was a devil of a fellow. + +The head waiter retired, looking painfully intelligent, and Mr. Greyne +sprang upstairs, seized a Merrin’s exercise-book and a lead pencil, +put on a dark overcoat, popped one of the Springfield revolvers into +the pocket of it, and hastened down into the hall of the hotel, where +the audacious-looking young man was standing, surrounded by saucy +chasseurs in gay liveries and peaked caps, by Algerian waiters, and by +German-Swiss porters, all of whom were smiling and looking choke-full +of sympathetic comprehension. + +“Ha!” said Mr. Greyne, still in the major’s voice. “There you are!” + +“Behold me, monsieur.” + +“That’s good.” + +“Wicked, monsieur.” + +“Well, let’s be off to the mosque.” + +One of the chasseurs—a child of eight who was thankful that he knew no +better—burst into a piping laugh. The waiters turned hastily away, and +the German-Swiss porters retreated to the bureau with some activity. + +“To the mosque—precisely, monsieur,” returned the guide, with complete +self-possession. + +They stepped out at once upon the pavement, where a carriage was in +waiting. + +“Where are we going?” inquired Mr. Greyne in an anxious voice. + +“We are going to the heights to see the Ouled,” replied the guide. “_En +avant!_” + +He bounded in beside Mr. Greyne, the coachman cracked his whip, the +horses trotted. They were off upon their terrible pilgrimage. + + + V + +On the following afternoon, at a quarter to three, when Mr. Greyne +came down to breakfast, he found, lying beside the boiled eggs, a +note directed to him in a feminine handwriting. He tore it open with +trembling fingers, and read as follows:— + + +1 Rue du Petit Negre.+ + + +Dear Monsieur+,—I am here. Poor mamma is in the hospital. I am + allowed to see her twice a day. At all other times I remain alone, + praying and weeping. I trust that monsieur has passed a good night. + For me, I was sleepless, thinking of mamma. I go now to church. + + +Adele Verbena.+ + +He laid this missive down, and sighed deeply. How strangely innocent it +was, how simple, how sincere! There were white souls in Algiers—yes, +even in Algiers. Strange that he should know one! Strange that he, who +had filled a Merrin’s exercise-book with tiny writing, and had even +overflowed on to the cover after “crossing” many pages, should receive +the child-like confidences of one! “I go now to the church.” Tears came +into his eyes as he laid the letter down beside a pile of buttered +toast over which the burning afternoon sun of Africa was shining. + +“Monsieur will take milk and sugar?” + +It was the head waiter’s Napoleonic voice. Mr. Greyne controlled +himself. The man was smiling intelligently. All the staff of the hotel +smiled intelligently at Mr. Greyne to-day—the waiters, the porters, the +chasseurs. The child of eight who was thankful that he knew no better +had greeted him with a merry laugh as he came down to breakfast, and +an “_Oh, là, là_!” which had elicited a rebuke from the proprietor. +Indeed, a wave of human sympathy flowed upon Mr. Greyne, whose ashy +face and dull, washed-out eyes betrayed the severity of his night-watch. + +“Monsieur will feel better after a little food.” + +The head waiter handed the buttered toast with bland majesty, at the +same time shooting a reproving glance at the little chasseur, who was +peeping from behind the door at the afternoon breakfaster. + +“I feel perfectly well,” replied Mr. Greyne, with an attempt at +cheerfulness. + +“Still, monsieur will feel much better after a little food.” + +Mr. Greyne began to toy with an egg. + +“You know Algiers?” he asked. + +“I was born here, monsieur. If monsieur wishes to explore to-night +again the Kasbah I can⸺” + +But Mr. Greyne stopped him with a gesture that was almost fierce. + +“Where is the Rue du Petit Nègre?” + +“Monsieur wishes to go there to-night?” + +“I wish to go there now, directly I have finished break—lunch.” + +The head waiter’s face was wreathed with humorous surprise. + +“But monsieur is wonderful—superb! Never have I seen a traveller like +monsieur!” + +He gazed at Mr. Greyne with tropical appreciation. + +“Monsieur had better have a carriage. The street is difficult to find.” + +“Order me one. I shall start at once.” + +Mr. Greyne pushed away the sunlit buttered toast, and got up. + +“Monsieur is superb. Never have I seen a traveller like monsieur!” + +Napoleon’s voice was almost reverent. He hastened out, followed slowly +by Mr. Greyne. + +“A carriage for monsieur! Monsieur desires to go to the Rue du Petit +Nègre!” + +The staff of the hotel gathered about the door as if to speed a royal +personage, and Mr. Greyne noticed that their faces too were touched +with an almost startled reverence. He stepped into the carriage, signed +feebly, but with determination, to the Arab coachman, and was driven +away, followed by a parting “_Oh, là, là_!” from the chasseur, uttered +in a voice that sounded shrill with sheer amazement. + +Through winding, crowded streets he went, by bazaars and Moorish +bath-houses, mosques and Catholic churches, barracks and cafés, till at +length the carriage turned into an alley that crept up a steep hill. It +moved on a little way, and then stopped. + +“Monsieur must descend here,” said the coachman. “Mount the steps, go +to the right and then to the left. Near the summit of the hill he will +find the Rue du Petit Nègre. Shall I wait for monsieur?” + +“Yes.” + +The coachman began to make a cigarette, while Mr. Greyne set forth to +follow his directions, and, at length, stood before an arch, which +opened into a courtyard adorned with orange-trees in tubs, and paved +with blue and white tiles. Around this courtyard was a three-storey +house with a flat roof, and from a bureau near a little fountain +a stout Frenchwoman called to demand his business. He asked for +Mademoiselle Verbèna, and was at once shown into a saloon lined with +chairs covered with yellow rep, and begged to take a seat. In two +minutes Mademoiselle Verbèna appeared, drying her eyes with a tiny +pocket-handkerchief, and forcing a little pathetic smile of welcome. +Mr. Greyne clasped her hand in silence. She sat down in a rep chair at +his right, and they looked at each other. + +“_Mais, mon Dieu!_ How monsieur is changed!” cried the Levantine. “If +madame could see him! What has happened to monsieur?” + +“Miss Verbèna,” replied Mr. Greyne, “I have seen the Ouled on the +heights.” + +A spasm crossed the Levantine’s face. She put her handkerchief to it +for a moment. + +“What is an Ouled?” she inquired, withdrawing it. + +“I dare not tell you,” he replied solemnly. + +“But indeed I wish to know, so that I may sympathise with monsieur.” + +Mr. Greyne hesitated, but his heart was full; he felt the need of +sympathy. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbèna, and a great longing to +unburden himself overcame him. + +“An Ouled,” he replied, “is a dancing-girl from the desert of Sahara.” + +“_Mon Dieu!_ How does she dance? Is it a valse, a polka, a quadrille?” + +“No. Would that it were!” + +And Mr. Greyne, unable further to govern his desire for full +expression, gave Mademoiselle Verbèna a slightly Bowdlerised +description of the dances of the desert. She heard him with amazement. + +“How terrible!” she exclaimed when he had finished. “And does one pay +much to see such steps of the Evil One?” + +“I gave her twenty pounds. Abdallah Jack⸺” + +“Abdallah Jack?” + +“My guide informed me that was the price. He tells me it is against the +law, and that each time an Ouled dances she risks being thrown into +prison.” + +“Poor lady! How sad to have to earn one’s bread by such devices, +instead of by teaching to the sweet little ones of monsieur the +sympathetic grammar of one’s native country.” + +Mr. Greyne was touched to the quick by this allusion, which brought, as +in a vision, the happy home in Belgrave Square before him. + +“You are an angel!” he exclaimed. + +Mademoiselle Verbèna shook her head. + +“And this poor Ouled, you will go to her again?” + +“Yes. It seems that she is in communication with all the—the—well, all +the odd people of Algiers, and that one can only get at them through +her.” + +“Indeed?” + +“Abdallah Jack tells me that while I am here I should pay her a weekly +salary, and that, in return, I shall see all the terrible ceremonies of +the Arabs. I have decided to do so⸺” + +“Ah, you have decided!” + +For a moment Mr. Greyne started. There seemed a new sound in +Mademoiselle Verbèna’s voice, a gleam in her dark brown eyes. + +“Yes,” he said, looking at her in wonder. “But I have not yet told +Abdallah Jack.” + +The Levantine looked gently sad again. + +“Ah,” she said in her usual pathetic voice, “how my heart bleeds for +this poor Ouled. By the way, what is her name?” + +“Aishoush.” + +“She is beautiful?” + +“I hardly know. She was so painted, so tattooed, so very—so very +different from Mrs. Eustace Greyne.” + +“How sad! How terrible! Ah, but you must long for the dear bonnet +strings of madame?” + +Did he? As she spoke Mr. Greyne asked himself the question. Shocked +as he was, fatigued by his researches, did he wish that he were back +again in Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, pasting notices of his +wife’s achievements into the new album, listening while she read aloud +from the manuscript of her latest novel? He wondered, and—how strange, +how almost terrible—he was not sure. + +“Is it not so?” murmured Mademoiselle Verbèna. + +“Naturally I miss my beloved wife,” said Mr. Greyne with a certain +awkwardness. “How is your poor, dear mother?” + +Tears came at once into the Levantine’s eyes. + +“Very, very ill, monsieur. Still there is a chance—just a chance that +she may not die. Ah, when I sit here all alone in this strange place, +I feel that she will perish, that soon I shall be quite deserted in +this cruel, cruel world!” + +The tears began to flow down her cheeks with determination. Mr. Greyne +was terribly upset. + +“You must cheer up,” he exclaimed. “You must hope for the best.” + +“Sitting here alone, how can I?” + +She sobbed. + +“Sitting here alone—very true!” + +A sudden thought, a number of sudden thoughts, struck him. + +“You must not sit here alone.” + +“Monsieur!” + +“You must come out. You must drive. You must see the town, distract +yourself.” + +“But how? Can a—a girl go about alone in Algiers?” + +“Heaven forbid! No; I will escort you.” + +“Monsieur!” + +A smile of innocent, girlish joy transformed her face, but suddenly she +was grave again. + +“Would it be right, _convenable_?” + +Mr. Greyne was reckless. The dog potential rose up in him again. + +“Why not? And, besides, who knows us here? Not a soul.” + +“That is true.” + +“Put on your bonnet. Let us start at once!” + +“But I do not wear the bonnet. I am not like madame.” + +“To be sure. Your hat.” + +And as she flew to obey him, Mr. Eustace Greyne found himself impiously +thanking the powers that be for this strange chance of going on the +spree with a toque. When Mademoiselle Verbèna returned he was looking +almost rakish. He eyed her neat black hat and close-fitting black +jacket with a glance not wholly unlike that of a militiaman. In her +hand she held a vivid scarlet parasol. + +“Monsieur,” she said, “it is terrible, this _ombrelle_, when mamma lies +at death’s door. But what can I do? I have no other, and cannot afford +to buy one. The sun is fierce. I dare not expose myself to it without a +shelter.” + +She seemed really distressed as she opened the parasol, and spread +the vivid silk above her pretty black-clothed figure; but Mr. +Greyne thought the effect was brilliant, and ventured to say so. As +they passed the bureau by the fountain on their way out the stout +Frenchwoman cast an approving glance at Mademoiselle Verbèna. + +“The little rat will not see much more of the little negro now,” she +murmured to herself. “After all, the English have their uses.” + + + VI + +In Belgrave Square Mrs. Eustace Greyne was beginning to get slightly +uneasy. Several things combined to make her so. In the first place, +Mademoiselle Verbèna had never returned from her mother’s Parisian +bedside, and had not even written a line to say how the dear parent +was, and when the daughter’s nursing occupation was likely to be over. +In the second place, Adolphus, in consequence of the Levantine’s +absence, had totally lost his grasp, always uncertain, upon the +irregular verbs. In the third place, Darrell, the valet, had returned +to London the day after his departure from it, minus not only his +master’s dressing-case, but minus everything he possessed. His story +was that, while waiting at the station in Paris for his master’s +appearance, he had entered into conversation with an agreeable +stranger, and been beguiled into the acceptance of an absinthe at a +café just outside. After swallowing the absinthe he remembered nothing +more till he came to himself in a deserted waiting-room at the Gare +du Nord, back to which he had been mysteriously conveyed. In his +pocket was no money, no watch, only the return half of a second-class +ticket from London to Paris. He, therefore, wandered about the streets +till morning broke, and then came back to London a crestfallen and +miserable man, bemoaning his untoward fate, and cursing “them blasted +Frenchies” from the bottom of his British heart. + +Mrs. Greyne’s anxiety on her husband’s behalf, now that he was thrown +absolutely unattended upon the inhospitable shores of Africa, was not +lessened by a fourth circumstance, which, indeed, worried her far more +than all the others put together. This was Mr. Greyne’s prolonged +absence from her side. Precisely one calendar month had now elapsed +since he had buried his face in her prune bonnet strings at Victoria +Station, and there seemed no prospect of his return. He wrote to her, +indeed, frequently, and his letters were full of wistful regret and +longing to be once more safe in the old homestead in Belgrave Square, +drinking barley water, and pasting Romeike & Curtice notices into the +new album which lay, gaping for him, upon the table of his sanctum. But +he did not come; nay, more, he wrote plainly that there was no prospect +of his coming for the present. It seemed that the wickedness of Africa +was very difficult to come at. It did not lie upon the surface, but +was hidden far down in depths to which the ordinary tourist found it +almost impossible to penetrate. In his numerous letters Mr. Greyne +described his heroic and unremitting exertions to fill the Merrin’s +note-books with matter that would be suitable for the purging of +humanity. He set out in full his interview with Alphonso at the office +of Rook, and his definite rejection by that cosmopolitan official. +According to the letters, after this event he had spent no less than a +fortnight searching in vain for any sign of wickedness in the Algerian +capital. He had frequented the cafés, the public bars, the theatres, +the churches. He had been to the Velodrome. He had sat by the hour in +the Jardin d’Essai. At night he had strolled in the fairs and hung +about the circus. Yet nowhere had he been able to perceive anything but +the most innocent pleasure, the simple merriment of a gay and guileless +population to whom the idea of crime seemed as foreign as the idea of +singing the English national anthem. + +During the third week it was true that matters—always according to Mr. +Greyne’s letters home—slightly improved. While walking near the quay, +in active search for nautical outrage, he saw an Arab dock labourer, +who had been over-smoking kief, run amuck, and knock down a couple of +respectable snake-charmers who were on the point of embarkation for +Tunis with their reptiles. This incident had filed up a half-score of +pages in exercise-book number one, and had flooded Mr. Greyne with +hope and aspiration. But it was followed by a stagnant lull which had +lasted for days, and had only been disturbed by the trifling incident +of a gentleman in the Jewish quarter of the town setting fire to a +neighbour’s bazaar, in the very natural endeavour to find a French +half-penny which he had chanced to drop among a bale of carpets while +looking in to drive a soft bargain. As Mrs. Greyne wired to Algiers, +such incidents were of no value to “Catherine.” + +A very active interchange of views had gone on between the husband +and wife as time went by, and the book was at a standstill. At first +Mrs. Greyne contented herself with daily letters, but latterly she +had resorted to wires, explanatory, condemnatory, hortatory, and even +comminatory. She began bitterly to regret her husband’s well-proven +innocence, and wished she had despatched an uncle of hers by marriage, +an ex-captain in the Royal Navy, who, she began to feel certain, would +have been able to find far more frailty in Algiers than poor Eustace, +in his simplicity, would ever come at. She even began to wish that +she had crossed the sea in person, and herself boldly set about the +ingathering of the material for which she was so impatiently waiting. + +Her uneasiness was brought to a head by a letter from a house agent, +stating that the corner mansion in Park Lane next to the Duke of +Ebury’s was being nibbled at by a Venezuelan millionaire. She +wired this terrible fact at once to Africa, adding, at an enormous +expenditure of cash: + + This will never do. You are too innocent, and cannot see what lies + before you. Obtain assistance. Go to the British consul. + +Mr. Greyne at once cabled back: + + Am following your advice. Will wire result. Regret my innocence, + but am distressed that you should so utterly condemn it. + +Upon receiving this telegram at night, before a lonely dinner, Mrs. +Eustace Greyne was deeply moved. She felt she had been hasty. She +knew that to very few women was it given to have a husband so free +from all masculine infirmities as Mr. Greyne. At the same time there +was “Catherine,” there was the mansion in Park Lane, there was the +Venezuelan millionaire. She began to feel distracted, and, for the +first time in her life, refused to partake of sweetbreads fried in +mushroom ketchup, a dish which she had greatly affected from the time +when she wrote her first short story. While she was in the very act of +waving away this delicacy a footman came in with a foreign telegram. +She opened it quickly, and read as follows:— + + British consul horrified; was ignominiously expelled from + consulate; great scandal; am much upset, but will never give in, + for your sake. +Eustace.+ + +As the dread meaning of these words penetrated at length to Mrs. +Greyne’s voluminous brain a deep flush overspread her noble features. +She rose from the table with a determination that struck awe to the +hearts of the powdered underlings, and, drawing herself up to her full +height, exclaimed: + +“Send Mrs. Forbes at once to my study, if you please—at once, do you +understand?” + +In a moment Mrs. Forbes, who was the great novelist’s maid, appeared on +the threshold of the oracle’s lair. She was a sober-looking, black-silk +personage, who always wore a pork-pie cap in the house, and a Mother +Hubbard bonnet out of it. Having been in service with Mrs. Greyne ever +since the latter penned her last minor poetry—Mrs. Greyne had been a +minor poet for three years soon after she put her hair up—Mrs. Forbes +had acquired a certain literary expression of countenance and a manner +that was decidedly prosy. She read a good deal after her supper of an +evening, and was wont to be the arbiter when any literary matter was +discussed in the servants’ hall. + +“Madam?” she said, respectfully entering the room, and bending the +pork-pie cap forward in an attentive attitude. + +Mrs. Greyne was silent for a moment. She appeared to be thinking +deeply. Mrs. Forbes gently closed the door, and sighed. It was nearly +her supper-time, and she felt pensive. + +“Madam?” she said again. + +Mrs. Greyne looked up. A strange fire burned in her large eyes. + +“Mrs. Forbes,” she said at length, with weighty deliberation, “the +mission of woman in the world is a great one.” + +“Very true, madam. My own words to Butler Phillips no longer ago than +dinner this midday.” + +“It is the protecting of man—neither more nor less.” + +“My own statement, madam, to Second Footman Archibald this self-same +day at the tea-board.” + +“Man needs guidance, and looks for it to us—or rather to me.” + +At the last word Mrs. Forbes pinched her lips together, and appeared +older than her years and sourer than her normal temper. + +“At this moment, Mrs. Forbes,” continued Mrs. Greyne, with rising +fervour, “he looks for it to me from Africa. From that dark continent +he stretches forth his hands to me in humble supplication.” + +“Mr. Greyne has not been taken with another of his bilious attacks, I +hope, madam?” said Mrs. Forbes. + +Mrs. Greyne smiled. The ignorance of the humbly born entertained her. +It was so simple, so transparent. + +“You fail to understand me,” she answered. “But never mind; others have +done the same.” + +She thought of her reviewers. Mrs. Forbes smiled. She also could be +entertained. + +“Madam?” she inquired once more after a pause. + +“I shall leave for Africa to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Greyne. “You +will accompany me.” + +There was a dead silence. + +“You will accompany me. Do you understand? Obtain assistance from +the housemaids in the packing. Select my quietest gowns, my least +conspicuous bonnets. I have my reasons for wishing, while journeying to +Africa and remaining there, to pass, if possible, unnoticed.” + +Again there was a pause. Mrs. Greyne looked up at Mrs. Forbes, and +observed a dogged expression upon her countenance. + +“What is the matter?” she asked the maid. + +“Do we go by Paris, madam?” said Mrs. Forbes. + +“Certainly.” + +“Then, madam, I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t risk it, not if it was +ever so⸺” + +“Why not? Why this fear of Lutetia?” + +“Madam, I’m not afraid of any Lutetia as ever wore apron, but to go +to Paris to be drugged with absint, and put away in a third-class +waiting-room like a package—I couldn’t madam, not even if I have to +leave your service.” + +Mrs. Greyne recognised that the episode of the valet had struck home to +the lady’s maid. + +“But you will not leave my side.” + +“They will absint you, madam.” + +“But you will travel first in a sleeping-car.” + +Mrs. Forbes put up her hand to her pork-pie cap, as if considering. + +“Very well, madam, to oblige you I will undergo it,” she said at +length. “But I would not do the like for another living lady.” + +“I will raise your wages. You are a faithful creature.” + +“Does master expect us, madam?” asked Mrs. Forbes as she prepared to +retire. + +A bright and tender look stole into Mrs. Greyne’s intellectual face. + +“No,” she replied. + +She turned her large and beaming eyes full upon the maid. + +“Mrs. Forbes,” she said, with an amount of emotion that was very rare +in her, “I am going to tell you a great truth.” + +“Madam?” said Mrs. Forbes respectfully. + +“The sweetest moments of life, those which lift man nearest heaven, and +make him thankful for the great gift of existence, are sometimes those +which are unforeseen.” + +She was thinking of Mr. Greyne’s ecstasy when, upon the inhospitable +African shore where he was now enduring such tragic misfortunes, he +perceived the majestic form of his loved one—his loved one whom he +believed to be in Belgrave Square—coming towards him to soothe, to +comfort, to direct. She brushed away a tear. + +“Go, Mrs. Forbes,” she said. + +And Mrs. Forbes retired, smiling. + +An epic might well be written on the great novelist’s journey to +Africa, upon her departure from Charing Cross, shrouded in a black +gauze veil, her silent thought as the good ship _Empress_ rode +cork-like upon the Channel waves, her ascetic lunch—a captain’s biscuit +and a glass of water—at the buffet at Calais, her arrival in Paris when +the shades of night had fallen. An epic might well be written. Perhaps +some day it will be, by herself. + +In Paris she suffered a good deal on account of Mrs. Forbes, who, +in her fear of “absint,” became hysterical, and caused not a little +annoyance by accusing various inoffensive French travellers of +nefarious designs upon her property and person. In the Gulf of Lyons +she suffered even more, and as, unluckily, the wind was contrary +and the sea prodigious during the whole of the passage across the +Mediterranean, both she and Mrs. Forbes arrived at Algiers four hours +late, in a condition which may be more easily imagined than properly +described. + +Genius in thrall to the body, and absolutely dependent upon green +chartreuse for its flickering existence, is no subject for even a +sympathetic pen. Sufficient to say that, when the ship came in under +the lights of Algiers, the crowd of shouting Arabs was struck to +silence by the spectacle of Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes endeavouring +to disembark, in bonnets that were placed seaward upon the head instead +of landward, unbuttoned boots, and gowns soaked with the attentions of +the waves. + +After being gently and permanently relieved of their light +hand-baggage, the mistress and maid, who seemed greatly overwhelmed +by the sight of Africa, and who moved—or rather were carried—as in a +dream, were placed reverently in the nearest omnibus, and conveyed to +the farthest hotel, which was situated upon a lofty hill above the +town. Here a slightly painful scene took place. + +Having been assisted by the staff into a Moorish hall, Mrs. Greyne +inquired in a reticent voice for her husband, and was politely informed +that there was no person of the name of Greyne in the hotel. For a +moment she seemed threatened with dissolution, but with a supreme +effort calling upon her mighty brain she surmised that her husband was +possibly passing under a pseudonym in order to throw America off the +scent. She, therefore, demanded to have the guests then present in the +hotel at once paraded before her. As there was some difficulty about +this—the guests being then at dinner—she whispered for the visitors’ +book, thinking that, perchance, Mr. Greyne had inscribed his name +there, and that the staff, being foreign, did not recognise it as +murmured by herself. The book was brought, upon its cover in golden +letters the words: “Hôtel Loubet et Majestic.” Then explanations of a +somewhat disagreeable nature occurred, and Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, +after a heavy payment had been exacted for their conveyance to a place +they had desired not to go to, were carried forth, and consigned to +another vehicle, which at length brought them, on the stroke of nine, +to the Grand Hotel. + +Having been placed reverently in the brilliantly-lighted hall, they +were surrounded by the proprietor, the _mâitre d’hôtel_ and his +assistants, the porters, and the chasseurs, with all of whom Mr. Greyne +was now familiar. Brandy and water having been supplied, together with +smelling-salts and burnt feathers, Mrs. Greyne roused herself from an +acute attack of lethargy, and asked for Mr. Greyne. A joyous smile ran +round the circle. + +“Monsieur Greyne,” said the proprietor, “who is living here for the +winter?” + +“Mr. Eustace Greyne,” murmured the great novelist, grasping her bonnet +with both hands. + +The _mâitre d’hôtel_ drew nearer. + +“Madame wishes to see Monsieur Greyne?” he asked. + +“I do—at once.” + +A blessed consciousness of Mother Earth was gradually beginning to +steal over her. She even strove feebly to sit up on her chair, a +German-Swiss porter of enormous size assisting her. + +“But Monsieur Greyne is out.” + +“Out?” + +“Yes, madame. Monsieur Greyne is always out at night.” + +The eyes of the little chasseur who knew no better began to twinkle. +Mrs. Forbes gave a slight cough. Tears filled the novelist’s eyes. + +“God bless my Eustace!” she murmured, deeply touched by this evidence +of his devotion to her interests. + +“Madame says⸺” asked the proprietor. + +“Where does Mr. Greyne go?” inquired the novelist. + +“To the Kasbah, madame.” + +“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Greyne, with returning animation. “I knew it +would be so!” + +“Madame is acquainted with Monsieur Greyne?” said the _mâitre d’hôtel_, +while the little crowd gathered more closely about the wave-worn group. + +“I am Mrs. Eustace Greyne,” returned the great novelist recklessly. “I +am the wife of Mr. Eustace Greyne.” + +There was a moment of supreme silence. Then a loud, an even piercing +“_Oh, là, là!_” broke upon the air, succeeded instantaneously by a +burst of laughter that seemed to thrill with all the wild blessedness +of boyhood. It came, of course, from the little chasseur; it came, and +stayed. Nothing could stop it, and eventually the happy child had to +be carried forth upon the sea-front to enjoy his innocent mirth at +leisure and in solitude beneath the African stars. Mrs. Greyne did not +notice his disappearance. She was intent upon important matters. + +“At what time does Mr. Greyne usually set forth?” she asked of the +proprietor, whose face now bore a strangely twisted appearance, as if +afflicted by a toothache. + +“Immediately after dinner, madame, if not before. Of late it has +generally been before.” + +“And he stays out late?” + +“Very late, madame.” + +The twisted appearance began to seem infectious. It was visible upon +the faces of most of those surrounding Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes. +Indeed, even the latter showed some signs of it, although the large +shadow cast over her features by the hind side of her Mother Hubbard +bonnet to some extent disguised them from the public view. + +“Till what hour?” pursued Mrs. Greyne in a voice of almost yearning +tenderness and pity. + +“Well, madame”—the proprietor displayed some slight confusion—“I really +can hardly say. The _maître d’hôtel_ can perhaps inform you.” + +Mrs. Greyne turned her ox-like eyes upon the enlarged edition of +Napoleon the First. + +“Monsieur Greyne seldom returns before seven or eight o’clock in the +morning, madame. He then retires to bed, and comes down to breakfast at +about four o’clock in the afternoon.” + +Mrs. Greyne was touched to the very quick. Her husband was sacrificing +his rest, his health—nay, perhaps even his very life—in her service. +It was well she had come, well that a period was to be put to these +terrible researches. They should be stopped at once, even this very +night. Better a thousand literary failures than that her husband’s +existence should be placed in jeopardy. She rose suddenly from her +chair, tottered, gasped, recovered herself, and spoke. + +“Prepare dinner for me at once,” she said, “and order a carriage and a +competent guide to be before the door in half-an-hour.” + +“Madame is going out? But madame is ill, tired!” + +“It matters not.” + +“Where does madame wish to go?” + +“I am going to the Kasbah to find my husband.” + +“I will escort madame.” + +The proprietor, the _maître d’hôtel_, the waiters, the porters, the +chasseurs, Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, all turned about to face the +determined speaker. + +And there before them, his dark eyes gleaming, his long moustaches +bristling fiercely—there stood Abdallah Jack. + + + VII + +Man is a self-deceiver. It must, therefore, ever be a doubtful point +whether Mr. Eustace Greyne, during his residence in Africa, absolutely +lost sight of his sense of duty; whether, beguiled by the lively +attentions of a fiercely foreign town, he deliberately resolved to +take his pleasure regardless of consequences and of the sacred ties of +Belgrave Square. We prefer to think that some vague idea of combining +two duties—that which he owed to himself and that which he owed to Mrs. +Greyne—moved him in all he did, and that the subterfuge into which +he was undoubtedly led was not wholly selfish, not wholly criminal. +Nevertheless, that he had lied to his beloved wife is certain. Even +while she sat over a cutlet and a glass of claret in the white-and-gold +dining-room of the Grand Hotel, preparatory to her departure to the +Kasbah with Abdallah Jack, the dozen of Merrin’s exercise-books lay +upstairs in Mr. Greyne’s apartments filled to the brim with African +frailty. Already there was material enough in their pages to furnish +forth a library of “Catherines.” Yet Mr. Greyne still lingered far +from his home, and wired to that home fabricated accounts of the +singular innocence of Algiers. He even allowed it to be supposed that +his own innocence stood in the way of his fulfilment of Mrs. Greyne’s +behests—he who could now have given points in knowledge of the world to +whole regiments of militiamen! + +It was not right, and, doubtless, he must stand condemned by every +moralist. But let it not be forgotten that he had fallen under the +influence of a Levantine. + +Mademoiselle Verbèna’s mother, hidden in some unnamed hospital of +Algiers, appeared to be one of those ingenious elderly ladies who can +hover indefinitely upon the brink of death without actually dying. +During the whole time that Mr. Greyne had been in Africa her state had +been desperate, yet she still clung to life. As her daughter said, she +possessed extraordinary vitality, and this vitality seemed to have +been inherited by her child. Despite her grave anxieties Mademoiselle +Verbèna succeeded in sustaining a remarkable cheeriness, and even a +fascinating vivacity, when in the company of others. As she said to +Mr. Greyne, she did not think it right to lay her burdens upon the +shoulders of her neighbours. She, therefore, forced herself to appear +contented, even at various moments gay, when she and Mr. Greyne were +lunching, dining, or supping together, were driving upon the front, +sailing upon the azure waters of the bay, riding upon the heights +beyond El-Biar, or, ensconced in a sumptuous private box, listening +to the latest French farce at one or another of the theatres. Only +one day, when they had driven out to the monastery at La Trappe de +Staouëli, did a momentary cloud descend upon her piquant features, and +she explained this by the frank confession that she had always wished +to become a nun, but had been hindered from following her vocation by +the necessity of earning money to support her aged parents. + +Mr. Greyne had never seen the Ouled since his first evening in Algiers, +but he still paid her a weekly salary, through Abdallah Jack, who +explained to him that the interesting lady, in a discreet retirement, +was perpetually occupied in arranging the exhibitions of African +frailty at which he so frequently assisted. She was, in fact, earning +her liberal salary. Mademoiselle Verbèna and Abdallah Jack had met on +several occasions, and Mr. Greyne had introduced the latter to the +former as his guide, and had generously praised his abilities; but +Mademoiselle Verbèna took very little notice of him, and, as time went +on, Abdallah Jack seemed to conceive a most distressing dislike of her. +On several occasions he advised Mr. Greyne not to frequent her company +so assiduously, and when Mr. Greyne asked him to explain the meaning of +his monitions he took refuge in vague generalities and Eastern imagery. +He had a profound contempt for women as companions, which grieved +Mr. Greyne’s Western ideas, and evidently thought that Mademoiselle +Verbèna ought to be clapped forthwith into a long veil, and put away in +a harem behind an iron grille. When Mr. Greyne explained the English +point of view Abdallah Jack took refuge in a sulky silence; but during +the week immediately preceding the arrival of Mrs. Greyne his temper +had become actively bad, and Mr. Greyne began seriously to consider +whether it would not be better to pay him a last _douceur_, and tell +him to go about his business. + +Before doing this, however, Mr. Greyne desired to have one more +interview with the mysterious Ouled on the heights, to whom he owed the +knowledge which would henceforth enable him to cut out the militia. +He said so to Abdallah Jack. The latter agreed sulkily to arrange it; +and matters so fell out that on the night of Mrs. Greyne’s arrival +her husband was seated in a room in one of the remotest houses of the +Kasbah, watching the Ouled’s mysterious evolutions, while Mademoiselle +Verbèna—as she herself had informed Mr. Greyne—sat in the hospital by +the bedside of her still dying mother. Abdallah Jack had apparently +been most anxious to assist at Mr. Greyne’s interview with the Ouled, +but Mr. Greyne had declined to allow this. The evil temper of the guide +was beginning to get thoroughly upon his employer’s nerves, and even +the natural desire to have an interpreter at hand was overborne by the +dislike of Abdallah Jack’s morose eyes and sarcastic speeches about +women. Moreover, the Ouled spoke a word or two of uncertain French. + +Thus, therefore, things fell out, and such was the precise situation +when Mrs. Greyne flicked a crumb from her chocolate brocade gown, tied +her bonnet strings, and rose from table to set forth to the Kasbah with +Abdallah Jack. + +It was a radiant night. In the clear sky the stars shone brilliantly, +looking down upon the persistent convulsions of the little chasseur, +who had not yet recovered from his attack of merriment on learning who +Mrs. Greyne was. The sea, quite calm now that the great novelist was +no longer upon it, lapped softly along the curving shores of the bay. +The palm-trees of the town garden where the band plays on warm evenings +waved lazily in the soft and scented breeze. The hooded figures of the +Arabs lounged against the stone wall that girdles the sea-front. In the +brilliantly-illuminated restaurants the rich French population gathered +about the little tables, while the withered beggars stared in upon the +oyster shells, the champagne bottles, and the feathers in the women’s +audacious hats. + +When Mrs. Greyne emerged upon the pavement before the Grand Hotel, +attended by Mrs. Forbes and the guide, she paused for a moment, and +cast a searching glance upon the fairy scene. In this voluptuous +evening and strange environment life seemed oddly dream-like. She +scarcely felt like Mrs. Greyne. Possibly Mrs. Forbes also felt unlike +herself, for she suddenly placed one hand upon her left side, and +tottered. Abdallah Jack supported her. She screamed aloud. + +“Madam!” she said. “It is the vertigo. I am overtook!” + +She was really ill; her face, indeed, became the colour of a plover’s +egg. + +“Let me go to bed, madam,” she implored. “It is the vertigo, madam. I +am overtook!” + +Under ordinary circumstances Mrs. Greyne would have prescribed a +dose of Kasbah air, but to-night she felt strange, and she wanted +strangeness. Mrs. Forbes with the vertigo, in a small carriage, would +be inappropriate. She, therefore, bade her retire, mounted into the +vehicle with Abdallah Jack, and was quickly driven away, her bonnet +strings floating upon the winsome wind. + +“You know my husband?” she asked softly of the guide. + +Abdallah Jack replied in French that he rather thought he did. + +“How is he looking?” continued Mrs. Greyne in a slightly yearning +voice. “My Eustace!” she added to herself, “my devoted one!” + +“Monsieur Greyne is pale as washed linen upon the Kasbah wall,” replied +Abdallah Jack, lighting a cigarette, and wreathing the great novelist +in its grey-blue smoke. “He is thin as the Spahi’s lance, he is nervous +as the leaves of the eucalyptus-tree when the winds blow from the +north.” + +Mrs. Greyne was seriously perturbed. + +“Would I had come before!” she murmured, with serious self-reproach. + +“Monsieur Greyne is worse than all the English,” pursued Abdallah Jack +in a voice that sounded to Mrs. Greyne decidedly sinister. “He is worse +than the tourists of Rook, who laugh in the doorways of the mosques and +twine in their hair the dried lizards of the Sahara. Even the guide +of Rook rejected him. I only would undertake him because I am full of +evil.” + +Mrs. Greyne began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, and to wish she +had not been so ready to pander to Mrs. Forbes’ vertigo. She stole a +sidelong glance at her strange companion. The carriage was small. The +end of his bristling black moustache was very near. What he said of +Mr. Greyne did not disturb her, because she knew that her Eustace had +sacrificed his reputation to do her service; but what he said about +himself was not reassuring. + +“I think you must be doing yourself an injustice,” she said in a rather +agitated voice. + +“Madame?” + +“I do not believe you are so bad as you imply,” she continued. + +The carriage turned with a jerk out of the brilliantly-lighted +thoroughfare that runs along the sea into a narrow side street, crowded +with native Jews, and dark with shadows. + +“Madame does not know me.” + +The exact truth of this observation struck home, like a dagger, to the +mind of Mrs. Greyne. + +“I am a wicked person,” added Abdallah Jack, with a profound +conviction. “That is why Monsieur Greyne chose me as his guide.” + +The novelist began to quake. Her chocolate brocade fluttered. Was she +herself to learn at first hand, and on her first evening in Africa, +enough about African frailty to last her for the rest of her life? And +how much more of life would remain to her after her stock of knowledge +had been thus increased? The carriage turned into a second side street, +narrower and darker than the last. + +“Are we going right?” she said apprehensively. + +“No, madame; we are going wrong—we are going to the wicked part of the +city.” + +“But—but—you are sure Mr. Greyne will be there?” + +Abdallah Jack laughed sardonically. + +“Monsieur Greyne is never anywhere else. Monsieur Greyne is wicked as +is a mad Touareg of the desert.” + +“I don’t think you quite understand my husband,” said Mrs. Greyne, +feeling in duty bound to stand up for her poor, maligned Eustace. +“Whatever he may have done he has done at my special request.” + +“Madame says?” + +“I say that in all his proceedings while in Algiers Mr. Greyne has been +acting under my directions.” + +Abdallah Jack fixed his enormous eyes steadily upon her. + +“You are his wife, and told him to come here, and to do as he has done?” + +“Ye-yes,” faltered Mrs. Greyne, for the first time in her life feeling +as if she were being escorted towards the criminal dock by a jailer +with Puritan tendencies. + +“Then it is true what they say on the shores of the great canal,” he +remarked composedly. + +“What do they say?” inquired Mrs. Greyne. + +“That England is a land of female devils,” returned the guide as the +carriage plunged into a filthy alley, between two rows of blind houses, +and began to ascend a steep hill. + +Mrs. Greyne gasped. She opened her lips to protest vigorously, but +her head swam—either from indignation or from fatigue—and she could +not utter a word. The horses mounted like cats upward into the dense +blackness, from which dropped down the faint sounds of squealing music +and of hoarse cries and laughter. The wheels bounded over the stones, +sank into the deep ruts, scraped against the sides of the unlighted +houses. And Abdallah Jack sat staring at Mrs. Greyne as an English +clergyman’s wife might stare at the appalling rites of some deadly +cannibal encountered in a far-off land, with a stony wonder, a sort of +paralysed curiosity. + +Suddenly the carriage stopped on a piece of waste land covered with +small pebbles. Abdallah Jack sprang out. + +“Why do we stop?” said Mrs. Greyne, turning as pale as ashes. + +“The carriage can go no farther. Madame must walk.” + +Mrs. Greyne began to tremble. + +“We are to leave the coachman?” + +“I shall escort madame, alone.” + +The great novelist’s tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She felt +like a Merrin’s exercise-book, every leaf of which was covered with +African frailty. However, there was no help for it. She had to descend, +and stand among the pebbles. + +“Where are we going?” + +Abdallah Jack waved his hand towards a stone rampart dimly seen in the +faint light that emanated from the starry sky. + +“Down there into the alley of the Dead Dervishes.” + +Mrs. Greyne could not repress a cry of horror. At that moment she would +have given a thousand pounds to have Mrs. Forbes at her side. + +Abdallah Jack grasped her by the hand, and led her ruthlessly forward. +Gazing with terror-stricken eyes over the crumbling rampart of the +Kasbah, she saw the city far below her, the lights of the streets, +the lights of the ships in harbour. She heard the music of a bugle, +and wished she were a Zouave safe in barracks. She wished she were a +German-Swiss porter, a merry chasseur—anything but Mrs. Eustace Greyne. +One thing alone supported her in this hour of trial, the thought of her +husband’s ecstasy when she appeared upon the dread scene of his awful +labours, to tell him that he was released, that he need visit them no +more. + +The alley of the Dead Dervishes is long and winding. To Mrs. Greyne +it seemed endless. As she threaded it with faltering step, gripped by +the feverish hand of Abdallah Jack, who now began to display a strange +and terrible excitement, she became a centre of curiosity. Unwashed +Arabs, rakish Zouaves in blue and red, wandering Jews of various +nationalities, unveiled dancing-girls covered with jewels, stared in +wonder upon the chocolate brocade and the floating bonnet strings, +followed upon her footsteps, pointing with painted fingers, and making +remarks of a personal nature in French, Arabic, and other unknown +tongues. She moved in the midst of a crowd, on and on before lighted +interiors from which wild music flowed. + +“Shall we never be there?” she panted to Abdallah Jack. “My limbs +refuse their office.” She jogged against a Tunisian Jewess in a pointed +hat, and rebounded upon an enormous Riff in a tattered sheep-skin. “I +can go no farther.” + +“We are there! Behold the house of the Ouled!” + +As he uttered the last word he burst into a bitter laugh, and drew Mrs. +Greyne, now gasping for breath, through an open doorway into a little +hall of imitation marble, with fluted pillars adorned with oilcloth, +and walls hung with imported oleographs. From a chamber on the right, +near a winding staircase covered with blue-and-white tiles, came the +sound of laughter, of song, and of a hideous music conveyed to the +astonied ear by pipes and drums. + +“They are in there!” exclaimed Abdallah Jack, folding his arms, and +looking at Mrs. Greyne. “Go to your husband!” + +Mrs. Greyne put her hands to her magnificent forehead, and tottered +forward. She reached the door, she pushed it, she entered. There +upon a wooden dais, surrounded by gilt mirrors and artificial roses, +she beheld her husband, in a check suit and a white Homburg hat, +performing the wildest evolutions, while opposite him a lady, smothered +in coloured silks and coins, tattooed and painted, dyed and scented, +covered with kohl and crowned with ostrich feathers, screamed a nasal +chant of the East, and bounded like an electrified monkey. + +“Eustace!” cried Mrs. Greyne, leaning for support against an oleograph. + +Her husband turned. + +“Eustace!” she cried again. “It is I!” + +He stood as if turned to stone. Mrs. Greyne hesitated, started, moved +forward to the dais, and stared upon the Ouled, who had also ceased +from dancing, and looked strangely surprised, even confused, by the +great novelist’s intrusion. + +“Miss Verbèna!” she exclaimed. “Miss Verbèna in Algiers!” + +“Eugenia!” said Mr. Greyne in a husky voice, “what is this you say? +This lady is the Ouled.” + +A sardonic laugh came from the doorway. They turned. There stood +Abdallah Jack. He advanced roughly to the Ouled. + +“Come,” he said angrily. “Have we not earned the money of the stranger? +Have we not earned enough? To-morrow you shall marry me as you have +promised, and we will return to our own land, to the canal where you +and I were born. And nevermore shall the Levantine instruct the babes +of the English devils, but dwell veiled and guarded in the harem of her +master.” + +“Mademoiselle Verbèna!” said Mr.Greyne in a more husky voice. +“But—but—your dying mother?” + +“She sleeps, monsieur, in the white sands of Ismailia, beside the +bitter lake. I trust that madame can now go on with the respectable +‘Catherine.’” + +And with an ironic reverence to Mrs. Eustace Greyne she placed her hand +in Abdallah Jack’s and vanished from the room. + + * * * * * + +“Catherine’s Repentance,” published in a gigantic volume not many weeks +ago, was preceded by Mr. Eustace Greyne’s. When last heard of he was +seated in the magnificent library of the corner house in Park Lane next +to the Duke of Ebury’s, busily engaged in pasting the newspaper notices +of Mrs. Greyne’s greatest work into a superb new album. + +The Abdallah Jacks have returned to the Suez Canal, bearing with them a +snug little fortune to be invested in the purchase of a coal wharf at +Port Said, and a remarkably handsome crocodile dressing-case, fitted +with gold, and monogrammed with the initials “E. G.” + + + + + _DESERT AIR_ + + + I + +On an evening of last summer I was dining in London at the Carlton with +two men. One of them was an excellent type of young England, strong, +healthy, athletic, and straightforward. The other was a clever London +doctor who was building up a great practice in the West End. At dessert +the conversation turned upon a then recent tragedy in which a great +reputation had gone down, and young England spoke rather contemptuously +of the victim, with the superior surprise human beings generally +express about the sin which does not happen to be theirs. + +“I can’t understand it!” was his conclusion. “It’s beyond me.” + +“Climate,” said the doctor quietly. + +“What?” + +“Climate. Air.” + +Young England looked inexpressively astonished. + +“But hang it all!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say change of air +means change of nature?” + +“Not to everyone. Not to you, perhaps. Have you travelled much?” + +“Well, I’ve been to Paris for the Grand Prix, and to Monte⸺” + +“For the gambling. That’s hardly travelling. Now, I’ve studied this +subject a little, quietly in Harley Street. I’m no traveller myself, +but I have dozens of patients who are. And I’m convinced that the +modern facilities for travel, besides giving an infinity of pleasure, +bring about innumerable tragedies.” + +He turned to me. + +“You go abroad a great deal. What do you say?” + +“That you’re perfectly right. And I’m prepared to affirm that, in +highly-strung, imaginative, or over-worked people change of climate +does sometimes actually cause, or seem to cause, change of nature.” + +Young England, who was by no means highly-strung or imaginative, looked +politely dubious, but the doctor was evidently pleased. + +“An ally!” he cried. + +He glanced at me for an instant, then added: + +“You’ve got a case that proves it, at any rate to you, in your mind.” + +“Quite true.” + +“Can you give it us?” + +“Jove! let’s have it!” exclaimed young England. + +“Certainly, if you like,” I said. “I don’t know whether you ever heard +of the Marnier affair?” + +Young England shook his head, but the doctor replied at once. + +“Three years ago, wasn’t it?” + +“Four.” + +“And it happened in some remote place in the Sahara Desert?” + +“In Beni-Kouidar. I was with Henry Marnier in Beni-Kouidar at the time.” + +“Go ahead!” said young England more eagerly. + +“Poor Marnier was not an old friend of mine, but an acquaintance whom I +had met casually at Beni-Mora, which is known as a health resort.” + +“I send patients there sometimes,” said the doctor. + +“The railway stops at Beni-Mora. To reach Beni-Kouidar one must go on +horse or camel back over between three and four hundred kilometres of +desert, sleeping on the way at Travellers’ Houses—Bordjs as they are +called there. Beni-Kouidar lies in the midst of immeasurable sands, +and the air that blows through its palm gardens, and round its mosque +towers, and down its alleys under the arcades, is startling: dry as the +finest champagne, almost fiercely pure and fresh, exhilarating—well, +too exhilarating for certain people.” + +The doctor nodded. + +“Champagne goes very quickly to some heads,” he interjected. + +“Beni-Kouidar has nothing to say to modern civilisation. It is a wild +and turbulent city, divided into quarters—the Arab quarter, the Jews’ +quarter, the freed negroes’ quarter, and so on—and furthermore, is +infested at certain seasons by the Sahara nomads, who camp in filthy +tents on the huge sand dunes round about, and sell rugs, burnouses, and +Touareg work to the inhabitants, buying in return the dates for which +the palms of Beni-Kouidar are celebrated. + +“I wanted to see a real Sahara city to which the Cook’s tourist had not +as yet penetrated, and I resolved to ride there from Beni-Mora. When +Henry Marnier heard of it he asked if he might accompany me. + +“Marnier was a young man who had recently left Oxford, and who had +come out to Beni-Mora only a week before to see his mother, who was +going through the sulphur cure. He was what is generally called a +‘serious-minded young man’; intellectual, inclined to grave reading and +high thinking, totally devoid of frivolity, a little cold in manner and +temperament, one would have sworn; in fact, a type of a very well-known +kind of Oxford undergraduate, the kind that takes a good tutorship +for a year or so after leaving the University, and then becomes a +schoolmaster or a clergyman. Marnier, by the way, intended to take +orders. + +“Now, this sort of young man is not precisely my sort, and especially +not my sort in the Sahara Desert. But I did not want to be rude to +Marnier, who was friendly and agreeable, and obviously anxious to +increase his already considerable store of knowledge. So I put my +inclinations in my pocket, and, with inward reluctance, I agreed. + +“We set off with Safti, my faithful one-eyed Arab guide, and after +three long days of riding and talking—as I had feared—Maeterlink and +Tolstoy, Henley and Verlaine (this last being utterly condemned by +Marnier as a man of weak character and degraded life) we saw the towers +of Beni-Kouidar aspiring above the shifting sands, the tufted summits +of the thousands of palm-trees, and heard the dull beating of drums and +the cries of people borne to us over the spaces of which silence is the +steady guardian. + +“We were all pretty tired, but Marnier was especially done up. He had +recently been working very hard for the ‘first’ with which he had left +Oxford, and was not in good condition. We were, therefore, glad enough +when we rode through the wide street thronged with natives, turned +the corner into the great camel market, and finally dismounted before +the door of the one inn, the ‘Rendezvous des Amis,’ a mean, dusty, +one-storey building, on whose dirty white wall was a crude painting of +a preposterous harridan in a purple empire gown, pouring wine for a +Zouave who was evidently afflicted with elephantiasis. Yet, tired as I +was, I stepped out into the camel market for a moment before going into +the house, emptied my lungs, and slowly filled them. + +“‘What air!’ I said to Marnier, who had followed me. + +“‘It is extraordinary,’ he answered in his rather dry tenor voice. +‘I should say like the best champagne, if I did not happen to be a +teetotaller.’ + +“(The market, I must explain, was not at that moment in active +operation.) + +“After a _bain de siege_—we both longed for total immersion—and some +weak tea, in which I mingled a spoonful of rum, we felt better, but +we reposed till dinner, and once again Marnier, in his habitually +restrained and critical manner, discussed contemporary literature, and +what Plato and Aristotle, judging by their writings, would have been +likely to think of it. And once again I felt as if I were in the ‘High’ +at Oxford, and was almost inclined to wish that Marnier was the rowdy +type of undergrad, who ducks people in water troughs and makes bonfires +in quads.” + +“H’m!” said the doctor gravely. “Better, perhaps, if he had been.” + +“Much better,” I answered. “At seven o’clock we ate a rather tough +dinner in the small, bare _salle-à-manger_, on the red brick floor of +which sand grains were lying. Our only companion was a bearded priest +in a dirty soutane, the aumônier of Beni-Kouidar, who sat at a little +table apart, and greeted our entrance with a polite bow, but did not +then speak to us. + +“When the meal was ended, however, he joined us as we stood at the inn +door looking out into the night. A moon was rising above the palms, and +gilding the cupolas of the Bureau Arabe on the far side of the Market +Square. A distant noise of tomtoms and African pipes was audible. +And all down the hill to our left—for the land rose to where the inn +stood—fires gleamed, and we could see half-naked figures passing and +repassing them, and others squatting beside, looking like monks in +their hooped burnouses. + +“‘You are going out, messieurs?’ said the aumônier politely. + +“I looked at Marnier. + +“‘You’re too done up, I expect?’ I said to him. + +“His face was pale, and he certainly had the demeanour of a tired man. + +“‘No,’ he answered. ‘I should like to stroll in this wonderful air.’ + +“I turned to the priest. + +“‘Yes, monsieur,’ I said. + +“‘I come here to take my meals, but I live at the edge of the town. +Perhaps you will permit me to accompany you for a little way.’ + +“‘We shall be delighted, and we know nothing of Beni-Kouidar.’ + +“As we stepped out into the market Marnier paused to light his pipe. +But suddenly he threw away the match he had struck. + +“‘No, it’s a sin to smoke in this air,’ he said. + +“And he drew a deep breath, looking at the round moon. + +“The priest smiled. + +“‘I have lived here for four years,’ he said, ‘and cannot resist my +cigar. But you are right. The air of Beni-Kouidar is extraordinary. +When first I came here it used to mount to my head like wine.’ + +“‘Bad for you, Marnier!’ I said, laughing. + +“Then I added, to the aumônier: + +“‘My friend never drinks wine, and so ought to be peculiarly +susceptible to such an influence.’” + + + II + +“Opposite to the aumônier’s dwelling was the great dancing-house of the +town, and when we had bade him good-night, and turned to go back to the +inn, I rather tentatively suggested to Marnier that, perhaps, it would +be interesting to look in there for a moment. + +“‘All right,’ he responded, with his most donnish manner. ‘But I expect +it will be rather an unwashed crowd.’ + +“A quantity of native soldiers—the sort that used to be called +Turcos—were gathered round the door. We pushed our way through them, +and entered. The café was large, with big white pillars and a double +row of divans in the middle, and divans rising in tiers all round. +On the left was a large doorway, in which gorgeously-dressed painted +women, with gold crowns on their heads, were standing, smoking +cigarettes, and laughing with the Arabs; and at the end farthest +from the street entrance was a raised platform, on which sat three +musicians—a wild-looking demon of a man blowing into an instrument with +an immense funnel, and two men beating tomtoms. The noise they made +was terrific. The piper wore a voluminous burnous, and as the dancers +came in in pairs from the big doorway, which led into the court where +they all live together, each in her separate little room with her own +front door, they threw their door keys into the hood that was attached +to it. As soon as they had finished dancing they went to the hood, and +rummaged violently for them again. And all the time the piper blew +frantically into his instrument, and rocked himself about like a man in +a convulsion. + +“We sat on one of the raised divans, with coffee before us on a wooden +stool, and Marnier observed it all with a slightly supercilious +coldness. The women, who were dressed in different shades of red, and +were the most amazing trollops I ever set eyes on, came and went in +pairs, fluttered their painted fingers, twittered like startled birds, +jumped and twirled, wriggled and revolved, and inclined their greasy +foreheads to the impenetrable spectators, who stuck silver coins on +to the perspiring flesh. And Marnier sat and gazed at them with the +aloofness of one who watches the creatures in puddle water through a +microscope. I could scarcely help laughing at him, but I wished him +away. For to me there was excitement, there was even a sort of ecstasy, +in the utter barbarity of this spectacle, in the moving scarlet figures +with their golden crowns and tufts of ostrich plumes, in the serried +masses of turbaned and hooded spectators, in the rocking forms of the +musicians, in the strident and ceaseless uproar that they made. + +“And through the doorway where the Turcos—I like the old name—crowded I +saw the sand filtering in from the desert, and against the black leaves +of a solitary palm-tree, with leaves like giant Fatma hands, I saw the +silver disc of the moon. + +“‘I vote we go,’ said Marnier’s light tenor voice in my ear. ‘The +atmosphere’s awful in here.’ + +“‘Very well,’ I said. + +“I got up; but just then a girl, dressed in midnight purple embroidered +with silver, came in from the doorway, and began to dance alone. She +was very young—fourteen, I found out afterwards—and, in contrast to the +other women, extremely beautiful. There were grace, seduction, mystery, +and coquetry in her face and in all her movements. Her long black eyes +held fire and dreams. Her fluttering hands seemed beckoning us to the +realms of the thousand and one nights. I stood where I had got up, and +watched her. + +“‘I say, aren’t we going?’ said Marnier’s voice in my ear. + +“I cursed the day when I had agreed to take him with me, leaped down +to the earth, and struggled towards the door. As we neared it the girl +sidled down the room till she was exactly in front of Marnier. Then +she danced before him, smiling with her immense eyes, which she fixed +steadily upon him, and bending forward her pretty head, covered with a +cloth of silver handkerchief. + +“‘Give her something,’ I said to him, laughing, as he stared back at +her grimly. + +“He thrust his hand into his pocket, found a franc, stuck it awkwardly +against her oval forehead, and followed me out. + +“When we were in the sandy street he walked a few steps in +silence, then stood still, and, to my surprise, stared back at the +dancing-house. Then he put his hand to his head. + +“‘Is the air having its alcoholic effect?’ I asked in joke. + +“As I spoke a handsome Arab, splendidly dressed in a pale blue robe, +red gaiters and boots, and a turban of fine muslin, spangled with gold, +passed us slowly, going towards the dancing-house. He cast a glance +full of suspicion and malice at Marnier. + +“‘What’s up with that fellow?’ I said, startled. + +“The Arab went on, and at that moment the faithful Safti joined us. He +never left me long out of his sight in these outlandish places. + +“‘That is the Batouch Sidi, the brother of the Caïd of Beni-Kouidar,’ +he said. ‘Algia, the dancer to whom Monsieur Henri has just given +money, is his _chère amie_. But as the government has just made him a +sheik, he dares not have her in his house for fear of the scandal. So +he has put her with the dancers. That is why she dances, to deceive +everyone, not to make money. She is not as the other dancers. But +everyone knows, for Batouch is mad with jealousy. He cannot bear that +Algia should dance before strangers, but what can he do? A sheik must +not have a scandal in his dwelling.’ + +“We walked on slowly. When we got to the door of the ‘Rendezvous des +Amis’ Marnier stood still again, and looked down the deserted, moonlit +camel market. + +“‘I never knew air like this,’ he said in a low voice. + +“And once more he expelled the air from his lungs, and drew in a long, +slow breath, as a man does when he has finished his dumbbell exercise +in the morning. + +“‘Don’t drink too much of it,’ I said. ‘Remember what the aumônier told +us!’ + +“Marnier looked at me. I thought there was something apprehensive in +his eyes. But he said nothing, and we turned in. + +“The next day I rode out with Safti into the desert to visit a sacred +personage of great note in the Sahara, Sidi El Ahmed Ben Daoud +Abderahmann. To my relief Marnier declined to come. He said he was +tired, and would stroll about the city. When we got back at sundown +the innkeeper handed me a note. I opened it, and found it was from the +aumônier, saying that he would be greatly obliged if I would call and +see him on my return, as he had various little curiosities which he +would be glad to show me. Marnier was not in the inn, and, as I had +nothing particular to do, I walked at once to the aumônier’s house. +As I have said, it was the last in the town. The dancing-house was on +the opposite side of the way; but the aumônier’s dwelling jutted out a +little farther into the desert, and looked full on a deep depression of +soft sand bounded by a big dune, which loomed up like a couchant beast +in the fading yellow light. + +“The aumônier met me at his door, and escorted me into a pleasant room, +where his collection of Arab weapons, coins, and old vases, cups, and +various utensils, dug up, he told me, at Tlemcen, was arranged. But to +my surprise he scarcely took time to show it to me before he said: + +“‘Though a stranger, may I venture to speak rather intimately to you, +monsieur?’ + +“‘Certainly,’ I replied, in some astonishment. + +“‘Your friend is young.’ + +“‘Marnier?’ + +“‘Is that his name? Well, I would not leave him to stroll about too +much alone, if I were you.’ + +“‘Why, monsieur?’ + +“‘He is likely to get into trouble. The people here are a wild and +violent race. He would do well to bear in mind the saying of a +traveller who knew the desert men better than most people: “If you want +to be friendly with them, and safe among them, give cigarettes to the +men, and leave the women alone.” I see a good deal, monsieur, owing to +the situation of my little house.’ + +“I looked at him in silence. Then I said: + +“‘What have you seen?’ + +“He led me to the door, and pointed towards the great dune beyond the +dancing-house. + +“‘I saw your friend this afternoon talking there with one whom it is +especially unsafe to be seen with in Beni-Kouidar.’ + +“‘With whom?’ + +“‘A dancer called Algia.’ + +“‘Talking, monsieur! Marnier knows no Arabic.’ + +“The aumônier pursed his lips in his black beard. + +“‘The conversation appeared to be carried on by signs,’ he responded. +‘That did not make it less but more dangerous.’ + +“I’m afraid I was rude, and whistled softly. + +“‘Monsieur l’Aumônier,’ I said, ‘you must forgive me, but this air is +certainly the very devil.’ + +“He smiled, not without irony. + +“‘I became aware of that myself, monsieur, when first I came to live in +Beni-Kouidar. But I am a priest, and—well, monsieur, I was given the +strength to say: “Get thee behind me, Satan.”’ + +“A softer look came into his sunburnt, wrinkled face. + +“‘Better take your friend away as soon as possible,’ he added, ‘or +there will be trouble.’” + + + III + +“That night I found myself confronted by a Marnier whom I had never +seen before. The desert wine had gone to the lad’s brain. That was +certain. No intonations of the Oxford don lurked in the voice. No +reminiscences of the Oxford ‘High’ clung about the manner. A man sober +and the same man drunk are scarcely more different than the Marnier who +had ridden with me up the sandy street of Beni-Kouidar the previous day +and the man who sat opposite to me at dinner in the ‘Rendezvous des +Amis’ that night. I knew in a moment that the aumônier was right, and +that I must get the lad away at once from the intoxicant which nature +poured out over this far-away city. His eyes were shining feverishly, +and when I mentioned Mr. Ruskin in a casual way he looked unutterably +bored. + +“‘Ruskin and all those fellows seem awfully slow and out of place +here,’ he exclaimed. ‘One doesn’t want to bother about them in the +Sahara.’ + +“I changed the subject. + +“‘There doesn’t seem very much to see here,’ I said carelessly. ‘We +might get away the day after to-morrow, don’t you think?’ + +“He drew his brows down. + +“‘The horses won’t be sufficiently rested,’ he said curtly. + +“‘Oh yes; I fancy they will.’ + +“‘Well, I don’t fancy I shall. The long ride took it out of me.’ + +“‘Turn in to-night, then, directly after dinner.’ + +“He looked at me with sharp suspicion. I met his gaze blandly. + +“‘I mean to,’ he said after a short pause. + +“I knew he was telling me a lie, but I only said: ‘That’s right!’ and +resolved to keep an eye on him. + +“Directly dinner was over he sprang up from the table. + +“‘Good-night,’ he said. + +“And before I could reply he was out of the _salle-à-manger_; and I +heard him tramp along the brick floor of the passage, go into his room, +and bang the door. + +“The aumônier was getting up from his little table, and shaking the +crumbs from his soutane. + +“‘You are quite right, monsieur,’ I said to him. ‘I must get my friend +away.’ + +“‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ replied the good priest. ‘But—desert +air, desert air!’ + +“He shook his head, half wistfully, half laughingly, bowed, put on his +broad-brimmed black hat, and went out. + +“After a moment I followed him. I stood in the doorway of the inn, and +lit a cigar. I knew Marnier was not going to bed, and meant to catch +him when he came out, and join him. In common politeness he could +scarcely refuse my company, since he had asked me as a favour to let +him come with me to Beni-Kouidar. I waited, watching the moon rise, +till my cigar was smoked out. Then I lit another. Still he did not +come. I heard the distant throb of tomtoms beyond the Bureau Arabe in +the quarter of the freed negroes. They were having a fantasia. I began +to think that I must have been mistaken, and that Marnier had really +turned in. So much the better. The ash dropped from the stump of my +second cigar, and the deserted camel market was flooded with silver +from the moon-rays. I knew there was only one door to the inn. Slowly I +lit a third cigar. + +“A large cloud went over the face of the moon. A gust of wind struck my +face. Suddenly the night had changed. The moon looked forth again, and +was again obscured. A second gust struck me like a blow, and my face +was stung by a multitude of sand grains. I heard steps behind me in the +brick passage, turned swiftly, and saw the landlord. + +“‘I must shut the door, m’sieu,’ he said. ‘There’s a bad sandstorm +coming up.’ + +“As he spoke the wind roared, and over the camel market a thick fog +seemed to fall abruptly. It was a sheet of sand from the surrounding +dunes. I threw away my cigar, stepped into the passage, and the +landlord banged the door, and drove home the heavy bolts. + +“Then I went to Marnier’s room, and knocked. I felt sure, but I thought +I would make sure before going to my room. + +“No answer. + +“I knocked again loudly. + +“Again no answer. + +“Then I turned the handle, and entered. + +“The room was empty. I glanced round quickly. The small window was +open. All the windows of the inn were barred, but, as I learned later, +a bar in Marnier’s had been broken, and was not yet replaced when we +arrived at Beni-Kouidar. In consequence of this it was possible to +squeeze through into the arcade outside. This was what Marnier had +done. My precise, gentlemanly, reserved, and methodical acquaintance +had deliberately given me the slip by sneaking out of a window like a +schoolboy, and creeping round the edge of the inn to the _fosse_ that +lay in the shadow of the sand dunes. As I realised this I realised his +danger. + +“I ran to my room, fetched my revolver, slipped it into my pocket, and +hurried to the front door. The landlord heard me trying to undo the +bolts, and came out protesting. + +“‘M’sieu cannot go out into the storm.’ + +“‘I must.’ + +“‘But m’sieu does not know what Beni-Kouidar is like when the sand +is blown on the wind. It is _enfer_. Besides, it is not safe. In the +darkness m’sieu may receive a _mauvais coup_.’ + +“‘Make haste, please, and open the door. I am going to fetch my friend.’ + +“He pulled the bolts, grumbling and swearing, and I went out into +_enfer_. For he was right. A sandstorm at night in Beni-Kouidar is hell. + +“Luckily, Safti joined me mysteriously from the deuce knows where, and +we staggered to the dancing-house somehow, and struggled in, blinded, +our faces scored, our clothes heavy with sand, our pockets, our very +boots, weighed down with it. + +“The tomtoms were roaring, the pipe was yelling, blown by the frantic +demon with his hood full of latch keys, the impassible, bearded faces +were watching the painted women who, in their red garments and their +golden crowns, promenaded down the earthen floor, between the divans, +fluttering their dyed fingers, smiling grotesquely like idols, bending +forward their greasy foreheads to receive the tribute of their admirers. + +“I ran my eyes swiftly over the mob. Marnier was not in it. I pushed my +way towards the doorway on the left which gave on to the court of the +dancers. + +“Safti caught hold of my arm. + +“‘It is not safe to go in there on such a night, Sidi. There are no +lamps. It is black as a tomb. And no one can tell who may be there. +Nomads, perhaps, men of evil from the south. Many murders have been +done in the court on black nights, and no one can say who has done +them. For all the time men go in and out to the rooms of the dancers.’ + +“‘Nevertheless, Safti, I must⸺’ + +“I stopped speaking, for at this moment Batouch, the brother of the +Caïd of Beni-Kouidar, came slowly in through the doorway from the +blackness of the sand-swept court. There was a strange smile on his +handsome face, and he was caressing his black beard gently with one +delicate hand. He saw me, smiled more till I caught the gleam of his +white teeth, passed on into the dancing-house, sat down on a divan, and +called for coffee. I could not take my eyes from him. Every movement +he made fascinated me. He drew from his pale blue robe a silver box, +opened it, lifted out a pinch of tobacco, and began carefully to roll a +cigarette. And all the time he smiled. + +“A glacial cold crept over my body. As he lit his cigarette I caught +hold of Safti, and hurried through the doorway into the blackness of +the whirling sand.” + + * * * * * + +Here I stopped. + +“Well?” said young England. “Well?” + +The doctor did not speak. + +“Well,” I answered. “Algia danced that night. While she was dancing +we found a dead body in the court. It was Marnier’s. A knife had been +thrust into him from behind!” + +“Ah!” said the doctor. + +“But—” exclaimed young England, “it was that fellow? It was Batouch?” + +I shrugged my shoulders. + +“Nobody ever found out who did it.” + +“Well, but of course⸺” + +He checked himself, and an expression of admiration dawned slowly over +his healthy, handsome face. + +“I say,” he said, “to be able to roll a cigarette directly afterwards! +What infernal cheek!” + +“Desert air!” I replied. “My dear chap—desert air!” + +The doctor nodded. + + + + + “_FIN TIREUR_” + + +Two years ago I was travelling by diligence in the Sahara Desert on the +great caravan route, which starts from Beni-Mora and ends, they say, +at Tombouctou. For fourteen hours each day we were on the road, and +each evening about nine o’clock we stopped at a Bordj, or Travellers’ +House, ate a hasty meal, threw ourselves down on our gaudy Arab rugs, +and slept heavily till the hour before dawn, drugged by fatigue and +by the strong air of the desert. In the late afternoon of the third +day of our journeying we drove into a sandstorm. A great wind arose, +carrying with it innumerable multitudes of sand grains, which whirled +about the diligence and the struggling horses, blotting out the desert +as completely as a London fog blots out the street on a November day. +The cold became intense, and very soon I began to long for the next +halting-place. + +“Where do we stop to-night?” I shouted to the French driver, who, with +his yellow toque pulled down over his ears, was chirping encouragement +to his horses. + +“Sidi-Hamdane,” he answered, without turning his head. “At the inn of +‘Fin Tireur.’” + +Three hours later we drew up before a low building, from which a light +shone kindly, and I scrambled down stiffly, and lurched into the +longed-for shelter. + +There was a man in the doorway, a short, sturdy, middle-aged Frenchman, +with strong features, a tuft of grey beard, heavy eyebrows, and dark, +prominent eyes, with a hot, shining look in them. + +“_Bon soir_, m’sieu,” he said. + +“_Bon soir_,” I answered. + +This was my host, the innkeeper whom the driver had called “Fin Tireur.” + +I found out afterwards that he was not only landlord of the desolate +inn, but cook, garcon; in fact, the whole personnel. He lived there +absolutely alone, and was the only European in this Arab village +lost in the great spaces of the Sahara. This information I drew from +him while he waited upon me at dinner, which I ate in solitude. My +companions of the diligence were Arabs, who had melted away like ghosts +into the desolation so soon as the diligence had rolled into the paved +courtyard round which the one-storied house was built. + +When I had finished dinner I lit a cigar. I was now quite alone in the +bare _salle-à-manger_. The storm was at its height; the sand was driven +like hail against the wooden shutters of the windows, and I felt dreary +enough. The French driver was no doubt supping in the kitchen with +the landlord, perhaps beside a fire. I began to long for company, for +warmth, and I resolved to join them. I opened the door, therefore, and +peered out into the passage. There was no sound of voices; but I saw +a light at a little distance, went towards it, and found myself in a +small kitchen, where the landlord was sitting alone by a red wood fire +in the midst of his pots and pans, smoking a thin black cigar, and +reading a dirty number of the _Journal Anti-Juif_ of Algiers. He put it +down politely as I came in. + +“You’re alone, monsieur,” I said. + +“Yes, m’sieu. The driver has gone to see to the horses.” + +I offered him one of my Havanas, which he accepted with alacrity, and +drew up with him before the fire. + +“You have been living here long, monsieur?” + +“Twenty years, m’sieu.” + +“Twenty years alone in this desert place!” + +“Nineteen years alone, m’sieu. Before that I had my little Marie.” + +“Marie?” + +“My child, m’sieu. She is buried in the sand behind the inn.” + +I looked at him in silence. His brown, wrinkled face was calm, but in +his prominent eyes there was still the hot shining look I had observed +in them when I arrived. + +“The palms begin there,” he added. “Year by year I have saved what I +could, and now I have bought all the palm-trees near where she lies.” + +He puffed away at his Havana. + +“You come from France?” I asked presently. + +“From the Midi—I was born at Cassis, near Marseille.” + +“Don’t you ever intend to go back there?” + +“Never, m’sieu. Would you have me desert my child?” + +“But,” I said gently, “she is dead.” + +“Yes; but I have promised her that her _bon papa_ will lie with her +presently for company. Leave her alone with the Arabs!” + +A sudden look of horror came into his face. + +“You don’t like the Arabs?” + +“Like the dirty dogs! You haven’t been told about me, m’sieu?” + +“Only that your name was ‘Fin Tireur.’” + +“‘Fin Tireur.’ Yes; that’s what they call me in the desert.” + +“You’re a sportsman? A ‘capital shot’?” + +He laughed suddenly, and his laugh made me feel cold. + +“Oh! they don’t call me ‘Fin Tireur’ because I can hit gazelle, and +bring them home for supper. No, no! Shall I tell you why?” + +He looked at me half defiantly, half wistfully, I thought. + +“But if I do, perhaps your stomach will turn against the food I cooked +with these hands,” he added suddenly, stretching out his hands towards +me. “You are English, m’sieu?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then I daresay you won’t understand.” + +“I think I shall,” I answered, looking full at him. + +The way he had spoken of his child had drawn me to him. Whatever he had +done, I felt that chivalry and tenderness were in this man. + +“Why do they call you ‘Fin Tireur’?” + +“The men of the Midi, m’sieu, are not like the men of the rest of +France,” said Fin Tireur—“at least so they say. We are boasters, +perhaps; but we’ve got more love of adventure, more wish to see the +world, and do something big in it. They’re talkers, you know, in the +Midi, and they tell of what they’ve done. I heard them at Cassis when +I was a boy, and one day I saw a Zouave in front of the inn balcony, +where folks come on fête days to eat the bouillabaisse. The talk I had +heard made me wish to rove; but when I saw the Zouave, in his big red +trousers and blue and red jacket, I said to myself: ‘As soon as my +three years’ service is over I’ll go to Africa, and make my fortune.’ I +did my three years at Grenoble, m’sieu, and when it was done I carried +out my resolve. I came to Africa; but I didn’t come alone.” + +He puffed at his cigar for a minute or two, and the hot look in his +eyes became more definite, like a fanned flame. + +“You took a comrade?” + +“I took a wife, a girl of Cassis. A good girl she was then.” + +He paused again, then continued, in rather a loud voice: “She was good, +m’sieu, because she had seen nothing. That’s often the way. It was I +who put it into her head that there were things to be seen better than +rocks, and dead white dusty roads, and fishing boats against the quay. +I’ve thought of that since I—since I got my name of Fin Tireur. Her +name was Marie, and she was eighteen when we stood before the priest. +Next day we went to Marseille, and took the boat for Algiers. Our heads +were full of I don’t know what. We thought we were clever ones, and +should do well in a country like Africa. And so we did at first. We got +into a hotel at Algiers. She was housemaid, and I was porter in the +hall, and what with the goings and comings—strangers giving us a little +when we’d done our best for them—we made some money, and we saved it. +And I wish to God we’d spent it, every sou!” + +His voice became fierce for a moment. Then he continued, with an +obvious effort to be calm: “You see, m’sieu, at Algiers we had nothing +to say to the Arabs. With the money we’d saved we left Algiers, and +came into the desert to take a café which was to let near the station +at Beni-Mora.” + +“I’ve just come from there.” + +“They call it ‘Au Retour du Sahara.’” + +“I’ve had coffee there.” + +“That was ours, and there little Marie was born. In those days there +weren’t many strangers in Beni-Mora. The railway had only just come +there, and it was wild enough. Very few, except the Arabs. Well, they +were often our customers. We learned to talk a bit of their language, +and they a bit of ours; and, having no friends out there, I might say +we made sort of friends with some of them. The dirty dogs! The camels!” + +He struck his clenched hand down on the table. As he talked he had lost +his former consciousness of my close observation. + +“But they know how to please women, m’sieu.” + +“They are often very handsome,” I said. + +“It isn’t only that. They can stare a woman down as a wild beast can, +and that’s what women like. I never so much as looked on them as +men—not in that way, for a Cassis woman, m’sieu. But Marie⸺” + +He choked, ground his teeth on his cigar stump, let it drop, and +stamped out the glowing end on the brick floor with his heel. + +“She served them, m’sieu,” he resumed, after clearing his throat. “But +I was mostly there, and I don’t see how—but women can always find +the way. Well, one day she went to what they call a sand-diviner. She +didn’t pretend anything. She told me she wanted to go, and I was ready. +I was always ready that she should have any little pleasure. I couldn’t +leave the café, so she went off alone to a room he had by the Garden of +the Gazelles, at the end of the dancing-street.” + +“I know—over the place where they smoke the kief.” + +“She didn’t answer, but went and sat down under the arbour, opposite to +where they wash the clothes. I followed her, for she looked ill. + +“‘Did he read in the sand for you?’ I said. + +“‘Yes,’ she said; ‘he did.’ + +“‘What things did he read?’ + +“She turned, and looked right at me. ‘That my fate lies in the sand,’ +she said—‘and yours, and hers.’ + +“And she pointed at little Marie, who was playing with a yellow kid we +had then just by the door. + +“‘What’s that to be afraid of?’ I asked her. ‘Haven’t we come to the +desert to make our fortune, and isn’t there sand in the desert?’ + +“‘Not much by here,’ she said. + +“And that’s true, m’sieu. It’s hard ground, you know, at Beni-Mora.” + +“Yes,” I said, offering him another cigar. + +He refused it with a quick gesture. + +“She never would say another word as to what the sand-diviner had told +her; but she was never the same from that day. She was as uneasy as a +lost bitch, m’sieu; and she made me uneasy too. Sometimes she wouldn’t +speak to our little one when the child ran to her, and sometimes she’d +catch her up, and kiss her till the little one’s cheek was as red as if +you’d been striking it. And then one day, after dark, she went.” + +“Went!” + +“I’d been ill with fever, and gone to spend the night at the sulphur +baths; you know, m’sieu, Hammam-Salahkin, under the mountains. I came +back just at dawn to open the café. When I got off my mule at the door +I heard”—his face twitched convulsively—“the most horrible crying of a +child. It was so horrible that I just stood there, holding on to the +bridle of the mule, and listening, and didn’t dare go in. I’d heard +children cry often enough before; but—_mon Dieu!_—never like that. At +last I dropped the bridle, and went in, with my legs shaking under me. +I found the little one alone in the house, and like a mad thing. She’d +been alone all night.” + +His face set rigidly. + +“And her mother knew I should be all night at the Hammam,” he said. +“Fin Tireur—yes, it was coming back, and finding my little one left +like that in such a place, made me earn the name.” + +He fell suddenly into a moody silence. I broke it by saying: “It was +the sand-diviner?” + +He looked at me sharply. “I don’t know.” + +“You never found out?” + +“At Beni-Mora the women go veiled,” he said harshly. + +Suddenly I realised the horror of the situation: the deserted husband +living on with his child in the midst of the ordained and close secrecy +of Beni-Mora, where many of the women never set foot out of doors, and +those who do, unless they are the public dancers, are so heavily veiled +that their features cannot be recognised. + +“What did you do?” I asked. + +“I searched, as far as one can search in an Arab town, and found out +nothing. I wanted to tear the veil from every woman in the place; and +then I was sent away from Beni-Mora.” + +“By whom?” + +“The French authorities, my own countrymen,” he laughed bitterly. “To +save me from getting myself murdered, m’sieu.” + +“You would have been.” + +“Why not? Then I came here to keep the inn for the diligence that +carries the mails to the south, for I wouldn’t leave the country till⸺” + +He paused. + +“And the sand-diviner?” + +“I left him at Beni-Mora. He smiled, and said he knew no more than I; +and perhaps he didn’t. How was I to tell?” + +“But your name of Fin Tireur?” + +“Ah!”—the thing in his eyes glowed like a thing red-hot—“I’d been here +eleven months when, one afternoon of summer, just near sunset, I heard +a noise of drums beating and African pipes screaming, and the snarl of +camels on the road you came to-night. I was in the house, in this room +where we are sitting now, and little Marie was playing just outside by +the well, so that I could see her through the window. By the sounds, I +knew a great caravan was coming up, and passing towards the south. They +always water at the well, and I stood by the window to see them. Little +Marie stood too, shading her eyes with her bit of a hand. The drums and +pipes got louder, and round the corner of the inn came as big a caravan +as I’ve ever seen; near a hundred camels, horsemen, and led mules and +donkeys, Kabyle dogs and goats, the music playing all the time, and +a Caïd’s flag flying in the front. They made for the well, as I knew +they would, and little Marie stood all the while watching them. M’sieu, +there were square packs on some of the camels, and veiled women on the +packs.” + +He looked across at me hard. + +“Veiled women?” I repeated. + +“When they got to the well they made the camels kneel for the women to +get down; and one of the women, when she was down, caught sight of +Marie standing there, with her little hand shading her eyes. That woman +gave a great cry behind her veil. I heard it, m’sieu, as I stood by the +window there, and I saw the woman run at the little one.” + +He got up from his seat slowly, and stood by the wooden shutter, +against which the sand was driven by the wind. + +“In a place like this, m’sieu, one keeps a revolver here.” + +He put his hand to a pocket at the back of his breeches, brought out a +revolver, and pointed it at the shutter. + +“When I heard the woman cry I took my revolver out. When I saw the +woman run I fired, and the bullet struck the veil.” + +He put the revolver back into his pocket, and sat down again quietly. + +“And that’s why they call me Fin Tireur.” + +I said nothing, and sat staring at him. + +“When the camels had been watered the caravan went on.” + +“But—but the Arabs⸺” + +“The Caïd had the body tied across a donkey—they told me.” + +“You didn’t see?” + +“No. I took the little one in. She was screaming, and I had to see +to her. It was two days afterwards, when I was at the market, that a +scorpion stung her. She was dead when I came back. Well, m’sieu, are +you sorry you ate your supper?” + +Before I could reply, the door opening into the courtyard gaped, and +the driver entered, followed by a cloud of whirling sand grains. + +“_Nom d’un chien!_” he exclaimed. “Get me a tumbler of wine, for the +love of God, Fin Tireur. My throat’s full of the sand. _Sacré nom d’un +nom d’un nom!_” + +He pulled off his coat, turned it upside down, and shook the sand out +of the pockets, while Fin Tireur went over to the corner of the kitchen +where the bottles stood in a row against the earthen wall. + + + + + _HALIMA AND THE SCORPIONS_ + + +In travelling about the world one collects a number of those trifles of +all sorts, usually named “curiosities,” many of them worthless if it +were not for the memories they recall. The other day I was clearing out +a bureau before going abroad, and in one of the drawers I came across a +hedgehog’s foot, set in silver, and hung upon a tarnished silver chain. +I picked it up in the Sahara, and here is its history. + + * * * * * + +Mohammed El Aïd Ben Ali Tidjani, marabout of Tamacine, is a great man +in the Sahara Desert. His reputation for piety reaches as far as Tunis +and Algiers, to the north of Africa, and to the uttermost parts of +the Southern Desert, even to the land of the Touaregs. He dwells in +a sacred village of dried mud and brick, surrounded by a high wall, +pierced with loopholes, and ornamented with gates made of palm wood, +and covered with sheets of iron. In his mansion, above the entrance +of which is written “L’Entrée de Sidi Laïd,” are clocks innumerable, +musical boxes, tables, chairs, sofas, and even framed photographs. +Negro servants bow before him, wives, brothers, children, and +obsequious hangers-on of various nationalities, black, bronze, and +_café au lait_ in colour, offer him perpetual incense. Rich worshippers +of the Prophet and the Prophet’s priests send him presents from afar; +camels laden with barley, donkeys staggering beneath sacks of grain, +ostrich plumes, silver ornaments, perfumes, red-eyed doves, gazelles +whose tiny hoofs are decorated with gold-leaf or painted in bright +colours. The tributes laid before the tomb of Cheikh Sidi El Hadj Ali +ben Sidi El Hadj Aïssa are, doubtless, his perquisites as guardian of +the saint. He dresses in silks of the tints of the autumn leaf, and +carries in his mighty hand a staff hung with apple-green ribbons. And +his smile is as the smile of the rising sun in an oleograph. + +This personage one day blessed the hedgehog’s foot I at present +possess, and endowed it solemnly with miraculous curative properties. +It would cure, he declared, all the physical ills that can beset a +woman. Then he gave it into the hands of a great Agha, who was about to +take a wife, accepted a tribute of dates, a grandfather’s clock from +Paris, and a grinding organ of Barbary as a small acknowledgment of his +generosity, and probably thought very little more about the matter. + +Now, in the course of time, it happened that the hedgehog’s foot came +into the possession of a dancing-girl of Touggourt, called Halima. +How Halima got hold of it I cannot say, nor does anyone in Touggourt +exactly know, so far as I am aware. But, alas! even Aghas are sometimes +human, and play pitch and toss with magical things. As Grand Dukes who +go to disport themselves in Paris sometimes hie them incognito to the +“Café de la Sorcière,” so do Aghas flit occasionally to Touggourt, and +appear upon the high benches of the great dancing-house of the Ouled +Naïls in the outskirts of the city. And Halima was young and beautiful. +Her eyes were large, and she wore a golden crown ornamented with very +tall feathers. And she danced the dance of the hands and the dance of +the fainting fit with great perfection. And the wives of Aghas have to +put up with a good deal. However it was, one evening Halima danced with +the hedgehog’s foot that had been blessed dangling from her jewelled +girdle. And there was a great scandal in the city. + +For in the four quarters of Touggourt, the quarter of the Jews, of +the foreigners, of the freed negroes, and of the citizens proper, it +was known that the hedgehog’s foot had been blessed and endowed with +magical powers by the mighty marabout of Tamacine. + +Halima herself affirmed it, standing at the front door of her terraced +dwelling in the court, while the other dancers gathered round, looking +like a troop of macaws in their feathers and their finery. With a +brazen pride she boasted that she possessed something worth more than +uncut rubies, carpets from Bagdad, and silken petticoats sewn with +sequins. And the Ouled Naïls could not gainsay her. Indeed, they turned +their huge, kohl-tinted eyes upon the relic with envy, and stretched +their painted hands towards it as if to a god in prayer. But Halima +would let no one touch it, and presently, taking from her bosom her +immense door key, she retired to enshrine the foot in her box, studded +with huge brass nails, such as stands by each dancer’s bed. + +And the scandal was very great in the city that such a precious thing +should be between the hands of an Ouled Naïl, a girl of no repute, come +thither in a palanquin on camelback to earn her dowry, and who would +depart into the sands of the south, laden with the gold wrung from the +pockets of loose livers. + +Only Ben-Abid smiled gently when he heard of the matter. + +Ben-Abid belonged to the _Tribu des blancs_, and was the singer +attached to the café of the smokers of the hashish. He it was who +struck each evening a guitar made of goatskin backed by sand tortoise, +and lifted up his voice in the song “Lalia”: + + “Ladham Pacha who has left the heart of his enemies trembling— + O Lalia! O Lalia! + The love of women is no more sweet to me after thy love. + Thy hand is white, and thy bracelets are of the purest silver— + And I, Ladham Pacha, love thee, without thought of what will come. + O Lalia! O Lalia!” + +The assembled smokers breathed out under the black ceiling their deep +refrain of “Wurra-Wurra!” and Larbi, in his Zouave jacket and his +tight, pleated skirt, threw back his small head, exposing his long +brown throat, and danced like a tired phantom in a dream. + +Ben-Abid smiled, showing two rows of lustrous teeth. + +“Should Halima fall ill, the foot will not avail to cure her,” he +murmured. “Ben Ali Tidjani’s blessing could never rest on an Ouled +Naïl, who, like a little viper of the sand, has stolen into the Agha’s +bosom, and filled his veins with subtle poison. She deems she has a +treasure; but let her beware: that which would protect a woman who +wears the veil will do naught for a creature who shows her face to the +stranger, and dances by night for the Zouaves and for the Spahis who +patrol the dunes.” + +And he struck his long fingers upon the goatskin of his instrument, +while Kouïdah, the boy who played upon the little glasses and shook the +tambourine of reeds, slipped forth to tell in the city what Ben-Abid +had spoken. + +Halima was enraged when she heard of it, more especially as there +were found many to believe Ben-Abid’s words. She stood before her room +upon the terrace, where Zouaves were playing cards with the dancers +in the sun, and she cursed him in a shrill voice, calling him son of +a scorpion, and requesting that Allah would send great troubles upon +his relations, even upon his aged grandmother. That the miraculous +reputation of her treasure should be thus scouted, and herself +insulted, vexed her to the soul. + +“Let the son of a camel with a swollen tongue dare to come to me and +repeat what he has said!” she cried. “Let him come out from his lair in +the café of the hashish smokers, and, as Allah is great, I will spit in +his face. The reviler of women! The son of a scorpion! Cursed be his⸺” + +And then once more she desired evil to the grandmother of Ben-Abid, and +to all his family. And the Zouaves and the dancers laughed over their +card games. Indeed, the other dancers were merry, and not ill-pleased +with Ben-Abid’s words. For even in the Sahara the women do not care +that one of them should be exalted above the rest. + +Now, in Touggourt gossip is carried from house to house, as the sand +grains are carried on the wind. Within an hour Ben-Abid heard that his +grandmother had been cursed, and himself called son of a scorpion, by +Halima. Kouïdah, the boy, ran on naked feet to tell him in the café of +the hashish smokers. When he heard he smiled. + +“To-night I will go to the dancing-house, and speak with Halima,” he +murmured. And then he plucked the guitar of goatskin that was ever in +his hands, and sang softly of the joys of Ladham Pacha, half closing +his eyes, and swaying his head from side to side. + +And Kouïdah, the boy, ran back across the camel market to tell in the +court of the dancers the words of Ben-Abid. + +That night, when the nomads lit their brushwood fires in the +market; when the Kabyle bakers, in their striped turbans and their +close-fitting jerseys of yellow and of red, ran to and fro bearing the +trays of flat, new-made loaves; when the dwarfs beat on the ground +with their staffs to summon the mob to watch their antics; and the +story-tellers put on their glasses, and sat them down at their boards +between the candles; Ben-Abid went forth secretly from the hashish +café wrapped in his burnous. He sought out in the quarter of the freed +negroes a certain man called Sadok, who dwelt alone. + +This Sadok was lean as a spectre, and had a skin like parchment. He was +a renowned plunger in desert wells, and could remain beneath the water, +men said, for a space of four minutes. But he could also do another +thing. He could eat scorpions. And this he would do for a small sum of +money. Only, during the fast of Ramadan, between the rising and the +going down of the sun, so long as a white thread could be distinguished +from a black, he would not eat even a scorpion, because the tasting of +food by day in that time is forbidden by the Prophet. + +When Ben-Abid struck on his door Sadok came forth, gibbering in his +tangled beard, and half naked. + +“Oh, brother!” said Ben-Abid. “Here is money if thou canst find me +three scorpions. One of them must be a black scorpion.” + +Sadok shot out his filthy claw, and there was fire in his eyes. But +Ben-Abid’s fingers closed round the money paper. + +“First thou must find the scorpions, and then thou must carry them with +thee to the court of the dancers, walking at my side. For, as Allah +lives, I will not touch them. Afterwards thou shalt have the money.” + +Sadok’s soul drew the shutters across his eyes. Then he led the way by +tortuous alleys to an old and ruined wall of a _zgag_, in which there +were as many holes as there are in a honeycomb. Here, as he knew, +the scorpions loved to sleep. Thrusting his fingers here and there +he presently drew forth three writhing reptiles. And one of them was +black. He held them out, with a cry, to Ben-Abid. + +“The money! The money!” he shrieked. + +But Ben-Abid shrank back, shuddering. + +“Thou must bring them to the dancers’ court. Hide them well in thy +garments that none may see them. Then thou shalt have the money.” + +Sadok hid the scorpions upon his shaven head beneath his turban, and +they went by the dunes and the lonely ways to the café of the dancers. + +Already the pipers were playing, and many were assembled to see the +women dance; but Ben-Abid and Sadok pushed through the throng, and +passed across the café to the inner court, which is open to the air, +and surrounded with earthen terraces on which, in tiers, open the rooms +of the dancers, each with its own front door. This court is as a mighty +rabbit warren, peopled with women instead of rabbits. Pale lights +gleamed in many doorways, for the dancers were dressing and painting +themselves for the dances of the body, of the hands, of the poignard, +and of the handkerchief. Their shrill voices cried one to another, +their heavy bracelets and necklets jingled, and the monstrous shadows +of their crowned and feathered heads leaped and wavered on the yellow +patches of light that lay before their doors. + +“Where is Halima?” cried Ben-Abid in a loud voice. “Let Halima come +forth and spit in my face!” + +At the sound of his call many women ran to their doors, some half +dressed, some fully attired, like Jezebels of the great desert. + +“It is Ben-Abid!” went up the cry of many voices. “It is Ben-Abid, who +laughs to scorn the power of the hedgehog’s foot. It is the son of +the camel with the swollen tongue. Halima, Halima, the child of the +scorpion calls thee!” + +Kouïdah, the boy, who was ever about, ran barefoot from the court +into the café to tell of the doings of Ben-Abid, and in a moment the +people crowded in, Zouaves and Spahis, Arabs and negroes, nomads from +the south, gipsies, jugglers, and Jews. There were, too, some from +Tamacine, and these were of all the most intent. + +“Where is Halima?” went up the cry. “Where is Halima?” + +“Who calls me?” exclaimed the voice of a girl. + +And Halima came out of her door on the first terrace at the left, +splendidly dressed for the dance in scarlet and gold, carrying two +scarlet handkerchiefs in her hands, and with the hedgehog’s foot +dangling from her girdle of thin gold, studded with turquoises. + +Ben-Abid stood below in the court with Sadok by his side. The crowd +pressed about him from behind. + +“Thou hast called me the son of a scorpion, Halima,” he said, in a loud +voice. “Is it not true?” + +“It is true,” she answered, with a venomous smile of hatred. “And thou +hast said that the hedgehog’s foot, blessed by the great marabout +of Tamacine, would avail naught against the deadly sickness of a +dancing-girl. Is it not true?” + +“It is true,” answered Ben-Abid. + +“Thou art a liar!” cried Halima. + +“And so art thou!” said Ben-Abid slowly. + +A deep murmur rose from the crowd, which pressed more closely beneath +the terrace, staring up at the scarlet figure upon it. + +“If I am a liar thou canst not prove it!” cried Halima furiously. “I +spit upon thee! I spit upon thee!” + +And she bent down her feathered head from the terrace and spat +passionately in his face. + +Ben-Abid only laughed aloud. + +“I can prove that I have spoken the truth,” he said. “But if I am +indeed the son of a scorpion, as thou sayest, let my brothers speak for +me. Let my brothers declare to all the Sahara that the truth is in my +mouth. Sadok, remove thy turban!” + +The plunger of the wells, with a frantic gesture, lifted his turban and +discovered the three scorpions writhing upon his shaven head. Another, +and longer, murmur went up from the crowd. But some shrank back and +trembled, for the desert Arabs are much afraid of scorpions, which +cause many deaths in the Sahara. + +“What is this?” cried Halima. “How can the scorpions speak for thee?” + +“They shall speak well,” said Ben-Abid. “Their voices cannot lie. Sleep +to-night in thy room with these my brothers. Irena and Boria, the +Golden Date and the Lotus Flower, shall watch beside thee. Guard in +thy hand, or in thy breast, the hedgehog’s foot that thou sayest can +preserve from every ill. If, in the evening of to-morrow, thou dancest +before the soldiers, I will give thee fifty golden coins. But, if thou +dancest not, the city shall know whether Ben-Abid is a truth-teller, +and whether the blessings of the great marabout can rest upon such +a woman as thou art. If thou refusest thou art afraid, and thy fear +proveth that thou hast no faith in the magic treasure that dangles at +thy girdle.” + +There was a moment of deep silence. Then, from the crowd burst forth +the cry of many voices: + +“Put it to the proof! Ben-Abid speaks well. Put it to the proof, and +may Allah judge between them.” + +Beneath the caked pigments on her face Halima had gone pale. + +“I will not,” she began. + +But the cries rose up again, and with them the shrill, twittering +laughter of her envious rivals. + +“She has no faith in the marabout!” squawked one, who had a nose like +an eagle’s beak. + +“She is a liar!” piped another, shaking out her silken petticoats as a +bird shakes out its plumes. + +And then the twitter of fierce laughter rose, shriek on shriek, and was +echoed more deeply by the crowd of watching men. + +“Give me the scorpions!” cried Halima passionately. “I am not afraid!” + +Her desert blood was up. Her fatalism—even in the women of the Sahara +it lurks—was awake. In that moment she was ready to die, to silence +the bitter laughter of her rivals. It sank away as Sadok grasped the +scorpions in his filthy claw, and leaped, gibbering in his beard, upon +the terrace. + +“Wait!” cried Halima, as he came upon her, holding forth his handful of +writhing poison. + +Her bosom heaved. Her lustrous eyes, heavy with kohl, shone like those +of a beast at bay. + +Sadok stood still, with his naked arm outstretched. + +“How shall I know that the son of a scorpion will pay me the fifty +golden coins? He is poor, though he speaks bravely. He is but a singer +in the café of the smokers of the hashish, and cannot buy even a new +garment for the close of the feast of Ramadan. How, then, shall I know +that the gold will hang from my breasts when to-morrow, at the falling +of the sun, I dance before the men of Touggourt?” + +Ben-Abid put his hand beneath his burnous, and brought forth a bag tied +at the mouth with cord. + +“They are here!” he said. + +“The Jews! He has been to the Jews!” cried the desert men. + +“Bring a lamp!” said Ben-Abid. + +And while Irena and Boria, the Golden Date and the Lotus Flower, held +the lights, and the desert men crowded about him with the eyes of +wolves that are near to starving, he counted forth the money on the +terrace at Halima’s feet. And she gazed down at the glittering pieces +as one that gazes upon a black fate. + +“And now set my brothers upon the maiden,” Ben-Abid said to Sadok, +gathering up the money, and casting it again into the bag, which he +tied once more with the cord. + +Halima did not move, but she looked upon the scorpion that was black, +and her red lips trembled. Then she closed her hand upon the hedgehog’s +foot that hung from her golden girdle, and shut her eyes beneath her +ebon eyebrows. + +“Set my brothers upon her!” said Ben-Abid. + +The plunger of the wells sprang upon Halima, opened her scarlet bodice +roughly, plunged his claw into her swelling bosom, and withdrew +it—empty. + +“Kiss her close, my brothers!” whispered Ben-Abid. + +A long murmur, like the growl of the tide upon a shingly beach, arose +once more from the crowd. Halima turned about, and went slowly in at +her lighted doorway, followed by Irena and Boria. The heavy door of +palm was shut behind them. The light was hidden. There was a great +silence. It was broken by Sadok’s voice screaming in his beard to +Ben-Abid, “My money! Give me my money!” + +He snatched it with a howl, and went capering forth into the darkness. + + * * * * * + +When the next night fell upon the desert there was a great crowd +assembled in the café of the dancers. The pipers blew into their pipes, +and swayed upon their haunches, turning their glittering eyes to and +fro to see what man had a mind to press a piece of money upon their +well greased foreheads. The dancers came and went, promenading arm in +arm upon the earthen floor, or leaping with hands outstretched and +fingers fluttering. The Kabyle attendant slipped here and there with +the coffee cups, and the wreaths of smoke curled lightly upward towards +the wooden roof. + +But Halima came not through the open doorway holding the scarlet +handkerchiefs above her head. + +And presently, late in the night, they laid her body in a palanquin, +and set the palanquin upon a running camel, and, while the dancers +shrilled their lament amid the sands, they bore her away into the +darkness of the dunes towards the south and the tents of her own people. + +The jackals laughed as she went by. + + * * * * * + +But the hedgehog’s foot was left lying upon the floor of her chamber. +Not one of the dancers would touch it. + +That night I was in the café, and, hearing of all these things from +Kouïdah, the boy, I went into the court, and gathered up the trinket +which had brought a woman to the great silence. Next day I rode on +horseback to Tamacine, asked to see the marabout and told him all the +story. + +He listened, smiling like the rising sun in an oleograph, and twisting +in his huge hands, that were tinted with the henna, the staff with the +apple-green ribbons. + +When I came to the end I said: + +“O, holy marabout, tell me one thing.” + +“Allah is just. I listen.” + +“If the scorpions had slept with a veiled woman who held the hedgehog’s +foot, how would it have been? Would the woman have died or lived?” + +The marabout did not answer. He looked at me calmly, as at a child who +asks questions about the mysteries of life which only the old can +understand. + +“These things,” he said at length, “are hidden from the unbeliever. You +are a Roumi. How, then, should you learn such matters?” + +“But even the Roumi⸺” + +“In the desert there are mysteries,” continued the marabout, “which +even the faithful must not seek to penetrate.” + +“Then it is useless to⸺” + +“It is very useless. It is as useless as to try to count the grains of +the sand.” + +I said no more. + +Mohammed El Aïd Ben Ali Tidjani smiled once more, and beckoned to a +negro attendant, who ran with a musical box, one of the gifts of the +faithful. + +“This comes from Paris,” he said, with a spreading complacence. + +Then there was within the box a sounding click, and there stole forth a +tinkling of Auber’s music to _Masaniello_, “Come o’er the moonlit sea!” + + + + + _THE DESERT DRUM_ + + + I + +I am not naturally superstitious. The Saharaman is. He has many +strange beliefs. When one is at close quarters with him, sees him day +by day in his home, the great desert, listens to his dramatic tales +of desert lights, visions, sounds, one’s common-sense is apt to be +shaken on its throne. Perhaps it is the influence of the solitude and +the wide spaces, of those far horizons of the Sahara where the blue +deepens along the edge of the world, that turns even a European mind +to an Eastern credulity. Who can tell? The truth is that in the Sahara +one can believe what one cannot believe in London. And sometimes +circumstances—chance if you like to call it so—steps in, and seems to +say, “Your belief is well founded.” + +Of all the desert superstitions the one which appealed most to my +imagination was the superstition of the desert drum. The Saharaman +declares that far away from the abodes of men and desert cities, among +the everlasting sand dunes, the sharp beating, or dull, distant rolling +of a drum sometimes breaks upon the ears of travellers voyaging through +the desolation. They look around, they stare across the flats, they +see nothing. But the mysterious music continues. Then, if they be +Sahara-bred, they commend themselves to Allah, for they know that some +terrible disaster is at hand, that one of them at least is doomed to +die. + +Often had I heard stories of the catastrophes which were immediately +preceded by the beating of the desert drum. One night in the Sahara I +was a witness to one which I have never been able to forget. + +On an evening of spring, accompanied by a young Arab and a negro, +I rode slowly down a low hill of the Sahara, and saw in the sandy +cup at my feet the tiny collection of hovels called Sidi-Massarli. +I had been in the saddle since dawn, riding over desolate tracks in +the heart of the desert. I was hungry, tired, and felt almost like a +man hypnotised. The strong air, the clear sky, the everlasting flats +devoid of vegetation, empty of humanity, the monotonous motion of my +slowly cantering horse—all these things combined to dull my brain and +to throw me into a peculiar condition akin to the condition of a man +in a trance. At Sidi-Massarli I was to pass the night. I drew rein and +looked down on it with lack-lustre eyes. + +I saw a small group of palm-trees, guarded by a low wall of baked +brown earth, in which were embedded many white bones of dead camels. +Bleached, grinning heads of camels hung from more than one of the +trees, with strings of red pepper and round stones. Beyond the wall +of this palm garden, at whose foot was a furrow full of stagnant +brownish-yellow water, lay a handful of wretched earthen hovels, with +flat roofs of palmwood and low wooden doors. To be exact, I think there +were five of them. The Bordj, or Travellers’ House, at which I was to +be accommodated for the night, stood alone near a tiny source at the +edge of a large sand dune, and was a small, earth-coloured building +with a pink tiled roof, minute arched windows, and an open stable for +the horses and mules. All round the desert rose in humps of sand, +melting into stony ground where the saltpetre lay like snow on a wintry +world. There were but few signs of life in this place; some stockings +drying on the wall of a ruined Arab café, some kids frisking by a heap +of sacks, a few pigeons circling about a low square watchtower, a +black donkey brooding on a dust heap. There were some signs of death; +carcasses of camels stretched here and there in frantic and fantastic +postures, some bleached and smooth, others red and horribly odorous. + +The wind blew round this hospitable township of the Sahara, and the +yellow light of evening began to glow above it. It seemed to me at that +moment the dreariest place in the dreariest dream man had ever had. + +Suddenly my horse neighed loudly. Beyond the village, on the opposite +hill, a white Arab charger caracoled, a red cloak gleamed. Another +traveller was coming in to his night’s rest, and he was a Spahi. I +could almost fancy I heard the jingle of his spurs and accoutrements, +the creaking of his tall red boots against his high peaked saddle. As +he rode down towards the Bordj—by this time, I, too, was on my way—I +saw that a long cord hung from his saddle-bow, and that at the end +of this cord was a man, trotting heavily in the heavy sand like a +creature dogged and weary. We came in to Sidi-Massarli simultaneously, +and pulled up at the same moment before the arched door of the Bordj, +from which glided a one-eyed swarthy Arab, staring fixedly at me. This +was the official keeper of the house. In one hand he held the huge +door key, and as I swung myself heavily on the ground I heard him, in +Arabic, asking my Arab attendant, D’oud, who I was and where I hailed +from. + +But such attention as I had to bestow on anything just then was given +to the Spahi and his companion. The Spahi was a magnificent man, tall, +lithe, bronze-brown and muscular. He looked about thirty-four, and had +the face of a desert eagle. His piercing black eyes stared me calmly +out of countenance, and he sat on his spirited horse like a statue, +waiting patiently till the guardian of the Bordj was ready to attend to +him. My gaze travelled from him along the cord to the man at its end, +and rested there with pity. He, too, was a fine specimen of humanity, a +giant, nobly built, with a superbly handsome face, something like that +of an undefaced Sphinx. Broad brows sheltered his enormous eyes. His +rather thick lips were parted to allow his panting breath to escape, +and his dark, almost black skin, was covered with sweat. Drops of sweat +coursed down his bare arms and his mighty chest, from which his ragged +burnous was drawn partially away. He was evidently of mixed Arab and +negro parentage. As he stood by the Spahi’s horse, gasping, his face +expressed nothing but physical exhaustion. His eyes were bent on the +sand, and his arms hung down loosely at his sides. While I looked at +him the Spahi suddenly gave a tug at the cord to which he was attached. +He moved in nearer to the horse, glanced up at me, held out his hand, +and said in a low, musical voice, speaking Arabic: + +“Give me a cigarette, Sidi.” + +I opened my case and gave him one, at the same time diplomatically +handing another to the Spahi. Thus we opened our night’s acquaintance, +an acquaintance which I shall not easily forget. + +In the desolation of the Sahara a travelling intimacy is quickly +formed. The one-eyed Arab led our horses to the stable, and while my +two attendants were inside unpacking the tinned food and the wine I +carried with me on a mule, I entered into conversation with the Spahi, +who spoke French fairly well. He told me that he was on the way to El +Arba, a long journey through the desert from Sidi-Massarli, and that +his business was to convey there the man at the end of the cord. + +“But what is he? A prisoner?” I asked. + +“A murderer, monsieur,” the Spahi replied calmly. + +I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with +one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent. + +“Does he understand French?” + +“A little.” + +“And he committed murder?” + +“At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man’s throat.” + +“Why?” + +“I don’t know, monsieur. Perhaps he was jealous. It is hot in Tunis +in the summer. That was five years ago, and ever since he has been in +prison.” + +“And why are you taking him to El Arba?” + +“He came from there. He is released, but he is not allowed to live +any more in Tunis. Ah, monsieur, he is mad at going, for he loves a +dancing-girl, Aïchouch, who dances with the Jewesses in the café by +the lake. He wanted even to stay in prison, if only he might remain in +Tunis. He never saw her, but he was in the same town, you understand. +That was something. All the first day he ran behind my horse cursing +me for taking him away. But now the sand has got into his throat. He is +so tired that he can scarcely run. So he does not curse any more.” + +The captive giant smiled at me again. Despite his great stature, his +powerful and impressive features, he looked, I thought, very gentle +and submissive. The story of his passion for Aïchouch, his desire to +be near her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him +sincerely. + +“What is his name?” I asked. + +“M’hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said.” + +I was weary with riding and wanted to stretch my legs, and see what was +to be seen of Sidi-Massarli ere evening quite closed in, so at this +point I lit a cigar and prepared to stroll off. + +“Monsieur is going for a walk?” asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my +cigar. + +“Yes.” + +“I will accompany monsieur.” + +“Or monsieur’s cigar-case,” I thought. + +“But that poor fellow,” I said, pointing to the murderer. “He is tired +out.” + +“That doesn’t matter. He will come with us.” + +The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over +the sand behind us like some exhausted animal. + +By this time twilight was falling over the Sahara, a grim twilight, +cold and grey. The wind was rising. In the night it blew half a +gale, but at this hour there was only a strong breeze in which minute +sand-grains danced. The murderer’s feet were shod with patched +slippers, and the sound of these slippers shuffling close behind +me made me feel faintly uneasy. The Spahi stared at my cigar so +persistently that I was obliged to offer him one. When I had done so, +and he had loftily accepted it, I half turned towards the murderer. The +Spahi scowled ferociously. I put my cigar-case back into my pocket. +It is unwise to offend the powerful if your sympathy lies with the +powerless. + +Sidi-Massarli was soon explored. It contained a Café Maure, into which +I peered. In the coffee niche the embers glowed. One or two ragged +Arabs sat hunched upon the earthen divans playing a game of cards. At +least I should have my coffee after my tinned dinner. I was turning to +go back to the Bordj when the extreme desolation of the desert around, +now fading in the shadows of a moonless night, stirred me to a desire. +Sidi-Massarli was dreary enough. Still it contained habitations, men. I +wished to feel the blank, wild emptiness of this world, so far from the +world of civilisation from which I had come, to feel it with intensity. +I resolved to mount the low hill down which I had seen the Spahi +ride, to descend into the fold of desert beyond it, to pause there a +moment, out of sight of the hamlet, listen to the breeze, look at the +darkening sky, feel the sand-grains stinging my cheeks, shake hands +with the Sahara. + +But I wanted to shake hands quite alone. I therefore suggested to the +Spahi that he should remain in the Café Maure and drink a cup of coffee +at my expense. + +“And where is monsieur going?” + +“Only over that hill for a moment.” + +“I will accompany monsieur.” + +“But you must be tired. A cup of⸺” + +“I will accompany monsieur.” + +In Arab fashion he was establishing a claim upon me. On the morrow, +when I was about to depart, he would point out that he had guided me +round Sidi-Massarli, had guarded me in my dangerous expedition beyond +its fascinations, despite his weariness and hunger. I knew how useless +it is to contend with these polite and persistent rascals, so I said no +more. + +In a few minutes the Spahi, the murderer and I stood in the fold of the +sand dunes, and Sidi-Massarli was blotted from our sight. + + + II + +The desolation here was complete. All around us lay the dunes, +monstrous as still leviathans. Here and there, between their strange, +suggestive shapes, under the dark sky one could see the ghastly +whiteness of the saltpetre in the arid plains beyond, where the low +bushes bent in the chilly breeze. I thought of London—only a few +days’ journey from me—revelled for a moment in my situation, which, +contrary to my expectation, was rather emphasised by the presence of my +companions. The gorgeous Spahi, with his scarlet cloak and hood, his +musket and sword, his high red leggings, the ragged, sweating captive +in his patched burnous, ex-butcher looking, despite his cord emblem of +bondage, like reigning Emperor—they were appropriate figures in this +desert place. I had just thought this, and was regarding my Sackville +Street suit with disgust, when a low, distinct and near sound suddenly +rose from behind a sand dune on my left. It was exactly like the dull +beating of a tom-tom. The silence preceding it had been intense, for +the breeze was as yet too light to make more than the faintest sighing +music, and in the gathering darkness this abrupt and gloomy noise +produced, I supposed, by some hidden nomad, made a very unpleasant, +even sinister impression upon me. Instinctively I put my hand on the +revolver which was slung at my side in a pouch of gazelle skin. As I +did so, I saw the Spahi turn sharply and gaze in the direction of the +sound, lifting one hand to his ear. + +The low thunder of the instrument, beaten rhythmically and +persistently, grew louder and was evidently drawing nearer. The +musician must be climbing up the far side of the dune. I had swung +round to face him, and expected every moment to see some wild figure +appear upon the summit, defining itself against the cold and gloomy +sky. But none came. Nevertheless, the noise increased till it was a +roar, drew near till it was actually upon us. It seemed to me that I +heard the sticks striking the hard, stretched skin furiously, as if +some phantom drummer were stealthily encircling us, catching us in +a net, a trap of horrible, vicious uproar. Instinctively I threw a +questioning, perhaps an appealing, glance at my two companions. The +Spahi had dropped his hand from his ear. He stood upright, as if at +attention on the parade-ground of Biskra. His face was set—afterwards +I told myself it was fatalistic. The murderer, on the other hand, +was smiling. I remember the gleam of his big white teeth. Why was he +smiling? While I asked myself the question the roar of the tom-tom grew +gradually less, as if the man beating it were walking rapidly away +from us in the direction of Sidi-Massarli. None of us said a word till +only a faint, heavy throbbing, like the beating of a heart, I fancied, +was audible in the darkness. Then I spoke, as silence fell. + +“Who is it?” + +“Monsieur, it is no one.” + +The Spahi’s voice was dry and soft. + +“What is it?” + +“Monsieur, it is the desert drum. There will be death in Sidi-Massarli +to-night.” + +I felt myself turn cold. He spoke with such conviction. The murderer +was still smiling, and I noticed that the tired look had left him. +He stood in an alert attitude, and the sweat had dried on his broad +forehead. + +“The desert drum?” I repeated. + +“Monsieur has not heard of it?” + +“Yes, I have heard—but—it can’t be. There must have been someone.” + +I looked at the white teeth of the murderer, white as the saltpetre +which makes winter in the desert. + +“I must get back to the Bordj,” I said abruptly. + +“I will accompany monsieur.” + +The old formula, and this time the voice which spoke it sounded +natural. We went forward together. I walked very fast. I wanted to +catch up that music, to prove to myself that it was produced by human +fists and sticks upon an instrument which, however barbarous, had been +fashioned by human hands. But we entered Sidi-Massarli in a silence, +only broken by the soughing of the wind and the heavy shuffle of the +murderer’s feet upon the sand. + +Outside the Café Maure D’oud was standing with the white hood of his +burnous drawn forward over his head; one or two ragged Arabs stood with +him. + +“They’ve been playing tom-toms in the village, D’oud?” + +“Monsieur asks if⸺” + +“Tom-toms. Can’t you understand?” + +“Ah! Monsieur is laughing. Tom-toms here! And dancers, too, perhaps! +Monsieur thinks there are dancers? Fatma and Khadija and Aïchouch⸺” + +I glanced quickly at the murderer as D’oud mentioned the last name, a +name common to many dancers of the East. I think I expected to see upon +his face some tremendous expression, a revelation of the soul of the +man who had run for one whole day through the sand behind the Spahi’s +horse, cursing at the end of the cord which dragged him onward from +Tunis. + +But I only met the gentle smile of eyes so tender, so submissive, that +they were as the eyes of a woman who had always been a slave, while the +ragged Arabs laughed at the idea of tom-toms in Sidi-Massarli. + + * * * * * + +When we reached the Bordj I found that it contained only one good-sized +room, quite bare, with stone floor and white walls. Here, upon a deal +table, was set forth my repast; the foods I had brought with me, and a +red Arab soup served in a gigantic bowl of palmwood. A candle guttered +in the glass neck of a bottle, and upon the floor were already spread +my gaudy striped quilt, my pillow, and my blanket. The Spahi surveyed +these preparations with a deliberate greediness, lingering in the +narrow doorway. + +I sat down on a bench before the table. My attendants were to eat at +the Café Maure. + +“Where are you going to sleep?” I asked of D’oud. + +“At the Café Maure, monsieur, if monsieur is not afraid to sleep alone. +Here is the key. Monsieur can lock himself in. The door is strong.” + +I was helping myself to the soup. The rising wind blew up the skirts of +the Spahi’s scarlet robe. In the wind—was it imagination?—I seemed to +hear some thin, passing echoes of a tom-tom’s beat. + +“Come in,” I said to the Spahi. “You shall sup with me to-night, +and—and you shall sleep here with me.” + +D’oud’s expressive face became sinister. Arabs are almost as jealous as +they are vain. + +“But, monsieur, he will sleep in the Café Maure. If monsieur wishes for +a companion, I⸺” + +“Come in,” I repeated to the Spahi. “You can sleep here to-night.” + +The Spahi stepped over the lintel with a jingling of spurs, a rattling +of accoutrements. The murderer stepped in softly after him, drawn by +the cord. D’oud began to look as grim as death. He made a ferocious +gesture towards the murderer. + +“And that man? Monsieur wishes to sleep in the same room with him?” + +I heard the sound of the tom-tom above the wail of the wind. + +“Yes,” I said. + +Why did I wish it? I hardly know. I had no fear for, no desire to +protect myself. But I remembered the smile I had seen, the Spahi’s +saying, “There will be death in Sidi-Massarli to-night,” and I was +resolved that the three men who had heard the desert drum together +should not be parted till the morning. D’oud said no more. He waited +upon me with his usual diligence, but I could see that he was furiously +angry. The Spahi ate ravenously. So did the murderer, who more than +once, however, seemed to be dropping to sleep over his food. He was +apparently dead tired. As the wind was now become very violent I did +not feel disposed to stir out again, and I ordered D’oud to bring us +three cups of coffee to the Bordj. He cast a vicious look at the +Spahi and went out into the darkness. I saw him no more that night. A +boy from the Café Maure brought us coffee, cleared the remains of our +supper from the table, and presently muttered some Arab salutation, +departed, and was lost in the wind. + +The murderer was now frankly asleep with his head upon the table, and +the Spahi began to blink. I, too, felt very tired, but I had something +still to say. Speaking softly, I said to the Spahi: + +“That sound we heard to-night⸺” + +“Monsieur?” + +“Have you ever heard it before?” + +“Never, monsieur. But my brother heard it just before he had a stroke +of the sun. He fell dead before his captain beside the wall of Sada. He +was a tirailleur.” + +“And you think this sound means that death is near?” + +“I know it, monsieur. All desert people know it. I was born at +Touggourt, and how should I not know?” + +“But then one of us⸺” + +I looked from him to the sleeping murderer. + +“There will be death in Sidi-Massarli to-night, monsieur. It is the +will of Allah. Blessed be Allah.” + +I got up, locked the heavy door of the Bordj, and put the key in the +inner pocket of my coat. As I did so, I fancied I saw the heavy black +lids of the murderer’s closed eyes flutter for a moment. But I cannot +be sure. My head was aching with fatigue. The Spahi, too, looked stupid +with sleep. He jerked the cord, the murderer awoke with a start, +glanced heavily round, stood up. Pulling him as one would an obstinate +dog, the Spahi made him lie down on the bare floor in the corner of +the Bordj, ere he himself curled up in the thick quilt which had been +rolled up behind his high saddle. I made no protest, but when the Spahi +was asleep, his lean brown hand laid upon his sword, his musket under +his shaven head, I pushed one of my blankets over to the murderer, who +lay looking like a heap of rags against the white wall. He smiled at me +gently, as he had smiled when the desert drum was beating, and drew the +blanket over his mighty limbs and face. + +I did not mean to sleep that night. Tired though I was my brain was +so excited that I felt I should not. I blew out the candle without +even the thought that it would be necessary to struggle against sleep. +And in the darkness I heard for an instant the roar of the wind +outside, the heavy breathing of my two strange companions within. For +an instant—then it seemed as if a shutter was drawn suddenly over +the light in my brain. Blackness filled the room where the thoughts +develop, crowd, stir in endless activities. Slumber fell upon me like +a great stone that strikes a man down to dumbness, to unconsciousness. + + * * * * * + +Far in the night I had a dream. I cannot recall it accurately now. I +could not recall it even the next morning when I awoke. But in this +dream, it seemed to me that fingers felt softly about my heart. I +was conscious of their fluttering touch. It was as if I were dead, +and as if the doctor laid for a moment his hand upon my heart to +convince himself that the pulse of life no longer beat. And this action +wove itself naturally into the dream I had. The fingers so soft, so +surreptitious, were lifted from my breast, and I sank deeper into the +gulf of sleep, below the place of dreams. For I was a tired man that +night. At the first breath of dawn I stirred and woke. It was cold. I +put out one hand and drew up my quilt. Then I lay still. The wind had +sunk. I no longer heard it roaring over the desert. For a moment I +hardly remembered where I was, then memory came back and I listened for +the deep breathing of the Spahi and the murderer. Even when the wind +blew I had heard it. I did not hear it now. I lay there under my quilt +for some minutes listening. The silence was intense. Had they gone +already, started on their way to El Arba? The Bordj was in darkness, +for the windows were very small, and dawn had scarcely begun to break +outside and had not yet filtered in through the wooden shutters which +barred them. I disliked this complete silence, and felt about for the +matches I had laid beside the candle before turning in. I could not +find them. Someone had moved them, then. The heaviness of sleep had +quite left me now, and I remembered clearly all the incidents of the +previous evening. The roll of the desert drum sounded again in my +ears. I threw off my quilt, got up, and moved softly over the stone +floor towards the corner where the murderer had lain down to sleep. I +bent down to touch him and touched the stone. They had gone, then! It +was strange that I had not been waked by their departure. Besides, I +had the key of the door. I thrust my hand into the breast-pocket of +my coat which I had worn while I slept. The key was no longer there. +Then I remembered my dream and the fingers fluttering round my heart. +Stumbling in the blackness I came to the place where the Spahi had +lain, stretched out my hands and felt naked flesh. My hands recoiled +from it, for it was very cold. + +Half-an-hour later the one-eyed Arab who kept the Bordj, roused by my +beating upon the door with the butt end of my revolver, came with D’oud +to ask what was the matter. The door had to be broken in. This took +some time. Long before I could escape, the light of the sun, entering +through the little arched windows, had illumined the nude corpse of +the Spahi, the gaping red wound in his throat, the heap of murderer’s +rags that lay across his feet. + +M’hammed Bouaziz, in the red cloak, the red boots, sword at his side, +musket slung over his shoulder, was galloping over the desert on his +way to freedom. + + * * * * * + +But six months later he was taken at night outside a café by the lake +at Tunis. He was gazing through the doorway at a girl who was posturing +to the sound of pipes between two rows of Arabs. The light from the +café fell upon his face, the dancer uttered a cry. + +“M’hammed Bouaziz!” + +“Aïchouch!” + +The law avenged the Spahi, and this time it was not to prison they led +my friend of Sidi-Massarli, but to an open space before a squad of +soldiers just when the dawn was breaking. + + + + + _THE PRINCESS AND THE JEWEL DOCTOR_ + + +In St. Petersburg society there may be met at the present time a +certain Russian Princess, who is noted for her beauty, for an ugly +defect—she has lost the forefinger of her left hand—and for her +extraordinary attachment to the city of Tunis, where she has spent +at least three months of each year since 1890—the year in which she +suffered the accident that deprived her of a finger. What that accident +was, and why she is so passionately attached to Tunis, nobody in +Russia seems to know, not even her doting husband, who bows to all her +caprices. But two persons could explain the matter—a Tunisian guide +named Abdul, and a rather mysterious individual who follows a humble +calling in the Rue Ben-Ziad, close to the Tunis bazaars. This latter is +the Princess’s personal attendant during her yearly visit to Tunis. He +accompanies her everywhere, may be seen in the hall of her hotel when +she is at home, on the box of her carriage when she drives out, close +behind her when she is walking. He is her shadow in Africa. Only when +she goes back to Russia does he return to his profession in the Rue +Ben-Ziad. + +This is the exact history of the accident which befell the Princess +in 1890. In the spring of that year she arrived one night at Tunis. +She had not long been married to an honourable man whom she adored. +She was rich, pretty, and popular. Yet her life was clouded by a great +fear that sometimes made the darkness of night almost intolerable to +her. She dreaded lest the darkness of blindness should come upon her. +Both her mother, now dead, and her grandfather had laboured under this +defect. They had been born with sight, and had become totally blind +ere they reached the age of forty. Princess Danischeff—as we may call +her for the purpose of this story—trembled when she thought of their +fate, and that it might be hers. Certain books that she read, certain +conversations on the subject of heredity that she heard in Petersburg +society fed her terror. Occasionally, too, when she stood under a +strong light she felt a slight pain in her eyes. She never spoke of her +fear, but she fell into a condition of nervous exhaustion that alarmed +her husband and her physician. The latter recommended foreign travel +as a tonic. The former, who was detained in the capital by political +affairs, reluctantly agreed to a separation from his wife. And thus +it came about, that, late one night of spring, the Princess and her +companion, the elderly Countess de Rosnikoff, arrived in Tunis at the +close of a tour in Algeria, and put up at the Hotel Royal. + +The bazaars of Tunis are among the best that exist in the world of +bazaars, and, on the morning after her arrival, the Princess was +anxious to explore them with her companion. But Madame de Rosnikoff was +fatigued by her journey from Constantine. She begged the Princess to go +without her, desiring earnestly to be left in her bedroom with a cup of +weak tea and a French novel. The Princess, therefore, ordered a guide +and set forth to the bazaars. + +The guide’s name was Abdul. He was a talkative young Eastern, and as he +turned with the Princess into the network of tiny alleys that spreads +from the Bab-el-bahar to the bazaars, he poured forth a flood of +information about the marvels of his native city. The Princess listened +idly. That morning she was cruelly pre-occupied. As she stepped out of +the hotel into the bright sunshine she had felt a sharp pain in her +eyes, and now, though she held over her head a large green parasol, the +pain continued. She looked at the light and thought of the darkness +that might be coming upon her, and the chatter of Abdul sounded vague +in her ears. Presently, however, she was forced to attend to him, for +he asked her a direct question. + +“To-day they sell jewels by auction near the Mosquée Djama-ez-Zitouna,” +he said. “Would the gracious Princess like to see the market of the +jewels?” + +The Princess put her hand to her eyes and assented in a low voice. +Abdul turned out of the sunshine into a narrow alley covered with a +wooden roof. It was full of shadows and of squatting men, who held out +brown hands to the Princess as she passed. But she was staring at the +shadows and did not see the merchants of Goblin Market. Leaving this +alley Abdul led her abruptly into a dense crowd of Arabs, who were +all talking, gesticulating, and moving hither and thither, apparently +under the influence of extreme excitement. Many of them held rings, +bracelets, or brooches between their fingers, and some extended palms +upon which lay quantities of uncut jewels—turquoises, sapphires, and +emeralds. At a little distance a grave man was noting down something in +a book. But the Princess scarcely observed the progress of the jewel +auction. Her attention had been attracted by an extraordinary figure +that stood near her. This was an immensely tall Arab, dressed in a +dingy brown robe, and wearing upon his shaven head, which narrowed +almost to a point at the back, a red fez with a large black tassel. +His claw-like hands were covered with rings and his bony wrists with +bracelets. But the attention of the Princess was riveted by his eyes. +They were small and bright, and squinted horribly—so horribly, that it +was impossible to tell at what he was looking. These eyes gave to his +face an expression of diabolic and ruthless vigilance and cunning. +He seemed at the same time to be seeing everything and to be gazing +definitely at nothing. + +“That is Safti, the jewel doctor,” murmured Abdul in the ear of the +Princess. + +“A jewel doctor! What is that?” asked the Princess. + +“When you are sick he cures you with jewels.” + +“And what can he cure?” said the Princess, still looking at Safti, +who was now bargaining vociferously with a fat Arab for a piece of +milk-white jade. + +“All things. I was sick of a fever that comes with the summer. He gave +me a stone crushed to a powder, and I was well. He saved from death one +of the Bey’s sons, who was dying from hijada. And then, too, he has a +stone in a ring which can preserve sight to him who is going blind.” + +The Princess started violently. + +“Impossible!” she cried. + +“It is true,” said Abdul. “It is a green stone—like that.” + +He pointed to an emerald which an Arab was holding up to the light. + +The Princess put her hand to her eyes. They still ached, and her +temples were throbbing furiously. + +“I cannot stay here,” she said. “It is too hot. But—tell the jewel +doctor that I wish to visit him. Where does he live?” + +“In a little street, Rue Ben-Ziad, in a little house. But he is rich.” +Abdul spread his arms abroad. “When will the gracious Princess⸺?” + +“This afternoon. At—at four o’clock you will take me.” + +Abdul spoke to Safti, who turned, squinted horribly at the Princess, +and salaamed to her with a curious and contradictory dignity, turning +his fingers, covered with jewels, towards the earth. + +That afternoon, at four, when the venerable Madame de Rosnikoff was +still drinking her weak tea and reading her French novel, the Princess +and Abdul stood before the low wooden door of the jewel doctor’s house. +Abdul struck upon it, and the terrible physician appeared in the dark +aperture, looking all ways with his deformed eyes, which fascinated +the Princess. Having ascertained that he could speak a little broken +French, like many of the Tunisian Arabs, she bade Abdul wait outside, +and entered the hovel of the jewel doctor, who shut close the door +behind her. + +The room in which she found herself was dark and scented. Faint +light from the street filtered in through an aperture in the wall, +across which was partially drawn a wooden shutter. Round the room +ran a divan covered with straw matting, and Safti now conducted the +Princess ceremoniously to this, and handed her a cup of thick coffee, +which he took from a brass tray that was placed upon a stand. As she +sipped the coffee and looked at the pointed head and twisted gaze +of Safti, the Princess heard some distant Arab at a street corner +singing monotonously a tuneless song, and the scent, the darkness, +the reiterated song, and the tall, strange creature standing silently +before her gave to her, in their combination, the atmosphere of a +dream. She found it difficult to speak, to explain her errand. + +At length she said: “You are a doctor? You can cure the sick?” + +Safti salaamed. + +“With jewels? Is that possible?” + +“Jewels are the only medicine,” Safti replied, speaking with sudden +volubility. “With the ruby I cure madness, with the white jade the +disease of the hijada, and with the bloodstone hæmorrhage. I have made +a man who was ill of fever wear a topaz, and he arose from bed and +walked happily in the street.” + +“And with an emerald,” interrupted the Princess; “have you not +preserved sight with an emerald? They told me so.” + +Safti’s expression suddenly became grim and suspicious. + +“Who said that?” he asked sharply. + +“Abdul. Is it true? Can it be true?” + +Her cheeks were flushed. She spoke almost with violence, laying her +hand upon his arm. Safti seemed to stare hard into the corners of the +little room. Perhaps he was really looking at the Princess. At length +he said: “It is true.” + +“I will give any price you ask for it,” said the Princess. + +“You!” said Safti. “But you⸺” + +Suddenly he lifted his lean hands, took the face of the Princess +between them quite gently, and turned it towards the small window. She +had begun to tremble. Holding her soft cheeks with his brown fingers, +Safti remained motionless for a long time, during which it seemed to +the Princess that he was looking away from her at some distant object. +She watched his frightful and surreptitious eyes, that never told the +truth, she heard the distant Arab’s everlasting song, and her dream +became a nightmare. At last Safti dropped his hands and said: + +“It may be that some day you will need my emerald.” + +The Princess felt as if at that moment a bullet entered her heart. + +“Give it me—give it me!” she cried. “I am rich. I⸺” + +“I do not sell my medicines,” Safti answered. “Those who use them must +live near me, here in Tunis. When they are healed they give back to me +the jewel that has saved them. But you—you live far off.” + +With the swiftness of a woman the Princess saw that persuasion would be +useless. Safti’s face looked hard as brown wood. She seemed to recover +from her emotion, and said quietly: + +“At least you will let me see the emerald?” + +Safti went to a small bureau that stood at the back of the room, +opened one of its drawers with a key which he drew from beneath his +dingy robe, lifted a small silver box carefully out, returned to the +Princess, and put the box into her hand. + +“Open it,” he said. + +She obeyed, and took out a very small and antique gold ring, in which +was set a rather dull emerald. Safti drew it gently from her, and put +it upon the forefinger of her left hand. It was so tiny that it would +not pass beyond the joint of the finger, and it looked ugly and odd +upon the Princess, who wore many beautiful rings. Now that she saw it +she felt the superstition that had sprung from her terror dying within +her. Safti, with his crooked eyes, must have read her thought in her +face, for he said: + +“The Princess is wrong. That medicine could cure her. The one who wears +it for three months in each year can never be blind.” + +Taking the emerald from her finger, he touched her two eyes with it, +and it seemed to the Princess that, as he did so, the pain she felt in +them withdrew. Her desire for the jewel instantly returned. + +“Let me wear it,” she said, putting forth all her charm to soften the +jewel doctor. “Let me take it with me to Russia. I will make you rich.” + +Safti shook his head. + +“The Princess may wear it here, in Tunis,” he replied. “Not elsewhere.” + +She began to temporise, hoping to conquer his resistance later. + +“I may take it with me now?” she asked. + +“At a fee.” + +“I will pay it.” + +The jewel doctor went to the door, and called in Abdul. Five minutes +later the Princess passed the singing Arab at the corner of the street, +Rue Ben-Ziad. She had signed a paper pledging herself to return the +emerald to Safti at the end of forty-eight hours, and to pay 125 francs +for her possession of it during that time. And she wore the emerald on +the forefinger of her left hand. + +On the following morning Madame de Rosnikoff said to the Princess: + +“I hate Tunis. It has an evil climate. The tea here is too strong, and +I feel sure the drains are bad. Last night I was feverish. I am always +feverish when I am near bad drains.” + +The Princess, who had slept well, and had waked with no pain in her +eyes, answered these complaints cheerily, made the Countess some +tea that was really weak, and drove her out in the sunshine to see +Carthage. The Countess did not see it, because there is no longer +a Carthage. She went to bed that night in a bad humour, and again +complained of drains the next morning. This time the Princess did not +heed her, for she was thinking of the hour when she must return the +emerald to Safti. + +“What an ugly ring that is,” said the old Countess. “Where did you get +it? It is too small. Why do you wear it?” + +“I—I bought it in the bazaars,” answered the Princess. + +“My dear, you wasted your money,” said the companion; and she went to +bed with another French novel. + +That afternoon the Princess implored Safti to sell her the emerald, and +as he persistently declined she renewed her lease of it for another +forty-eight hours. As she left the jewel doctor’s home she did not +notice that he spoke some words in a low and eager voice to Abdul, +pointing towards her as he did so. Nor did she see the strange bustle +of varied life in the street as she walked slowly under the great +Moorish arch of the Porte de France. She was deeply thoughtful. + +Since she had worn the ugly ring of Safti she had suffered no pain +from her eyes, and a strange certainty had gradually come upon her +that, while the emerald was in her possession, she would be safe from +the terrible disease of which she had so long lived in terror. Yet +Safti would not let her have the ring. And she could not live for ever +in Tunis. Already she had prolonged her stay abroad, and was due in +Russia, where her anxious husband awaited her. She knew not what to +do. Suddenly an idea occurred to her. It made her flush red and tingle +with shame. She glanced up, and saw the lustrous eyes of Abdul fixed +intently upon her. As he left her at the door of the hotel he said, + +“The Princess will stay long in Tunis?” + +“Another week at least, Abdul,” she answered carelessly. “You can go +home now. I shall not want you any more to-day.” + +And she walked into the hotel without looking at him again. When she +was in her room she sent for a list of the steamers sailing daily from +Tunis for the different ports of Africa and Europe. Presently she came +to the bedside of Madame de Rosnikoff. + +“Countess,” she said, “you are no better?” + +“How can I be? The drains are bad, and the tea here is too strong.” + +“There is a boat that leaves for Sicily at midnight—for Marsala. Shall +we go in her?” + +The old lady bounded on her pillow. + +“Straight on by Italy to Russia?” she cried joyfully. + +The Princess nodded. A fierce excitement shone in her pretty eyes, and +her little hands were trembling as she looked down at the dull emerald +of Safti. + + * * * * * + +At eleven o’clock that night the Princess and the Countess got into a +carriage, drove to the edge of the huge salt lake by which Tunis lies, +and went on board the _Stella d’Italia_. The sky was starless. The +winds were still, and it was very dark. As the ship glided out from +the shore the old Countess hurried below. But the Princess remained +on deck, leaning upon the bulwark, and gazing at the fading lights of +the city where Safti dwelt. Two flames seemed burning in her heart, +a fierce flame of joy, a fierce flame of contempt—of contempt for +herself. For was she not a common thief? She looked at Safti’s ring on +her finger, and flushed scarlet in the darkness. Yet she was joyful, +triumphant, as she heard the beating of the ship’s heart, and saw the +lights of Tunis growing fainter in the distance, and felt the onward +movement of the _Stella d’Italia_ through the night. She felt herself +nearer to Russia with each throb of the machinery. And from Russia she +would expiate her sin. From Russia she would compensate Safti for his +loss. The lights of Tunis grew fainter. She thought of the open sea. + +But suddenly she felt that the ship was slowing down. The engines beat +more feebly, then ceased to beat. The ship glided on for a moment in +silence, and stopped. A cold fear ran over the Princess. She called to +a sailor. + +“Why,” she said, “why do we stop? Is anything wrong?” + +He pointed to some lights on the port side. + +“We are off Hammam-Lif, madame,” he said. “We are going to lie to for +half-an-hour to take in cargo.” + +To the Princess that half-hour seemed all eternity. She remained upon +deck, and whenever she heard the splash of oars as a boat drew near, or +the guttural sound of an Arab voice, she trembled, and, staring into +the blackness, fancied that she saw the tall figure, the pointed head, +and the deformed eyes of the jewel doctor. But the minutes passed. The +cargo was all got on board. The boats drew off. And once again the ship +shuddered as the heart of her began to beat, and the ebon water ran +backward from her prow. + +Then the Princess was glad. She laid the hand on which shone Safti’s +emerald upon the bulwark, and gazed towards the sea, turning her back +upon the lights of Hammam-Lif. She thought of safety, of Russia. She +did not hear a soft step drawing near upon the deck behind her. She did +not see the flash of steel descending to the bulwark on which her hand +was laid. + +But suddenly the horrible cry of a woman in agony rang through the +night. It was instantly succeeded by a splash in the water, as a tall +figure dived over the vessel’s side. + +When the sun rose on the following day over the minarets of Tunis the +_Stella d’Italia_, with the Princess on board, was far out at sea. + +The emerald of Safti was once more in the little house in the Rue +Ben-Ziad. + +It was still upon the Princess’s finger. + + + + + _THE FIGURE IN THE MIRAGE_ + + +On a windy night of Spring I sat by a great fire that had been built +by Moors on a plain of Morocco under the shadow of a white city, and +talked with a fellow-countryman, stranger to me till that day. We had +met in the morning in a filthy alley of the town, and had forgathered. +He was a wanderer for pleasure like myself, and, learning that he was +staying in a dreary hostelry haunted by fever, I invited him to dine +in my camp, and to pass the night in one of the small peaked tents +that served me and my Moorish attendants as home. He consented gladly. +Dinner was over—no bad one, for Moors can cook, can even make delicious +caramel pudding in desert places—and Mohammed, my stalwart _valet de +chambre_, had given us most excellent coffee. Now we smoked by the +great fire, looked up at the marvellously bright stars, and told, +as is the way of travellers, tales of our wanderings. My companion, +whom I took at first to be a rather ironic, sceptical, and by nature +unimaginative globe-trotter—he was a hard-looking, iron-grey man of +middle-age—related the usual tiger story, the time-honoured elephant +anecdote, and a couple of snake yarns of no special value, and I was +beginning to fear that I should get little entertainment from so +prosaic a sportsman, when I chanced to mention the desert. + +“Ah!” said my guest, taking his pipe from his mouth, “the desert is the +strangest thing in nature, as woman is the strangest thing in human +nature. And when you get them together—desert and woman—by Jove!” + +He paused, then he shot a keen glance at me. + +“Ever been in the Sahara?” he said. + +I replied in the affirmative, but added that I had as yet only seen the +fringe of it. + +“Biskra, I suppose,” he rejoined, “and the nearest oasis, Sidi-Okba, +and so on?” + +I nodded. I saw I was in for another tale, and anticipated some history +of shooting exploits under the salt mountain of El Outaya. + +“Well,” he continued, “I know the Sahara pretty fairly, and about the +oddest thing I ever could believe in I heard of and believed in there.” + +“Something about gazelle?” I queried. + +“Gazelle? No—a woman!” he replied. + +As he spoke a Moor glided out of the windy darkness, and threw an +armful of dry reeds on the fire. The flames flared up vehemently, and I +saw that the face of my companion had changed. The hardness of it was +smoothed away. Some memory, that held its romance, sat with him. + +“A woman,” he repeated, knocking the ashes out of his pipe almost +sentimentally—“more than that, a French woman of Paris, with the +nameless charm, the _chic_, the⸺But I’ll tell you. Some years ago +three Parisians—a man, his wife, and her unmarried sister, a girl of +eighteen, with an angel and a devil in her dark beauty—came to a great +resolve. They decided that they were tired of the Francais, sick of +the Bois, bored to death with the boulevards, that they wanted to see +for themselves the famous French colonies which were for ever being +talked about in the Chamber. They determined to travel. No sooner was +the determination come to than they were off. Hôtel des Colonies, +Marseilles; steamboat, _Le Général Chanzy_; five o’clock on a splendid, +sunny afternoon—Algiers, with its terraces, its white villas, its +palms, trees, and its Spahis!” + +“But⸺” I began. + +He foresaw my objection. + +“There were Spahis, and that’s a point of my story. Some fête was on in +the town while our Parisians were there. All the African troops were +out—Zouaves, chasseurs, tirailleurs. The Governor went in procession +to perform some ceremony, and in front of his carriage rode sixteen +Spahis—probably got in from that desert camp of theirs near El Outaya. +All this was long before the Tsar visited Paris, and our Parisians +had never before seen the dashing Spahis, had only heard of them, +of their magnificent horses, their turbans and flowing Arab robes, +their gorgeous figures, lustrous eyes, and diabolic horsemanship. You +know how they ride? No cavalry to touch them—not even the Cossacks! +Well, our French friends were struck. The unmarried sister, more +especially, was _bouleversée_ by these glorious demons. As they +caracoled beneath the balcony on which she was leaning she clapped +her little hands, in their white kid gloves, and threw down a shower +of roses. The falling flowers frightened the horses. They pranced, +bucked, reared. One Spahi—a great fellow, eyes like a desert eagle, +grand aquiline profile—on whom three roses had dropped, looked up, +saw mademoiselle—call her Valérie—gazing down with her great, bright +eyes—they were deuced fine eyes, by Jove!⸺” + +“You’ve seen her?” I asked. + +“—and flashed a smile at her with his white teeth. It was his last +day in the service. He was in grand spirits. ‘_Mon Dieu! Mais quelles +dents!_’ she sang out. Her people laughed at her. The Spahi looked at +her again—not smiling. She shrank back on the balcony. Then his place +was taken by the Governor—small imperial, _chapeau de forme_, evening +dress, landau and pair. Mademoiselle was _désolée_. Why couldn’t +civilised men look like Spahis? Why were all Parisians commonplace? +Why—why? Her sister and brother-in-law called her the savage +worshipper, and took her down to the café on the terrace to dine. And +all through dinner mademoiselle talked of the _beaux_ Spahis—in the +plural, with a secret reservation in her heart. After Algiers our +Parisians went by way of Constantine to Biskra. Now they saw desert +for the first time—the curious iron-grey, velvety-brown, and rose-pink +mountains; the nomadic Arabs camping in their earth-coloured tents +patched with rags; the camels against the skyline; the everlasting +sands, broken here and there by the deep green shadows of distant +oases, where the close-growing palms, seen from far off, give to the +desert almost the effect that clouds give to Cornish waters. At Biskra +mademoiselle—oh! what she must have looked like under the mimosa-trees +before the Hôtel de l’Oasis!⸺” + +“Then you’ve seen her,” I began. + +“—mademoiselle became enthusiastic again, and, almost before they +knew it, her sister and brother-in-law were committed to a desert +expedition, were fitted out with a dragoman, tents, mules—the whole +show, in fact—and one blazing hot day found themselves out in +that sunshine—you know it—with Biskra a green shadow on that sea, +the mountains behind the sulphur springs turning from bronze to +black-brown in the distance, and the table flatness of the desert +stretching ahead of them to the limits of the world and the judgment +day.” + +My companion paused, took a flaming reed from the fire, put it to his +pipe bowl, pulled hard at his pipe—all the time staring straight before +him, as if, among the glowing logs, he saw the caravan of the Parisians +winding onward across the desert sands. Then he turned to me, sighed, +and said: + +“You’ve seen mirage?” + +“Yes,” I answered. + +“Have you noticed that in mirage the things one fancies one sees +generally appear in large numbers—buildings crowded as in towns, +trees growing together as in woods, men shoulder to shoulder in large +companies?” + +My experience of mirage in the desert was so, and I acknowledged it. + +“Have you ever seen in a mirage a solitary figure?” he continued. + +I thought for a moment. Then I replied in the negative. + +“No more have I,” he said. “And I believe it’s a very rare occurrence. +Now mark the mirage that showed itself to mademoiselle on the first +day of the desert journey of the Parisians. She saw it on the northern +verge of the oasis of Sidi-Okba, late in the afternoon. As they +journeyed Tahar, their dragoman—he had applied for the post, and got +it by the desire of mademoiselle, who admired his lithe bearing and +gorgeous aplomb—Tahar suddenly pulled up his mule, pointed with his +brown hand to the horizon, and said in French: + +“‘There is mirage! Look! There is the mirage of the great desert!’ + +“Our Parisians, filled with excitement, gazed above the pointed ears of +their beasts, over the shimmering waste. There, beyond the palms of the +oasis, wrapped in a mysterious haze, lay the mirage. They looked at it +in silence. Then Mademoiselle cried, in her little bird’s clear voice: + +“‘Mirage! But surely he’s real?’ + +“‘What does mademoiselle see?’ asked Tahar quickly. + +“‘Why, a sort of faint landscape, through which a man—an Arab, I +suppose—is riding, towards Sidi—what is it?—Sidi-Okba! He’s got +something in front of him, hanging across his saddle.’ + +“Her relations looked at her in amazement. + +“‘I only see houses standing on the edge of water,’ said her sister. + +“‘And I!’ cried the husband. + +“‘Houses and water,’ assented Tahar. ‘It is always so in the mirage of +Sidi-Okba.’ + +“‘I see no houses, no water,’ cried mademoiselle, straining her eyes. +‘The Arab rides fast, like the wind. He is in a hurry. One would think +he was being pursued. Why, now he’s gone!’ + +“She turned to her companions. They saw still the fairy houses of the +mirage standing in the haze on the edge of the fairy water. + +“‘But,’ mademoiselle said impatiently, ‘there’s nothing at all now—only +sand.’ + +“‘Mademoiselle dreams,’ said Tahar. ‘The mirage is always there.’ + +“They rode forward. That night they camped near Sidi-Okba. At dinner, +while the stars came out, they talked of the mirage, and mademoiselle +still insisted that it was a mirage of a horseman bearing something +before him on his saddle-bow, and riding as if for life. And Tahar said +again: + +“‘Mademoiselle dreams!’ + +“As he spoke he looked at her with a mysterious intentness, which she +noticed. That night, in her little camp-bed, round which the desert +winds blew mildly, she did indeed dream. And her dream was of the magic +forms that ride on magic horses through mirage. + +“The next day, at dawn, the caravan of the Parisians went on its way, +winding farther into the desert. In leaving Sidi-Okba they left behind +them the last traces of civilisation—the French man and woman who keep +the auberge in the orange garden there. To-day, as they journeyed, +a sense of deep mystery flowed upon the heart of mademoiselle. She +felt that she was a little cockle-shell of a boat which, accustomed +hitherto only to the Seine, now set sail upon a mighty ocean. The fear +of the Sahara came upon her.” + +My companion paused. His face was grave, almost stern. + +“And her relations?” I asked. “Did they feel⸺” + +“Haven’t an idea what they felt,” he answered curtly. + +“But how do you know that mademoiselle⸺” + +“You’ll understand at the end of the story. As they journeyed in the +sun across the endless flats—for the mountains had vanished now, and +nothing broke the level of the sand—mademoiselle’s gaiety went from +her. Silent was the lively, chattering tongue that knew the jargon of +cities, the gossip of the Plage. She was oppressed. Tahar rode close +at her side. He seemed to have taken her under his special protection. +Far before them rode the attendants, chanting deep love songs in the +sun. The sound of those songs seemed like the sound of the great desert +singing of its wild and savage love to the heart of mademoiselle. At +first her brother-in-law and sister bantered her on her silence, but +Tahar stopped them, with a curious authority. + +“‘The desert speaks to mademoiselle,’ he said in her hearing. ‘Let her +listen.’ + +“He watched her continually with his huge eyes, and she did not mind +his glance, though she began to feel irritated and restless under the +observation of her relations. + +“Towards noon Tahar again described mirage. As he pointed it out he +stared fixedly at mademoiselle. + +“The two other Parisians exclaimed that they saw forest trees, a +running stream, a veritable oasis, where they longed to rest and eat +their _déjeuner_. + +“‘And mademoiselle?’ said Tahar. ‘What does she see?’ + +“She was gazing into the distance. Her face was very pale, and for a +moment she did not answer. Then she said: + +“‘I see again the Arab bearing the burden before him on the saddle. He +is much clearer than yesterday. I can almost see his face⸺’ + +“She paused. She was trembling. + +“‘But I cannot see what he carries. It seems to float on the wind, like +a robe, or a woman’s dress. Ah! _mon Dieu!_ how fast he rides!’ + +“She stared before her as if fascinated, and following with her eyes +some rapidly-moving object. Suddenly she shut her eyes. + +“‘He’s gone!’ she said. + +“‘And now—mademoiselle sees?’ said Tahar. + +“She opened her eyes. + +“‘Nothing.’ + +“‘Yet the mirage is still there,’ he said. + +“‘Valérie,’ cried her sister, ‘are you mad that you see what no one +else can see, and cannot see what all else see?’ + +“‘Am I mad, Tahar?’ she said gravely, almost timidly, to the dragoman. + +“And the fear of the Sahara came again upon her. + +“‘Mademoiselle sees what she must,’ he answered. ‘The desert speaks to +the heart of mademoiselle.’ + +“That night there was moon. Mademoiselle could not sleep. She lay in +her narrow bed and thought of the figure in the mirage, while the +moonbeams stole in between the tent pegs to keep her company. She +thought of second sight, of phantoms, and of wraiths. Was this riding +Arab, whom she alone could see, a phantom of the Sahara, mysteriously +accompanying the caravan, and revealing himself to her through the +medium of the mirage as if in a magic mirror? She turned restlessly +upon her pillow, saw the naughty moonbeams, got up, and went softly +to the tent door. All the desert was bathed in light. She gazed out +as a mariner gazes out over the sea. She heard jackals yelping in the +distance, peevish in their insomnia, and fancied their voices were +the voices of desert demons. As she stood there she thought of the +figure in the mirage, and wondered if mirage ever rises at night—if, +by chance, she might see it now. And, while she stood wondering, far +away across the sand there floated up a silvery haze, like a veil of +spangled tissue—exquisite for a ball robe, she said long after!—and in +this haze she saw again the phantom Arab galloping upon his horse. But +now he was clear in the moon. Furiously he rode, like a thing demented +in a dream, and as he rode he looked back over his shoulder, as if he +feared pursuit. Mademoiselle could see his fierce eyes, like the eyes +of a desert eagle that stares unwinking at the glaring African sun. He +urged on his fleet horse. She could hear now the ceaseless thud of its +hoofs upon the hard sand as it drew nearer and nearer. She could see +the white foam upon its steaming flanks, and now at last she knew that +the burden which the Arab bore across his saddle and supported with his +arms was a woman. Her robe flew out upon the wind; her dark, loose hair +streamed over the breast of the horseman; her face was hidden against +his heart; but mademoiselle saw his face, uttered a cry, and shrank +back against the canvas of the tent. + +“For it was the face of the Spahi who had ridden in the procession of +the Governor—of the Spahi to whom she had thrown the roses from the +balcony of Algiers. + +“As she cried out the mirage faded, the Arab vanished, the thud of the +horse’s hoofs died in her ears, and Tahar, the dragoman, glided round +the tent, and stood before her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight like +ebon jewels. + +“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘mademoiselle sees the mirage?’ + +“Mademoiselle could not speak. She stared into the eyes of Tahar, and +hers were dilated with wonder. + +“He drew nearer to her. + +“‘Mademoiselle has seen again the horseman and his burden.’ + +“She bowed her head. All things seemed dream-like to her. Tahar’s voice +was low and monotonous, and sounded far away. + +“‘It is fate,’ he said. He paused, gazing upon her. + +“‘In the tents they all sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Even the watchman sleeps, +for I have given him a powder of hashish, and hashish gives long +dreams—long dreams.’ + +“From beneath his robe he drew a small box, opened it, and showed to +mademoiselle a dark brown powder, which he shook into a tiny cup of +water. + +“‘Mademoiselle shall drink, as the watchman has drunk,’ he said—‘shall +drink and dream.’ + +“He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by +the eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the +hashish, swayed, and fell forward into his arms. + +“A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon, +rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon his saddle +he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all the +night beat the thunderous music of a horse’s hoofs spurning the desert +sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she no +longer saw.” + +My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but +sat looking at me in silence. + +“The Spahi?” I asked. + +“Had claimed the giver of the roses.” + +“And Tahar?” + +“The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a +notable shot.” + +“A strange tale,” I said. “How did you come to hear it?” + +“A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting +expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story +was told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an +earth-coloured tent and watched the sun go down.” + +“Told you by an Arab?” + +He shook his head. + +“By whom, then?” + +“By a woman with a clear little bird’s voice, with an angel and a devil +in her dark beauty, a woman with the gesture of Paris—the grace, the +_diablerie_ of Paris.” + +Light broke on me. + +“By mademoiselle!” I exclaimed. + +“Pardon,” he answered; “by madame.” + +“She was married?” + +“To the figure in the mirage; and she was content.” + +“Content!” I cried. + +“Content with her two little dark children dancing before her in the +twilight, content when the figure of the mirage galloped at evening +across the plain, shouting an Eastern love song, with a gazelle—instead +of a woman—slung across his saddle-bow. Did I not say that, as the +desert is the strangest thing in nature, so a woman is the strangest +thing in human nature? Which heart is most mysterious?” + +“Its heart?” I said. + +“Or the heart of mademoiselle?” + +“I give the palm to the latter.” + +“And I,” he answered, taking off his wide-brimmed hat—“I gave it when +I saluted her as madame before the tent door, out there in the great +desert.” + + + + + _SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY_ + + +Safti is a respectable, one-eyed married man who lives in a brown earth +house in the Sahara Desert. He has a wife and five children, and in +winter he works for his living and theirs. When the morning dawns, +and the great red sun rises above the rim of the wide and wonderful +land which is the only land that Safti knows, he wraps his white +burnous around him, pulls his hood up over his closely-shaven head, +rolls and lights his cigarette, and sets forth to his equivalent of +an office. This is the white arcade of a hotel where unbelieving dogs +of travellers come in winter. I am an unbelieving dog of a traveller, +and I come there in winter, and Safti comes there for me. I, in fact, +am Safti’s profession. By me, and others like me, he lives. For a +consideration he shows me round the market, which I knew by heart six +years ago, and takes me up the mosque tower, from which I gazed over +the flying pigeons and the swaying palms when Safti was comparatively +young and frisky. Together we visit the gazelles in their pretty +garden, and the Caïd’s Mill, from which one sees the pink and purple +mountains of the Aures. We ride to the Sulphur Baths, we drive to +Sidi-Okba. We take our _déjeuner_ out to the yellow sand dunes, and we +sip our coffee among the keef smokers in Hadj’s painted café. We listen +to the songs of the negro troubadour, and we smile at Algia’s dancing +when the silver moon comes up and the Kabyle dogs round the nomads’ +tents begin their serenades. And then I give Safti five francs and my +blessing, and he bids me “_Bonne nuit!_” and his ghostly figure is lost +in the black shadows of the palm-trees. + +Oh, Safti works hard, very hard in winter. The other day I asked him: +“Don’t you get exhausted, Safti, with all this exertion to keep the +Sahara home together? You are getting on in years now.” + +“Ah yes, Sidi; I am already thirty-two, alas!” + +He was thirty-five when I first met him; but he is as clever at +subtraction as a London beauty. + +“Good heavens! So much! But, then, how can you keep up the wear and +tear of this tumultuous life? You must have an iron strength. Such work +as you do would break down an American millionaire.” + +Safti raised his one dark eye piously towards Allah’s dwelling. + +“Sidi, I must labour for my children. But in the summer, when you and +all the travellers are gone from the Sahara to your fogs and the +darkness of your days, I take my little holiday.” + +“Your holiday! But is it long enough?” + +“It lasts for only five months, Sidi; but it is enough for me. I am +strong as the lion.” + +I gazed at him with an admiration I could not repress. There was, +indeed, something of the hero about this simple-minded Saharaman. We +were at the edge of the oasis, in a remote place looking towards the +quivering mirage which guards dead Okba’s tomb. A tiny earthen house, +with a flat terrace ending in the jagged bank of the Oued Biskra, was +crouched here in the shade. From it emerged a pleasant scent of coffee. +Suddenly Safti’s bare legs began to “give.” I felt it would be cruel +to push on farther. We entered the house, seated ourselves luxuriously +upon a baked divan of mud, set our slippers on a reed mat, rolled our +cigarettes, and commanded our coffee. When a Kabyle boy with a rosebud +stuck under his turban had brought it languidly, I said to Safti: + +“And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday.” + +Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of +repose. + +“Each day is like its brother, Sidi,” he responded, gazing out through +the low doorway to the shimmering Sahara. + +“Then tell me how you pass a summer day.” + +The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke. + +“_Sahah_, Sidi.” + +“_Merci._” + +We sipped. + +“A day in summer, Sidi, when the great heats begin in June? Well, at +five in the morning I get up⸺” + +“And light the fire,” I murmured mechanically. + +The one eye stared in blank amazement. + +“Proceed, Safti. You get up at five. That is very early.” + +“The sun rises at a quarter to five.” + +“To call you. Well?” + +“I eat three fresh figs, and sometimes four. I then mount upon my mule, +and I ride very quietly into Biskra to take coffee with my friends.” + +“That is half-an-hour’s exercise?” + +“About half-an-hour. After taking coffee with my friends we play at +dominoes. It is forbidden for the Arabs to play at cards in Biskra. I +remain in the café at the corner⸺” + +“I know—by the Garden of the Gazelles!” + +“—till eleven o’clock, at which time I again mount upon my mule, and +return quietly to my home. When I reach there I eat with my wife and +children sour milk, bread, and dates from my palm-trees which I have +kept from the autumn. At twelve we all go to bed together in a black +room.” + +“A black room?” + +“We fear the flies.” + +“I see.” + +“Till four in the afternoon I, my wife, and my children sleep in the +black room. At that hour I rise once more, and go quietly to the Café +Maure in old Biskra, near my house. I play cards there for five coffees +till seven o’clock. At seven the mosquitoes arrive, and prevent us from +playing any more.” + +“How intrusive! Always at seven?” + +“Always at seven. I then walk very quietly with my friends to the end +of the oasis.” + +“To the Tombuctou road?” + +“Yes, Sidi; to get the air. We come back by the same road quietly, and +I go to my house, and eat a cold kous-kous with my wife and children. +After this I return to the café and play ronda till one o’clock.” + +“One o’clock at night?” + +“Yes. At one o’clock I go with my friends very quietly to bathe in the +stream beneath the wall near the mosque. We stay in the water for, +perhaps, an hour, and when we come out we drink lagmi.” + +“What’s lagmi?” + +“Palm wine. Then at three o’clock I go to my home, mount upon the roof +quietly with my wife and children, and sleep till dawn.” + +“And you do this for five months?” + +“For five months, Sidi.” + +“And—and your wife, Safti?” + +I felt that I was very indiscreet; but Safti is good-natured, and has +bought quite a number of palm-trees out of his savings when with me. + +“My wife, Sidi?” + +“What does she do all the time?” + +“She remains quietly in my house.” + +“She never goes out?” + +“Never, except upon the roof to take a little air.” + +“Doesn’t she get rather bor⸺” + +The one eye began to look remarkably vague. + +“And you find five months of this life a sufficient rest in the course +of the year?” + +Safti smiled at me with resignation. + +“I cannot take more, Sidi; I am not a rich Englishman.” + +“Well, Safti, you must make the best of your fate. It is the will of +Allah that you should toil.” + +“_Shal-làh!_ I will take another coffee, Sidi.” + +“Larbi!” + +I called the Kabyle boy. + + + + + _SMAÏN_ + + + “When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe.” + + +Sahara Saying+. + +Far away in the desert I heard the sound of a flute, pure sound in the +pure air, delicate, sometimes almost comic with the comicality of a +child who bends women to kisses and to nonsense-words. We had passed +through the sandstorm, Safti and I, over the wastes of saltpetre, and +come into a land of palm gardens where there was almost breathless +calm. The feet of the camels paddled over the soft brown earth of the +narrow alleys between the brown earth walls, and we looked down to +right and left into the shady enclosed spaces, seamed with water rills, +dotted with little pools of pale yellow water, and saw always giant +palms, with wrinkled trunks and tufted, deep green foliage, brooding +in their squadrons over the dimness they had made. The activity of man +might be discerned here in the regularity of the artificial rills, +the ordered placing of the trees, each of which, too, stood on its +oval hump. But no man was seen; no flat-roofed huts appeared; no robe, +pale blue or white, fluttered among the shadows; no dog blinked in +the golden patches of the sun—only the sound of the flute came to us +from some hidden place ceaselessly, wild and romantic, full of an odd +coquetry, and of an absurdity that was both uncivilised and touching. + +I stopped to listen, and looked round, searching the vistas between the +palms. + +“Where does it come from?” I asked of Safti. + +His one eye blinked languidly. + +“From some gardener among the trees. All who dwell in Sidi-Matou are +gardeners.” + +The persistent flute gave forth a shower of notes that were like drops +of water flung softly in our faces. + +“He is in love,” added Safti with a slight yawn. + +“How do you know?” + +“When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe. That is what they +say in the Sahara.” + +“And you think he is alone under some palm-tree playing for himself?” + +“Yes; he is quite alone. If he is much in love he will play all day, +and, perhaps, all night too.” + +“But she cannot hear him.” + +“That does not matter. He plays for his own heart, and his own heart +can hear.” + +I listened. Since Safti had spoken the music meant more to me. I tried +to read the player’s heart in the endless song it made. Trills, +twitterings, grace notes, little runs upward ending in the air—surely +it was a boy’s heart, and not unhappy. + +“It is coming nearer,” I said. + +“Yes. Ah, it is Smaïn!” + +Safti’s one eye is sharp. I had seen no one. But as he spoke a tall +youth in a single white garment glided into my view, his eyes bent +down, his brown fingers fluttering on a long reed flute covered with +red arabesques. His feet were bare, and he moved slowly. + +Safti hailed him with the accented violence peculiar to the Arabs. +He stopped playing, looked, and smiled all over his young face. In +a moment he was on our side of the earth wall, and talking busily, +staring at me the while with unabashed curiosity. For few strangers +come to Sidi-Amrane, and Smaïn had never wandered far. + +“What does he say?” I asked of Safti. + +“I tell him we shall be at Touggourt to-morrow night, and shall stay +there a week. He answers that his heart is there with Oreïda.” + +“What! Does his lady-love live at Touggourt?” + +“Yes; she is a dancer.” + +Smaïn smiled. He did not understand French, but he knew we were +speaking of his love affair, and he was not afflicted with shyness. +As he accompanied us to the village he played again, and I read his +nature in the soft sounds of his flute. + +All that day he stayed with us, and nearly all that day he played. Even +when he guided me through the village, where, between terraced houses, +pretty children—the girls in deep purple, with yellow flowers stuck in +their left nostrils, the boys in white—danced with a boisterous grace +round brushwood fires, his flute was at his lips, and his fingers +fluttered ceaselessly. And as night drew on the music was surely more +amorous, and I seemed to see Oreïda drawing near over the sands. + +Smaïn was but sixteen, tall and slim as a reed, with a poetic face and +lustrous, languid eyes. I imagined Oreïda a child too—one of those +flowers of the desert that blossom early and fade ere noontide comes. +Sometimes such flowers are very beautiful. As I heard the flute of +Smaïn in the pale yellow twilight I knew that Oreïda was beautiful—with +one of those exquisite, lithe figures, whose movements make a song; +with long, narrow dark eyes, mysterious pools of light and shadow; with +thick hair falling loosely round a low, broad forehead; and perfect +little hands, made for the dance of the hands that the Bedouin loves so +well. + +All this I knew from the sound of Smaïn’s flute. I told it to Safti, +and bade him ask Smaïn if it were not true. + +Smaïn’s reply was: + +“She is more beautiful than that; she is like the young gazelle, and +like the first day after the fast of Ramadan.” + +Then he played once more while the moon rose over the palm gardens, and +Safti, lighting his pipe of keef with tender deliberateness, remarked +placidly: + +“He would like to come with us to Touggourt and to die there at +Oreïda’s feet, but his father, Said-ben-Kouïdar, wishes him to remain +at Sidi-Matou and to pack dates. He is young, and must obey. Therefore +he is sad.” + +The smoke rose up in a cloud round Smaïn and his flute, and now I +thought that, indeed, there was a wild pathos in the music. The moon +went up the sky, and threw silver on the palms. The gay cries from the +village died down. The gardeners lay upon the earth divans under the +palmwood roofs, and slept. And at last Smaïn bade us good-bye. I saw +his white figure glide across the great open space that the moon made +white as it was. And when the shadows took him I still heard the faint +sound of his flute, calling to his heart and to the distant Oreïda +through the magical stillness of the night. + +The next day we reached Touggourt, and in the evening I went with Safti +and the Caïd of the Nomads to the great café of the dancers in the +outskirts of the town. At the door Arab soldiers were lounging. The +pipes squealed within like souls in torment. In the square bonfires +were blazing fiercely, and the whole desert seemed to throb with beaten +drums. Within the café was a crowd of Arabs, real nomads, some in +rags, some richly dressed, all gravely attentive to the dancers, who +entered from a court on the left, round which their rooms were built in +terraces, and danced in pairs between the broad divans. + +“Tell me when Oreïda comes,” I said to Safti, while the Caïd spread +forth his ample skirts, and turned a cigarette in his immense black +fingers. + +The dancers came and went. They were amazing trollops, painted until, +like the picture of Balzac’s madman, they were chaotic, a mere mess of +frantic colours. Not for these, I thought, did Smaïn play his flute. +The time wore on. I grew drowsy in the keef-laden air, despite the +incessant uproar of the pipes. Suddenly I started—Safti had touched me. + +“There is Oreïda, Sidi.” + +I looked, and saw a lonely dancer entering from the court, large, +weary, crowned with gold, tufted with feathers, wrinkled, with greedy, +fatigued eyes, and hands painted blood-red. She was like an idol in its +dotage. Over her spreading bosom streamed multitudes of golden coins, +and many jewels shone upon her wrists, her arms, her withered neck. She +advanced slowly, as if bored, until she was in the midst of the crowd. +Then she wriggled, stretched forth her hands, slowly stamped her feet, +and promenaded to and fro, occasionally revolving like a child’s top +that is on the verge of “running down.” + +“That is not Oreïda,” I said to Safti, smiling at his absurd mistake. +For this was the oldest and ugliest dancer of them all. + +“Indeed, Sidi, it is. Ask the Caïd.” + +I asked that enormous potentate, who was devouring the withered lady +with his eyes. He wagged his head in assent. Just then the dancer +paused before us, and thrusting forward her greasy forehead, enveloped +us with a sphinx-like smirk. As I hastily pressed a two-franc piece +above her eyebrows Safti addressed her animatedly in Arabic. I caught +the word “Smaïn.” The lady smiled, and made a guttural reply; then, +with a somnolent wink at me, she waddled onward, flapping the blood-red +hands and stamping heavily upon the earthen floor. + +“Smaïn loves that!” I said to Safti. + +“Yes, Sidi. Oreïda is famous, and very rich. She has houses and many +palm-trees, and she is much respected by the other dancers.” + +A week later Safti and I were again at Sidi-Matou, on our way homeward +through the desert. The moon was at the full now, and when we rode +up to the Bordj the open space in front of it, between us and the +village, was flooded with delicate light. Against it one tree, which +looked like Paderewski grown very old, stood up with tousled branches. +In the village bonfires flared, and the dark figures of skipping +children passed and re-passed before them. We heard youthful cries +echoing across the sands. Soon they faded. The lights went out, and the +wonderful silence of night in the desert came in to its heritage. + +I sat on the edge of an old stone well before the Bordj, while Safti +smoked his keef. Near midnight, quivering across the sands, came +the faint sound of a flute moving from the village towards the deep +obscurity of the palm gardens. I knew that air, those trills, those +little runs, those grace notes. + +“It is Smaïn,” I said to Safti. + +“Yes, Sidi. He will play all night alone among the palms. He is in +love.” + +“But with Oreïda! Is it possible?” + +“Did he not say that she was like the first day after the fast of +Ramadan? When an African says that his heart is big with love.” + +The flute went on and on, and I said to myself and to the moon, as I +had often said before: + +“He that is born in the Sahara is an impenetrable mystery.” + + + + + _THE SPINSTER_ + + +I had arrived at Inley Abbey that afternoon, and was sitting at dinner +with Inley and his pretty wife, whom I had not seen for five years, +since the day I was his best man, when we all heard faintly the +tolling of a church bell. Lady Inley shook her shoulders in a rather +exaggerated shudder. + +“Someone dead!” said her husband. + +“It’s a mistake to build a church in the grounds of a house,” Lady +Inley said in her clear, drawling soprano voice. “That noise gives me +the blues.” + +“Whom can it be for?” asked Inley. + +“Miss Bassett, probably,” Lady Inley replied carelessly, helping +herself to a bonbon from a little silver dish. + +Inley started. + +“Miss Sarah Bassett! What makes you think so?” + +“Oh, while you were away in town she got ill. Didn’t you know?” + +“No,” said Inley. + +I could see that he was moved. His dark, short face had changed +suddenly, and he stopped eating his fruit. Lady Inley went on +crunching the bonbon between her little white teeth with all the +enjoyment of a pretty marmoset. + +“Influenza,” she said airily. “And then pneumonia. Of course, at her +age, you know⸺ By the way, what is her age, Nino?” + +“No idea,” said Inley shortly. + +He was listening to the dim and monotonous sound of the church bell. + +Lady Inley turned to me with the childish, confidential movement which +men considered one of her many charms. + +“Miss Bassett is, or was, one of those funny old spinsters who always +look the same and always ridiculous. Dry twigs, you know. One size all +the way down. Very little hair, and no emotions. If it weren’t for the +sake of cats, one would wonder why such people are born. But they’re +always cat-lovers. I suppose that’s why they’re so often called old +cats.” + +She uttered a little high-pitched laugh, and got up. + +“Don’t be too long,” she said to me carelessly as I opened the +dining-room door for her. “I want to sing ‘Ohé Charmette’ to you.” + +“I won’t be long,” I answered, thinking what exquisite eyes she had. + +She turned, and went out in her delicious, thin way. No wonder she +had made skeletons the rage in London. When I came back to the +dinner-table Inley was sitting with both his brown hands clenched on +the cloth. His black eyes—inherited from his dead mother, who had been +one of the Neapolitan aristocracy—were glittering. + +“What is it, Nino?” I asked as I sat down. + +We had been such intimate friends that even my five years’ absence +abroad had not built up a barrier between us. + +“I wonder if it is Miss Bassett?” he said, looking at me earnestly. + +“But was she a great friend of yours?” I said. “If Lady Inley’s +description of her is accurate, I can hardly imagine so.” + +“Vere doesn’t know what she’s saying.” + +“Then Miss Bassett⸺” + +“Oh, she does look like that; dried up, unemotional, tame, English, +even comic.” + +“The regular spinster, eh?” + +“She looks it. But, damn it all, Vere has no business to say she has no +emotions, to wonder why such people are born. But she doesn’t know—Vere +doesn’t know.” + +His agitation grew, and was inexplicable to me. But I knew Inley, +knew that he was bound to tell me what was on his mind. He could +be reserved, but not with me. So I took a cigar, cut the end off +it deliberately, struck a match, lighted it, and began to smoke in +silence. He followed my example quickly, and then said: + +“Vere talks like that, and, but for Miss Bassett, Vere would have been +murdered two years ago.” + +I started, and dropped my cigar on the table. + +“Murdered!” + +“Yes; and I⸺” + +He fixed his eyes on me, and put his hand up to his throat. Nino was +half Neapolitan, and I saw a man being hanged. I picked up my cigar +with a hand that slightly shook. + +“But,” I said, “I always thought Lady Inley and you were very happy +together.” + +It sounded banal, even ridiculous, but I hardly knew what to say. I was +startled. The tolling of the bell, too, was getting on my nerves. + +“One doesn’t write such things,” he said. “You’ve been abroad for +years.” + +“It’s all right now?” + +He nodded. + +“I suppose so. Vere has never had the least suspicion.” + +He drew his chair closer to mine, and was about to go on speaking when +the servants came in with the coffee. + +“Who’s the bell tolling for, Hurst?” he said to the butler. + +“I couldn’t say, my lord.” + +When the servants had gone Inley continued, at first in a calmer voice: + +“Miss Bassett lived in the red cottage just beyond the gate of +the South Lodge from time immemorial. You generally came to us in +Scotland, I know, but I should think you must have seen her.” + +Suddenly a recollection flashed upon me—a recollection of a long, flat +figure, a drab face, thin hair coming away from a wrinkled forehead +under a mushroom hat, flapping, old-fashioned golden earrings. + +“Not the person I used to call ‘the Plank’?” I said. + +“Did you?” + +He thought for a moment. + +“Yes; I believe you did. I’d forgotten.” + +“She was always in church twenty minutes before the service began, and +always dropped her hymn-book coming out if there were visitors in the +Abbey pew!” + +“Yes, yes; that’s it. Miss Bassett is very nervous in little ways.” + +“I remember her now perfectly. And you say she⸺” + +I looked at him, and hesitated. + +“She saved Vere’s life and, indirectly, mine. I’ll tell you now we’re +together again at last. I shall never tell Vere.” + +He looked towards the windows, across which dark blue silk curtains +were drawn, as if he could see the passing-bell swinging in the old +square tower. Then he turned to me. + +“You know how mad I was about Vere. It’s always like that with me. +Unless I’m stone I’m fire. After we were married I got even madder. +Having her all to myself was like enchantment, and in Italy, too, my +other native land.” + +I thought of Lady Inley’s eyes. + +“I can understand,” I said. + +“Of course, when we got back it had to be different. Friends came in, +and she was run after and admired and written about. You know the +publicity of life in modern London.” + +“City of public-houses and society spies.” + +“I bore it, because it’s supposed to be the thing. And Vere rather +likes it, somehow. So I let her have her fun, as long as it was fun. I +didn’t intend it should ever be anything else.” + +He frowned. When he did that, and his thick eyebrows nearly met, he +looked all Italian. + +“We did the usual things—Paris, Ascot, Scotland, and so on—till Vere +had to lie up.” + +“Your boy?” + +“Yes; Hugo came along. I was glad when that was over. I thought she was +going to die. You knew Seymour Glynd?” + +“Life Guards? Killed hunting a year ago?” + +Inley nodded. + +“He was a great deal with us soon after Hugo’s birth. I thought nothing +of it. I’d known the fellow all my life. But then one nearly always +has.” + +He laughed bitterly. + +“To cut that part short, two years ago in autumn we had Glynd staying +with us down here for shooting. There were some others, of course—Mrs. +Jack, Bobbie Elphinton, and Lady Bobbie—but you know the lot.” + +“I did.” + +“Ah,” he said, “you’ve been well out of it these years. Well, the shoot +was to break up on a Friday, and I’d arranged to go to town that day +with the rest. Vere didn’t intend to come. She said she was feeling +tired, and was going to have a Friday to Monday rest cure. That’s the +thing, you know, nowadays. You get a Swedish _masseuse_ down to stay, +and go to bed and drink milk. Vere had engaged a _masseuse_ to come on +the Friday night. On the Thursday, the day before we were all going to +town, Glynd hurt his foot getting over a fence into a turnip field—at +least I thought so.” + +He stopped. + +“Everyone thought so, I believe—except, of course, Vere. I wonder if +they did, though?” he added moodily. “Or whether I was the only—But +what does it matter now? Glynd said he only wanted a couple of days’ +rest to be all right again, and asked me if he might stay on at the +Abbey till the Monday. Of course I said ‘Yes; if he wouldn’t want a +hostess.’ Because Vere said to me, when she heard of it, that she must +have her rest cure all the same. Glynd swore he’d be quite happy alone. +So he stayed, and the rest of us came up to town on the Friday. Well, +on the Saturday morning I was walking across the park when I met the +Swedish _masseuse_ who was to have gone down to Vere on the Friday +night. I knew her, because Vere had often had her before in London. +‘Hullo!’ I said. ‘You ought to be down at Inley Abbey with my wife.’ +‘No, my lord,’ she said. ‘Why not?’ ‘I’ve had a wire from Lady Inley +not to go.’ ‘A wire!’ I said. ‘When did you get it?’ ‘On Thursday +night, my lord.’ ‘You mean last night?’ I said, thinking Vere must have +changed her mind after we had left. ‘No,’ said the woman; ‘on Thursday +night, late.’ Then I remembered that, after Glynd had hurt his foot +and asked to stay, Vere had gone out alone for a drive in her cart, to +get a last breath of air before the rest cure. She must have sent the +telegram herself then. All of a sudden I seemed to understand a lot of +things.” + +He had let his cigar out, and now he noticed that he had. He tossed it +into the fire. + +“I said ‘Good-morning’ to the woman quite quietly, went back to the +house, and told my man I shouldn’t be at home that night.” + +He put his hand on my arm. + +“I felt perfectly calm. Wasn’t that strange?” + +I nodded. + +“There was a train from town reaching Ashdridge Station at nine +o’clock at night. I took it. I didn’t care to go to Inley Station, +where everybody would know me, and wonder what I was up to. I didn’t +take any luggage. My man asked if he should pack, and I said ‘No.’ I +didn’t dine. I was at Paddington three-quarters of an hour before the +train was due to start. At last it came in to the platform. Going down +I read the evening papers just like any man going home from business. +Soon after we got away from London I saw there was rain on the carriage +windows. That seemed to me right. We were a little late at Ashdridge. +It was still wet, and I had my coat collar turned up. I don’t believe +they recognised me there. I set out to walk to Inley.” + +“What did you mean to do?” + +“I told you before.” + +I looked into his face, and believed him. Then I thought of Lady +Inley’s childish, delicate beauty, of her slightly affected manner, the +manner of a woman who has always been spoilt, whose paths have been +made very smooth. And here she was living, apparently happily, with a +man who had deliberately travelled down in the night to kill her. How +ignorant we are! + +“You are condemning me,” Inley said, with a touch of hot anger. + +“I was only thinking⸺” + +“Yes?” + +“That we don’t know each other much in the greatest intimacy.” + +“That’s what I thought then.” + +He said that in a way which suddenly put me on his side. He must +have seen the change in my feelings, for he went on, with his former +unreserve: + +“I walked fast in the dark. I didn’t think very much, but I remember +that all the trees—there’s a lot of woodland, you know, between +Ashdridge and Inley—seemed alive. Everything seemed to me to be alive +that night. I’ve never had that sensation before or since.” + +I realised what the condition of the man had been when he said that, as +if I were a doctor and a patient had told me the symptom which put me +in possession of his malady. + +“When I reached Inley it was late, and the long village street was +deserted. There were lights in the inn and in the schoolmaster’s house, +but there were no people about. I got through without meeting a soul, +and came on towards the gates of the Abbey.” + +“You meant to go into the house?” + +“Yes. I was sure—somehow I was sure; but I intended to see before I +acted, merely for my own justification. But I was quite sure, as if +Vere herself had told me everything. Soon after I had got clear of the +village I heard a sound of wheels behind me. I stood up against the +hedge, and in a minute or two a fly passed me going slowly. I saw the +driver’s face. It wasn’t a man from Inley. Evidently the fly had come +from a distance. It was splashed with mud, and the horse looked tired. +I followed it till it came to the turning just below Miss Bassett’s +cottage, where there’s a narrow lane going to Charfield through the +woods. It went a little way down this lane, and stopped. I waited at +the turning. I could see the light from the lamps shining on the wet +road, and in the circle of light the driver’s breath. He bent down, +and I saw him looking at a big silver watch. Then he put it back. But +he didn’t drive on. I knew what he was waiting for. Vere was going +with—with Glynd. That was more than I had ever thought of, that she +would go. I put my hand into my pocket, took out my revolver, and went +on till I was close to the red cottage. By this time the rain had +stopped. I came up to within a few yards of the Abbey gates, stood for +a moment, and then returned till I was at the wicket of Miss Bassett’s +garden. It’s bounded by a yew hedge, beyond which there is a path +shaded by mulberry-trees. The hedge is low. The path is dark. It was a +blackguardly thing to do, but I thought of nothing except myself, my +wrong, and how I was to wipe it out. I opened the wicket, came into the +path, and stood there under the mulberry-trees behind the hedge. Here +I was in cover, and could see the road. I held my revolver in my hand, +and waited. It never struck me that Miss Bassett might be up. I saw +no light in the cottage, and I had a sort of idea that people like her +went to bed at about eight. While I was standing there listening I felt +something rub against my legs. It made me start. Then I heard a little +low noise. I looked down, and there was a great cat holding up its tail +and purring. Its pleasure was horrible to me. I pushed it away with my +foot, but it came back, bending down its head, arching its back, and +pressing against me. I was thinking what to do to get rid of it when I +heard a shrill, husky voice call out: + +“‘Johnny—John-nee!’ + +“It was Miss Bassett. I held my breath, and pushed away the cat. + +“‘Johnny, Johnny—John-nee!’ went the voice again. + +“The cat wouldn’t leave me. God knows why it wished to stay. I was +determined to get rid of it, so I put the revolver down on the path, +picked the cat up in my arms, and dropped it over the hedge into the +road. Just as I had caught up the revolver again I was confronted by +Miss Bassett. She had come in slippers up the path in the dark to look +for her cat.” + +I uttered a slight exclamation. + +Inley went on: “She had a handkerchief tied over her cap and under +her chin, and a small lantern in her hands, on which she wore black +mittens. I can see her now. We stood there on the path for a minute +staring at each other without a word. The light from the lantern +flickered over the revolver, and I saw Miss Bassett look down at it.” + +He stopped, poured out a glass of water, and drank it off like a man +who has been running. + +“Didn’t she show surprise—fear?” I asked. + +“Not a bit. Women are so extraordinary, even old women who’ve never +been in touch with life, that I’m certain now she understood directly +her eyes fell on the revolver.” + +“What did she do?” + +“After a minute she said: ‘Lord Inley, I’m looking for my cat. Have you +seen him?’ + +“‘Yes,’ I said; ‘he’s run into the house.’ + +“It was a lie, but I wanted her to go in. I had slipped the revolver +back into my pocket, and tried to assume a perfectly simple, natural +air. I fancied it would be very easy to impose on Miss Bassett when +I heard her question. It sounded so innocent, as if the old lady was +full of her pet. I even thought, perhaps, she had not known what the +revolver was when she looked at it. + +“‘Did he run into the house?’ she said, still looking at me from under +her wrinkled eyelids. + +“‘Yes; when you came out. He was here on the path with me. You called +“Johnny!” and he ran off there between the mulberry-trees.’ + +“All the time I was speaking to her I had an eye to the road, and +my ears were listening like an Indian’s when he puts his head to the +ground to hear the pad of his enemy. + +“Miss Bassett stood there quietly for a moment as if she were +considering something. She looked prim. I remember that even now—prim +as a caricature. It was only a moment, but it seemed to me an hour. ‘If +they should come,’ I thought, ‘while she is out here!’ The sweat came +out all over my face with impatience—an agony of impatience. I longed +to take the old lady by the shoulders, push her into the cottage, lock +her in, and be alone, able to watch the bit of road from the Abbey +gates to the wicket. But I could do nothing. I was obliged to repress +every sign of agitation. It was devilish.” + +He got up with a sudden jerk from his chair, and stood by the fire. +Even the telling of that moment had set beads of moisture on his +square, low forehead. + +“At last she spoke again. + +“‘I wonder if you’d mind coming in for a minute to help me see if +Johnny really is in the house?’ she said. + +“I don’t know what I should have done—refused, I believe, refused her +with an oath, for I began to feel mad; but just at that instant up came +the cat once more, purring like fury, and lifting up his tail. He made +straight for me, and began to rub himself against my legs again. + +“‘Oh!’ said Miss Bassett, ‘there he is! Naughty Johnny, naughty boy! +Lord Inley, perhaps you’d be so good as just to lift him up and put him +inside the door for me. I always have such a job to get him to come +in of a night. He likes hunting in the woods. Doesn’t he, the naughty +Johnny?’ + +“‘Now’s my chance to get rid of her!’ I thought. + +“I bent down, picked the cat up, and went along the path towards the +cottage, Miss Bassett following close behind me. The cat was an immense +beast, awfully heavy, and just as I turned out of the yew path to go up +to the cottage door he began struggling to get away, and scratching. +I held on to him, but it wasn’t easy, and I got my hand torn before +I dropped him down inside the little hall. Away he ran, towards the +kitchen, I suppose. Miss Bassett was very grateful, but I cut her +gratitude short. + +“‘Very glad to have been able to help you,’ I said. ‘Good-night.’ + +“‘Good-night, Lord Inley,’ she said. + +“I thought her voice sounded a little bit odd when she said that, and +I just glanced at her funny old face, lit up by the lantern she was +holding in one mittened hand. She didn’t look at me this time as she +had in the garden. Then I went out, and she immediately shut the door. + +“‘Thank God!’ I thought, and I hurried to the wicket. I didn’t dare +stay in the garden now. Seeing her had made me realise my blackguardism +in coming in at all, considering my reason. I resolved to hide in the +field at the corner where the road turns off to Charfield. As I opened +the wicket, instinctively I put my hand into my pocket for my revolver.” + +He bent down, looking full into my eyes. + +“It wasn’t there.” + +“Miss Bassett!” I exclaimed. + +“In a moment I realised that Miss Bassett must have grasped the +situation; that her asking me to carry in her cat was a ruse, and that +while the beast was struggling between my hands she must have stolen +the revolver from behind. I say I knew that, and yet even then, when I +thought of her look, her manner, the sort of nervous old thing she was, +I couldn’t believe what I knew. Then I remembered her voice when she +said ‘Good-night’ to me in the passage, her eyes looking down instead +of at me, and that she was only holding the lantern in one hand, +whereas in the garden she was using two. She must have had the revolver +in her other hand concealed in the folds of her dress. I ran back to +the cottage door, and knocked—hard. Not that I thought she’d open. I +knew she wouldn’t, but she did directly. I could hardly speak. I was +afraid of myself just then. At last I said: + +“‘Miss Bassett, you know what I want.’ + +“‘You can’t have it,’ she said, looking straight at me. + +“I kept quiet for a second, then I said: + +“‘Miss Bassett, I don’t think you know that you’re running into +danger.’ For I felt that there was danger for her then if she went +against me. She knew it, too, perhaps better than I did. I saw her poor +old hands, all blue veins, beginning to tremble. + +“‘You can’t have it, Lord Inley,’ she repeated. + +“There wasn’t the ghost of a quiver in her voice. + +“‘I must, I will!’ I said, and I made a movement towards her—a violent +movement I know it was. + +“But the old thing stood her ground. Oh, she was a gallant old woman. + +“‘Do what you like to me,’ she said. ‘I’m old. What does it matter? +She’s young.’ + +“Then I knew she understood. + +“‘You’ve seen them together!’ I said. ‘Since I went!’ + +“She wouldn’t say. Not a word. I was mad. I forgot decency, everything. +I took her. I searched her for the revolver. I searched her roughly—God +forgive me. She trembled horribly, but never said a word. It wasn’t +on her. She must have hidden it somewhere in that moment when she was +alone in the cottage. That was another ruse to keep me searching in +there while—But I saw it almost directly. I broke away, and rushed +out and down the road. Something seemed to tell me they had passed. I +got into the lane that leads to Charfield. The fly was gone. Then, all +of a sudden, I felt perfectly calm. I turned, and went up to the Abbey +gates. I knocked them up at the lodge. The keeper came out. When he saw +me he said: + +“‘You, my lord! However did you know?’ + +“‘Go on!’ I said. ‘Know what?’ + +“‘About Master Hugo?’ + +“I didn’t say one way or the other. + +“‘The doctor says it’s a bitter bad quinsy, but there’s just a chance. +Her ladyship’s nearly mad. It only came on a few hours ago quite +sudden.’ + +“I went up to the Abbey, and found Vere by the child’s bed. She looked +flushed, and was breathing hard, as if she had just been running.” + +He stopped, and took out his cigar-case. + +“Running!” I said. + +“She had parted finally from Glynd in front of Miss Bassett’s cottage,” +he said. “He told me that afterwards.” + +There was a moment’s silence. Then he spoke more calmly. + +“I went up to town when the child was safe, and had it out with Glynd. +They had meant to go that night. It was the boy who stopped her. She +took it as a judgment. You know how women are. Glynd swore she was +stopped in time. You understand?” + +“Yes.” + +“He didn’t lie to me.” + +“And your wife?” + +“I never spoke of it to her. I saw her with the boy, and—well, I saw +her with the boy, and what she was to him when he was close to death.” + +His voice went for a moment. Then he added: + +“I told her I’d had a presentiment Hugo was ill. She believed me, I +think. If not, she’s kept her secret.” + +Just then the dining-room door opened, and Lady Inley put in her pretty +head. + +“Are you never coming?” she said with her little childish drawl. + +I got up, and went towards her. + +“By the way, Nino,” she added, “the bell was for poor, funny old Miss +Bassett. What will her cat do, I wonder?” + +As I followed her towards the drawing-room I heard Inley’s voice mutter +behind me: + +“_Requiescat in Pace._” + + + + + PANCRAZIA’S HAIR + + +One autumn I was in Sicily, making a number of mountain excursions, +visiting remote villages hidden in rocky clefts, or perched boldly +on spurs in the eye of the sun, sleeping occasionally at night in +humble rooms to which the gobbling turkey and the audacious pig were +no strangers. Among my many memories of those free and happy days one +stands out—the memory of a tress of splendid black hair. + +On an afternoon, near sunset, I rode up to the edge of a hamlet of +huddled dwellings, where stood a large, old church, Arabic-Norman in +style, and here I dismounted to rest and fill my eyes and heart with +the wonder and the glory of Nature. + +As I gazed I remember thinking: “How small humanity is!” + +A fat old priest shuffled up to recall me from my reveries. He cleared +his throat, saluted me, and begged me to come and see his church. + +We went into the sacristy, and presently stood before an immense and +mouldy cupboard. After much struggling with a rusty key the doors were +opened, and I was confronted by a large wooden statue of the Madonna +and Child, covered with fading but still hideous colours, and flecked +with the dust of ages. + +I scarcely noticed the statue, however, for my eyes had fallen upon +something else—a great plait of glorious black hair, thick, long, +twisted with reverent care, strong strand through strand, tied at the +top and bottom by bows of rose-red satin. It hung to the wrist of the +Madonna, and was touched by the little outstretched foot of the infant +Jesus. + +I looked inquiringly at the priest. + +“That is Pancrazia’s hair, signore.” + +“Pancrazia’s hair! Who is, or was, Pancrazia?” + +An expression came into the priest’s face that transformed it—a look so +human, so tender, even so mystical, that suddenly I loved this old man +in his rusty soutane and his wrinkled, patched boots. + +I sat down on a wooden box that stood just below the statue, and the +priest told me the story of the tress of hair. + +I give it in his words, so far as I remember them. But I cannot give +the look in his eyes while he was speaking, or the almost childishly +beautiful simplicity and sincerity of his manner. + +“Pancrazia was never a handsome girl, but always she looked a good +girl. And then she had the most beautiful hair in the village, or, +indeed, in all the country round. When she was a child it was full of +gleams of gold, but the underneath was always dark; and, as she grew, +the darkness of it crept up, till all over her head the hair was black. +Only in the front, by her temples, there remained little feathers of +gold, which fell down near her kind, pious eyes—eyes that could be +merry, too, and laugh as readily as the eyes of the wicked and the +wanton. + +“Pancrazia was not one of the melancholy who must cry when they pray. +She thought it no wrong to smile at the Madonna; and I have seen her +run out of school in the summer days, and blow kisses to the Mother of +God—where the shrine is by the gateway of the village—as a child might +to her own mother coming down to meet her over the rocks, with, maybe, +the little pig trotting alongside. Why not, signore? She had confidence +in the Madonna; and what is more beautiful than the confidence which +runs out of a young heart like a stream out of a hazel wood? The +Madonna loved it, you may be sure. + +“As Pancrazia grew up, despite her piety—she was the purest-minded +child I ever blessed—the natural feelings grew with her. They come +early, signore, in sunny places; and, thank God, the sun is never long +away from us here. She began to know there’s a life for a maiden that +follows after the child’s life. + +“Ah, signore, I watched over the girl as I have watched over a flower +growing in my little garden—you must see my little garden, signore, +before you go. + +“Often I thought: ‘What a mother she will make!’ And sometimes I would +run over the boys of the village to choose a husband for her when she +should be a bit older. But somehow it always ended the same way: I +never could settle on the husband. + +“Well, signore, you know what girls are. She didn’t wait for me to +choose, though nobody respected me as she did. She didn’t think so +much of herself as I thought of her. And while I was saying to myself: +‘Giovanni won’t do, and Stefano won’t do, and Paolo’s not the one, +and may the Madonna preserve her from Giorgio!’ she says to herself: +‘Angelo!’ Not a word more, you may be certain. I can hear her say it, +and see her lips smiling over the word—‘Angelo!’ + +“I’d come to him, in my numbering, and I’d said to myself: ‘Angelo +won’t quite do.’ Not that he was a bad boy. And he was a handsome one; +strong, merry, and could play the guitar and dance the tarantella, +and sing ‘O sole mio!’ till you could hear it from Acireale to Capo +Sant’ Alessio pretty near. But— Well, in my eyes, nobody would do for +Pancrazia. + +“In her heart, all the same, she chose Angelo, and it seemed that in +his he chose her. When I saw him with her one twilight by the shrine +at the gateway, and saw her kneel down, while he stood beside her, and +crossed himself and looked at her as she was praying—for him, signore, +you may be sure, knowing women—I understood how it was, and I said to +myself: ‘Perhaps the Madonna has done the numbering too, and stopped at +Angelo.’ + +“And so I left it, trusting all was right for that pure child, even in +this world of sin. + +“Angelo was a seaman, and was often away. One night when I was in +my garden watering my roses—they are worth seeing, as you will know +presently, signore—I saw Angelo and Pancrazia coming up to the gate +together. I set down the pot of water. Pancrazia was smiling, and he +looked brave—you know how a boy of courage looks when he’s just found +someone who wants to be taken care of, signore? + +“I understood, but I pretended not to, and said innocently: ‘What is +it, my children?’ + +“Then she told me, while he just stared at her, with his eyes getting +graver at every word she said. They were going to be husband and wife, +and I was the first to know it. Angelo had to go away in the morning +to Messina. He’d got a job to sail on an orange boat to the Lipari +Islands, and was to be away two months in all. For those two months the +secret was to be kept among us three. + +“It was Pancrazia’s wish. She didn’t want to face the village talk till +Angelo could stay beside her. There was always something more retiring +about her than about the other girls. It seemed to go with her purity. +I blessed them both, and, when I’d finished watering my roses, I prayed +for them and for their children. + +“Angelo went away in the morning, and Pancrazia kept up bravely. The +village folk gossiped and laughed, and spoke of the faithlessness of +the men of the sea, but Pancrazia only smiled to herself. And I smiled +too. You see, we knew what had been settled, but they, poor, silly +souls, were ignorant. Yet, as it turned out, I don’t know⸺” + +“Time went on, and one evening, after a month had gone, Pancrazia came +rushing into my garden like a mad thing, with a bit of paper in her +hand. Angelo was desperately ill with fever far away in Lipari, and the +orange boat had had to sail from there and leave him. I scarcely knew +Pancrazia. There was a passion in her I’d never suspected, although I +know the fires that slumber in us, who are almost the sucking children +of Etna, signore, as you might say. + +“‘What shall I do? What shall I do?’ she kept on crying out. + +“‘Pray,’ I said. ‘Pray, my child, to the Madonna della Rocca.’ + +“When she left me it was night. Very late I walked out to the wall +above the precipice to look at Etna and the stars, and there, beyond +the gateway, on the stones before the shrine, I saw a figure kneeling, +and I heard a little noise of sobbing. I went, and whispered: + +“‘You must not cry thus when you pray, Pancrazia. The Madonna will +think you doubt her.’ + +“Then, signore, the sobbing stopped. + +“A week went by, two weeks, and then came news that Angelo was worse, +was dying out there in the islands. That day Pancrazia came again to my +house. She was calm, signore, calm, and her face white and still as a +pan of milk. + +“‘Padre,’ she said, ‘shut the door.’ + +“I shut it. + +“‘Padre,’ she said, ‘I’m going to give something to the Madonna della +Rocca, and no one is to know but you. Will you promise never to tell?’ + +“I promised solemnly, as she desired. + +“‘Come with me to the church now, padre.’ + +“I went with her. She had in her hands a length of red ribbon, and +there was a scissors hanging at her waist. + +“When we were in the church she shut the door, and said: + +“‘Unlock the cupboard in the sacristy, please, padre.’ + +“We went into the sacristy, and I unlocked this cupboard, and looked at +her. + +“‘What is it you are giving to the Madonna, my child?’ I asked. + +“She never said a word, but took the scissors from her waist, and +before I could stop her she had cut off her beautiful hair. Not that +I would have prevented her; no, signore, but it was her one beauty, +except the look of goodness in her face. And somehow it seemed to me +that the Madonna would have wished— But she was right. We should keep +back nothing. She tied the ribbons as they are now, and hung the hair +up there upon the Madonna’s hand, and knelt down, and told her that +she offered it for Angelo, in the hope that her love of him might be +regarded in heaven, and that his life might be spared. That was all. + +“She put a shawl over her poor head, and we came out. + +“Well, presently there was a fine to-do in the village. When the folk +saw Pancrazia’s head they stared, and asked, and laughed. And the +children pointed, and cried out. And the boys—I beat the boys, signore, +and never asked forgiveness. But Pancrazia wouldn’t say a word. + +“Pancrazia’s offering found favour with the Madonna, signore. Her +prayer was heard. Angelo recovered, and returned.” + +The old priest paused. His face was working. The mystical expression I +had observed in his eyes was replaced for a moment by a very different +look. After a silence he continued: + +“No one knew then what we all knew later: that he had been nursed back +to life—those were Angelo’s words, and a lie, signore, for his recovery +was the miracle of the Madonna—by a woman of the islands, and that +already his heart was going out to this stranger. He had come back, +though, to keep his word. That I know. But when he saw Pancrazia’s +poor, shorn head he thought again of the island woman, and⸺” + +The old man coughed, and paused. + +“Signore,” he resumed in a loud voice, “when Pancrazia saw his look, +and that his heart was turned by such a thing, she would not say where, +and why, the hair was gone. And I—I had promised. Angelo was but a +lad, his passions were hot, the lust of the eye was awake within him, +and—God and the Madonna forgive him!—where he should have seen the +heart he⸺” + +He paused again. + +“Signore, he went back to the islands, and married the woman who had +nursed him in Lipari.” + +“And Pancrazia?” I asked. “Did she not—pardon me if I hurt you—but did +she not cease to pray to the Madonna?” + +“Cease to pray!” said the old man, and again the mystical look was in +his eyes. + +He drew out his watch, then softly he whispered: + +“Come, signore!” + +We went out to the wall above the precipice. Here there is an old +gateway, arching the narrow track by which I had ascended. Just beyond +it, under the towering rocks, is a shrine with a crude picture of the +Madonna and Child. Now, as the old priest pointed with his finger, +I saw on the step before the shrine a plain, dark woman kneeling. A +handkerchief was folded over her head, and fell upon her shoulders. Her +hands were clasped. Her lips were moving. She was absorbed, and did not +see us. + +“That is Pancrazia!” whispered the priest. “She has never married. Each +day at this hour she comes here. Do you know why?” + +“To ask for⸺” + +“She is asking for nothing. She is blessing the Madonna.” + +“Blessing the Madonna!” + +“For having answered her prayer.” + +“But⸺” + +“Signore, when Pancrazia gave her hair to the Madonna della Rocca she +did not think of self. She only asked that her love might be regarded +in heaven, and that Angelo’s life might be spared. Her prayer was +granted. Angelo lives. And each day at this hour Pancrazia comes here +to give thanks to God, and to praise and bless the Holy Madonna della +Rocca.” + +I said nothing, but I thought as I watched the praising woman, + +“How great humanity is!” + + + Transcriber’s Notes: + + • Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). + • Text enclosed by pluses is in small caps (+small caps+). + • Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. + • Illustration facing page 90 added to LOI + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76971 *** diff --git a/76971-h/76971-h.htm b/76971-h/76971-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3afc0ca --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/76971-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11463 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="utf-8"> + <title>The Black Spaniel | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + + body { + margin-left: 8%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + h1, h2, h3 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; + } + + h1 { + font-size: 325%; + margin-top: 2%; + margin-bottom: 5%; + } + + h3 {page-break-before: always;} + + h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + + + p { + margin-top: .5em; + margin-bottom: .5em; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1em; + } + + /* === Continuation after illo or poetry === */ + p.noindent {text-indent: 0;} + + /* === Title page === */ + div.titlepage { + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; + page-break-before: always; + } + + div.titlepage p { + text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; + font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; + margin-top: 3em; + } + + div.chapter { + clear: both; + margin-top: 10%; + page-break-before: always; + } + + hr {width: 35%; margin: 1% 32.5%; clear: both;} + hr.short {width: 10%; margin: auto 45%;} + hr.chap {width: 65%; margin: 5% 17.5%;} + .x-ebookmaker hr.chap {visibility: hidden;} + @media print {hr.chap {visibility: hidden;}} + + /* === Super/subscript size === */ + sup, sub {font-size: 75%;} + + /* === Fonts === */ + .xsmall {font-size: x-small;} + .large {font-size: large;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .gesperrt {letter-spacing: 0.2em; margin-right: -0.2em;} + + /* === Alignment === */ + .mt2 {margin-top: 2%;} + .mt3 {margin-top: 3%;} + .mt5 {margin-top: 5%;} + .mt10 {margin-top: 10%;} + .mt20 {margin-top: 20%;} + .mb0 {margin-bottom: 0;} + .mb2 {margin-bottom: 2%;} + .lh2 {line-height: 1.5em;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .right {text-align: right; margin-right: 2%;} + .fright, .x-ebookmaker .fright {float: right;} + + /* === Page #s === */ + .pagenum { + position: absolute; + right: 1%; + color: gray; + font-size: x-small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + padding: 0 0.2em; + } + + blockquote { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + } + + /* === Bordered box === */ + .bbox { + margin: auto; + border: 2px solid; + padding: .3em; + } + .bbox2 { + margin: 10% auto auto auto; + border: 6px solid; + padding: .2em; + width: 30em; + } + + /* === Tables === */ + table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + } + + table.autotable {border-collapse: collapse;} + table.autotable td, + table.autotable th {padding-top: 0.5em;} + th {font-size: x-small;} + + .tdr {text-align: right; padding-left: 1em;} + + .col2 {margin-left: 13%;} + + /* === Poetry === */ + .center-container { + display: flex; + justify-content: center; + } + + .poetry { + text-align: left; + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 5%; + } + + .stanza { + margin: 0.75em auto; + text-indent: -3em; + } + .stanza div.i0 {padding-left: 3em;} + + /* === Images === */ + img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; + } + + figure { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + max-width: 100%; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + clear: both; + } + + figcaption { + font-weight: bold; + font-size: small; + text-align: center; + } + + .figcenter { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + text-align: center; + clear: both; + max-width: 100%; + page-break-inside: avoid; + } + + .illowp28 {width: 28%; max-width: 21em;} + .illowp75 {width: 75%; max-width: 56.25em;} + + /* === Text drop caps === */ + p.drop-cap {text-indent: 0;} + p.drop-cap:first-letter { + float: left; + font-size: 3em; + margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; + line-height: 0.8 + } + .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap {text-indent: inherit;} + .x-ebookmaker p.drop-cap:first-letter { + float: none; + font-size: inherit; + padding-right: inherit; + padding-left: inherit; + margin-top: inherit; + line-height: inherit; + } + + /* === Abreviation: no underline, no color === */ + abbr { + border: none; + text-decoration: none; + } + + /* no underline of links */ + a {text-decoration: none;} + + /* === Transcriber's notes === */ + ul.spaced li {padding-top: 1%;} + + .transnote { + background-color: #E6E6FA; + border: 1px solid; + color: black; + font-size: small; + padding: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 5em; + font-family: sans-serif, serif; + } + </style> +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76971 ***</div> +<figure class="x-ebookmaker-drop"> + <img class="illowp75" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" id="cover"> +</figure> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="frontis"> + <img src="images/frontis.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption>“MURDERER!” I SAID, “MURDERER!”</figcaption> +</figure> + +<div class="titlepage bbox2"> +<div class="bbox"> +<h1><span style="font-size: 65%;">THE</span><br> +BLACK SPANIEL<br> +<i style="font-size: 50%;">And Other Stories</i></h1> + +<div>BY<br> +<span style="font-size: 175%;">ROBERT HICHENS</span></div> + +<div class="mt2">Author of “The Garden of Allah,” “The Woman<br> +With the Fan,” “Felix,” etc.</div> + +<div class="mt5">WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS BY<br> +<span class="large">A. FORESTIER</span></div> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp28 mt3"> + <img src="images/title.jpg" alt=""> +</figure> + +<div class="mt20 mb2">NEW YORK<br> +FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY<br> +PUBLISHERS</div> +</div> +</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="center mt10 lh2 mb2">Copyright, 1905, by<br> +ROBERT HICHENS</div> + +<hr class="short"> +<div class="center mt2"><i>This edition published in October, 1905</i></div> + +<div class="center mt20">Presswork by The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.</div> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> +</div> + + <table class="autotable"> + <thead> + <tr> + <th></th> + <th class="tdr">PAGE</th> + </tr> + </thead> + <tbody> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Spaniel">The Black Spaniel</a></td> + <td class="tdr">1</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Mission">The Mission of Mr. Eustace Greyne</a></td> + <td class="tdr">147</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Desert">Desert Air</a></td> + <td class="tdr">231</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Fin_Tireur">“Fin Tireur”</a></td> + <td class="tdr">255</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Halima">Halima and the Scorpions</a></td> + <td class="tdr">269</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Desert_Drum">The Desert Drum</a></td> + <td class="tdr">287</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Princess">The Princess and the Jewel Doctor</a></td> + <td class="tdr">307</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Mirage">The Figure in the Mirage</a></td> + <td class="tdr">321</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Saftis">Safti’s Summer Day</a></td> + <td class="tdr">337</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Smain">Smaïn</a></td> + <td class="tdr">343</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Spinster">The Spinster</a></td> + <td class="tdr">351</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class="smcap"><a href="#Pancrazias_Hair">Pancrazia’s Hair</a></td> + <td class="tdr">371</td> + </tr> + </tbody> + </table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS"> + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + </h2> +</div> + + <table class="autotable"> + <tbody> + <tr> + <td><a href="#frontis">“Murderer!” I said, “Murderer!”</a></td> + <td class="tdr"><i>Frontispiece</i></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td></td> + <td class="tdr xsmall">FACING<br>PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i004">She and her Companions were obviously Italians</a></td> + <td class="tdr">4</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i026">As I walked back I thought over Vernon’s last words</a></td> + <td class="tdr">26</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i062">As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door</a></td> + <td class="tdr">63</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i073">“That dog there,” said Vernon; “how long have you had him?”</a></td> + <td class="tdr">73</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i090">“Poor beast! Poor beast!”</a></td> + <td class="tdr">90</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i130">While I was there Deeming came back unexpectedly</a></td> + <td class="tdr">131</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#i144">I went out into the night carrying it in my arms</a></td> + <td class="tdr">145</td> + </tr> + </tbody> + </table> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">1</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Spaniel"><i>PART I—THE DEATH</i></h2> +</div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap">IN the big hall of the Grand Hotel at Rome I introduced Peter Deeming +to Vernon Kersteven.</p> + +<p>The two men were friends of mine, and I wanted them to like each +other; and, perhaps because they were both fond of me, I thought that +they would get on well together, and that we should form a happy and +a lively trio at dinner. Was this the fancy of an egoist? I have +sometimes wondered since.</p> + +<p>At the time I speak of I had known Deeming for over two years, having +met him first in London at a friend’s house. Vernon was a comparatively +recent acquaintance whom I had encountered when I was travelling in +Algeria; but already in my heart I gave him the dearer title, for I had +come to like him greatly, and I knew that my sympathy was returned.</p> + +<p>The two men were very different—in their appearance, their natures, +their ways of life—but differences sometimes seem to make for pleasant +intercourse, and even for intimacy. We often love ourselves; but do we +generally love those who markedly resemble us?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">2</span></p> + +<p>Vernon usually spent his winters in Rome, where he had a delightful +house on the Trinità dei Monti. Deeming had come from England to take a +long holiday, as his health had partially broken down from overwork. He +was a very successful London doctor, devoted to his profession. Vernon +was a rich man, passionately interested in the arts and in travel. How +well I remember that first evening we spent together, that—I had almost +written fatal evening! We were dining in the restaurant, and directly I +had made my friends known to each other we went in and sat down at our +table, which was in the middle of the room.</p> + +<p>Deeming was a very thin man, nearly forty, clean shaven, with iron-grey +thick hair, narrow clear-cut features, and a tremendously decisive +mouth and chin, betokening power and resolution. His face was pale, and +bore traces of his recent illness. In his long, rather colourless grey +eyes, penetrating and usually calm, one could see the slightly anxious +and irritable expression of a man whose nerves had been, and still +were, overwrought. His hands were delicate, with thin fingers curving +backward perceptibly at the tips. He leaned forward as he sat in his +chair, glancing over the crowd of English, Americans, and foreigners +who were busily eating and talking round us.</p> + +<p>Vernon was tall and fair, younger than Deeming by some five or six +years, with meditative, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">3</span>almost gentle, and very kind brown eyes, a +sensitive, though not handsome, face, with a clear boyish colour in it, +a voice that was generally low unless he got much interested in the +subject he was discussing, and an extremely fascinating manner, whose +fascination sprang from his great courtesy, combined with a perfectly +natural self-possession, as of a man who seldom thought about himself, +and who was desirous of making things go easily and pleasantly for +those with whom he was brought into contact.</p> + +<p>I saw Deeming look at him steadily, rather as a doctor looks at a new +patient, more than once as we drank our soup, and I knew that with +his invariable acuteness he was taking stock of his new acquaintance. +Vernon, on the other hand, showed at first no special interest in +Deeming, did not regard him earnestly, but was gracefully agreeable to +him as he was to everyone. He was far more what is generally called a +man of the world than Deeming, whose devotion to, and great success in, +his profession had kept him bound to the wheel of work in London, and +had prevented him from having the opportunity of knowing the nations +and mixing perpetually with society which Vernon had enjoyed.</p> + +<p>At first we talked quietly, almost languidly, of Rome, of its changes +and its tourists, of the influence of America upon its society, of its +climate, of the differences between life in <span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">4</span>England and life abroad, +and so forth. It was not till the middle of dinner that anything +occurred to wake us up into great animation. Then a stout, dark, and +very vivacious little lady, with a commanding air, came into the +restaurant followed by two men, and sat down at a table near us. She +and her companions were obviously Italians, and almost directly she +screwed up her eyes at Vernon and nodded to him. He returned her salute +with <i lang="fr">empressement</i>.</p> + +<p>“Would you mind telling me who that lady is?” said Deeming.</p> + +<p>“Margherita Terrascalchi,” replied Vernon.</p> + +<p>“What—the famous authoress?” I said. “The writer of ‘Pietà’?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>Deeming stared hard at the little lady, who was beginning to eat with +extraordinary, almost comical, gusto.</p> + +<p>“I have read that book,” he said. “In a translation.”</p> + +<p>“What do you think of it?” asked Vernon.</p> + +<p>“No doubt it is well done and calculated to move the ordinary reader.”</p> + +<p>“Only the ordinary reader?” said Vernon, with a slight upward movement +of his eyebrows.</p> + +<p>“I think it wrongheaded and sentimental,” said Deeming, with more +energy than he had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">5</span>yet shown. “She appears to wish to elevate the +animals above humanity, to take them out of their proper place.”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i004"> + <img src="images/i004.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption>“SHE AND HER COMPANIONS WERE OBVIOUSLY ITALIANS.”</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“What would you say is their proper place?”</p> + +<p>“They are in the world, in my opinion, to be the servants of humanity, +to minister to our comfort, our pleasure, our necessities, to help to +increase our knowledge and satisfy our appetites, to give us ease and +to gain us money. Don’t you think so?”</p> + +<p>“No doubt many scientists, many sportsmen, and most, if not all, +butchers do.”</p> + +<p>I laughed.</p> + +<p>“But you, Vernon,” I said, “are neither scientist, sportsman, nor +butcher, and Deeming asks you what you think.”</p> + +<p>Vernon was looking less tranquil, less gentle than usual at this +moment. His face was lit up by a fire I had never seen burning in his +eyes before.</p> + +<p>“My sympathies march with Madame Terrascalchi’s,” he answered, “though +perhaps she expresses them with a feminine enthusiasm that may seem to +some almost hysterical, and is carried away by her passion of pity into +an excess of animosity against men and women, who often err against the +animal world more from lack of imagination than from any definite bias +towards cruelty.”</p> + +<p>“The question is, are we to be the servants of the animals or they to +be our servants?” <span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">6</span>Deeming said rather drily. “I notice that Madame +Terrascalchi is eating something that looks remarkably like a veal +cutlet at this very moment.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” said Vernon, with his pleasant smile. “I hold no brief for her. +I believe her, in fact, to be very—shall I say human? But as to what +you were saying. Is it wholly a matter of whether we are to be masters +or slaves? Cannot we and the animals—we are not, of course, discussing +dangerous wild beasts—be friends, or, let us say, could we not be +friends, good and close friends, they serving us in their way, we +serving them in ours?”</p> + +<p>“How are we to serve the animals?” asked Deeming, still drily.</p> + +<p>“By considering them far more than we generally do, by studying them, +their natures, habits, desires, likes and dislikes far more closely, by +encouraging their affection for us, and giving them more of ours.”</p> + +<p>“I think that would be a great waste of time.”</p> + +<p>“Deeming is a terribly busy man, Vernon,” I said.</p> + +<p>“I know my London well enough to know it,” Vernon remarked politely. +“Still, I think we might find time for that; even that we ought to find +time for it. I am rather what you might call a ‘crank’ on the subject +of the animal world.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know it,” I said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">7</span></p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, I am.”</p> + +<p>The almost fierce light again shone in his eyes.</p> + +<p>“I love all animals. Ouida speaks of their ‘mysterious lives,’ spent +side by side with ours, and comparatively little noticed, little +sympathised with by us. I know that many animal-lovers would raise a +cry of protest against this. ‘Look,’ they would say, ‘how dogs are +worshipped and petted, how horses are loved by their owners, how +cats are stroked and fondled!’ and so forth. Yes, it is true. Out +of the great world of the animals, we—those of us who are fond of +animals—select a few who, we think, can minister to our pleasure, and +we give them, or think we give them, a good time. But these pet animals +who enjoy life are few in number compared with the many who are made +to suffer by man; the dogs that are kept everlastingly tied up, or are +half-starved, or are perpetually cuffed and kicked and beaten; the cats +that are abandoned to die when their thoughtless owners change home; +the horses that are overdriven, tortured by tight bearing-reins, lashed +with the whip, made to draw loads that are too heavy for them; the +birds—let me include them—that are forced to spend their lives in tiny +cages in dark places. To any real, observant lover of animals, even +of the so-called pet animals—excluding the beasts of burden, donkeys, +mules, oxen, and the beasts that form part of our food supply, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">8</span>and +the dumb creatures that are given over to the tender mercies of the +sportsman: the hares that are coursed, the foxes and stags and deer +that are hunted, the pigeons that are let out of traps (their eyes +pierced to make them fly in a given direction) to be shot and are often +left maimed to die, the sea-birds that the Cockney ‘wings’ and abandons +to starve and rot, floating helpless on the waves of the sea, the +pheasants that, wounded in a battue, are crushed one on the top of the +other into bags to perish of suffocation; excluding all these—to any +real and observant lover of animals the lack of sympathy, or the actual +cruelty of man, is a perpetual source of disturbance, of anxiety, even +of lively distress and misery.”</p> + +<p>I was quite amazed at the energy with which Vernon had spoken, at the +vigour and force of his manner. He paused for a moment, then he added—</p> + +<p>“My love of animals has given me very many horrible moments in my +life, moments in which I confess that my heart has been turned to +bitterness and I have longed to make men suffer as they were making +animals suffer. Yes, I have longed to see the cursed Cockney sportsman +drifting face to face with a lingering death upon the sea, the callous +game-preserver wounded in one of his traps and alone in the darkness of +night in the forest, the careless hunter at bay with hounds rushing in +upon him. But especially have I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">9</span>known the longing to turn one whom I +have seen being cruel to a pet animal into that animal, and to be his +master for a little while. You know some hold that theory.”</p> + +<p>“What theory?” said Deeming.</p> + +<p>“That what we do is eventually done to us in another life; for +instance, that if a man has been brutal to an animal, at death his soul +passes into a similar animal, which endures the fate he once meted out +when he was a man.”</p> + +<p>“Good heavens!” exclaimed Deeming. “You surely can’t believe such +unscientific nonsense!”</p> + +<p>“I did not say I believed it, but I should not be sorry to.”</p> + +<p>He sipped his champagne. Then, more lightly, he said—</p> + +<p>“I told you I was a bit of a crank. I am even hand-in-glove with Arthur +Gernham.”</p> + +<p>At the mention of this name, Deeming moved, and I saw his eyes flash.</p> + +<p>“The prominent anti-vivisectionist?” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“And you share his views?”</p> + +<p>“To a considerable extent, though I don’t always approve of what he +writes or of what he says.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad of that. We doctors, you know, ab—well, we don’t love +that eager gentleman. If he had his way humanity would undoubtedly +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">10</span>suffer far more in the future than it will. For I don’t think his +sentimentalities and wild exaggerations will ever gain over our +legislators to his views.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not. But I sometimes wonder whether anyone has the right, +whether anyone was intended by the Creator to have the right, to avoid +suffering at the cost of inflicting it, even to save life by causing +death. However, the vivisection question is hardly a pleasant one for +the dinner-table, eh!”</p> + +<p>There was a moment’s silence. Then Deeming said—</p> + +<p>“Of course you never shoot or hunt?”</p> + +<p>“Never.”</p> + +<p>“I do,” I said. “But I am not such a contemptible hypocrite as to deny +that cruelty, and often very gross cruelty, enters into sport.”</p> + +<p>Deeming slightly smiled.</p> + +<p>“Do you keep any pets?” said Vernon to him, rather sharply.</p> + +<p>“Yes. I have a dog at home, a black spaniel; and you?”</p> + +<p>“No. For years I have kept no animals. I shall never keep one again.”</p> + +<p>“That surprises me. You would give them a remarkably good time, I feel +sure.”</p> + +<p>“I have a reason.”</p> + +<p>“May I ask what it is?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. I once had a dog that I—that I cared about. She was out +with me one day <span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">1</span>in London and disappeared. I made every possible +inquiry, offered a reward, went to the Dogs’ Home, but I couldn’t find +her. Eventually, through an odd chain of circumstances that I needn’t +trouble you with, I learnt her fate.”</p> + +<p>“What was it?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“She had been picked up by a dog-stealer and sold to the proprietor of +an establishment called ‘Lilac Hall,’ near London.”</p> + +<p>“An establishment?” I said, struck by the tone in which he had uttered +the words.</p> + +<p>“Where a large number—stock, I’ll say—of animals of all kinds, horses, +cats, rabbits, guinea-pigs, dogs, was kept on hand for scientific +purposes. My companion and friend died under the knife of the +vivisector. What do you think of the food here? They’ve got a new +<i lang="fr">chef</i>.”</p> + +<p>“I—I—oh, it’s very good, I think; it’s excellent.”</p> + +<p>Deeming seemed startled by the sudden change of topic, and when we went +into the hall to smoke he tried to return to the discussion. But Vernon +did not rise to the bait he threw out, and at last frankly said—</p> + +<p>“You’d much better not get me on to the subject of animals. I am really +a bore when I let myself loose, as I did at dinner. And I am quite sure +you”—and he met Deeming’s eyes—“don’t agree with my views. Are you +staying long in Rome?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">12</span></p> + +<p>“Till I feel quite set up again and ready for work.”</p> + +<p>“Then I’ll hope you’ll come and see me.”</p> + +<p>He gave his card to Deeming, and soon after went away.</p> + +<p>I felt sure he had asked Deeming to call in order to please me. My two +friends, I feared, had not taken a fancy to each other. One curious +thing struck me as I watched Vernon’s tall figure going out through +the doorway to the street. It was this—that I knew a side of Vernon’s, +and a side of Deeming’s character that had been hitherto completely +concealed from me. Each had elicited a frankness from the other that I, +of whom they were fond, had not been able to bring forth.</p> + +<p>Their two enmities—so I thought of it—had clashed together and struck +out sparks of truth.</p> + +<p>By the way, Vernon’s last remark to me in the outer hall of the hotel, +whither I had accompanied him, leaving Deeming in the winter-garden, +was this—</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t care to be Deeming’s black spaniel.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">13</span> + <h3>II</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">A day</span> or two afterwards Deeming said to me, “I’m going to call on your +friend Vernon this afternoon. When is he likely to be in?”</p> + +<p>“He’s generally at home between six and seven,” I said. After a moment +I added, “You want to find him then?”</p> + +<p>“Why—yes. He’s a very agreeable fellow. Did you think I disliked him?”</p> + +<p>“Disliked him—no, hardly that. But, somehow, I scarcely fancied you two +were quite in sympathy the other night.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you mean that animal-versus-human-being discussion. Now it is just +because of that I want to meet him again.”</p> + +<p>“To win him over to your views?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I confess that I should like to get him to see how harmful +such a man as his friend Gernham is or may become to the world—of men +understood. He’s probably got all kinds of absurd notions as to how +vivisection is carried on. I should like to have a quiet, reasonable +talk with him.”</p> + +<p>“Go to-day, then, at six. You’re almost sure to find him.”</p> + +<p>“I will.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">14</span></p> + +<p>And Deeming set his lips together with determination.</p> + +<p>I was, I confess, a little curious as to the result of the interview. I +heard something about it the same evening from Vernon, who sent round a +note asking me to dine with him alone.</p> + +<p>“Your friend Deeming has been here,” he said, almost directly I was in +the house.</p> + +<p>“I know. Did you have a pleasant time?”</p> + +<p>“He’s extremely intelligent—got a great deal of character, real force. +That ruthless mouth and chin of his tell the truth.”</p> + +<p>At this moment the servant said that dinner was ready. We continued our +conversation in the dining-room, which was hung with sacred pictures, +gentle-eyed Madonnas—one by Luini—Saints, an Agony in the Garden by +an unnamed painter, the little children coming to Christ, the Magi +offering their gifts, watched by calm-eyed beasts in a dim stable.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said. “Deeming is very decisive.”</p> + +<p>“To me there’s something very strange in the thought that he is a +healer.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“Well—do you mind my speaking frankly about a friend of yours?”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit.”</p> + +<p>“I shall startle you, perhaps. You know one reads sometimes in the +papers of people who are afflicted with what is called the mania <span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">15</span>to +persecute. There was a trial of a woman not long ago—a Mrs. Denby.”</p> + +<p>“I know. But⸺”</p> + +<p>“And there have been various instances in distant Colonial possessions +of France and Belgium—and, perhaps, of other countries—various +instances of men placed practically in the position of tyrants who have +indulged in orgies of persecution of natives.”</p> + +<p>“But, my dear Vernon, you surely don’t mean that you think Deeming has +the bloodlust because he believes good can come of vivisection. Upon my +word, if you don’t take care, I shall begin to think you really are a +crank.”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that. It isn’t what the man says. I can quite understand that +as a doctor he wishes by every means to advance the spread of medical +knowledge. No, no; it’s the man himself. Do you know him well?”</p> + +<p>“I have seen a good deal of him in London. Not a great deal, because +he’s such a busy man. But I have often been with him.”</p> + +<p>“Often in his house?”</p> + +<p>“More often at his club, and in my own house and at restaurants. Being +a bachelor, when he entertains he nearly always does so at Claridge’s, +or the Savoy, or one of those places. But, of course, I have been in +his house.”</p> + +<p>“Have you ever seen his dog, that black spaniel he spoke of?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">16</span></p> + +<p>“No, I can’t remember that I have.”</p> + +<p>For a moment Vernon spoke of a certain dish that had just been brought +in, a special <i lang="fr">plat</i> for which his cook was famous. Then he said—</p> + +<p>“That dog I spoke of the other night—the dog I lost—you remember?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“She was a black spaniel.”</p> + +<p>His tone in saying this was so peculiar that I was misled and +exclaimed: “But you told us the poor beast was killed in that house—in +Lilac Hall!”</p> + +<p>“So she was.”</p> + +<p>“I thought—really, by the way you spoke, you led me to imagine that +perhaps you fancied Deeming had got possession of your dog.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear no! Whisper is dead, years ago. I seldom speak of her.”</p> + +<p>“I never heard you mention her till the other night.”</p> + +<p>“The other night I showed you a side of me that you had never suspected +the existence of, didn’t I?”</p> + +<p>“You did indeed.”</p> + +<p>“Well, having broken through my reserve, I feel that I don’t mind being +frank with you.”</p> + +<p>His eyes began to shine as they had shone in the restaurant when he +spoke of man’s cruelty to animals.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">17</span></p> + +<p>“My dog was the greatest solace in my life,” he said. “I am not a +sentimental fool. There is nothing either sentimental or foolish +in loving that which, with a whole heart and perfectly, loves you. +And a dog’s devotion really is one of the most perfect, one of the +most touching, and one of the most complete sentiments that can be +manifested by one living creature to another. Not to respond to it +would be absolutely devilish. But one can’t help oneself if one isn’t +made of stone. I won’t bore you with a long account of Whisper’s +devotion and fidelity. Why should I? It’s enough to say that she +loved me as much as a dog can love, and in a dog’s way, with absolute +unselfishness, with entire singleheartedness. I never felt lonely when +she was with me, scarcely ever even dull. When I had been out without +her, and, on my return, she met me at the door, almost hysterically +eager to show her rapture, I—well, I was glad to be alive, and felt +that life was worth while so long as I could evoke such a tempest of +delight in any living creature. A faithful dog, believe me, is the +best bulwark against the coming of cynicism. You can’t be a cynic +when a dog’s cold nose is pushed into your hand, or a dog’s paw is +placed gently and solemnly upon your knee. When I lost Whisper, when I +found out what had been her fate, I felt something that was more than +grief”—he leaned over the table and laid his hand on my arm—“I felt +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">18</span>hatred, burning hatred, against those who had snared and murdered her, +against all who use animals cruelly for the purposes of men.”</p> + +<p>His face was transformed. I seemed to see before me a man whom I had +never seen before. This man, I felt, could be not only gentle, but +vindictive, and would be quite capable of expressing himself not only +in words, but also through actions.</p> + +<p>“I can understand your bitterness,” I said. “But does not this +recalling of a painful event only stir up recollections that⸺?”</p> + +<p>He interrupted me almost roughly.</p> + +<p>“That doesn’t matter at all. I want to tell you now. I prefer to.”</p> + +<p>“Go on, then,” I said.</p> + +<p>He took his hand from my arm, and continued—</p> + +<p>“The fate of my companion altered me. It either stirred from sleep, +or actually woke into life, a fierceness that till then I had not +known existed, or could exist, in me. It made me understand that, in +certain circumstances and to certain people, I could be implacable, +almost ferocious; that I could deny the sole right of Providence—you +know the text: why quote it?—to administer that gorgeous justice we +name vengeance; that I could stand up and exclaim, ‘I will repay,’ +and repay without fear, without flinching, and even to the uttermost +farthing. But that was not all it did to me. With this awakening, or +this creation <span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">19</span>of fierceness in me, there came a deepening of pity, +of tenderness for the slaves of man. Yet I was selfish, and I have +remained selfish.”</p> + +<p>“How?” I asked, wondering.</p> + +<p>“It was, and is, in my power to make at least some animals happy, as I +had made my dead dog happy. I could not, and cannot, bring myself to do +that. I feared and I fear too much to suffer again as I suffered when +I lost Whisper, and when I learnt the truth about her end. That end +has been a nightmare to me ever since. I cannot think of it even now +without torture.”</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow,” I said. “Don’t dwell upon it. To do so is really +morbid.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t dwell upon it, as a rule. Have I ever even mentioned this +subject to you before?”</p> + +<p>“No, no. But⸺”</p> + +<p>“That man, your friend Deeming, has roused me up. I—I tell you that I +hate—that it is almost unbearable to me to think of his having a dog—a +black spaniel, like Whisper—in his power.”</p> + +<p>He said the last words with extraordinary vehemence.</p> + +<p>“That was what you meant then!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“When you mistook me just now? Yes, that!”</p> + +<p>He relapsed into silence, but kept his still <span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">20</span>glowing eyes fixed upon +me. I seemed to read in them that he had more to tell me, to see that +there was some project, some intention of action, blazing in his mind.</p> + +<p>“Look here, Vernon,” I said, determined to be quite frank with him at +whatever cost, “Deeming is a friend of mine.”</p> + +<p>“I know.”</p> + +<p>“That being so, I don’t think you can expect me to be ready to harbour +foul suspicions of him without any reason for them being adduced. If he +were to be suspicious of you, and told me so, I should speak to him as +I speak to you now. What on earth has the man done or said to make you +so violent—yes, my dear friend, that is the word—against him?”</p> + +<p>He did not look angry at my energy, but, on the other hand, he did not +look doubtful or disposed towards modification. He only said, “How well +do you know Deeming?”</p> + +<p>“Not very intimately, but well enough to feel sure that he is a humane +man. Patients of his have spoken to me of him, of his skill, his care, +and devotion in the highest terms.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t doubt it. I don’t doubt that he is humane as a doctor. Anyone +can see that he is devoted to his profession, and his profession is to +heal human suffering. Ambition alone would cause him to be humane—as a +doctor.”</p> + +<p>“You said yourself you were a bit of a <span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">2</span>crank. Aren’t you ever afraid +that your crankiness may lead you—now do forgive me!—into something +approaching malice?”</p> + +<p>I thought he might be angry, but he wasn’t.</p> + +<p>“My intuition—apart from anything else,” he said—“my intuition tells me +that Deeming is a cruel man.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t believe it. Vivisection⸺”</p> + +<p>“I’m not thinking of that now. What I am thinking is that I should like +to see Deeming’s dog.”</p> + +<p>“That wouldn’t be difficult, I imagine.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean that she is with him here, in Rome?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no. A dog in a hotel is apt to be a nuisance.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t agree with you.”</p> + +<p>“Well, well; but you always come to London in the late summer. I +suppose you’ll do so this year?”</p> + +<p>“Probably.”</p> + +<p>“Call on Deeming. He’s a hospitable man, and if you entertain him here +in Rome, he is sure to ask you out in London. There you can see for +yourself whether his dog isn’t properly treated, as I’ll swear she is, +and as happy as dog can be.”</p> + +<p>I spoke lightly, even with a deliberately jocose and chaffing air. He +listened to me gravely.</p> + +<p>“I will invite Deeming here,” he said. “Indeed, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">22</span>I intended to in any +case, as he is a friend of yours.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you.”</p> + +<p>“But you say he usually entertains in restaurants when he is in London. +I have no reason to think I shall ever set my foot inside his house.”</p> + +<p>The extreme gravity of his manner, the earnestness of the eyes that +were fixed upon me, made me realise how strong was his strange desire, +and therefore, how strong was his—as I thought then—absurd and +unreasonable suspicion. I might have continued to laugh at it, and +chaff him about it, but I did not. Something in his face and manner +made me unable to do so, made me suddenly conscious that, however much +I laughed, I could never laugh him out of his curious, and surely +morbid, anxiety to verify, or lull to rest, his fears. And I must +confess—so easily are we influenced by certain convinced people whom we +care for—that I, too, was becoming, at that moment, oddly interested in +this matter of Deeming and his black spaniel. Why had I never seen the +dog, never heard Deeming mention it till the other night?</p> + +<p>“If Deeming doesn’t invite you to his house,” I said, changing my tone, +“there’s a very easy method of getting into it.”</p> + +<p>“What method?” said Vernon eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Go to him as a patient.”</p> + +<p>I had scarcely said the words before I felt <span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">23</span>uncomfortable, almost +traitorous. Here was I entering into something that was like a plot +with one friend to get at a knowledge of another which that other had +never voluntarily tendered to me. I was angry with myself.</p> + +<p>“Upon my word, Vernon,” I exclaimed, “I’m ashamed of myself! Don’t let +us discuss this matter any longer. Deeming and you are both my friends, +and I wish to act always fairly and squarely by you both.”</p> + +<p>“What unfairness is there in enabling me to prove the folly and +falseness of my suspicions?” he rejoined quickly.</p> + +<p>“I know—I know; but—oh, the whole thing is really absurd. It is madness +to think such things of a man with no evidence to go upon.”</p> + +<p>“How do you know that I have no evidence?”</p> + +<p>“How can you have any?”</p> + +<p>“Are a man’s words no evidence? Is his face while he says them no +evidence?”</p> + +<p>“Did you talk about his dog when he was here this afternoon?” I asked +abruptly, moved by a sudden impression that he was keeping something +from me.</p> + +<p>“He wouldn’t talk about her. I am quite certain of one thing.”</p> + +<p>“What is that?”</p> + +<p>“That Deeming wishes now that he had never mentioned to us that he had +a dog.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">24</span></p> + +<p>I suppose I looked incredulous, for he added, without giving me time to +speak—</p> + +<p>“When you see him again, try to turn the conversation upon the black +spaniel, and see how he takes it. And now let us talk of something +else.”</p> + +<p>During the rest of the evening Deeming and his dog were not mentioned. +Vernon resumed, almost like a garment, his old self, the self I had +always known, cultured, gentle in manner, full of interest in every +topic that lent itself to quiet discussion and amiable debate. The evil +spirit—I thought of it as almost that—had departed out of him, and +when I got up to go I could hardly believe that I had ever been the +recipient of his vehemence, or seen his eyes blazing with the light of +scarcely controlled passion. He came with me to the hall-door and let +me out into the quiet night.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” he said, pressing my hand.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” I answered.</p> + +<p>I hesitated. Then I said—</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t this calm of the night embracing Rome make you—make you feel +that in your suspicions of Deeming you have been unreasonable; that, +after all, it is unlikely he should be what you have fancied him to be?”</p> + +<p>In an instant all the calmness, all the gentleness went out of his +face. But he only answered—</p> + +<p>“When you get back to the hotel talk to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">25</span>him about his black spaniel, +and see how he takes it. Good-night.”</p> + +<p>Before I could say anything more he had drawn back into his house and +shut the door quickly behind him.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">26</span> + <h3>III</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">As</span> I walked back to the Grand Hotel I thought over Vernon’s last words +and the way in which he had said them. Should I obey his injunctions? +I confessed to myself with reluctance that my conversation with him +that evening had made me suspicious of a friend. Yet I had Vernon’s +own word for it that he was a crank on the subject of animals, and +my recent experience of him almost forced me to the conclusion that +in his nature, usually so gentle, there must be an odd strain of +fanaticism. My mind was troubled, and I reached the hotel without +coming to a decision as to whether I would speak to Deeming about his +dog or not. As I came into the outer hall I saw him through the glass +door sitting alone in the winter garden, smoking, with a paper, which +he was not reading, lying on his knee. He did not see me, and, for a +moment, I watched him with a furtive curiosity of which I was secretly +half-ashamed. Perhaps stirred by my gaze, he suddenly looked up, caught +sight of me, smiled, and made a slight gesture, as if beckoning me to +come in and have a talk. I took off my overcoat and joined him.</p> + +<p>“I’ve just come from Vernon,” I said, sitting down and lighting a cigar.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i026"> + <img src="images/i026.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + “AS I WALKED BACK, I THOUGHT OVER VERNON’S LAST WORDS.” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">27</span></p> +<p>“Ah!” said Deeming.</p> + +<p>He uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and added:</p> + +<p>“He’s got a beautiful house.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, one of the most beautiful in Rome. He wants you to dine with him +one night, I believe. Probably he’ll ask you in a day or two.”</p> + +<p>“Very good of him.”</p> + +<p>His voice was scarcely cordial.</p> + +<p>“He’s a curious fellow,” he continued. “Easy in his manner, but +difficult really to know, I fancy.”</p> + +<p>“If you dine with him you may find him less reserved,” I said, rather +perfunctorily.</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose he’ll ask me alone.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I shouldn’t wonder.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think he cares much about me,” Deeming continued abruptly. “Do +you?”</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow, he hardly knows you,” I exclaimed. “You haven’t been +quarrelling over the animal world this afternoon, have you?”</p> + +<p>And I laughed, but without much cordiality, I fear.</p> + +<p>“Did he say we had?”</p> + +<p>“Good heavens, no! But you differ on the dog question, and so⸺”</p> + +<p>Deeming frowned.</p> + +<p>“The dog question!” he said. “Why on earth should you call it that?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I mean that he’s very sensitive since <span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">28</span>he lost his dog, and +that perhaps makes him a little unreasonable at times, though I must +say that till the other night when he dined here I never heard him +mention the subject of animals and their relation with man. And, by the +way, you’ve been equally silent. Till the other night I never knew you +possessed a dog.”</p> + +<p>“Is it such an important matter that I should go about proclaiming it?”</p> + +<p>His tone was suddenly hard and impatient.</p> + +<p>“No, of course not.”</p> + +<p>“I hate people who bother their friends about their pets. It’s almost +as bad as the women who are always talking about the marvellous beauty +and genius of their squalling babies.”</p> + +<p>He set his lips together as if he never meant to open them again, and +I saw a look as of acute nervous irritation in his eyes. It warned me +not to persevere in the conversation, and made me vexed with myself for +having given way to Vernon’s desire.</p> + +<p>“Let’s have a nightcap,” I said. “What do you think of doing to-morrow? +What do you say to getting a carriage and driving over to lunch at +Tivoli?”</p> + +<p>He looked more easy.</p> + +<p>“If it is fine I should enjoy it immensely,” he said in a calmer voice.</p> + +<p>And we talked of old gardens and the beauty of rushing water.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">29</span></p> + +<p>We spent the following day together at Tivoli. When we came back +towards evening, the hall-porter handed to Deeming a note. It was from +Vernon, inviting him to dine two days later.</p> + +<p>“You see how he hates you!” I said chaffingly when he told me. “Do you +mean to go?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. Why not?”</p> + +<p>He spoke lightly, holding the note open in his hand.</p> + +<p>He did not go, however, and for this reason. On the morning of the day +he was to dine with Vernon, he left Rome for England. An urgent summons +from a patient, he told me, made it necessary for him to go to London +without a moment’s delay.</p> + +<p>I remonstrated with him, but in vain.</p> + +<p>“I’ve had quite enough rest,” he said. “I’m all right. And this is an +important matter. It means a very large sum of money.”</p> + +<p>“Health’s more than money.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, but I feel quite my own man again.”</p> + +<p>He did not look it, but I said no more.</p> + +<p>I knew that argument would be useless. He sent a note to Vernon, and, +when I bade him good-bye, begged me to express his regret at being +obliged to cancel the dinner.</p> + +<p>“But I hope some day he’ll come to dine with me in London. Do tell him +so,” he said, as he stepped into the omnibus to go to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">30</span>the station. “I +should like to meet him again.”</p> + +<p>Those were his last words. I repeated them to Vernon.</p> + +<p>“I shall not forget that invitation, I assure you,” he said quietly. +“And I may be able to enjoy Deeming’s hospitality sooner than he, +perhaps, expects.”</p> + +<p>“Why? You’re surely not going to London yet awhile? I thought you loved +your June in Rome better than any other month of the year.”</p> + +<p>“But I’ve had so many Junes in Rome that I think I shall make a change. +By the way, when will you be in London?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, certainly by the last week in April.”</p> + +<p>“If I asked to travel back with you, would you object to my company?”</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow! Of course I should be delighted.”</p> + +<p>“Let us consider it a bargain, then.”</p> + +<p>He spoke decisively, and shook me by the hand as if to clinch the +bargain. Nor did he forget it.</p> + +<p>The third week in April found us in Paris, and on the twenty-second of +that month we stepped into the <i lang="fr">rapide</i> at the Gare du Nord, bound +for England.</p> + +<p>We sat opposite to one another in the compartment, with, at first, +ramparts of London papers between us; but, as we drew near to Boulogne, +first Vernon’s rampart fell, and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">31</span>then mine. The thought of the +nearness of England had got hold of us both. London ideas were taking +possession of us, and, as the train rushed on towards the sea, we +became restless, as if the roar of the great city were already in our +ears.</p> + +<p>“Do you know,” I said, breaking our mutual silence, “that, familiar as +I am with London, I can never return to it after an absence without a +feeling of apprehension. It always seems to me that in its black and +smoky arms it must hold some disaster which it is waiting to give to +me.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve had that sensation, too,” said Vernon. “Among the cities of the +world London is the monster, not merely by right of size but by other, +and more mysterious rights. It affects my imagination more than any of +the European capitals, but rather frightfully than agreeably. I feel +that it is the city of adventure, but that every adventure there must +have a fearsome ending.”</p> + +<p>“No doubt we are affected by its climate and its atmosphere.”</p> + +<p>“I dare say. Still, if anything very strange, very uncommon, should +ever happen to me, I am quite sure that it will be in London.”</p> + +<p>I smiled.</p> + +<p>“My experience,” I said, “has been that in London I am perpetually +expectant of gloomy and mysterious events, but that my life there is +remarkably unromantic and commonplace.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">32</span></p> + +<p>“You speak almost regretfully. Do you wish for gloomy and mysterious +events in your life?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose not. Yet there is a spirit hidden in one which does sigh +plaintively for the strange.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps this time it will be gratified.”</p> + +<p>Something in the tone of his voice moved me to say—</p> + +<p>“Do you expect it to be gratified?”</p> + +<p>“I! Why should I?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. Something in your voice made me fancy that you did.”</p> + +<p>He laughed.</p> + +<p>“The London atmosphere is, perhaps, affecting me already,” he said. +“The London influence is taking hold of me. I told you it always +stirred my imagination.”</p> + +<p>“At Boulogne-sur-mer!” I said, as the train ran into the station. “The +monster’s arms are longer than Goliath’s!”</p> + +<p>The stoppage of the train interrupted our conversation. We got out +to stretch our legs for a moment, and as we did so I found myself +wondering why Vernon, generally a very frank man, at any rate with +me, should have met my plain question with an attempt at laughing +subterfuge. It was a very slight matter, of course. In another man I +should, perhaps, scarcely have noticed it. But it was not Vernon’s way, +and therefore it struck me. I felt that he wished to prevent me from +getting <span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">33</span>at the truth of his mind at this moment. Usually, his desire +certainly was that the truth of his mind should be known to me.</p> + +<p>We travelled to Calais in silence. Then came the bustle of going +aboard the steamer and fortifying ourselves against the painful +attentions of a sharp north-easterly wind. When we were established +in our deck-chairs, and closely wrapped in rugs, we glanced round to +see whether we had any acquaintances among our fellow-passengers. +The steamer was just casting off, and some, like ourselves, were +already settled down for the voyage, while others were tramping up and +down briskly, with an air of determination, as if bent upon making +their blood circulate, and getting the maximum of benefit out of the +crossing. Among the latter was an elderly man, with pepper-and-salt +hair and a thin, aristocratic face.</p> + +<p>“Hullo,” I said, “there’s Lord Elyn. I wonder where he’s come from.”</p> + +<p>Turning in his walk, he was in front of us almost as I said the words, +and, seeing me, stopped, and, bending down, shook my hand.</p> + +<p>“Where do you hail from?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Paris,” I answered. “I’ve been in Rome. And you?”</p> + +<p>“Calais.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve been staying at Calais?”</p> + +<p>“No. I’m here for my medicine. I live on the Channel at present, or +nearly. My <span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">34</span>doctor, Peter Deeming—he’ll be Sir Peter before long, +I suppose—has prescribed the double voyage, from Dover and back, +every day of the week for a month. I sleep at the Burlington and eat +bœuf-à-la-mode at the Calais buffet every midday of my life just now.”</p> + +<p>“Deeming’s a friend of mine—of ours,” I said. “May I introduce Mr. +Kersteven—Lord Elyn.”</p> + +<p>The two men bowed.</p> + +<p>“It’s a pity he doesn’t take his own medicine,” said Lord Elyn. “I’ve +tried to persuade him, but in vain so far. However, I’ve got his +promise to come down to-night—Saturday, you know—and stay till Monday, +and make the voyage with me to-morrow. I expect to find him at the +Burlington when I get back.”</p> + +<p>I saw a sharp look of eagerness come into Vernon’s face.</p> + +<p>“Is Deeming looking ill, Lord Elyn?” he asked. “You say it is a pity he +doesn’t take the medicine he prescribes for you.”</p> + +<p>“I think him looking very ill—pale and worried and played out. He is +too great a success and pays the penalty—works too hard, like most +successful men. He ought to have prolonged his holiday in Rome. I can’t +imagine why he hurried back to town so unexpectedly.”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” I said, “I can explain that. He <span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">35</span>was summoned to town by an +important patient.”</p> + +<p>“Really!” said Lord Elyn. “I never heard of it.”</p> + +<p>He sounded slightly incredulous.</p> + +<p>“I saw him almost directly he arrived,” he added; “and when I inquired +why he had shortened his trip to Italy, he merely told me that he was +all right and had got sick of doing nothing.”</p> + +<p>“Well,” I answered, “he left Rome at a moment’s notice, and gave me the +reason I told you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Well, then, of course, it was so. A pity for him—though not for +us, eh? He’s a wonderful doctor. No one like him. And now, if you’ll +excuse me, I must take exercise. I keep walking the whole time, by +command.”</p> + +<p>He nodded, and went off up the deck at a brisk pace.</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry to hear that about Deeming,” I said to Vernon.</p> + +<p>“Yes. It’s a pity he was called away from Rome.”</p> + +<p>His voice, too, sounded incredulous.</p> + +<p>“Why d’you say it like that?” I asked. “You don’t think he told us a +lie?”</p> + +<p>“Why put it so cruelly? He may have made an excuse. When one receives a +boring dinner-invitation, one has sometimes a previous engagement.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">36</span></p> + +<p>“A dinner-invitation! Surely you don’t⸺?”</p> + +<p>“Well, he was to have dined with me the night of the day he left. But, +of course, it may have been a pure coincidence.”</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn passed us again, and repassed.</p> + +<p>“I say, Luttrell,” Vernon added, “what do you say to one more night out +of London? What do you say to a night at the Burlington?”</p> + +<p>“At Dover?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“But the luggage! It’s all registered through.”</p> + +<p>“We’ve got our dressing-cases, and my man has a bag with my pyjamas. +Evening dress doesn’t matter for a night. I’m sure the Burlington will +forgive us, especially if we engage a sitting-room.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, that doesn’t matter.”</p> + +<p>“What do you say, then?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that I mind, but—what’s made you think of it all of a +sudden? Have you taken a violent fancy to Lord Elyn?”</p> + +<p>My voice was challenging. He only smiled quietly.</p> + +<p>“A very violent fancy. I like obedient men.”</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn passed once more with a serious, determined air. He did not +look at us. He was intent on his medicine.</p> + +<p>“You’re joking.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">37</span></p> + +<p>“So were you.”</p> + +<p>I laughed.</p> + +<p>“Of course. You don’t choose to tell me your reason for wishing to stop +at Dover?”</p> + +<p>“I think you’ve guessed it.”</p> + +<p>He unrolled the rug from his legs and got up.</p> + +<p>“I’m going to take some medicine, too. Think over the Burlington and +tell me presently.”</p> + +<p>In a moment I saw him join Lord Elyn, and they walked up and down +together, talking busily.</p> + +<p>Of course, I had “guessed it.” He wanted to meet Deeming again, to +meet him directly we landed in England. My previous suspicion—it had +been almost more than a suspicion—was confirmed. I felt positive now +that Vernon had cut short his stay in Rome, given up his June there, +in order to follow Deeming to London and try to see more of him. The +obsession of the black spaniel—I called it that now in my mind for +the first time—was still upon him, had been upon him ever since the +night when I had made my two friends acquainted with each other in the +winter garden of the Grand Hotel. And Deeming? Had he really invented +an imaginary patient in order to have a good excuse for leaving Rome +and so avoiding Vernon’s dinner? If that were so, then I was assisting +at a sort of man-hunt, in which two of my friends were pursued and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">38</span>pursuer. I began to feel as if I were going to be involved in +something extraordinary. And yet how vague, how fantastic it all was! +And my own position? I tried to review it. If I assisted Vernon in any +way, could I be called—or rather, should I be, that was the only thing +that mattered—disloyal to Deeming? I felt rather uncomfortable, and +yet—and this was strange—rather excited. I thought of my conversation +with Vernon about London. I had been absent from it for some time, +yet already, and on the sea, I felt affected by its powerful and +dreadful influence, felt that curious sense of apprehension which I had +mentioned to Vernon in the train. Suddenly I resolved to fall in with +my friend’s wish to stay the night at Dover. After all, what did it +matter? He and Deeming would certainly meet in London. Why strive to +postpone the meeting? It seemed to me—I was thinking somewhat absurdly, +I acknowledge it—that it would be better, safer, that the encounter +should take place at Dover, under the white cliffs, with the sea-wind +coming in, perhaps, through open windows. London was mephitic, and +turned one to gloomy and morbid imaginations. The sea-wind might blow +away Vernon’s extraordinary suspicions of Deeming, and lay to rest the +obsession of the black spaniel.</p> + +<p>Moved by this idea, when Vernon presently stopped before me with Lord +Elyn, I said—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">39</span></p> + +<p>“I give my vote for a night at the Burlington.”</p> + +<p>“Capital!” said Vernon. “I’ve been telling Lord Elyn we thought of +staying, and he is sure our tweeds and coloured ties will be forgiven +us.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">40</span> + <h3>IV</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">At</span> the Burlington in the hall we found Deeming. I saw him before he +was aware of us, and was startled by the change in his face. There was +the stamp of nervous exhaustion upon it. The complexion was grey, the +mouth was drawn, the eyes were anxious, almost feverish. When he turned +and faced us fully he made an abrupt movement which was certainly not +caused by pleasure, and I saw the fingers of his two hands clench +themselves violently in the palms. Then he recovered himself, came +forward, and greeted us with self-possession.</p> + +<p>“I never expected to see you in England so soon,” he said to Vernon. “I +thought you usually spent part of the summer in Rome.”</p> + +<p>“I often do. But this year something has called me to London.”</p> + +<p>“Oh. Well, all the better. We shall see something of you. I hope we +shall bring off our dinner together in town. Only you must let me be +the host.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you. I shall be delighted.”</p> + +<p>The note of cordiality was, I thought, forced by both men. Few more +words were spoken, for it was getting late, and the hour of dinner was +approaching. As we went upstairs I said to Vernon—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">41</span></p> + +<p>“Deeming does certainly want medicine of one sort or another. Don’t you +think he looks horribly ill?”</p> + +<p>“He has a strung-up expression. I should say he’s overworking. Did you +notice how he started when he saw us?”</p> + +<p>“Did he?” I answered, disingenuously I confess. “Naturally he was +surprised. He had no idea we were in England.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly. Here are our rooms. <i lang="fr">Au revoir</i> at dinner.”</p> + +<p>The dinner I need not chronicle at length. It took place downstairs, +although we had engaged the sitting-room to appease a management +shocked at our lack of evening clothes. The talk ran easily enough, +helped by Lord Elyn’s unconsciousness of the obsession of the black +spaniel, which sometimes seemed to me to be hovering about our table, +creeping beneath our chairs, a shadow importunate, servile, yet +menacing. I felt that the thoughts of Deeming and Vernon, interlacing +and inimical, were on this whining, whimpering, uneasy shadow, that had +called the latter from his home in Italy, that had stopped him here +by the grey sea. I knew it as if those thoughts were spread before +me by my plate. And all the time we chatted, glancing from subject +to subject without great earnestness, laughing lightly at the last +London absurdity, or discussing with apparent animation the chances +of politics and the trend of art, I felt that our <span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">42</span>conversation was +but a thin veil spread over a depth in which were other voices than +ours, murmuring, in which the pale forms of future events glided, like +spectres, to and fro.</p> + +<p>Directly after dinner Lord Elyn excused himself.</p> + +<p>“The eyes of the nurse are upon me,” he said, jocosely. “I see them +saying: ‘Master Elyn, it’s time for you to go to bed!’ Eh, Deeming?”</p> + +<p>“Quite right, Lord Elyn,” answered Deeming, smiling.</p> + +<p>“Well, good-night. You’d much better come too, Deeming.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I couldn’t sleep yet. I haven’t been on the sea. I think I shall +go out and take a breath of air on the front.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it may do you good. I feel full of sleep.”</p> + +<p>And he went off, leaving us in the hall.</p> + +<p>“Will you come out?” asked Deeming.</p> + +<p>The invitation seemed addressed to both of us. I expected Vernon +to accept it with alacrity, but, to my surprise, he took up the +<cite>Westminster Gazette</cite>.</p> + +<p>“I’m a bit tired,” he answered. “I think I’ll stay here.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll come with you,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Right. I want a turn or two to summon slumber.”</p> + +<p>There was something almost pathetic in his voice. It moved me to +ask, as we went down <span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">43</span>the steps, and along the row of houses to the +sea-front—</p> + +<p>“Have you been sleeping badly, then?”</p> + +<p>“Pretty badly. I say, what’s brought Vernon over so soon?”</p> + +<p>The question was sharply suspicious.</p> + +<p>“He didn’t tell me,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“Then you don’t know?”</p> + +<p>We turned to the left and walked along the parade towards the cliff. No +one was about in the cold and gusty night. Now and then a light flashed +out across the sea, swept it in a half circle, and vanished in the +darkness.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m not in all Vernon’s secrets,” I said.</p> + +<p>Directly I had spoken I regretted my choice of words.</p> + +<p>“Secrets!” he said.</p> + +<p>“I only mean that Vernon’s not specially given to making confidences. +If he has any particular reason for coming to England at this time +of year, he hasn’t told it to me. But why should he have any special +reason?”</p> + +<p>Deeming shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Where is he going to stay in town?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“At Claridge’s, I believe; at any rate, for a time.”</p> + +<p>“Then he means to make a long stay?”</p> + +<p>His voice still sounded intensely suspicious. Suddenly I felt as if +I could not stand all this <span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">44</span>subterfuge, as if I must brush away from +me the spider’s web of mutual distrust in which my two friends were +entangling me with each other.</p> + +<p>“My dear fellow!” I exclaimed. “You really make me feel as if I were +under cross-examination. I begin to wish I had never introduced you and +Vernon to each other.”</p> + +<p>Deeming stopped dead, and looked at me.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps it would have been better,” he said. “Much better.”</p> + +<p>“You think so, too? Why?”</p> + +<p>“Can’t you see that Vernon hates me?” he said, with violence.</p> + +<p>“What earthly reason can he have for hating you?”</p> + +<p>“Some men don’t ask for reasons. There is something about me which +is antipathetic to Vernon, and he’s a strange fellow. You think him +gentle, I know. But I—well, I believe that underneath his apparent +gentleness hides the soul of a fanatic, a black fanatic.”</p> + +<p>We were still standing face to face. Now I looked into his eyes and +said:</p> + +<p>“I’m going to be very rude to you.”</p> + +<p>“Go on. I’ll bear it.”</p> + +<p>“I am perfectly certain you are suffering from nervous exhaustion. +You have all the symptoms. You are horribly pale and shaky, and full +of irritability and suspicion, ready to entertain any dark idea that +may present <span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">45</span>itself to you, unable to see things in a clear light of +reason.”</p> + +<p>“And you, Luttrell; do you know what you are?”</p> + +<p>“I!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I’m going to be rude to you. You are either a self-deceiver or +a—well, something one doesn’t care to call a man. You know quite well, +in your heart, that Vernon has come over so soon because—because⸺”</p> + +<p>Suddenly he hesitated, faltered, broke off.</p> + +<p>I seemed to hear the whimper of a dog near us in the night.</p> + +<p>“I’ve had enough of the wind,” he said. “I’m going in.”</p> + +<p>And we went back to the hotel without another word.</p> + +<p>Next morning, Vernon and I went up to town by an early train, leaving +Lord Elyn and Deeming to take their Channel trip. At Charing Cross, +as we were parting, Vernon to go to Claridge’s and I to my flat in +Albemarle Street, Vernon said, “By the way, what is Deeming’s address?”</p> + +<p>“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” I said.</p> + +<p>He took out a card and a pencil.</p> + +<p>“Three hundred, Wimpole Street,” he repeated slowly, as he wrote it +down. “Good-bye. Let’s meet to-morrow. Come and lunch with me.”</p> + +<p>He got into a hansom and drove away. I followed in a moment. As my +cab came out <span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">46</span>of the station yard and crossed Trafalgar Square I was +enveloped in what I called to myself “the London feeling.” The day was +warm, but dull and grey. The tall buildings, the statue of Gordon, the +Nelson column, the lions, looked sad and phantom-like to my eyes, for +many months accustomed to the pellucid clearness of African landscapes, +to the brilliant blue of Italian skies. And the well-known depression +which always settles down upon me like a fog when I first return to +London came to me once more, bathing me in a gloom which I strove in +vain to shake off. In this gloom I seemed to see, like shadows passing +in a fog, the forms of Vernon, of Deeming, and another form, small, +black, and cringing, the form of a dog.</p> + +<p>“P’f!” I said to myself. “Am I going to be the slave of a too sensitive +imagination?”</p> + +<p>And I resolutely began to think of pleasant things, of the friends, +of the amusements, of the occupations that would solace me. Yet, when +I reached Albemarle Street, I was heavy-hearted, and all that day and +the next my depression persisted. Even a cheerful lunch with Vernon +at Claridge’s and the renewal of many old acquaintanceships failed to +restore me to my normal temper.</p> + +<p>A week passed by, and I had not seen Deeming. I was beginning to wonder +what had become of him, when I received from him <span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">47</span>a note asking me to +dine with him at the Carlton on the following evening to meet Vernon. +I was, unfortunately, already engaged to dine with some American +friends and go to the play; so I wrote to excuse myself, and added this +postscript—</p> + +<p>“May your dinner banish your mutual misunderstanding. Remember that it +will always be a grief to me if my two friends are at cross-purposes.”</p> + +<p>The day after the dinner, when I had just come in from the club at +seven o’clock in the evening, my servant announced “Doctor Deeming,” +and Deeming walked into the room. I saw at once that he was in a +condition of unusual excitement. We shook hands, and directly my man +had gone out and the door was shut, Deeming, who was still standing and +who did not seem to see the chair I offered to him, exclaimed—</p> + +<p>“Of course, you have heard about Number 301?”</p> + +<p>“Number 301? What the deuce do you mean?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Number 301, Wimpole Street, the house next door to mine.”</p> + +<p>“What about it? Has it been burgled, or burnt down, or what?”</p> + +<p>“Burnt down! Nonsense! It’s been to let for the last three months. +Yesterday morning I found the board was down, and last night Vernon +told me that he has taken <span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">48</span>it. He’s taken it as it is, furnished, and +is going in at once.”</p> + +<p>I was surprised, and, I suppose, showed that I was in my face, for he +continued—</p> + +<p>“Oh, then you didn’t know! He hadn’t told you!”</p> + +<p>“He has told me nothing.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a strange business. I—I⸺”</p> + +<p>He began to walk to and fro.</p> + +<p>“Why should he come to live next door to me? Why should he⸺?”</p> + +<p>He stopped in front of me.</p> + +<p>“Did you tell him where I lived?” he said, almost menacingly.</p> + +<p>I resented his tone.</p> + +<p>“Look here, Deeming,” I said, quietly. “If we are to continue friends, +there must really be an end of all this mystery and suspicion about +nothing. Why shouldn’t I tell Vernon where you live?”</p> + +<p>“Did you tell him?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. He asked me, and of course I answered. Are you a criminal +hiding from justice, and is Vernon a detective? Upon my word⸺”</p> + +<p>I felt I was getting hot, and was silent. He stood quite still, staring +at me for a moment with eyes that were almost fierce. Then he sat down +on a sofa a little way from me, and said in a calmer voice—</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course there was no reason. Still, it’s very odd. You must see +that.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">49</span></p> + +<p>“What is there odd in it? If it’s a good house, why shouldn’t Vernon +take it as well as anyone else?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a fairly good house.”</p> + +<p>He moved, and leaned towards me.</p> + +<p>“Originally,” he said, speaking slowly, “originally it was one with +mine. The two houses were thrown into one. That was when Renold, the +author, lived there. Afterwards, it was as it is now. But it’s still +almost like one house.”</p> + +<p>“How can that be?”</p> + +<p>“Well, the alteration was very flimsily carried out, I suppose; for +in the one house one can—I hope to goodness Vernon isn’t much of a +musician.”</p> + +<p>“You’re afraid of being disturbed?”</p> + +<p>“If he plays the piano—by Jove!”</p> + +<p>He burst into a laugh.</p> + +<p>“Look out in the papers very soon,” he said. “I shall probably be +bringing a case against him for annoyance. I can’t stand a hullabaloo +next door after I’ve finished my day’s work. I want rest and peace. +It’s no joke being a successful physician, I can tell you.”</p> + +<p>I laughed too, almost as unnaturally as he had.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” I said, “you needn’t be afraid. Vernon does play, but I’m sure, +if you ask him, he’ll put his piano against the wall of the other +house, and keep the windows shut when he is <span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">50</span>practising. Why didn’t you +speak about it last night?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll ask no favours of Vernon,” he said sternly.</p> + +<p>Then he got up.</p> + +<p>“I thought I’d just tell you,” he said. “Now I can’t stop. I’ve got a +patient to see.”</p> + +<p>He gave me a feverish hand, and went quickly out of the room.</p> + +<p>While he was with me, I had endeavoured to make light of his news, to +deceive him into the belief that I thought Vernon’s action a chance +one, but directly I was alone I felt, though less agitated, nearly as +angry at this affair as he did. It was a strange business—this pursuit. +Deeming had said to me at Dover that Vernon was a “black fanatic”; +what if it were so? What if my friend, so kind, so calm, even so +unusually gentle in ordinary life, well balanced and eminently sane in +his outlook upon men and affairs, really had a “screw loose”—to use +the current phrase? What if the fate of his dog had actually affected +his mind? I knew that there are men in the world who are sound on +all subjects except one. Touch upon that subject, and they show an +eccentricity that is akin to madness. It might be so with Vernon. I +began to feel as if it must be so, and a great restlessness, a great +uneasiness, beset me. Driven by it, I caught up my hat, hurried +downstairs, hailed a hansom, and went to Claridge’s.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">51</span></p> + +<p>The hall-porter informed me that Mr. Kersteven was out.</p> + +<p>“Do you happen to know where he has gone?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“No, sir; he didn’t leave any word.”</p> + +<p>My cab was waiting. I jumped into it again and called to the man—</p> + +<p>“Go to 301, Wimpole Street.”</p> + +<p>My instinct told me that I should find Vernon there.</p> + +<p>Night was now falling. It was the hour when, to me, London presents +its dreariest aspect. The streets are not yet thronged with those who, +having worked during the day, are beginning to seek their nocturnal +pleasures. The just-lit lamps are waging a feeble combat with the last +fading rays of the flickering twilight. There is a sense of something +closing in, like a furtive enemy, upon the great city. As I neared +Wimpole Street I noticed that a fine rain was beginning to fall. The +air was damp, without freshness, oppressive. In the gloom the cabman +mistook the number and stopped at Deeming’s door. I got out quickly, +paid and dismissed him, and was about to move on to Number 301, when +it seemed to me that I heard the shrill, short whine of a dog. It +startled me, and I remained where I was, listening in the rain. The +sound was not repeated. I looked down the dismal street, but I saw no +animal. I had not been able to locate the noise. I glanced at Deeming’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">52</span>house. It was dark. Only from a window in the area shone a pale +gleam of light. After two or three minutes’ hesitation I moved away, +ascended the step of Number 301, and pressed the electric-bell. There +was no response. I pressed it again and kept my finger upon it for at +least a minute. This time my summons was answered, though in a rather +unorthodox fashion. A window on the first-floor was pushed up, and I +saw a vague face looking out at me from above.</p> + +<p>“Vernon,” I said, “is it you?”</p> + +<p>No voice replied, but the window was shut down, and almost directly, +through some glass above the hall-door, I saw a bright light start +up, and I heard a faint movement within. Then the door was opened and +Vernon stood before me. He looked greatly surprised.</p> + +<p>“You?” he said. “How on earth did you know I was here?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know it. Can I come in?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Why not?”</p> + +<p>But he still stood in the doorway, blocking up the entrance.</p> + +<p>“You’re alone?” he asked, rather suspiciously.</p> + +<p>“Quite alone.”</p> + +<p>“Come in.”</p> + +<p>I stepped into a hideous passage, and he at once shut the door.</p> + +<p>“Well?” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">53</span></p> + +<p>Not only his voice, but his attitude questioned me.</p> + +<p>“I went to Claridge’s. They told me you were out, so I came on here on +the chance that you might be looking over your new abode.”</p> + +<p>“So Deeming’s been with you!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he came in for a minute, and mentioned casually that you had +taken this house.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! he mentioned it casually, did he? Well, come and have a look at +it, won’t you?”</p> + +<p>“If you don’t mind.”</p> + +<p>He spoke with constraint, and so did I. Indeed, I had never before felt +so uncomfortable with Vernon as I did at this moment. I did not know +exactly what I had expected of him if I found him at the house; but it +certainly was not this cold reserve, as of one who scarcely knew me, +and to whom my appearance was unwelcome.</p> + +<p>“It’s not a bad house,” he said, as we went towards the stairs. “It +will do very well for me for the season.”</p> + +<p>“You’re in luck, then.”</p> + +<p>The words faltered on my lips even while I strove to speak carelessly, +for, in truth, knowing Vernon as I did, knowing his house in Rome, it +was almost impossible not to express my amazement at his choice—or, +no, perhaps not that, for I could no longer be in any doubt as to why +he had rented Number 301—but it was almost impossible to keep up <span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">54</span>the +ridiculous pretence, forced upon me by his words and manner, that +I thought he had rented Number 301 because it had seemed to him a +suitable London home.</p> + +<p>A more dreadful house I have seldom seen. The stamp of bad taste, +of pretentious middleclass vulgarity, was upon it, showing in every +detail, in the colouring of walls, in the patterns of carpets, in the +shapes of the furniture, in the tiles of the hearths, in the very +balusters and fire-irons. The mirrors were painted with bulrushes, +poppies, tulips. Cushions of brown and sulphur-coloured plush lay +upon settees that imitated shells. Chocolate-hued portières hung +across double doors, upon which were views of Swiss lakes and Alpine +heights. There were ceilings that represented the starry firmament, +and there were floors that suggested the vegetable-monger’s shop. In +“cosy corners,” thick with dusty draperies, nestled imitation beetles +and frogs, among Japanese fans and squads of photographs of possibly +well-known actresses, roofed in by open umbrellas of paper, from whose +spokes hung gilded balls.</p> + +<p>And there were yellow spotted palms in pots, wrapped, like a face +distraught with toothache, in smothering cloths of bilious yellow and +of shrieking green.</p> + +<p>“Not a bad house, is it?” said Vernon once more, when we had partially +explored it. By the words, by his manner, I was made at once <span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">55</span>to +realise that from this moment he intended to keep me out of his +confidence. Why this was so I could only try to surmise. As to action, +all I could do was to accept the situation and follow him in travesty +with as good a grace as possible. It was evident that Vernon’s +suspicions of my good faith had been aroused by my unexpected visit, +following so immediately upon Deeming’s announcement of the taking of +the house, and that he had resolved to show me that he would not permit +any criticism, even any discussion of his doings, however strange, +however hostile to Deeming they must seem to me in the light of recent +events.</p> + +<p>“Not at all bad,” I answered.</p> + +<p>We were standing at the moment in the terrible double drawing-room. I +carefully abstained from looking round. There was an instant of, to me, +rather embarrassing silence. Then Vernon said—</p> + +<p>“Well, shall we go out together? It’s getting rather late. You hadn’t +anything special to say to me, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“No, nothing. I just called at the hotel, and thought, as you were out, +I might find you examining your new abode.”</p> + +<p>Even as I spoke I involuntarily shuddered; I thought at the idea of +Vernon living in this house, this inmost sanctuary of Philistinism.</p> + +<p>“Why did you do that?” he said sharply.</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">56</span></p> + +<p>“Shiver like that. Did you—did you hear anything?”</p> + +<p>His eyes searched mine; and once more I saw the fierce light in them.</p> + +<p>“Hear? No. What should I hear?”</p> + +<p>He did not answer; but continued to stare at me as if he doubted my +words. Then he said abruptly:</p> + +<p>“Let us be off, then.”</p> + +<p>We descended the stairs and let ourselves out into the darkness and +the rain. As we passed Deeming’s house I seemed once more to hear the +shrill whimper of a dog. I wondered if Vernon had heard it too, for he +hesitated by the step of the door, almost as if he thought of mounting +it, and glanced swiftly down to the area, from which still shone the +ray of light. But he said nothing, and we walked on, and were soon in +the bustle of Oxford Street.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">57</span> + <h3>V</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">After</span> seeing Vernon that evening in No. 301, Wimpole Street, I knew two +things for certain. One was that he had taken the house in order to be +next door to Deeming; the other, that whatever project he might have +formed, whatever intention or desire was driving him on into a strange +path, he did not mean me to know of it through him. I was to be shut +out from his confidence.</p> + +<p>This fact, while it irritated me, also relieved me. It rendered my +position as the friend of both men more tenable than it could have been +had Vernon confided in me. Now, if at any time Deeming were suspicious +of me, I should be able to confront him with the complacency of a +complete innocence, whereas hitherto I had more than once experienced +the discomfort of—I hope I may say it without offence—an honourable man +who is forced by circumstance to practise a mild deceit. This was a +relief.</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, I did feel both irritation and surprise at Vernon’s +attitude towards me. It seemed to throw a chill over our friendship. +If he had never spoken to me of Deeming and his black spaniel, the +matter would not have troubled me, but a confidence begun and then +abruptly discontinued surely implies that one’s <span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">58</span>friendship is doubted. +I could no longer feel quite at ease when I was with Vernon. A dark and +cringing shadow separated us.</p> + +<p>Vernon moved into his dreadful house two days after I had first seen +it. I naturally expected that, being a rich man, he would immediately +begin to tear down draperies, to get in new furniture, to lay down +carpets that did not recall the vegetable-monger’s, to turn out the +frogs and the beetles, and to do away with the paper umbrellas. I was +mistaken. He left things much as they were.</p> + +<p>“I don’t suppose I shall be here long,” he said.</p> + +<p>“I thought you had the house on a year’s lease?” I rejoined.</p> + +<p>“The owner wouldn’t let it for a shorter time. But I don’t expect to be +here for twelve months, or anything like it. I may be out of it in a +month. Who knows?”</p> + +<p>He glanced at me as if he expected me to find some hidden meaning in +his words, some meaning which he did not choose to put before me.</p> + +<p>“I’m not even going to be bothered with a staff of servants,” he +continued. “I shall only have my man, Cragg, and one woman who can do +all that is necessary for me.”</p> + +<p>“Really! What does Cragg think of it?” I ventured.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Cragg has been with me for years and thoroughly understands me.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">59</span></p> + +<p>I knew that; I knew, too, that Cragg was a rare being, a confidential +servant who was absolutely faithful. But, still, Cragg was unaccustomed +to such a peculiar kind of “roughing it” as was now in prospect.</p> + +<p>“I hope you’ll be comfortable,” I said, rather lamely.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. Of course, I don’t intend to entertain here. I shall imitate +Deeming. I shall exercise all my hospitality in restaurants. The +Englishman’s house is more than ever his castle since the restaurant +came into fashion.”</p> + +<p>And he laughed.</p> + +<p>“But perhaps, now I’m next door, Deeming may ask me in sometimes in the +evening,” he said. “We ought to be neighbourly.”</p> + +<p>Something in his voice, as he said the last words, turned me cold. I +felt quite sure, for the first time, that hatred was blazing in his +heart, hatred against Deeming. Of course, I could not speak of my new +certainty now that I was confronted by his reserve, but a sudden idea +sprang up within my brain. There was one way, and one way only, of +brushing aside this spider’s-web of suspicion and intrigue, which was +being woven day by day, and it was this. If I could only ascertain for +myself, and prove to Vernon, that the mysterious black spaniel was +happy as had been his “Whisper,” well-cared-for, well-loved, these two +men who were at secret enmity would doubtless at once be reconciled, +and I should <span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">60</span>no longer have to endure the vexation of being on uneasy +terms with both. Vernon knew me well enough to know that if I made a +solemn statement he could absolutely rely upon it. Deeming disliked +him, as men generally and naturally dislike those who, without good +reason, are suspicious of them. But though he was now cold and distant +with me, I could not think that he disliked me. Where Vernon would +probably fail, I might surely succeed. It was such a simple matter +after all. I merely wanted to see a dog with his master, Deeming +with his black spaniel. That could surely be managed without much +difficulty and before many days had elapsed. I said nothing to Vernon +of my project. Indeed, I resolved not to seek a meeting with him until +I had accomplished it. Our present intercourse was too restrained to +be particularly agreeable. The London season was setting in and there +was much to be got through. I could easily avoid Vernon for a few +days and, when I had the news I wanted, go to him and put an end to a +condition of things at once painful and—so I called it resolutely to +myself—ridiculous.</p> + +<p>Having made up my mind, I had only to act. I must see Deeming’s black +spaniel, and see him with his master.</p> + +<p>I began my campaign by calling one evening at Deeming’s house at an +hour when I thought it probable that the last sufferer would have gone. +But I had miscalculated <span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">61</span>his popularity as a doctor. His extremely +thin and sympathetic butler informed me in a whispering voice that the +waiting-room was still thronged with anxious patients.</p> + +<p>“When is he free?” I inquired.</p> + +<p>“He is engaged all day, Sir, at this season of the year.”</p> + +<p>“Does he never get out for a breath of air?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, Sir, when he drives out to the hospital.”</p> + +<p>“And on a Sunday, I suppose. No doubt”—I tried to make my voice very +natural and careless at this point—“he goes out on a Sunday if it’s +fine, to give the dog a run, eh?”</p> + +<p>It seemed to me that the butler’s pale face slightly twisted as I said +the last words, as if he made a sudden effort not to show in it some +expression which would have betrayed a feeling; as if he suppressed, +perhaps, a smile, or concealed a knowing leer.</p> + +<p>“The Doctor’s generally shut up on a Sunday, writing, Sir,” he +murmured, “or pursuing his researches.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>There seemed nothing more to be done just then, and as I saw a patient +coming out and looking for his hat in the hall, I went away.</p> + +<p>That evening I wrote to Deeming, telling him I had called to see if I +could persuade him <span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">62</span>to take a stroll, as I was sure his health needed +some rest, air, and relaxation.</p> + +<p>“Will you come for a walk in Regent’s Park some Sunday morning?” I +ended, regardless of the butler’s information.</p> + +<p>He answered, by return, that he would come, if I liked, on the +following Sunday. I replied, fixing the hour, and saying I would call +for him. This done, I went out and—bought a dog.</p> + +<p>It was a gay fox-terrier, young, full of abounding life, and quite +ready to attach itself to anyone who was kind to it. When Sunday +arrived, it was already devoted to me, and gleefully accompanied me to +Wimpole Street to fetch Deeming for the promised walk. While I rang +the bell it squatted on the step, wagging its short tail, and looking +eagerly expectant. The butler opened the door.</p> + +<p>“The Doctor is quite ready, Sir,” he said, when he saw me. “Will you +step in?”</p> + +<p>Suddenly he caught sight of the dog, who had jumped up when the door +was opened, and was evidently preparing for exploration.</p> + +<p>“Is that your dog, Sir?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said.</p> + +<p>“I don’t think the Doctor⸺ Get back, you little beast!”</p> + +<p>The last exclamation came in a voice so different from the whispering +one I was accustomed to that I could hardly believe it was the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">63</span>butler who had spoken. At the same moment my dog dodged his +outstretched foot and vanished, pattering, into the house.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i062"> + <img src="images/i062.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption> + “AS HE VANISHED, DEEMING APPEARED AT THE HALL DOOR.” + </figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“Call him back, Sir; call him back, for the Lord’s sake, or there’ll +be trouble!” exclaimed the butler, turning sharply with the evident +intention of trying to catch the little culprit. But he had no time to +act nor I to call. Almost as he spoke there came from within the house +the piercing cry of a dog in pain, and the fox-terrier darted out of +the hall, down the street, and disappeared, yelping shrilly as he went, +with his ears set flat against his head, and his tail tucked down in +his back. As he vanished, Deeming appeared at the hall-door.</p> + +<p>“How dare you let stray dogs into my house?” he said to the butler in a +savage voice.</p> + +<p>“I beg pardon, Sir,” stammered the butler; “but it was this gentleman’s +dog, and⸺”</p> + +<p>“It was your dog, was it?” said Deeming, turning to me. “I did not know +you had a dog.”</p> + +<p>I was feeling so angry that I could hardly trust myself to speak.</p> + +<p>“Certainly it’s mine,” I said curtly. “I must go and find it.”</p> + +<p>And without another word I walked away down the street. I could not +discover the dog. Its terror had evidently been so great that it had +fled blindly and far. From that day to this I have never seen it or +heard anything of it. When it rushed out of Deeming’s house it <span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">64</span>rushed +out of my life. Having failed to find it, after walking some distance, +I gave up the search and stood still. The natural thing, I suppose, +would have been to retrace my steps to Wimpole Street, where Deeming +was waiting for me. But this I did not do. I felt that I could not do +it. An invincible repulsion against Deeming’s society had come into my +heart. When I thought of him I saw the fox-terrier fleeing, with his +ears set back against his head; I heard the yelping of a dog.</p> + +<p>I stood, therefore, for a moment, and then walked home to Albemarle +Street.</p> + +<p>I had bought the dog in order to find out, if possible, how Deeming was +with animals, how they comported themselves towards him. Secondarily I +had thought of using the dog as a pretext for introducing the subject +of the black spaniel. I had meant, when Deeming came out, to point to +my dog and suggest that, as I had mine with me for the walk, he should +bring out his.</p> + +<p>Well, my curiosity had surely been satisfied. I had not, it is true, +seen the mysterious black spaniel; but I could hardly remain in doubt +as to Deeming’s attitude towards pet animals. The expression upon his +face as he came out from the hall had been ferocious. Vernon was right. +Deeming was a cruel man.</p> + +<p>As I realised that, I began to wonder more <span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">65</span>about the black spaniel. +Why should such a man keep a pet—a man, too, who was so incessantly +occupied that he had no time for amusement, for almost any relaxations? +And why had the butler—for I now felt sure that I had seen his face +contorted for an instant on the evening when I had spoken to him of +the black spaniel—why had the butler felt such amazement, or bitter +contempt, or sardonic amusement, when I had alluded to the possibility +of Deeming giving the black spaniel a run?</p> + +<p>It almost began to seem to me just then as if the black spaniel were a +baleful chimera, like the creation of a madman’s brain, a nothingness +that yet can govern, can terrify, can cause tragic events and lead to +bitterness and crime. Who had ever seen this creature? Where was it, +in what place of concealment? Did it ever come forth into the light of +day? I longed to know something of it, of its existence in that house, +of its relations with its master.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Vernon knew or would know. He lived next door. He had gone +there to discover; of that I was sure. He watched at his window to see +the spaniel let out. He listened at his wall at night, perhaps, to hear +its whining.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Vernon knew or would know.</p> + +<p>And when he knew, would he tell me?</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">66</span></p> + +<p>In the afternoon of that day I received a note from Deeming—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>I waited for you to come back for an age. What was the matter? I am +very sorry about your dog. The fact is I am not very well and in a +nervous condition, and it startled me to come suddenly upon it in +the dimly lighted hall. Let me know when we can meet.</p> + +<p class="right">P. D.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>That was the note. I read it several times before I threw it into the +waste-paper basket. But I did not answer it. I felt that I did not want +to meet Deeming again for some time.</p> + +<p>I felt that. Fate willed it that I should never look upon him again as +mortal man. Within two days from that time I was called to the North +of England by the serious illness of my dear mother, who lived in +Cumberland. And there I remained until she died. Her death took place +on the twenty-seventh of June. Her funeral was three days later. After +it was over I returned to the house where I had been born, where I +was now quite alone with the servants. I had to wind up many affairs, +to put many things in order, to sort and examine papers and pay off +some of the household. Despite my grief I was obliged to be busy, to +be practical. For several days I was so much occupied that I did not +look at a newspaper. I even set aside the letters that came by the +post—letters of condolence, I felt sure they were, most of them—wishing +to read <span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">67</span>them and answer them all together when I had leisure, and felt +less miserable and deserted, and more able to take an interest in such +affairs as were not actually forced upon me.</p> + +<p>At last one evening I had got through everything. I had dined, and was +sitting alone in the drawing-room, where my mother had always sat, +feeling really almost as if I dwelt in a world unpeopled, or peopled +only by the spectres of those who once had lived, when a servant came +in with the last post. There were no letters, only two or three papers +from London. Without interest, merely to do something, I tore the +paper covering from one and unfolded it. My eyes fell at once upon the +following paragraph—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>As so many rumours have been put into circulation with regard to +the lamented decease of Dr. Peter Deeming, which took place on +the 30th of June, we are glad to be able to state authoritatively +that the actual cause of death was blood-poisoning, which was, it +seems, set up by the bite of a dog. Doctor Deeming, like many other +eminent medical men, while solicitous for the health of others, +was singularly careless about his own. The bite was severe, but +he took little heed of it, although he had the dog, which was a +pet, destroyed. He has now paid the penalty of his regrettable +carelessness, and society is the poorer. For no West End physician +was more trusted and esteemed by his patients than Dr. Deeming.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>The paper dropped from my hand.</p> + +<p>So Deeming and the black spaniel were dead! And each had destroyed the +other!</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">68</span> + <h2 class="nobreak" id="Spaniel_VI">PART II—THE RESURRECTION</h2> +</div> + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Peter Deeming</span> died on the thirtieth of June, in the year 1900. In +June of the following year, as I was walking past the Knightsbridge +Barracks, I met Vernon strolling along in the sunshine, with a +cigarette in his mouth. When he saw me, he stopped, took my hand, and +clasped it warmly.</p> + +<p>“Back at last!” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes. I only arrived yesterday. Did you winter in Rome, as usual?”</p> + +<p>“No. I’ve not been out of England.”</p> + +<p>“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been facing +the London fogs while I’ve been in Africa and Sicily?”</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>“What can have been your reason?”</p> + +<p>He put his arm through mine.</p> + +<p>“Let’s go into the Park,” he said. “We’ll take a stroll, and I’ll tell +you.”</p> + +<p>We turned into the Park by the nearest gate, and walked gently along +under the trees. It was a strangely radiant day for London—a day that +seemed full of hope and gaiety. Many children were about laughing, +playing, calling to each other. Poor people basked in <span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">69</span>the sunshine, +stretched upon the short grass. Carriages rolled by, drawn by fine +horses. In the trees the birds were singing, as innocently as they sing +in retired country places. And I felt glad and at ease. It was pleasant +to be with Vernon once more, pleasant to be once more in my own land +among my own people.</p> + +<p>“Well, Vernon?” I said.</p> + +<p>“First,” he answered, “you must tell me something. You must tell me why +you left England after the death of your mother, without coming to say +good-bye to me.”</p> + +<p>“I felt upset, broken down, as if I didn’t want to see anyone, as if I +wanted to get away and be alone among new scenes and people who were +strangers.”</p> + +<p>“That was it?”</p> + +<p>I heard the doubt in his voice, and added—</p> + +<p>“There was another reason, too, an under-reason.”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p>“That sudden death of poor Deeming, coming just after my mother’s, +upset my nerves, I think. It made me feel as if—as if I had been cruel. +It filled me with regret.”</p> + +<p>“Cruel! I don’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“No. How could you? But when a man’s dead, one thinks very differently +about him often. And I had been suspicious of Deeming. At the end, +indeed, I had been unfriendly.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">70</span></p> + +<p>“I am quite in the dark,” he said, rather coldly, I thought.</p> + +<p>I explained to him what I meant. I told him of my last meeting with +Deeming, of the incident of the fox-terrier, of Deeming’s note to me, +of how I had left it unanswered. He listened with a profound attention.</p> + +<p>“When I read of his death in the paper I wished I had answered his +note,” I concluded. “I wished it more than I can tell you. And I +regretted bitterly that the last weeks of our intercourse had been +clouded by suspicion, by misunderstanding.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!”</p> + +<p>His voice still sounded cold. After a moment he said:</p> + +<p>“And you didn’t come to see me because⸺”</p> + +<p>“Well, you had been mixed up with my suspicion of Deeming, and⸺”</p> + +<p>“Now I understand. You felt a very natural longing to be away from all +that recalled sadness to you, that might deepen your grief or serve to +irritate your nerves.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose that was it. I went right away. I wanted to forget, to +escape out of a dark cloud into a clear atmosphere. But you? Why have +you been in London all this time?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been working.”</p> + +<p>“Working! You?”</p> + +<p>“Even I—idler, dilettante.”</p> + +<p>“Music?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">71</span></p> + +<p>“I’ve been working with Arthur Gernham.”</p> + +<p>“For the animals?”</p> + +<p>“Exactly. For our brothers and sisters who do not speak our language. +I’ve been writing pamphlets, I’ve been gathering subscriptions, I’ve +been stirring people up, and by doing so I’ve been stirring myself up, +my slothful, sluggish, unpractical self.”</p> + +<p>“Wonderful!”</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it? Do you know that I’ve toured the United Kingdom giving +lectures on the subject of man’s duty to the animals, that I’ve helped +to form a league of kindness? Luttrell, I’m a busy man now, and I am an +enthusiastic man.”</p> + +<p>While he spoke his animation had been growing, and as he ended his +voice was full of energy.</p> + +<p>“And when did the impulse come to you to begin this new life?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“I can tell you the very day,” he said. “It was on June the 30th of +last year.”</p> + +<p>“June the 30th!” I said. “Why, that was the day that Deeming died!”</p> + +<p>“Well, it was on that day.”</p> + +<p>I looked at him sharply. I had never yet heard any details connected +with the accident that had brought about Deeming’s illness and so +caused his death. I wondered if Vernon knew any. He had lived next +door. I longed to ask him, but something, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">72</span>some inner voice of my +nature, advised me not to.</p> + +<p>“Is Gernham a good fellow?” I said carelessly.</p> + +<p>“A splendid fellow. You must know him.”</p> + +<p>“As you have changed so much,” I continued, “have you altered that +resolution of yours?”</p> + +<p>“What resolution?”</p> + +<p>“Never to make another animal happy as you made your spaniel, Whisper, +happy?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that—no! I could never have another pet. I suffered too much from +my affection, Luttrell. I am resolved not to suffer again in that way. +The mountains may fall, but I shall never keep another dog.”</p> + +<p>He spoke with a decision that carried conviction. At that moment I +should have been ready to stake my entire fortune on his sticking to +his assertion and backing it up by his acts. If anyone had come to me +that night and said, “Your friend Vernon has just bought a dog and +taken it home to live with him,” I should have laughed, and answered +in polite terms, “You’re a liar.” But one cannot deny the evidence of +one’s own eyes.</p> + +<p>Now this is exactly what occurred.</p> + +<p>While we walked along beneath the trees, not very far from the Statue +of Achilles, I saw in the distance a man approaching us, leading a +number of dogs by strings and carrying <span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">73</span>a couple of puppies under his +arms. He wore a fur cap and earrings, a short, loud-patterned coat with +tails, and a pair of very tight trousers. As he drew near I saw that +among the dogs who accompanied him there was a fine black spaniel.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i073"> + <img src="images/i073.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption>“THAT DOG THERE,” SAID VERNON; “HOW LONG HAVE YOU HAD HIM?”</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“Here comes a choice assortment of dumb friends,” I said to Vernon.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>I saw him looking at the dogs, which were sniffing the air, and pulling +at their leads in the endeavour to investigate delicious smells. +Suddenly he stopped short, just as the man was passing us. At the same +moment I saw the black spaniel shrink back and cower down against the +ground, pressing his broad, flapping ears against his head.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Vernon?” I said.</p> + +<p>He did not reply. He was staring at the spaniel. The owner of the dogs +saw a possible purchaser, and at once, in a soft and very disagreeable +voice, began to enumerate their merits.</p> + +<p>“H’sh!” Vernon hissed at him.</p> + +<p>The man stopped in astonishment.</p> + +<p>“That dog there,” said Vernon, pointing to the black spaniel, which was +still shrinking down, and pulling back from his lead in an effort to +get away. “How long have you had him?”</p> + +<p>“Ever since he was baun, gen’leman,” replied <span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">74</span>the man. “’E’s the +gentlenist, the best-mannered dawg as hiver⸺”</p> + +<p>“How old is he? What’s his age?”</p> + +<p>“Just upon a year, Sir, a year ’e’ll be this very selfsame month. ’E +was one of as fine a litter o’ pups as⸺”</p> + +<p>“You bred him?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“A year old, is he?”</p> + +<p>“Just upon, Sir. The thirtieth’s the day, Sir—the thirtieth of this +selfsame month. Law bless you, I knows the birthdays of hivery dawg as +hiver⸺”</p> + +<p>“What’s his price?”</p> + +<p>The man licked his lips, and I saw a gleam in his small eyes.</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir, I dunno as I’m dispoged to part with ’im. You see, I gets +to love⸺”</p> + +<p>“How much?”</p> + +<p>The tone was sharp. The words came almost like a pistol-shot.</p> + +<p>“Ten puns, Sir,” said the man. “I should say, fifteen puns, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll give you twelve.”</p> + +<p>“I reely couldn’t tike it, Sir. The dawg’s the very happle of⸺”</p> + +<p>“There’s my address—301, Wimpole Street.” He gave the man his card. +“Bring the dog there at six o’clock this evening, and you shall have +twelve pounds, not a penny more. Good-day.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">75</span></p> + +<p>“I’ll be there, Sir. You can trust me, you can⸺”</p> + +<p>We walked on. As we did so, the spaniel whimpered, ran to his master, +and fawned about his legs as if demanding protection.</p> + +<p>For several minutes neither Vernon nor I said a word. I was in +amazement. What had just happened may seem to some a very small matter. +To me it seemed extraordinary, mysterious, even—I could not tell +why—horrible. There had been something peculiar in Vernon’s attitude, +in his face, while he stood looking at the spaniel, something fatal +that had affected my nerves. Then my wonder was naturally great +that such a man should thus abruptly go back from his word. And the +spaniel’s cringing attitude of terror when Vernon had gazed at him, had +spoken to his master, was disagreeable to me, acutely disagreeable in +the remembrance of it! It seemed to me very strange and unnatural that +such an ardent lover of animals as Vernon was should inspire an animal +with fear. Animals have an instinct that always tells them who loves +them. This spaniel was apparently without this instinct.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was this lack in him that made me now think of him with a +faint dislike, even a faint disgust, such as the healthy-minded feel +when brought into contact with anything unnatural.</p> + +<p>I broke the silence first.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">76</span></p> + +<p>“I did not know you were a changeable man,” I said.</p> + +<p>“You mean that I have changed my mind about keeping a dog.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and with such extraordinary suddenness.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose it does seem odd,” he remarked. “But who knows what he will +do?”</p> + +<p>“But—what was your reason?”</p> + +<p>He looked at me, very strangely, I thought.</p> + +<p>“A sudden impulse,” he answered. “A memory, perhaps, moved me.”</p> + +<p>“The memory of Whisper?”</p> + +<p>“Of Whisper—of course.”</p> + +<p>His voice seemed to me just then as strange as his face. Perhaps seeing +that I still wondered, he added—</p> + +<p>“That spaniel appeared to be nervous, terrified. Perhaps that man is +cruel to it.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but⸺” I began, and stopped.</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t think—it seemed to me that it was you who inspired the dog +with fear.”</p> + +<p>“I!” He laughed. “My dear fellow, a dog-lover like myself cannot +inspire a dog with fear. You must be mistaken. Animals always know who +loves them.”</p> + +<p>“Yes. It’s very strange,” I murmured.</p> + +<p>“What is strange?” he asked, in rather a hard voice.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know—nothing,” I answered evasively. “Here we are at the +gate.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">77</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. Well, you are coming to see me?”</p> + +<p>“Of course. You are still in that house?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes. It suits me. When will you come?”</p> + +<p>“Whenever you like.”</p> + +<p>He stood for a moment, making patterns with his stick on the pavement +and looking down. Then he glanced up at me.</p> + +<p>“Come and have a cup of tea this afternoon at half-past five, will +you?” he said.</p> + +<p>I immediately thought of the man with the earrings and the fur cap. +Then I was to see the transfer of the black spaniel.</p> + +<p>“I’ll come,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“Right!”</p> + +<p>Vernon nodded and walked away slowly in the direction of Hamilton Place.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">78</span> + <h3>VII</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">At</span> a quarter past five that day I started for Wimpole Street, filled +with a sensation of strong curiosity, for which, in mental debate +with myself, I could not quite satisfactorily account. It was a very +ordinary matter, surely, this selling and buying of a dog. Why, +then, did it seem to me an affair of importance? I asked myself that +question while I waited. The only answer I could find was that the +dog was a black spaniel, and that before the sad death of my friend +Deeming a black spaniel, the creature that had caused the tragedy, had +mysteriously complicated, and indeed altered, my pleasant relations +both with him and with Vernon. But all that was a year ago. The past +does not return, and therefore it was absurd to be—to be—what? What +was really the exact nature of the emotion that now beset me? Had I +been strictly truthful with myself I should, perhaps, have called +it apprehension. But we are not always strictly truthful even with +ourselves. I think that day I named it nervousness. I was nervous, +out of sorts, a little bit depressed. Vernon’s <i lang="fr">volte-face</i> had +surprised me. The dog’s cringing fear had made an unpleasant impression +upon me. And so, now, as I drew near to Wimpole <span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">79</span>Street I was slightly +strung up. That was the long and short of it.</p> + +<p>In some such fashion I think I spoke to myself, explanatorily, falsely.</p> + +<p>When I turned into Wimpole Street the image of poor Deeming was very +present in my mind, and I could scarcely believe that he did not still +inhabit the house to which I had come that Sunday morning. I wondered +who lived there now, who was Vernon’s neighbour; and when I reached +the house I looked towards it with a sad curiosity, which quickly +changed to surprise. The house was transformed. Where once had been a +doorstep there was now an area railing. The front door had vanished. In +its place was a window, with a box in which roses and geraniums were +blooming. In a moment I realised what had happened. Formerly the two +houses—Nos. 300 and 301—had been one house. Since I had been there they +had once more been thrown together. Vernon, then, was living now in the +house that had been Deeming’s. As I grasped this fact, Vernon appeared +at a window of what had been the second house. Seeing me, he smiled and +waved his hand. Before I could ring, the door was opened by Cragg, his +faithful man.</p> + +<p>“Glad to see you again, Sir,” said Cragg, with a respectful bow which +he had learnt, I think, in Italy.</p> + +<p>He had several little foreign ways, but was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">80</span>extremely English in +appearance—calm, solid, neat, and closely shaven.</p> + +<p>I returned his greeting and stepped in.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” I said, looking round. “So it’s all changed.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir. After Doctor Deeming’s death we got rid of the old stuff, +and Mr. Kersteven bought the Doctor’s house and threw the two houses +into one. It’s more suitable now.”</p> + +<p>“It was awful before.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir, it was scarcely to Mr. Kersteven’s taste. We rather roughed +it for a time, Sir.”</p> + +<p>He took my hat and stick and showed me upstairs into a charming +drawing-room, in which I at once recognised many beautiful things from +Vernon’s house in Rome. Here Vernon met me with an outstretched hand.</p> + +<p>“By Jove, what a transformation!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“To be sure, you haven’t seen it since⸺”</p> + +<p>“Since the frogs and the beetles and the Japanese umbrellas were turned +out. No. And so now you’ve got Deeming’s house too?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I have joined the two together, but I use his chiefly for my work +in connection with our dumb friends.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>His voice was significant in that last sentence, and I realised that in +him imagination was often the guide, leading him strangely, dominating +him powerfully.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">81</span></p> + +<p>Tea was ready, and we sat down.</p> + +<p>Giving expression to my thought, I said, “Strange that you should be +living in Deeming’s house.”</p> + +<p>“Why so?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, you were antagonists, weren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Could the difference between us be called antagonism?” he asked, +pouring out the tea.</p> + +<p>“Wasn’t it? Once Deeming told me that he knew⸺”</p> + +<p>I hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Knew what?”</p> + +<p>“Knew that you hated him.”</p> + +<p>“Really. Did he say that?”</p> + +<p>“Was it true?”</p> + +<p>“Why discuss it?”</p> + +<p>“You’re right. It’s all over now. And he, poor chap, has gone beyond +the reach of earthly love or hate.”</p> + +<p>He made no rejoinder, and I had an odd feeling as if he were silent +because I had said something with which he did not agree; yet that was +not possible.</p> + +<p>“Do you think,” I said, to change the subject, “do you think that +fellow will come?”</p> + +<p>“The dog-fancier? Oh, I suppose so. He won’t let slip a chance of +making twelve pounds. His dog isn’t worth more than six.”</p> + +<p>“Then why do you give double?”</p> + +<p>“A caprice.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">82</span></p> + +<p>“I begin to think you are a capricious man,” I said.</p> + +<p>“The dilettante generally is.”</p> + +<p>He drew out his watch.</p> + +<p>“It’s close upon six. That chap ought to be here in a moment. Ah, +there’s the bell! He’s come, no doubt.”</p> + +<p>I was conscious of a certain discomfort, but scarcely knew its cause. +Putting down my cup, I sat listening intently. Vernon, too, was +listening. There was in his face an expression of strained attention. +When the door opened gently, I started and looked hastily round.</p> + +<p>“Lord Elyn!” said Vernon, getting up from his chair.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Glad to find you at home. Hulloa, Luttrell! So you’re back at +last! I haven’t seen you since the death of our poor friend Deeming.”</p> + +<p>He shook my hand.</p> + +<p>“That was a sad business. No one to take his place. No one like him, is +there?”</p> + +<p>He sat down and stretched his legs. I said something suitable, but +with rather an uncertain voice. This unexpected arrival irritated +me. And yet I thoroughly liked Lord Elyn. Vernon, too—I felt sure of +it—was vexed by his arrival, but he was charmingly courteous, though, +in the trifling conversation that followed, he showed traces of +absent-mindedness. I knew he was listening for the sound of the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">83</span>bell. +I knew he was eagerly awaiting the arrival of the black spaniel. Six +o’clock struck. The hand of a clock on the mantelpiece pointed to five +minutes, then to ten minutes past six. Vernon began to betray a certain +restlessness, a certain uneasiness. He twice changed his place in the +room. Finally, he got up and remained standing.</p> + +<p>“You are expecting someone?” said Lord Elyn, looking at him in some +surprise.</p> + +<p>“Yes. The fact is I’ve bought a dog—or named my price for one—and he +ought to be brought here this evening.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m very fond of dogs. Kept them all my life. What sort of animal +is this one?”</p> + +<p>“A black⸺there’s the bell!”</p> + +<p>He broke off, went swiftly over to the window and looked out. As he +stood with his back turned to us I heard him utter a low exclamation.</p> + +<p>“What did you say, Vernon?” I asked sharply.</p> + +<p>I had not heard a word, but there was a thrilling sound in his voice +which startled me. I got up also from my chair, possessed, gnawed by an +inexplicable restlessness. Vernon turned round from the window. I saw +the strange light in his eyes which I had sometimes noticed there when +he talked about the animals and their relation with man.</p> + +<p>“It’s the spaniel,” he said.</p> + +<p>The words were simple enough, but the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">84</span>way in which he said them was +not simple. It sounded cruel and triumphant.</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn looked more surprised. He also got up.</p> + +<p>“The arrival of this dog seems quite an event,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, quite an event,” repeated Vernon, looking towards the door. “It’s +years since I’ve had a—pet.”</p> + +<p>“If you please, Sir, there’s a person here with a dog.”</p> + +<p>“I know. I expected him.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, Sir. Am I to admit him?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly.”</p> + +<p>“And the dog, Sir? Is he to come in too?”</p> + +<p>“Of course. It’s the dog I want, not the man.”</p> + +<p>Cragg remained in the doorway, looking at his master.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Cragg?” asked Vernon. “What the deuce is the matter?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir, I don’t see—I don’t, really—how we are ever going to get +that dog into the house.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” said Vernon.</p> + +<p>On his lips there was playing a slight smile.</p> + +<p>“I never see an animal in such a state, Sir; I really never did. Hark, +Sir!”</p> + +<p>He lifted his hand. From below there came to us the sound of a +long-drawn howling. Again I felt a cold chill go over me. Lord <span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">85</span>Elyn, +too, was unpleasantly affected. He shook his shoulders, and said—</p> + +<p>“Good God, what a dreadful noise! It sounds like something being +tortured.”</p> + +<p>Vernon was still smiling.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” he said; “it’s only the natural nervousness of a dog brought to a +strange house to change one master for another. Go along, Cragg. Show +the man into my study. I’ll come down in a moment.”</p> + +<p>Still looking very doubtful, Cragg disappeared, shutting the door. We +three remained silent for a moment. Then Vernon said—</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid you’re having a very fussy visit, Lord Elyn. Do sit down. +I’ll go and pay the man, and be back in a minute.”</p> + +<p>It was evident to me that he wanted—wanted ungovernably—to see the dog +brought into the house. As he stopped speaking he was gone. He had +almost darted out of the room.</p> + +<p>“Dear me!” said Lord Elyn. “Dear me.”</p> + +<p>He was a delicate, naturally nervous man, and highly sensitive. I could +see plainly that he was upset, mystified by this affair of the arrival +of the dog. He looked at me as if inquiring of me what it all meant.</p> + +<p>“I wonder⸺” he began.</p> + +<p>Then he broke off. After a pause he said—</p> + +<p>“If the dog often howls as he did just now, Vernon won’t have much +peace. I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">86</span>never in my life heard a more distressing noise, eh?”</p> + +<p>“It was very distressing,” I assented.</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn did not sit down, but went to and fro in the room like one +disturbed.</p> + +<p>“A most distressing noise!” he repeated, uncomfortably. “Most +distressing. It really almost sounded like a human being in agony, +didn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it did.”</p> + +<p>“What sort of dog is it?” he asked presently, standing before me. “Do +you know?”</p> + +<p>“A black spaniel.”</p> + +<p>“A spaniel? They’re the most sensitive breed of dog I know, intensely +nervous and easily frightened, but very affectionate. They attach +themselves in an extraordinary manner to those who are kind to them.”</p> + +<p>“Hulloa!” he exclaimed. The door had reopened, and Vernon came in.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he said, “it’s all right. I’ve got the dog for twelve pounds.”</p> + +<p>“Where is it?” said Lord Elyn.</p> + +<p>“Downstairs in my study. I’ve had to tie him up for the moment. Poor +fellow, he’s nervous at getting into a strange house.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s have a look at him,” said Lord Elyn.</p> + +<p>I saw that Vernon hesitated, and thought he was going to refuse the +request, natural though it was. But if he had intended to do so, he +quickly changed his mind.</p> + +<p>“Certainly,” he said. “Come downstairs. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">87</span>My study is in the part of the +house that once belonged to Deeming.”</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn went out of the room, I followed, and Vernon came last.</p> + +<p>“To the right!” he said, when we reached the bottom of the staircase. +“This corridor unites the two houses.”</p> + +<p>We followed the direction indicated.</p> + +<p>“Here’s the study,” said Vernon. “It’s a real workroom, dedicated to +the cause of our dumb friends.”</p> + +<p>“The animals?” said Lord Elyn. “It seems to me, after this evening, +that dumb is scarcely the appropriate adjective to apply to them.”</p> + +<p>Vernon laughed. He had his hand on the door of his study, and was still +laughing as he opened it.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">88</span> + <h3>VIII</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Lord Elyn</span> went in first. I followed. The study was, as Vernon had said, +a real workroom. There was little furniture in it, and what there was +was plain and serviceable. Near the one window, which looked out at the +back on to the backs of other houses, was a large writing-table covered +with documents, pamphlets, magazines, address-books, gum-bottles, +elastic bands, balls of string, a Remington typewriter, piles of paper +bands for fastening newspapers and manuscripts, etc. In the midst of +this ordered rummage stood a cabinet photograph of a man. I did not +examine it then, but I knew later that it was Arthur Gernham, the +notorious anti-vivisectionist. A few chairs, a thick Turkey carpet, and +two revolving bookcases completed the furniture. The walls were tinted +a dull red, and there were red curtains at the window. There were no +pictures or ornaments. On the mantelpiece stood a clock which struck +the quarter after six as we came in.</p> + +<p>“Where’s the—oh, there he is!” said Lord Elyn.</p> + +<p>The black spaniel was lying crouched upon the floor in a corner near +the window, a dark <span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">89</span>patch against the red of the curtain which touched +him. He had been tied by a piece of cord to the writing-table, but +had shrunk back, as if in an effort to escape, until he could go no +farther. Now he lay with his face turned towards the door, motionless, +staring. When we saw him he did not move. He only looked at us.</p> + +<p>He only looked at us, I have said. Then why did Lord Elyn stop short +just inside the door, as if startled? Why did I feel an almost +invincible desire to get out of this room, even out of this house of +my friend? It must have been the violence of terror in the dog’s eyes +contrasted with the absolute stillness, the stillness as of death, of +his body. Yes, I think it must have been that which affected us. For in +violence there is always contained the suggestion of intense activity, +the suggestion of movement, and the dog’s eyes conveyed to me the +feeling that his soul was rushing from us, while his body lay there +before us against the red curtain like a carven thing.</p> + +<p>“There he is!” Lord Elyn repeated in a low voice.</p> + +<p>He looked at me and then at Vernon. I thought he was going out of the +room, and I am sure he wanted to do so; but he stood where he was in +silence and again looked towards the spaniel.</p> + +<p>“Well, what do you think of him?” asked Vernon.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">90</span></p> + +<p>The sound of his voice perhaps made Lord Elyn conscious that we were +behaving somewhat absurdly, that we were almost huddling together, he +and I, beside the door. For he took a step—but only a step—forward, and +answered, with an evident effort to speak more naturally:</p> + +<p>“Oh, he looks a good specimen. He’s well bred; I should say, well +bred—yes.”</p> + +<p>Again he glanced at me as if questioning me. All this time the spaniel +did not move, but lay staring at us with eyes full of horror. His +stillness appalled me.</p> + +<p>“And what do you think, Luttrell?” said Vernon.</p> + +<p>It was with a difficulty that was extraordinary to me that I answered +him.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have a lot of trouble with him,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Why?” said Vernon quickly.</p> + +<p>“Why? Why, he’s evidently a very nervous dog. I should think it’ll take +time to reconcile him with his new home and his new master.”</p> + +<p>“Good God!” said Lord Elyn.</p> + +<p>As I finished speaking the dog had suddenly howled again. Involuntarily +I stepped back.</p> + +<p>Vernon laughed once more.</p> + +<p>“Why, anybody would think you were afraid of him,” he said. “What’s the +matter?”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i090"> + <img src="images/i090.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption>“POOR BEAST! POOR BEAST!”</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">91</span></p> +<p>I tried to laugh too—to laugh at myself.</p> + +<p>“He gave tongue so very unexpectedly,” I said. “Poor fellow! Poor +fellow!”</p> + +<p>I was speaking to the dog, but I did not go towards him. The faint +disgust with which he had already inspired me in the Park was stronger +now that I was with him in a room. I was conscious of an almost +invincible desire to go straight out of the house, to get into the open +air, quickly, without delay. But with this feeling blended another, +more subtle, one that surprised me by its force.</p> + +<p>I longed, before I went, to untie that crouching dog, to let him escape +from the room, the house, to set him free. With the disgust of him +mingled a curious pity for him that was inexplicable to me then.</p> + +<p>I think Lord Elyn shared my feelings, but he acted differently from me. +For, whereas I now moved away to go, he suddenly, with determination, +walked forward towards the spaniel. Seeing this, I stopped just outside +the door in the corridor. From there I witnessed a sight that increased +my sensation of pity, and at the same time deepened my sensation of +disgust.</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn, when he was near the spaniel, bent down a little, snapping +his fingers and saying, “Poor beast! poor beast!” whereupon the dog +suddenly sprang up from the floor against his breast, in an obvious +attempt to nestle into his arms as if for protection <span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">92</span>against some +danger. Lord Elyn, surprised, tried to hold him, but failed, and let +him drop heavily to the floor.</p> + +<p>Vernon interposed. Going forward quickly he said, “I’m awfully sorry, +Lord Elyn. He’s muddied you. Come out and Cragg shall brush it off.”</p> + +<p>The dog shrank back against the curtain.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” Lord Elyn began.</p> + +<p>But Vernon took his arm and drew him with a sort of gentle +inflexibility towards the door and into the corridor where I was +standing.</p> + +<p>“Cragg,” Vernon called; “Cragg.”</p> + +<p>“Sir,” said the man coming from the hall.</p> + +<p>Vernon shut the door of the study sharply.</p> + +<p>“Just get a brush, will you? The dog has put his dirty paws on Lord +Elyn’s coat.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly, Sir.”</p> + +<p>He turned on the electric light. Lord Elyn stood under it to be +brushed. I noticed that his face looked very white, but thought it +might be the effect of the light upon it. When Cragg had finished, Lord +Elyn said—</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Vernon,” and walked hastily towards the hall door.</p> + +<p>“May I come with you?” I said.</p> + +<p>“Do.”</p> + +<p>I bade Vernon good-bye with a word and a hand-grasp, and in a moment +Lord Elyn and I were out in the street.</p> + +<p>“Ouf!” said Lord Elyn, blowing out his breath.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">93</span></p> + +<p>He stood still, looking towards that part of the house which had been +Deeming’s.</p> + +<p>“By Jove!” he said, as if speaking to himself.</p> + +<p>Then, suddenly conscious that he was not alone, he exclaimed—</p> + +<p>“Pray forgive me, Luttrell, but the fact is I—well, I don’t know why, +but that dog has made a very disagreeable impression on me, very +disagreeable. D’you know, when he sprang upon me just now I felt a +sensation—by Jove, it was a sensation of horror, of abject horror.”</p> + +<p>He walked on slowly.</p> + +<p>“I noticed you were looking very pale in the hall,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Pale? I should think so! The whole business—I say, what did you think +of it, eh?”</p> + +<p>“How do you mean?” I asked evasively.</p> + +<p>“What d’you think of the dog?”</p> + +<p>“Poor beast! It seemed very nervous.”</p> + +<p>“Nervous! It was half-mad with terror. I never saw a dog in such a +state before. And Vernon such a lover of animals, too! That’s the +strange part of it.”</p> + +<p>“You think it was Vernon it was afraid of?”</p> + +<p>“To be sure. Didn’t you see it spring upon me for protection, and +directly he approached it shrank away like a thing demented? Now, I’ve +been with animals all my life—brought <span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">94</span>up among ’em—and never before +have I seen an animal’s instinct betray it. Animals know in a second +the men that are fond of ’em and the men who hate ’em. But this dog’s +all at sea. It thinks Vernon’s a regular devil—a dog-torturer. It’s +half-crazed with fear of him. That is as plain as a pikestaff. The +thing’s unnatural, Luttrell—it’s d⸺d unnatural!”</p> + +<p>He spoke with a vehemence that showed how greatly his nerves were +upset. I could not contradict, because I absolutely agreed with him.</p> + +<p>“That dog,” he added, “gives me the shudders.”</p> + +<p>“Poor wretch!” I said.</p> + +<p>“You pity him too?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes. But when he gets to know Vernon it will be all right. Vernon has +a positive passion for animals.”</p> + +<p>I strove to speak with conviction, for I was trying to convince myself.</p> + +<p>“I know he has. And yet⸺”</p> + +<p>He hesitated.</p> + +<p>“What, Lord Elyn.”</p> + +<p>“Well, didn’t it strike you that he looked at the dog very queerly?”</p> + +<p>“Queerly?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, not as if he had a great fancy for it.”</p> + +<p>I said nothing.</p> + +<p>“What made him buy it?” said Lord Elyn.</p> + +<p>“I’ve no idea” I answered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">95</span></p> + +<p>And indeed at that moment I was wondering, wondering almost +passionately.</p> + +<p>“I’ll swear he doesn’t like the dog,” said Lord Elyn, still with +vehemence. “He may be as fond of animals as you like, but he isn’t fond +of this one.”</p> + +<p>“If he hadn’t taken a liking to it why should he buy it?”</p> + +<p>“That’s more than I can say. It’s a queer business. I had an idea +that—that you perhaps, had some inkling what was up.”</p> + +<p>And again his look questioned me.</p> + +<p>“I haven’t indeed,” I said.</p> + +<p>And I spoke the truth. I was in the dark, in blackness.</p> + +<p>A hansom passed us slowly at this moment. Lord Elyn hailed it.</p> + +<p>“I must get home,” he said. “I’m dining out. Shall I give you a lift?”</p> + +<p>“No, thank you. I’ll walk. I like the exercise.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, then.”</p> + +<p>He stepped into the cab and drove off, while I walked slowly back to +Albemarle Street.</p> + +<p>Lord Elyn had made my thoughts clearer to me by his blunt expressions. +He had asked me if I had any inkling of what was up, and, when he said +that, I knew quite certainly that, to use that slangy phrase, I thought +something was up. Vernon had been moved by some strange impulse to buy +the black spaniel, had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">96</span>some strange purpose in connection with it. I +felt sure of this. My instinct told me that it was so. What had caused +this impulse? What was this purpose?</p> + +<p>I wondered, but could not tell.</p> + +<p>I reviewed Vernon’s character as I knew it carefully, considered all +that I had heard of him from others, trying to find a clue that would +guide me to comprehension. But I remained perplexed. I knew good of +him. I had always heard praise of him, except from one person, the man +who was dead and in whose house he now lived. Deeming had said to me +once that Vernon was a black fanatic; the phrase was strong, brutal +even. It recurred to my mind as I walked, and stayed there. Then I +thought of the terror in the spaniel’s eyes as it lay motionless +against the red curtain of the workroom. And I was troubled, I was +strangely ill at ease. It seemed to me that in my friend, hidden away +like a thing hidden in a cave, was something mysterious, something even +terrible, and that the black spaniel was connected with it. But how +could that be? Vernon loved all animals. He was at this very moment +devoting his life to the advancement of their welfare. For them he had +thrown off his long idleness of the lounging traveller, the luxurious +art-lover, who wandered from country to country buying to please his +whim. For them he stayed in England and lived laborious days. Why, +then, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">97</span>when I thought of the spaniel shut up in his study, should I +be chilled with fear? I reasoned with myself, but in vain. The sense +of fear, of mystery, remained with me. It was deepened by an incident +which occurred six days later.</p> + +<p>During those days I had not seen Vernon; I had heard nothing of him or +of the black spaniel.</p> + +<p>The incident to which I alluded was my meeting for the first time with +Arthur Gernham.</p> + +<p>At a man’s dinner, given by a famous throat-specialist renowned not +only as a surgeon but as a host, I found myself sitting opposite to a +very remarkable-looking man of about forty years of age. I had not been +introduced to him, and had no idea who he was, but he at once attracted +my attention by his air of fiery vitality and his unconventional +attire. Instead of the ordinary evening dress, he wore a pair of black +trousers, a loose silk shirt with a turned-down collar and very small +black tie, and a double-breasted smoking-coat which concealed his +waistcoat, if he had one. His powerful, sinewy wrists were unfettered +by cuffs, and his powerful throat was free from the stiff linen +ramparts over which the average Englishman faces the world in the +evening. He was evidently a man who hated restraint. His face was pale, +of the hatchet type, with a long hooked nose, the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">98</span>bridge of which was +unusually marked; a large mouth, unsmiling but not unkind; a narrow, +very high forehead, and gleaming hazel eyes. His head was sparsely +covered with odd tufts of light-brown hair.</p> + +<p>During dinner Gernham talked a great deal in a rasping voice. His +conversation was interesting, for he was not only intelligent, but +obviously an enthusiast, and one who was entirely fearless of the +opinion of others. I wondered much who he was, and as we were getting +up from the table I found an opportunity to ask my host.</p> + +<p>“Arthur Gernham,” he said. “Very down on us doctors, but an interesting +fellow. In another age he’d have courted persecution for the faith that +is in him. Let me introduce you.”</p> + +<p>And he did so.</p> + +<p>Gernham shook me warmly by the hand.</p> + +<p>“My dear colleague Kersteven has often spoken of you,” he said. “You +sympathise with our efforts, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>He jerked his head upwards and looked at me keenly. I said +something—I’ve forgotten what—and he continued abruptly—</p> + +<p>“Come along. Let’s have a good talk. Have a cigar.”</p> + +<p>He gave me a very large one, flung himself down in an armchair, and +talked enthusiastically of Vernon.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been almost living in his house this <span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">99</span>last week,” he said. +“We’re preparing a fresh campaign on behalf of the blessed beasts, +our brothers. We’ve got together some statistics that’ll startle the +comfortable elbow-chair Englishmen, I can tell you. I’ll never rest +till I’ve roused the country to the horrors that are being perpetrated +every day, every hour, every minute, upon the defenceless animals God +has committed to us to be good to. And Vernon—what a splendid chap +he is! What a colleague! All pity! The man’s made of pity, made of +tenderness. Ah, but you know that!”</p> + +<p>“Yes!” I said.</p> + +<p>I thought of the black spaniel. Here was an opportunity to find out how +Vernon and his pet were getting on together.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been in the house with Vernon a great deal lately?” I began.</p> + +<p>“Every day and all day,” he said, “this last week.”</p> + +<p>“How’s that new pet of his?” I asked. “Reconciled and happy in his new +home?”</p> + +<p>“Pet?” said Gernham.</p> + +<p>“Yes, the dog.”</p> + +<p>“He hasn’t got one. Don’t you know the hideous story? He once had a +spaniel called⸺”</p> + +<p>“I know,” I interrupted. “And he’s got another.”</p> + +<p>“Not he!” rejoined Gernham, with sledge-hammer certainty. “He’ll never +have another. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">100</span>I understand the poor chap’s feelings. At the same time⸺”</p> + +<p>But here I interrupted again, and told Gernham the story of Vernon’s +acquisition of the spaniel. He heard me with an amazement he did not +try to conceal.</p> + +<p>“And you mean to say the dog’s in the house now?” he cried, when I had +finished.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so, unless he’s got rid of it already.”</p> + +<p>Gernham sat quite still with his thin hands spread out on his knees +staring at me hard.</p> + +<p>“This is extraordinary,” he said at last, with a sort of biting +decision.</p> + +<p>“You mean that he didn’t mention the fact that he had a dog?”</p> + +<p>“I mean more than that. I mean that he concealed it from me.”</p> + +<p>“Concealed it?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. I’ve got any amount of animals—dogs, cats, the whole +show—and I’m always urging Kersteven to set up a happy family. We +preach kindness, he and I. We ought to practise it actively as much as +we can. But his feelings about his dead dog have always stood in the +way. I’m perpetually trying to convert him to my view. I’ve been at it +this week.”</p> + +<p>“And he said he hadn’t a dog?”</p> + +<p>“No. But he never said he had one. It’s much the same thing under +the circumstances. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">101</span>I should never have thought Kersteven could be +deceitful. I don’t like it. I—I hate it!”</p> + +<p>At this moment we were interrupted. Two of the other men came up and we +had no more private talk that evening. When I was going away Gernham +said—</p> + +<p>“Come and see me—will you? Here’s my card.”</p> + +<p>He gave it to me, shook my hand, and as I turned to go said—</p> + +<p>“You’ve spoilt my evening, I can tell you that.”</p> + +<p>I thought, “And you’ve spoilt mine,” but I did not say it.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">102</span> + <h3>IX</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">I went</span> home that night wondering whether Vernon had got rid of the +black spaniel. Perhaps he had found it impossible to reconcile it to +its new quarters, and had sold it or given it back to the man with the +fur cap. Or perhaps it was still in the house. If that were so, it was +very strange, very unlike Vernon to have concealed the fact from Arthur +Gernham. But, in either case, he had been deceitful, deliberately +deceitful, with a friend, and a friend whom he greatly admired and +respected.</p> + +<p>This incident of my meeting with Gernham deepened my sense of fear, +of mystery. My instinct—I now felt sure of it—was right. Some strange +under side of Vernon’s character was active at this moment. I knew him +only in part; much of him I did not know. A stranger now seemed to +confront me in the night, a stranger by whose feet crouched something +black and terrified. What was this stranger’s purpose? What could it be?</p> + +<p>I reviewed carefully my whole acquaintance with Vernon, but especially +the latter part of my acquaintance with him, when Deeming was in +relation with us both. It was then, when <span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">103</span>Deeming came into his life, +and only then, that Vernon had shown me for the first time a man in +him whose presence I had not suspected, whose exact nature I did not +know. This man was roused by Deeming. I should have let him sleep. But, +having been roused, he had surely been sleepless ever since. Yes, that +was so. Thus far, things were clear to me. Something—the strange man in +Vernon—had been wakeful, ardent ever since, was wakeful, ardent now. +This man it was who worked shoulder to shoulder with Gernham. This man +it was who had bought the black spaniel.</p> + +<p>So far, light. But now came the darkness. What had been Vernon’s +purpose in buying the black spaniel? When he saw it he had looked at +it fatally. At that moment, while he looked at it, his purpose had +sprung up full-grown in his mind, full-grown and fierce. I was not +to know that purpose. Arthur Gernham was not to know it. He now had +some purpose in connection with an animal that Arthur Gernham, his +close friend and colleague, his leader in a campaign of kindness, of +pity, to which he was dedicating all his activities and giving all his +enthusiasm, was not to know or even suspect. That purpose, since it was +in connection with an animal, must surely be one of kindness, of pity.</p> + +<p>But here my instinct rebelled violently against my knowledge of Vernon. +My instinct said that it was not so; that Vernon’s <span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">104</span>purpose in buying +the black spaniel had been sad, even perhaps terrible. Yet how could +that be?</p> + +<p>The dog’s eyes haunted me. They seemed to me to know what I did not +know, to know what Vernon’s purpose was.</p> + +<p>Deeming—again I thought of him, of Vernon’s short and strange +connection with him. Once Vernon had said to me that he believed +Deeming was a man haunted by a mania for persecution. He had spoken +without knowledge then. Later, he had travelled to England to gain +knowledge. He had taken the house in Wimpole Street to gain knowledge. +Had he gained it? I did not know. Vernon had never told me. Was that +why I was in the dark now? It began to seem to me that, perhaps, if +I could find out what Vernon knew of Deeming I should understand +something of his present purpose, of his purpose in buying the black +spaniel.</p> + +<p>At this stage in my mental debate I reached the Piccadilly corner of +Albemarle Street, and was just going to turn towards my house, when a +familiar face, a face respectable, close-shaven, English, looked upon +me in the lamplight, and a bowler hat was deferentially lifted.</p> + +<p>“Cragg!” I said.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Sir,” said Cragg. “A fine night, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Yes—wait a minute, Cragg.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">105</span></p> + +<p>“Certainly, Sir.”</p> + +<p>Vernon’s man stood still.</p> + +<p>“Just walk with me to my door, will you?”</p> + +<p>“With pleasure, Sir.”</p> + +<p>We turned side by side into the comparative quiet of Albemarle Street.</p> + +<p>“How is Mr. Kersteven, Cragg?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir⸺” The man slightly hesitated. “Oh, Sir, he’s in his usual +health, I think.”</p> + +<p>“Working hard, isn’t he?”</p> + +<p>“Very hard, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“With Mr. Gernham.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir, with Mr. Gernham.”</p> + +<p>“And—and how’s the dog, Cragg?”</p> + +<p>I looked at him as I spoke, and saw his forehead contract.</p> + +<p>“The dog, Sir?—oh, the dog is getting on all right so far as I am +aware.”</p> + +<p>“How do you mean—so far as you are aware?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir, I don’t see much of it. That’s a fact.”</p> + +<p>“Really. How’s that?”</p> + +<p>I was pumping the man, I acknowledge it. I can make no excuse for it. +I was driven by something that seemed to me then more than an ignoble +curiosity.</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir, Mr. Kersteven keeps the dog shut up mostly. I suppose he +thinks that till it gets accustomed to the place and to us it’s better.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">106</span></p> + +<p>“But if it’s always shut up, how can it get accustomed to you?”</p> + +<p>“That’s more than I can say, Sir.”</p> + +<p>I could see that the man was constrained, was not telling me something +of which his mind was full. We had now reached my door, and I had no +further excuse for keeping him with me.</p> + +<p>“Well, Cragg,” I said. “Good-night.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“I hope the dog will settle down and be friendly with you.”</p> + +<p>“Friendly with me, Sir! That dog! The Lord forbid!” cried Cragg.</p> + +<p>He seemed startled by the sound of his own lamentable exclamation, +looked at me as if asking pardon, lifted his hat, and walked quickly +away into the darkness. I stood staring after him. I longed to follow +him, to question him, to find out what he meant. But how could I?</p> + +<p>That night it was late before I went to sleep. The black spaniel seemed +to be crouching at the foot of the bed. I seemed to see its yellow eyes +fixed upon me, trying to tell me what I longed to know.</p> + +<p>Late in the afternoon of the next day I received a very unexpected +visit from Arthur Gernham. When I saw him come into my room, dressed in +a suit of homespun, with a flannel shirt and a red tie, and holding a +soft brown wideawake in his hand, I jumped up <span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">107</span>from my chair eagerly. +I guessed at once that he had something to say with reference to our +conversation of the previous night.</p> + +<p>“How are you?” he said, in his rasping, energetic voice. “I got your +address from the Red Book.”</p> + +<p>He sat down and stretched out his long legs.</p> + +<p>“I’m delighted to see you,” I said. “You’ve been at work with Vernon?”</p> + +<p>“I’ve been with him.”</p> + +<p>He ran one hand over his tufts of scanty hair.</p> + +<p>“I’m disappointed in Kersteven,” he said. “I never should have thought +he was a shifty fellow.”</p> + +<p>The word shifty, applied to Vernon, roused my sense of friendship.</p> + +<p>“Oh, you’re mistaken,” I exclaimed. “Vernon’s not a shifty man.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon—he is.”</p> + +<p>I waited in silence for him to explain himself. I saw plainly that he +was going to. There was a sledge-hammer honesty about Gernham that was +startling but rather refreshing. He now proceeded to give me a specimen +of it.</p> + +<p>“I can’t stomach a friend who isn’t perfectly straight with me,” he +said; “and what’s more, I’m bound to tell him so. I can’t keep anything +in. Whatever I feel I have to out with it. That’s my nature. It’s got +me into <span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">108</span>plenty of trouble, and it will get me into plenty more. Fights +were my lot at Eton, and fights have been my lot, more or less, ever +since.”</p> + +<p>He unbuttoned one of the cuffs of his flannel shirt, pushed the flannel +higher up his arm, and went on:</p> + +<p>“With Kersteven I got on magnificently until to-day.”</p> + +<p>“Have you had a wordy fight with Vernon to-day, then?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“I went straight to him this morning and told him I’d met you last +night. He asked me how I liked you, and I told him, ‘Very much.’ Then I +said, plump out, ‘You’ve been tricky with me, Kersteven.’”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>He took no notice of my interruption, and went on—</p> + +<p>“‘You’ve let me make a fool of myself with you. That’s nothing. One +makes a fool of oneself most days one way or another.’ ‘What do you +mean?’ he asked. ‘That you’ve allowed me to think that you would never +keep a dog or animal of any kind in your house, that you’ve sat here +and listened to me trying to persuade you to keep one, while all the +time there is—or was—one perhaps within a few feet of me. You’ve let +me think what wasn’t true, you’ve made me think what wasn’t true. I +don’t know what your reason is, but I know that I hate your action, and +that I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">109</span>never thought you were capable of doing such a low thing to a +friend.’”</p> + +<p>“Pretty strong,” I said. “How did he take it?”</p> + +<p>“That’s the nastiest part of all. He took it lying down.”</p> + +<p>“Lying down?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Merely said the matter of the dog was such a trifle he hadn’t +thought it would interest me to know of it, that he wasn’t sure of +keeping it for any time, that he’d been so busy with me that—etc., +etc. The lamest excuses man ever offered to man. I was disgusted, and +showed it. It’s my way to show things—can’t help doing it. ‘Let’s get +to work,’ he said, trying to change the subject. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I can’t +work with you to-day. That’s certain.’ And I took up my hat and went.”</p> + +<p>“And you—you didn’t see the dog?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, dear no. But it wasn’t that I cared about.”</p> + +<p>“I wish you had seen it. I wish you would see it.”</p> + +<p>I was speaking almost involuntarily, as if the words were forced from +me, words scarcely prompted by any thought in me, words that were +uttered for me.</p> + +<p>“Why?” he asked. “Why? What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>His face and manner were always alert, but now they had suddenly become +intense with a sort of quivering vivacity.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">110</span></p> + +<p>“What’s wrong about the dog?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know that anything is wrong.”</p> + +<p>“Know! Do you suspect anything is wrong?”</p> + +<p>I waited a minute. I was repeating to myself Gernham’s question.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said at last, “I do. But I don’t know why I suspect, and I +don’t know what I suspect. That’s the honest truth and vague enough. +But I can’t help it.”</p> + +<p>He looked me straight in the eyes for a full minute, I should think. +Then he said—</p> + +<p>“I want you to be less vague, Luttrell; and I think you can. A man +doesn’t say such a thing as you’ve said without more meaning than +you’ve acknowledged.”</p> + +<p>“I assure you⸺” I began.</p> + +<p>But he stopped me.</p> + +<p>“Now look here,” he said. “One often has a thought behind one’s +thought, like a body behind its shadow. You’ve found the shadow; now +look for the body, and I’ll bet you’ll find that too.”</p> + +<p>His words seemed to clear away some mystery from my mind, but I shrank +from what was now revealed—the body behind the shadow.</p> + +<p>“I see you know now what you suspect,” he said, still looking into my +eyes with intensity. “What is it?”</p> + +<p>“I do know now,” I answered. “But it’s monstrous, and upon my word I’m +ashamed to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">111</span>say it. For you must know that I’ve a great regard for +Vernon.”</p> + +<p>“And so have—or had—I. His tenderness for the suffering of the animal +world drew me to him. I can’t forget that even now, after this beastly +affair of the dog.”</p> + +<p>“His tenderness for the animal world,” I repeated. “It’s just that—just +my knowledge of that, which makes my suspicion so monstrous.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s have it, I must have it!” he said. “You’re no backbiter, you’re +an honest fellow. I can see that. Go ahead. I shan’t mistake your +motives.”</p> + +<p>There was a compelling frankness about him. I yielded to it.</p> + +<p>“My suspicion is that perhaps Vernon is being cruel to that dog,” I +said.</p> + +<p>Gernham sat quite still. I saw that my words had deeply astonished him. +But he did not burst forth, as many another man would have done, in +a denial of the possibility of my suspicion being roused by a horrid +fact, being well founded. He was a very quick man, and full of finesse +despite his bluntness.</p> + +<p>“What are your reasons?” he said slowly.</p> + +<p>“I can scarcely say I have any. Let me think, though.”</p> + +<p>After a minute I described to him minutely how Vernon had regarded the +spaniel in the Park, the dog’s fear there, its much greater <span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">112</span>terror +on being brought into the house in Wimpole Street, Vernon’s strange +excitement on its arrival, and excitement in which there seemed to be +an admixture of triumph, his laughter as he opened the door of the +room in which the spaniel was confined; the dog’s rush for safety to +Lord Elyn, and shrinking away when Vernon approached it. When I had +finished, I added—</p> + +<p>“There’s one thing more.”</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>Then I related to him my meeting with Cragg on the previous night, and +what the man had told me about Vernon’s keeping the spaniel perpetually +shut up.</p> + +<p>“That’s all,” I ended. “Not much, is it?”</p> + +<p>“D’you know,” he said, “what’s far the most striking fact in all that +you’ve told me?”</p> + +<p>“What?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“The dog’s horror of Kersteven. The rest may be nothing—fancy of yours +or oddity of manner on Kersteven’s part. But the dog’s horror of +Kersteven is very strange, and—unless your suspicion is correct, which +God forbid—very unnatural.”</p> + +<p>“Unnatural—that’s just what Lord Elyn called it.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!”</p> + +<p>“And his trying to keep the fact of the dog being in the house from +you. Isn’t that very strange?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly it is. But—by Jove!—the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">113</span>strangest thing of all would be +that Kersteven should be cruel to an animal.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that’s true. I can’t—no, I can’t believe it possible.”</p> + +<p>“What could be his motive?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t conceive.”</p> + +<p>“I know the man. He has a passion of pity in him for the sufferings of +the animals, a real passion. Only one thing could account for his being +cruel, deliberately and persistently cruel, to a dog.”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“If he were mad.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that—impossible!”</p> + +<p>“It would be the only thing,” he repeated. “I know something of +insanity. A chief feature of it is this, that it often creates in a man +the reverse of what he was before it took possession of him. Thus the +kind, sane man becomes the cruel madman; the lively, mercurial sane man +the bitter, melancholy madman—and so on. You take me?”</p> + +<p>“Vernon isn’t mad,” I said with conviction.</p> + +<p>“Then he isn’t being cruel to his dog,” he said with equal conviction.</p> + +<p>“I can’t understand it,” I said dubiously. “The whole thing’s a +mystery. Why should he buy the dog after swearing he would never have +another? A whim, he said it was, a caprice. But I don’t believe that. +No, there was some deeper, stranger reason. What could it be?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">114</span></p> + +<p>I was asking myself, not him.</p> + +<p>Gernham got up to go.</p> + +<p>“One thing I promise you,” he said. “I’ll set at rest your doubts in a +very short time. I’ll find out for certain that Kersteven is treating +that dog properly. I devote my life to our dumb friends, as you know. +Well, they shan’t find me wanting now, though a man who has been my +chum and my colleague is concerned in this matter.”</p> + +<p>“What are you going to do?”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow I ought to be working with Kersteven. After to-day I didn’t +mean to go, I didn’t feel as if I could go. But now I will, and I’ll +see the spaniel and see him with Kersteven. Never fear!”</p> + +<p>He spoke with biting decision. I looked at him and felt that he would +do what he said.</p> + +<p>“Brush my suspicions away,” I said, “and I’ll be only too thankful. +Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>He went off quickly.</p> + +<p>When the door was shut behind him I thought how strange it was that +Gernham’s purpose in connection with Vernon was exactly the same as had +been Vernon’s in connection with Deeming when he left Rome for London.</p> + +<p>He had wanted to see a black spaniel with Deeming. Gernham wanted to +see a black spaniel with him.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">115</span> + <h3>X</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Just</span> before lunch the next day Gernham was announced.</p> + +<p>“Good morning,” he said, coming into the room close upon the heels of +my man. “Can I lunch with you?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. Lunch for two, Bates.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The man went out and shut the door. Then I turned to Gernham.</p> + +<p>“You’ve been to Wimpole Street?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Do you remember I told you yesterday that Kersteven had taken my +punishment lying down?”</p> + +<p>“Of course I do.”</p> + +<p>“Well, since then he’s thought it over, and got up.”</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“Yesterday I declined to work with him. To-day, he’s declined to work +with me. He’s refused me admittance to his house. See that!”</p> + +<p>He put a note down on the table beside me. I took it and read as +follows:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Gernham</span>—I don’t know whether you will come to-day; +but should you do so, I’ve told Cragg to give you this. I did not +care to quarrel with a man in my own <span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">116</span>house; and so yesterday, +when you were impertinent to me, I did not appear to resent it. As +you know, I admire your character and respect your enthusiasm, and +it has been a great pleasure to me to be associated with you in a +work which I love with my whole heart and soul. But I allow no man +to criticise my conduct as you have chosen to criticise it. I am +sorry, therefore, that unless you feel inclined to apologise, I +cannot admit you to my house.—Believe me, faithfully,</p> + +<p class="right smcap">Vernon Kersteven.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>“What do you think of that, eh?” asked Gernham, when I finished reading +the note. “Pretty blunt, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Vernon has decidedly got up,” I said.</p> + +<p>I looked again at the note.</p> + +<p>“Tell me just what you think,” Gernham said.</p> + +<p>“Well,” I answered, with some hesitation, “it’s an abrupt change of +front after his behaviour yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“Too abrupt,” he said. “I don’t like it; I don’t like it at all. You +were right, Luttrell; there is a mystery here—a mystery connected with +that dog. But I haven’t got your opinion yet!”</p> + +<p>He was a persistent man, and did not readily lose sight of his object.</p> + +<p>“You want to know how I explain Vernon’s change of front.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly.”</p> + +<p>“It seems to me that he has thought things over since yesterday, and +resolved to avail himself <span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">117</span>of this pretext to keep you out of his +house.”</p> + +<p>“That’s it!” exclaimed Gernham. “I’ve given him his opportunity like +a fool, and he’s taken it, like a clever man. But where an animal is +concerned I’m not so easily dished. A good many people who’ve appeared +in the London police-courts know that.”</p> + +<p>“When you got this note, what did you do?”</p> + +<p>“I tried to question Cragg.”</p> + +<p>“And the result?”</p> + +<p>“Nil. Directly I mentioned the dog, he looked as grim as death, and +became monosyllabic. There’s something up, and Cragg has an inkling +of it. But he’ll never tell it to me. You’ve got to go into this, +Luttrell.”</p> + +<p>At this moment lunch was announced, and the rest of the conversation +took place in the dining-room. Directly after lunch Gernham hurried +away, leaving me pledged to act where he could not act, pledged to +probe to the bottom, and without delay, the mystery of the black +spaniel.</p> + +<p>My relation with Vernon was now almost exactly similar to his former +relation with Deeming, and Gernham was to be the inactive watcher, the +waiter on events engineered by others, that I had formerly been. But +there was a difference in this new situation which had followed so +strangely upon the death of Deeming. Vernon had never been Deeming’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">118</span>friend. From the first moment when they met the two men had been +instinctively hostile to one another. But I was Vernon’s friend. I +cared for him. Till now I had believed in him. This fact complicated +matters painfully. And yet I did not hesitate, did not feel that in my +understanding with Gernham I was being treacherous, disloyal.</p> + +<p>For the eyes of the black spaniel haunted me, summoned me, seemed to +force me to go on, to investigate this mystery. By them I was driven +to do as I did. By them I was told that in my friend a new man, a +stranger, had arisen, and that in attacking this stranger—if attack +were necessary—I should not be false to my friendship with the man +who had lived in Rome, the quiet lover of pictures, the gentle, idle, +cultivated Vernon of the Trinità dei Monti.</p> + +<p>Vernon was generally at home after six in the evening. I resolved to +seek him at that hour on the same day, and carried my resolution into +effect. Cragg opened the door to me.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Kersteven at home, Cragg?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Can I see him?”</p> + +<p>“If you’ll wait a moment, Sir, I’ll ask.”</p> + +<p>He paused, then added in explanation—</p> + +<p>“I don’t think Mr. Kersteven is very well to-day, Sir. Perhaps he may +not wish to be disturbed, even by you. You’ll excuse me, Sir.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">119</span></p> + +<p>“Of course. Go and see. I’ll stay here.”</p> + +<p>“Pray take a seat, Sir.”</p> + +<p>He placed a chair for me in the little hall, and went discreetly away +up the stairs.</p> + +<p>I sat down and waited.</p> + +<p>The hall was quiet and dim. Somewhere a large clock was ticking. Now +and then I heard a carriage roll by outside. As I sat there I fell into +deep thought. What was I going to do? I had come to the house without +making any plan. I could not make any plan till I had seen Vernon. His +demeanour, his action, must guide me. Would he see me? I thought it +probable. There was evidently no one with him. Had there been, Cragg +would have told me; and, if I saw him, should I find the black spaniel +with him? I glanced round me. On the opposite side of the hall, close +to where I was sitting, opened the short corridor, or passage, which +linked the two houses in one. I could see the darkness of what had +been Deeming’s house where the passage stretched away beyond the door +of Vernon’s workroom. Poor Deeming! Gone, with all his fine abilities, +his energy, his persistence, his ambition—his cruelty, perhaps! Had he +been cruel? Possibly Vernon knew. If he had, he was perhaps now being +punished in that other mysterious world of which we know nothing, of +which we seldom think in health, but which seems to loom near us when +we are ill, or weary, or in trouble of mind—to loom as a great vault +before <span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">120</span>whose entrance we stand, gazing but seeing naught. As I stared +down the corridor into the dimness of the other house, the thought of +Deeming haunted me, came to me vividly, till I almost fancied that +something of him, some thrown-out essence of his personality, of his +strong soul, still remained in the dwelling that had been his, still +knew what went on there, still watched the coming and going of the man +who governed where he had governed once.</p> + +<p>I fancied, did I say? It was more than that. I felt as if he were near +me, as if he were even intent upon me.</p> + +<p>Then from the thought of him, and still with that sensation of +his nearness, of his attention, upon me, my mind travelled to the +black spaniel. His dog, that mysterious creature never seen by me, +had pattered in the dimness towards which I was gazing. And now, +as Deeming’s place was taken by Vernon, its place was taken by the +black spaniel Vernon had first seen in the Park cowering down against +the earth, its ears laid back, its body trembling, its eyes full of +a message of voiceless fear. Perhaps it was close to me now, this +successor of Deeming’s pet or victim. Perhaps it was shut up in the +room in which I had seen it lying against the red curtain. I could see +the door of the room. It was shut. A few steps would bring me to it. I +glanced towards the staircase. Cragg was not coming down. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">121</span>I got up. +Again I had the sensation that Deeming was near me, was intent upon +me, wanted something of me, and with this sensation was mysteriously +linked my consciousness of the nearness of the black spaniel, till—till +the two sensations seemed to merge the one into the other, to become +one, in some indefinable, fantastic way. I can hardly explain exactly +what I felt at this moment, but my feeling was connected with Vernon’s +workroom. It was as if—as if I almost knew that, did I but take those +few steps to the shut door, did I but open that door, I should find +awaiting me within the room not only the black spaniel, but the dead +man, Deeming, with it. It was as if—as if⸺</p> + +<p>I moved across the hall, walking softly, reached the corridor, gained +the door, stood by it, listening for the uneasy movement, for the +whimper of a dog, for the stir, for the murmur of a dead man. But there +was no sound within. There was no sound, and yet I felt positive that +the spaniel was inside the room, separated from me only by a piece of +wood. Once, twice, I put my fingers upon the handle of the door, yet +refrained from turning it. I felt a strong desire to open the door, yet +at the critical moment I was held back from doing so by an imperious +reluctance which seemed to me to be physical, as if my body sickened +and protested against what my mind told it to do.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">122</span></p> + +<p>How long I stood thus uncertainly before the door I do not know. It +seemed to me a very long time. At last—in the struggle between mind +and body, if it were that—the body conquered. I turned to move away +without opening the door. I even took a step towards the hall. But I +was arrested by a sound that startled me, that sent—I could not tell +why—a chill through me.</p> + +<p>I heard the scratching of a dog against the inside of the door.</p> + +<p>I stood still, held my breath, and listened. The scratching was +repeated, prolonged. It was gentle, surreptitious almost, yet +insistent, a summons to me to return.</p> + +<p>Again my body sickened. I was physically afflicted. Nausea seized me. +But now my mind rose up and protested against the condition, against +the domination of my body, like a thing angry and ashamed. Suddenly I +took a resolution. I would open the door without delay in answer to the +appeal of the black spaniel. Swiftly I went back to the door, grasped +the handle, turned it, pushed. The door resisted me. It was locked. +As I realised this I heard from within the desolate whining of a dog +imprisoned.</p> + +<p>“Luttrell! Luttrell!”</p> + +<p>Vernon’s voice called to me from above, and at the same time I heard a +footstep. Cragg was coming down. I moved swiftly back into the hall and +met him. He glanced at me inquiringly, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">123</span>looked down the passage, then +at me again. His face for an instant was eloquent with inquiry—with—was +it sympathy? Then he was once more the discreet servant, saying in a +formal voice—</p> + +<p>“Please come up, Sir; Mr. Kersteven will be very glad to see you.”</p> + +<p>Vernon met me on the landing by the drawing-room door. I saw at once +that he was not well. His face was very pale, and had a peculiar look, +as if the skin were drawn upward towards the wrinkled forehead, which I +had sometimes noticed in people suffering from prolonged insomnia. It +gave a horribly strained appearance to his countenance, in which the +eyes looked unnaturally eager and full of curious observation.</p> + +<p>“Were you in the hall?” he said, taking my hand for the fraction of an +instant, and then dropping it as if with relief.</p> + +<p>“I waited in the hall,” I replied evasively.</p> + +<p>“You were there then while Cragg was up here?”</p> + +<p>“He asked me to wait there,” I said. “While he went to see if you were +well enough to receive me. I’m sorry to hear you’re seedy.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s of no consequence. Come in.”</p> + +<p>We went into the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>“What’s been the matter?” I asked, as we sat down.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been overworking, I suppose.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">124</span></p> + +<p>“With Gernham?” I said.</p> + +<p>“Gernham!”—he looked at me narrowly. “You—have you seen Gernham to-day?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Oh.”</p> + +<p>He sat silent for a moment. I could see that he was hesitating whether +to tell me about his breach with Gernham or not.</p> + +<p>“How d’you like Gernham?” he said at length. “He likes you. He told me +so.”</p> + +<p>“I know him very slightly, but one can’t help respecting such a genuine +fellow,” I replied.</p> + +<p>“Genuine—yes, he’s that.”</p> + +<p>“If he undertook a thing, nothing would stop him from going through +with it.”</p> + +<p>“You think so?”</p> + +<p>He slightly smiled.</p> + +<p>“But suppose he were to encounter an opposition as thorough as his own +attack? What then?”</p> + +<p>I knew at once that he was thinking of Gernham and himself.</p> + +<p>“Then,” I said, “there would be a battle royal.”</p> + +<p>“A battle royal, would there? Yes, no doubt.”</p> + +<p>With the last words his interest seemed to fail suddenly. He slightly +drooped his head, and sat like one listening for some distant sound. +I watched him closely. Gernham’s declaration that if Vernon were +maltreating <span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">125</span>the spaniel he must be mentally diseased was present in my +mind. I was looking for symptoms that would guide me to a conclusion +one way or the other. I saw a great change in Vernon—a painful change. +He looked like a man suffering under some terrible distress, which had +altered, for the time, his whole outlook upon life. But I felt that I +was with a perfectly sane man. As I regarded him he seemed to recover +his consciousness of my presence, glanced up, and met my scrutiny.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” he said. “Why do you look at me like that?”</p> + +<p>I felt embarrassed.</p> + +<p>“What’s Gernham been saying to you?” he added sharply.</p> + +<p>“Gernham—oh, you know him,” I answered. “You know where his heart is, +with the animals. What an enthusiast he is!”</p> + +<p>“He’s been talking to you about his work then. Well, did he tell you +that we’ve had a quarrel, he and I?”</p> + +<p>“He said your work together had come to a stop, for the moment. Why +should it?”</p> + +<p>“Why? Oh, well, sometimes Gernham is too blunt, says more than he, +than any man ought to say to another. There is a limit to frankness; +occasionally he oversteps it. He overstepped it with me, and I resented +it. Don’t you think I was right?”</p> + +<p>I felt that he was being strangely insincere <span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">126</span>with me as he had been +insincere with Gernham, trying to raise a cloud which would obscure the +reality of his mind, the true scope of his intentions.</p> + +<p>“I see no reason why two such men as you should quarrel,” I answered. +“Especially if it interrupts, and perhaps, to some extent, cripples +a splendid work. You should sink your little differences, and go on +together, hand in hand, to further the noble cause you love.”</p> + +<p>He had been trying to play me. I was now trying to play him. Yet, as I +finished, a genuine warmth came, I think, into my voice. It moved him. +I could see that, for he looked up at me as if demanding my sympathy. +Suddenly I felt a profound pity for him, a profound desire to help him. +But how? Against what?</p> + +<p>“Perhaps we shall be friends again,” he said. “But he misunderstands +me, and you, Luttrell, perhaps you misunderstand me too.”</p> + +<p>“I!”</p> + +<p>“Yes—you. Are you sure that, in these last days, you have never had any +cruel suspicions of me? Are you sure you have not any cruel suspicions +of me now?”</p> + +<p>“If I had, if I have, you could easily clear them up,” I answered. “By +the way, how’s the dog getting on? All right?”</p> + +<p>His face changed at once, hardened.</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes!” he said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">127</span></p> + +<p>“I should like to have another look at him,” I said. “Where is he?”</p> + +<p>“He’s downstairs in the study. Didn’t you know it?”</p> + +<p>“I—I did think I heard something scratching and whining. Why do you +keep him shut up?”</p> + +<p>“He hasn’t got accustomed to being with me yet. If I let him out he +might bolt.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!”</p> + +<p>“I don’t want to have spent my twelve pounds for nothing,” he added.</p> + +<p>His face had hardened. Now his voice was hard too—hard and fatal.</p> + +<p>“May I have a look at him?” I said.</p> + +<p>The sense of mystery was returning upon me. I tried to combat it by +speaking bluntly, expressing my desire plainly. At least, I would no +longer deal in subterfuge. Instead of answering my question he said, +throwing a curious, wavering glance upon me, “Are you engaged to-night?”</p> + +<p>I was, but I said at once, “I’m entirely at your service, Vernon.”</p> + +<p>“Dine with me, then.”</p> + +<p>“Here?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, here.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right. And now let’s have some music. I’ve got a new piano +since last year.”</p> + +<p>We spent the next hour with Richard Strauss and Saint-Saëns.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">128</span> + <h3>XI</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Night</span> had closed in. Vernon and I were seated opposite to one another +at the oval dining-table. Cragg waited upon us. Now and then, as he +moved softly to and fro, I glanced at him, and I thought I detected in +his well-trained face a flicker of anxiety as his eyes rested upon his +master, a flicker of appeal as they rested upon me. It seemed to me at +such times that he wanted me to do something to help Vernon, that he +was longing to have a word with me alone.</p> + +<p>The dinner was excellent, but Vernon ate scarcely anything. He talked, +however, a good deal, though hardly with his usual nerve and relish. +When dessert was on the table, he said—</p> + +<p>“Bring us our coffee here, Cragg; at least, one black coffee.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t take it,” Vernon said to me. “I’ve been sleeping wretchedly +lately. Morphia would be more the thing for me than coffee.”</p> + +<p>“I knew you had been suffering from insomnia.”</p> + +<p>He laughed drearily.</p> + +<p>“I don’t look up to much, do I?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">129</span></p> + +<p>Cragg brought my coffee and cigars.</p> + +<p>“You can leave us now, Cragg; go and have your supper; go downstairs.”</p> + +<p>The man looked slightly surprised, but said nothing and went away.</p> + +<p>When he had gone Vernon lit a cigar, puffed out some rings of smoke, +watched them curling up towards the ceiling, then said—</p> + +<p>“You wanted to have a look at the spaniel, didn’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Well, if I bring him in, be careful with him, will you?”</p> + +<p>“Careful with him! Why? Is he dangerous?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t say that. But he’s got an odd temper. I keep him muzzled.”</p> + +<p>“In the house?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, always. I don’t want to be bitten. You remember how Deeming died? +Well, I don’t want to die like that.”</p> + +<p>His mention of Deeming gave me an opportunity of which I at once +availed myself.</p> + +<p>“That was a sad business,” I said. “Did you see much of him before he +died, as you were living next door?”</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he interrupted, “Deeming was not a friendly neighbour. Do you +know that I took your advice?”</p> + +<p>“What advice?”</p> + +<p>“To get into his house as a patient.”</p> + +<p>“You really did that!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">130</span></p> + +<p>“Yes. One morning, as he never invited me in as a friend, I went in as +a patient.”</p> + +<p>“How did he take it?”</p> + +<p>“Well, he could hardly decline to treat me. It happened that I was +really unwell at the time, so I had a good excuse.”</p> + +<p>“And—and—your strange suspicions”—I was almost stammering, conscious, +painfully conscious of my own—“your strange suspicions—did you ever +find out whether they were justified?”</p> + +<p>“They were justified, fully justified. But the dog took its own part in +the end and killed its persecutor.”</p> + +<p>I felt a sensation of horror take hold upon me.</p> + +<p>“Do you really mean that Deeming was treating his spaniel cruelly?” I +asked.</p> + +<p>“I do. He had the mania for persecution that I suspected. He was +venting it upon his dog. The servants had some inkling of the truth, +especially his butler. He knew, I believe, all that was going on. +But—he was well paid, very well paid.”</p> + +<p>I remembered my Sunday morning call, and the butler’s exclamation when +the fox-terrier ran into the house.</p> + +<p>“This is horrible, Vernon,” I said. “Are you sure of what you say?”</p> + +<p>“Quite sure. I heard—well, I heard things at night, and at last I saw +the dog.”</p> + +<p>“How?”</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i130"> + <img src="images/i130.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption>“WHILE I WAS THERE DEEMING CAME BACK UNEXPECTEDLY.”</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">131</span></p> +<p>“I got into the house when Deeming was out. I bribed his butler, paid +him more than Deeming did, I suppose. Anyhow, I got in. I think the +man was sympathetic; was anxious really that an end should be put to +the disgusting business. I burst open the door of the room in which +the spaniel was confined, and then I saw—no matter what. It was quite +enough. While I was there Deeming came back unexpectedly.”</p> + +<p>“Good God!” I exclaimed. “What a ghastly situation!”</p> + +<p>“It was not exactly pleasant. I saw the man’s soul naked that +night—stark naked. It was on that occasion the dog bit him.”</p> + +<p>“Ouf!” I said.</p> + +<p>Again nausea seized me.</p> + +<p>Vernon looked at me steadily.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you think Deeming deserved anything he got?” he asked. “Anything +he could ever get?”</p> + +<p>“But he was mad—he must have been mad!”</p> + +<p>“I suppose that sort of thing is what might be called a form of +madness. Unfortunately a good many sane people have it—people as sane +as you or I in all other respects.”</p> + +<p>When he said the words “or I” a flush, I think, came to my cheek. It +seemed to me that he spoke with significance—as if he knew what Gernham +and I had spoken of the day before.</p> + +<p>“As sane as you or I,” he repeated. “This work I’ve been doing with +Gernham has <span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">132</span>opened my eyes to a good deal in human nature that they +were shut to before. I once said to you in Rome, to you and Deeming, +that man’s cruelty sprang often from a lack of imagination. Sometimes +it springs from just the opposite, from a diseased imagination that +lusts for gratification in ways we won’t discuss.”</p> + +<p>“But Deeming—that he should be such a man, he whose profession it was +to make whole!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that made the thing more strange and, to him, more enticing.”</p> + +<p>“Enticing!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>My voice was full of the bitterness of disgust mingled with incredulity +that I was feeling.</p> + +<p>“Just that,” he said. “He healed, as it were, with one hand, and +destroyed with the other. Deeming was one of the human devils who have +an insatiable craze for contrast. They revel in virtue because it is so +different from vice. They revel in vice because it is so different from +virtue. Deeming quivered with happiness when the last patient was gone +and he could steal to the room where the spaniel⸺”</p> + +<p>“Enough! Enough!” I exclaimed. “I won’t hear any more! Thank God he’s +dead! Thank God it’s all over now! Why did you do that?” Vernon had +suddenly laughed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">133</span></p> + +<p>“Why did you do that?” I repeated. “What is there to laugh at?”</p> + +<p>“I was laughing at your certainty, Luttrell, at the calm assurance +with which we—poor, ignorant beings that we are—assert this or that +regarding the fate of a soul, without knowing anything of the purposes +of the Creator.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“And yet you say—‘Thank God, it’s all over now!’”</p> + +<p>He looked at me so strangely that I was struck to silence. I opened my +lips to speak, but, while his eyes were upon me, I could say nothing. +He made me feel as if, indeed, I were plunged in a profound gulf of +ignorance, as if he watched me there from some height of understanding, +of knowledge.</p> + +<p>“Now I’ll go and fetch the spaniel,” he said.</p> + +<p>And he got up and quietly left the room.</p> + +<p>I turned in my chair and sat facing the door. The room was softly lit +by wax candles, and on the walls were the pictures of gentleness, of +mercy, of goodness and adoration which had hung upon the walls of +Vernon’s dining-room in Rome. My glance ran over them, while my mind +dwelt upon the horrors of Vernon’s narrative—horrors that seemed all +the greater because he had told me so little, had left my imagination +so unfettered. Then I looked again towards the door, and listened +intently. Presently I heard a door shut, the sound of a <span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">134</span>step. Vernon +was coming with the spaniel. I had asked to see the dog; I had wished +to see it. Yet now my wish was about to be gratified I felt an extreme +repugnance invade me. I longed to escape from the fulfilment of my +wish. I was seized with—was it fear? It was something cold, something +that lay upon my nerves like ice, that surely turned the blood in +my veins to water. But, I could do nothing now, nothing to escape. +Something within me seemed to make a furious effort to take up some +weapon and attack the cold heavy thing that was striving to paralyse +me. I was conscious of battle. In the midst of the battle the door +opened and Vernon came in.</p> + +<p>He was carrying the black spaniel in his arms.</p> + +<p>He walked in slowly, kicked the door backwards with his heel to shut +it, came to the table and sat down, still keeping the dog in his arms.</p> + +<p>The dog was muzzled, and had on a collar to which a steel chain was +attached; but, for the first moment, the only thing that struck me was +his thinness. He was excessively thin—almost emaciated. He sat on his +master’s knee, with his chin on the edge of the table and his yellow +eyes gazing at me. A long trembling ran through his body, ceased, and +was renewed with a regularity that reminded me of the ticking of a +clock. Vernon kept his two hands upon the spaniel. They shuddered on +the dog’s back when he shuddered.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">135</span></p> + +<p>“Well,” Vernon said. “What do you think of him?”</p> + +<p>“He’s horribly thin,” I said. “Horribly.”</p> + +<p>I turned my eyes from the spaniel to Vernon’s face.</p> + +<p>“Do you think⸺” I began and hesitated.</p> + +<p>“What?” he asked calmly.</p> + +<p>“Do you think you give him enough to eat?” I said.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s very bad for dogs to overfeed,” he answered. “Nothing ruins +their health like overeating, and spaniels are like pugs, inclined to +be greedy.”</p> + +<p>I noticed that he had not answered my question.</p> + +<p>He lifted one hand, laid it on the spaniel’s head, and smoothed the +black hair, moving his hand backwards to the neck. The dog turned its +head back towards him and showed his white teeth, as if his master’s +hand drew him but to a demonstration of hatred, not of affection. +Vernon smiled, lifted his hand, and repeated the action. The dog gave a +low growl ending in a whine.</p> + +<p>“Now you haven’t told me what you think of him,” Vernon continued, “and +I want to know. I want very much to know.”</p> + +<p>I looked into the spaniel’s eyes, and again something cold lay upon my +nerves like ice.</p> + +<p>“Why?” I said. “What does it matter what I think?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">136</span></p> + +<p>“Do answer my question!” Vernon said with unwonted irritation.</p> + +<p>“There’s something about the dog,” I said, “that’s—that’s⸺”</p> + +<p>“Yes?” he said sharply.</p> + +<p>“That’s uncanny.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” The word was a long-drawn sigh. “You think that!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I shouldn’t care to have him about me. I shouldn’t care to sleep +with him in my room.”</p> + +<p>“Sleep! Heaven forbid!”</p> + +<p>His exclamation was almost shrill. It startled me.</p> + +<p>“Where does the dog sleep?” I asked. “Where do you put him at night?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a dressing-room opening out of my bedroom. He’s shut in there.”</p> + +<p>“And you—you say you’ve been sleeping badly lately?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t been sleeping at all.”</p> + +<p>“Does he whine? Does he disturb you?”</p> + +<p>“He never makes a sound at night. I think he’s afraid that if he did I +should punish him. He’s evidently had an unkind master, poor fellow.”</p> + +<p>There was something so hideously insincere in Vernon’s voice as he +said the last words that I could not help expressing the thought, the +suspicion that had been, that was haunting me.</p> + +<p>“Has he got a kind master now?” I said.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">137</span></p> + +<p>I fixed my eyes on Vernon’s.</p> + +<p>“Has he?” I repeated.</p> + +<p>At that moment I wanted to force things. The entrance of the dog had +deepened my sense of moving in mystery until it became absolutely +intolerable. A hard determination took hold upon me to compel Vernon +to explain—what? I did not know. But that there was something to +be explained, some strange undercurrent of motive, of desire, of +intention, deep and furtive, I seemed to be aware.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” Vernon said. “Surely you know my feeling for +animals.”</p> + +<p>“I do.”</p> + +<p>“Then what do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“I mean that as regards this animal, this spaniel, I don’t—I can’t +trust you,” I said. “I don’t know why it is, I don’t understand, I +don’t understand anything. But I don’t trust you, Vernon. That’s the +truth. It’s best to speak it.”</p> + +<p>To my great surprise, he did not indignantly resent my words, nor did +he look guilty or ashamed. Indeed, it seemed to me that an expression +of something like relief flitted across his face as I finished speaking.</p> + +<p>“I knew it,” he said. “I knew quite well you didn’t trust me. And +Gernham? Have you spoken to him of your mistrust?”</p> + +<p>“He knows I don’t understand why you bought this dog, and what you’re +going to do <span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">138</span>to him. He knows I’m—I’m afraid of—of what you may be +going to do.”</p> + +<p>He was silent, and again drew his hand across the spaniel’s soft black +coat. The dog struggled. He struck his open hand down on the dog’s +head, and the dog lay still, cowering upon his master’s knees.</p> + +<p>“Gernham doesn’t enter into this,” he said inflexibly.</p> + +<p>“And I?”</p> + +<p>“You! That’s different. You introduced me to Deeming.”</p> + +<p>Again the dog began to struggle upon his knees, but this time more +violently.</p> + +<p>Vernon lifted his hand again.</p> + +<p>“Put him down!” I said. “For God’s sake put him down! Don’t strike him!”</p> + +<p>“Very well.”</p> + +<p>He dropped the spaniel to the floor. The spaniel ran under the +dining-table. I sprang up from my seat.</p> + +<p>“Don’t, don’t!” I began.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right,” said Vernon. “I’ve got him by the chain.” He dragged +the spaniel out, and fastened him up to the sideboard at the far end of +the room.</p> + +<p>“Why, you’re trembling!” he said, as he came back to his chair.</p> + +<p>“Am I?” I said, ashamed. “I’m not a coward, but—but this dog—I can’t +stand him near me, close to me, when I can’t see what he’s doing.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">139</span></p> + +<p>I cleared my throat, went to the window, threw it open, leaned out, and +spat. Leaving the window open, I came back to the table. The spaniel +was now lying down on the floor, close to the sideboard.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” I said, almost fiercely, I think, in my inexplicable +physical distress, “what is it that’s wrong with the dog? What is it +that’s unnatural about him?”</p> + +<p>“You have no idea?” said Vernon.</p> + +<p>“Not the slightest. The poor beast seems harmless enough, though he’s +terrified. One can see that.”</p> + +<p>“Exactly. He is terrified.”</p> + +<p>“And the strange thing is that his terror terrifies me.”</p> + +<p>“Now you’re getting to it,” Vernon said. “Why should the spaniel be +terrified?”</p> + +<p>“Why? How should I know? Isn’t that for you to say?”</p> + +<p>“Sit down again,” he said. “The dog can’t get to you now.”</p> + +<p>As he spoke, he sat down. I glanced towards the dog, saw that what +Vernon had said was true, and followed his example.</p> + +<p>“The dog’s terror,” he said. “Think of that, Luttrell! Seek for an +explanation in that.”</p> + +<p>“I have, but I haven’t found one.”</p> + +<p>“Whom is it terrified of?”</p> + +<p>“Of you,” I answered. “The first time we <span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">140</span>saw him, I noticed that he +was abjectly terrified of you.”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly true. Why should that be? Is it natural?”</p> + +<p>“Utterly unnatural,” I said. “Unless he’s been badly, brutally treated, +and is afraid of everybody.”</p> + +<p>“He is not afraid of everybody. He is only afraid of me. Was he afraid +of Lord Elyn?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“He is only afraid of me.”</p> + +<p>“Are you certain?”</p> + +<p>“Would you like to test it?”</p> + +<p>“How?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“I will leave the room for a moment—leave you alone with the dog.”</p> + +<p>“No!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“You are afraid?”</p> + +<p>“I’m not a coward, but there’s something about this spaniel which +horrifies my imagination as a spectre might horrify it.”</p> + +<p>“Nevertheless, you must summon your courage. I wish it. I wish to know +how the spaniel will be with you when you are alone together. Come, +make the experiment.”</p> + +<p>He got up and went towards the door. I did not try to keep him.</p> + +<p>“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said.</p> + +<p>And he went softly out of the room and shut the door behind him.</p> + +<p>When he had gone, I sat where I was, looking at the black blot on the +floor by the sideboard. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">141</span>A strong curiosity was awake in me fighting my +strange physical repulsion. I longed to put the thing to the test, yet +I feared to approach the spaniel. How long I sat there I do not know, +how long I might have sat there I cannot tell had nothing occurred to +bias me towards action. But something did occur. The spaniel suddenly +whimpered softly, as if to attract my attention, whimpered again and +struck his feathery tail upon the floor. Those natural sounds of +an anxious dog reassured me. I got up quickly and went over to the +sideboard. Instantly, with a sort of strangled wail, the spaniel sprang +up, put his forepaws on my legs, and thrust his hot nose into my hand, +pushing, pushing hard, as if he sought to hide himself in a friendly +shelter. I felt a wetness on my hand, the wetness of an animal’s tears. +Then all my horror vanished and only pity remained. I knelt down on +the carpet. I put my arms round the dog. I felt his trembling body +with my hands. He was thin, hideously thin. His piteous eyes begged +something of me. Still holding him with one arm, I stretched out the +other, and opened a door in the sideboard. Within I saw a basket with +some cut bread in it. I took out the bread. The spaniel sprang upon +it passionately, tore it out of my hand, and devoured it ravenously. +Then a wave of hot indignation went over me. At that moment I hated +Vernon with all my soul. I hated him so much that I lost all sense of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">142</span>everything except my fury against him. I held the dog tightly as I +knelt on the floor, and, turning my head towards the door, I called out—</p> + +<p>“Vernon! Vernon!”</p> + +<p>Instantly the door opened and Vernon appeared. The dog looked as he had +looked when he was being brought into the house.</p> + +<p>“Vernon,” I said, “you’re a d⸺d blackguard!”</p> + +<p>“Why?” he said.</p> + +<p>“This dog is starving. You’re starving him! D’you hear? You’re starving +him!”</p> + +<p>“I know I am,” he answered.</p> + +<p>I got up. The spaniel rushed against my legs and leaned against them as +I stood.</p> + +<p>“Then Gernham was right,” I said. “You are a madman.”</p> + +<p>“Is it madness to see what is when others are blind to it?”</p> + +<p>“To see—to see?” I exclaimed. “What is there to see but this dog, this +spaniel that you are torturing?”</p> + +<p>“There is this spaniel—yes. Look at him. Look into his eyes. Look at +the soul in them.”</p> + +<p>There was something compelling, something almost mystical, in his +voice. I looked down into the yellow eyes of the spaniel. They met +mine, then looked away from mine as if unable to bear my gaze.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” I said, in a whisper. “What is it?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">143</span></p> + +<p>Again I was assailed by the sensation which had come to me when I +waited in the hall to know if Vernon would receive me, a sensation +that, with the black spaniel, linked with it, mysteriously mingled with +it, was something of the man who was dead—something of Deeming.</p> + +<p>“Deeming!” I stammered. “Deeming!”</p> + +<p>I did not know what I meant, but I was compelled to pronounce the name +of my friend.</p> + +<p>“Deeming?” I said once more, looking towards Vernon.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you feel that he is here?” said Vernon.</p> + +<p>“But he is dead.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you feel that he is here?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said. “But it can’t be. He is dead.”</p> + +<p>“His body is dead—yes. But his soul, is that dead?”</p> + +<p>When he said that, I understood what he meant, and I recoiled from the +black spaniel as from a nameless horror.</p> + +<p>“Vernon!” I said. “Vernon!”</p> + +<p>“Do you understand now?” he asked. “Do you understand why I bought +the spaniel, why I have kept the spaniel here in the house where he +tortured his dog? It was to punish him as he punished it, to torture +him as he tortured it. Directly I saw the spaniel crouching down in the +Park, directly I looked into his eyes, I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">144</span>knew. Deeming died on the +30th of June, the spaniel was born on that very day. The soul of the +dog-torturer passed at the death of the body of the man into the body +of the dog. I am not mad—no. I am only just. I am the instrument of the +justice of Providence. Deeming’s soul has been sent back into the world +to pay its penalty. And I am here to see that the penalty is paid.”</p> + +<p>There was blazing in his eyes the light which I had seen in them for +the first time in the restaurant in Rome, the light which had made +Deeming say that in Vernon there was the spirit of a black fanatic.</p> + +<p>“It’s not true!” I said. “It can’t be true!”</p> + +<p>“But Lord Elyn has felt it, Cragg has felt it, you have felt it—the +strangeness of the spaniel. You know now, you know that what I say is +true. Deny that you know it is true! Deny it then!”</p> + +<p>I opened my lips to deny it, but they refused to speak. I was filled +with a horror of the imagination, but I was resolved not to succumb to +it. I seized the steel chain that was attached to the collar of the +spaniel, and untied it from the sideboard.</p> + +<p>“What are you doing?” said Vernon sharply.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Vernon,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm; “I am going +to take the spaniel with me.”</p> + +<p>As I spoke I moved towards the door. The <span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">145</span>spaniel slunk along beside +me, with its belly close to the floor, trying to press itself against +my legs.</p> + +<figure class="figcenter illowp75" id="i144"> + <img src="images/i144.jpg" alt=""> + <figcaption>“I WENT OUT INTO THE NIGHT CARRYING IT IN MY ARMS.”</figcaption> +</figure> + +<p>“What!” said Vernon, “to happiness—to affection!”</p> + +<p>I was close to the door. I had my fingers upon the handle.</p> + +<p>“That!” he cried with violence. “No! Rather than that, let it end now +and here!”</p> + +<p>He made a rapid movement; the spaniel howled and cowered against the +door. I heard the crack of a pistol-shot. I felt the chain leap in my +hand as the spaniel sprang upwards and fell on the floor.</p> + +<p>I bent down, touched him, turned him over.</p> + +<p>He was dead.</p> + +<p>Then I faced Vernon.</p> + +<p>“Murderer!” I said. “Murderer!”</p> + +<p>“But—he was only a black spaniel!” Vernon said, laying the revolver +down on the table.</p> + +<p>“Murderer!” I repeated.</p> + +<p>Then I lifted up the corpse of the spaniel, and went out into the night +carrying it in my arms.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a><a id="Page_147"></a>147</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Mission"><i>THE MISSION OF MR. EUSTACE GREYNE</i></h2> +</div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap">MRS. EUSTACE GREYNE (pronounced Green) wrinkled her forehead—that +noble, that startling forehead which had been written about in the +newspapers of two hemispheres—laid down her American Squeezer pen, +and sighed. It was an autumn day, nipping and melancholy, full of +the rustle of dying leaves and the faint sound of muffin bells, and +Belgrave Square looked sad even to the great female novelist who had +written her way into a mansion there. Fog hung about with the policeman +on the pavement. The passing motor cars were like shadows. Their +stertorous pantings sounded to Mrs. Greyne’s ears like the asthma of +dying monsters. She sighed again, and murmured in a deep contralto +voice: “It must be so.” Then she got up, crossed the heavy Persian +carpet which had been bought with the proceeds of a short story in her +earlier days, and placed her forefinger upon an electric bell.</p> + +<p>Like lightning a powdered giant came.</p> + +<p>“Has Mr. Greyne gone out?”</p> + +<p>“No, ma’am.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">148</span></p> + +<p>“Where is he?”</p> + +<p>“In his study, ma’am, pasting the last of the cuttings into the new +album.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne smiled. It was a pretty picture the unconscious six-footer +had conjured up.</p> + +<p>“I am sorry to disturb Mr. Greyne,” she answered, with that gracious, +and even curling suavity which won all hearts; “but I wish to see him. +Will you ask him to come to me for a moment?”</p> + +<p>The giant flew, silk-stockinged, to obey the mandate, while Mrs. Greyne +sat down on a carved oaken chair of ecclesiastical aspect to await her +husband.</p> + +<p>She was a famous woman, a personage, this simply-attired lady. With +an American Squeezer pen she had won fame, fortune, and a mansion +in Belgrave Square, and all without the sacrifice of principle. +Respectability incarnate, she had so dealt with the sorrows and evils +of the world that she had rendered them utterly acceptable to Mrs. +Grundy, Mr. Grundy, and all the Misses Grundy. People said she dived +into the depths of human nature, and brought up nothing that need +scandalise a curate’s grandmother, or the whole-aunt of an archdeacon; +and this was so true that she had made a really prodigious amount of +money. Her large, her solid, her unrelenting books lay upon every +table. Even the smart set kept them, uncut—like pretty sinners who have +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">149</span>never been “found out”—to give an air of hap-hazard intellectuality to +frisky boudoirs. All the clergy, however unable to get their tithes, +bought them. All bishops alluded to them in “pulpit utterances.” +Fabulous prices were paid for them by magazine editors. They ran +as serials through all the tale of months. The suburbs battened on +them. The provinces adored them. Country people talked of no other +literature. In fact, Mrs. Eustace Greyne was a really fabulous success.</p> + +<p>Why, then, should she heave these heavy sighs in Belgrave Square? Why +should she lift an intellectual hand as though to tousle the glossy +chestnut bandeaux which swept back from her forcible forehead, and +screw her reassuring features into these wrinkles of perplexity and +distress?</p> + +<p>The door opened, and Mr. Eustace Greyne appeared, “What is it, +Eugenia?” upon his lips.</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne was a number of years younger than his celebrated wife, +and looked even younger than his years. He was a very smart man, with +smooth, jet-black hair, which he wore parted in the middle; pleasant, +dark eyes that could twinkle gently; a clear, pale complexion; and a +nice, tall figure. One felt, in glancing at him, that he had been an +Eton boy, and had at least thought of going into the militia at some +period of his life. His history can be briefly told.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">150</span></p> + +<p>Scarcely had he emerged into the world before he met and was married +to Mrs. Eustace Greyne, then Miss Eugenia Hannibal-Barker. He had had +no time to sow a single oat, wild or otherwise; no time to adore a +barmaid, or wish to have his name linked with that of an actress; no +time to do anything wrong, or even to know, with the complete accuracy +desired by all persevering young men, what was really wrong. Miss +Eugenia Hannibal-Barker sailed upon his horizon, and he struck his +flag to matrimony. Ever since then he had been her husband, and had +never, even for one second, emerged beyond the boundaries of the most +intellectual respectability. He was the most innocent of men, although +he knew all the important editors in London. Swaddled in money by his +successful wife, he considered her a goddess. She poured the thousands +into Coutts’ Bank, and with the arrival of each fresh thousand he was +more firmly convinced that she was a goddess. To say he looked up to +her would be too mild. As the Cockney tourist in Chamonix peers at the +summit of Mont Blanc, he peered at Mrs. Greyne. And when, finally, she +bought the lease of the mansion in Belgrave Square, he knew her Delphic.</p> + +<p>So now he appeared in the oracle’s retreat respectfully, “What is it, +Eugenia?” upon his admiring lips.</p> + +<p>“Sit down, my husband,” she murmured.</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne subsided by the fire, placing <span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">151</span>his pointed patent-leather +toes upon the burnished fender. Without the fog grew deeper, and the +chorus of the muffin bells more plaintive. The fire-light, flickering +over Mrs. Greyne’s majestic features, made them look Rembrandtesque. +Her large, oxlike eyes were fixed and thoughtful. After a pause, she +said:</p> + +<p>“Eustace, I shall have to send you upon a mission.”</p> + +<p>“A mission, Eugenia!” said Mr. Greyne in great surprise.</p> + +<p>“A mission of the utmost importance, the utmost delicacy.”</p> + +<p>“Has it anything to do with Romeike & Curtice?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Will it take me far?”</p> + +<p>“That is my trouble. It will take you very far.”</p> + +<p>“Out of London?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> + +<p>“Out of—not out of England?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; it will take you to Algeria.”</p> + +<p>“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Greyne.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne sighed.</p> + +<p>“Good gracious!” Mr. Greyne repeated after a short interval. “Am I to +go alone?”</p> + +<p>“Of course you must take Darrell.” Darrell was Mr. Greyne’s valet.</p> + +<p>“And what am I to do at Algiers?”</p> + +<p>“You must obtain for me there the whole <span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">152</span>of the material for book six +of ‘Catherine’s Repentance.’” “Catherine’s Repentance” was the gigantic +novel upon which Mrs. Greyne was at that moment engaged.</p> + +<p>“I will not disguise from you, Eustace,” continued Mrs. Greyne, looking +increasingly Rembrandtesque, “that, in my present work, I am taking a +somewhat new departure.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but we are very comfortable here,” said Mr. Greyne.</p> + +<p>With each new book they had changed their abode. “Harriet” took them +from Phillimore Gardens to Queensgate Terrace; “Jane’s Desire” moved +them on to a corner house in Sloane Street; with “Isobel’s Fortune” +they passed to Curzon Street; “Susan’s Vanity” landed them in Coburg +Place; and, finally, “Margaret’s Involution” had planted them in +Belgrave Square. Now, with each of these works of genius Mrs. Greyne +had taken what she called “a new departure.” Mr. Greyne’s remark is, +therefore, explicable.</p> + +<p>“True. Still, there is always Park Lane.”</p> + +<p>She mused for a moment. Then, leaning more heavily upon the carved +lions of her chair, she continued:</p> + +<p>“Hitherto, although I have sometimes dealt with human frailty, I have +treated it gently. I have never betrayed a Zola-spirit.”</p> + +<p>“Zola! My darling!” cried Mr. Eustace Greyne. “You are surely not going +to betray anything of that sort now!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">153</span></p> + +<p>“If she does we shall soon have to move off to West Kensington,” was +his secret thought.</p> + +<p>“No. But in book six of ‘Catherine’ I have to deal with sin, with +tumult, with African frailty. It is inevitable.”</p> + +<p>She sighed once more. The burden of the new book was very heavy upon +her.</p> + +<p>“African frailty!” murmured the astonished Eustace Greyne.</p> + +<p>“Now, neither you nor I, my husband, know anything about this.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly not, my darling. How should we? We have never explored +beyond Lucerne.”</p> + +<p>“We must, therefore, get to know about it—at least you must. For I +cannot leave London. The continuity of the brain’s travelling must not +be imperiled by any violent bodily activity. In the present stage of my +book a sea journey might be disastrous.”</p> + +<p>“Certainly you should keep quiet, my love. But then⸺”</p> + +<p>“You must go for me to Algiers. There you must get me what I want. I +fear you will have to poke about in the native quarters a good deal for +it, so you had better buy two revolvers, one for yourself and one for +Darrell.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne gasped. The calmness of his wife amazed him. He was not +intellectual enough to comprehend fully the deep imaginings <span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">154</span>of a +mighty brain, the obsession work is in the worker.</p> + +<p>“African frailty is what I want,” pursued Mrs. Greyne. “One hundred +closely-printed pages of African frailty. You will collect for me +the raw material, and I shall so manipulate it that it will fall +discreetly, even elevatingly, into the artistic whole. Do you +understand me, Eustace?”</p> + +<p>“I am to travel to Algiers, and see all the wickedness to be seen +there, take notes of it, and bring them back to you.”</p> + +<p>“Precisely.”</p> + +<p>“And how long am I to stay?”</p> + +<p>“Until you have made yourself acquainted with the depths.”</p> + +<p>“A fortnight?”</p> + +<p>“I should think that would be enough. Take Brush’s remedy for +seasickness and plenty of antipyrin, your fur coat for the crossing, +and a white helmet and umbrella for the arrival. You have lead pencils?”</p> + +<p>“Plenty.”</p> + +<p>“A couple of Merrin’s exercise-books should be enough to contain your +notes.”</p> + +<p>“When am I to go?”</p> + +<p>“The sooner the better. I am at a standstill for want of the material. +You might catch the express to Paris to-morrow; no, say the day after +to-morrow.” She looked at him tenderly. “The parting will be bitter.”</p> + +<p>“Very bitter,” Mr. Eustace Greyne replied.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">155</span></p> + +<p>He felt really upset. Mrs. Greyne laid the hand which had brought them +from Phillimore Gardens to Belgrave Square gently upon his.</p> + +<p>“Think of the result,” she said. “The greatest book I have done yet. A +book that will last. A book that will⸺”</p> + +<p>“Take us to Park Lane,” he murmured.</p> + +<p>The Rembrandtesque head nodded. The noble features, as of a strictly +respectable Roman emperor, relaxed.</p> + +<p>“A book that will take us to Park Lane.”</p> + +<p>At this moment the door opened, and the footman inquired:</p> + +<p>“Could Mademoiselle Verbèna see you for a minute, ma’am?”</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Verbèna was the French governess of the two little +Greynes. The great novelist had consented to become a mother.</p> + +<p>“Certainly.”</p> + +<p>In another moment Mademoiselle Verbèna was added to the group beside +the fire.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">156</span> + <h3>II</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">We</span> have said that Mademoiselle Verbèna was the French governess of +little Adolphus and Olivia Greyne, and so she was to this extent—that +she taught them French, and that Mr. and Mrs. Greyne supposed her to +be a Parisian. But life has its little ironies. Mademoiselle Verbèna +in the house of this great and respectable novelist was one of them; +for she was a Levantine, born at Port Said of a Suez Canal father and a +Suez Canal mother. Now, nobody can desire to say anything against Port +Said. At the same time, few mothers would inevitably pick it out as the +ideal spot from which a beneficent influence for childhood’s happy hour +would be certain to emanate. Nor, it must be allowed, is a Suez Canal +ancestry specially necessary to a trainer of young souls. It may not +be a drawback, but it can hardly be described as an advantage. This, +Mademoiselle Verbèna was intelligent enough to know. She, therefore, +concealed the fact that her father had been a dredger of Monsieur de +Lesseps’ triumph, her mother a bar-lady of the historic coal wharf +where the ships are fed, and preferred to suppose—and to permit others +to suppose—that she had first <span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">157</span>seen the light in the Rue St. Honoré, +her parents being a count and countess of some old régime.</p> + +<p>This supposition, retained from her earliest years, had affected her +appearance and her manner. She was a very neat, very trim, even a very +attractive little person, with dark brown, roguish eyes, blue-black +hair, a fairy-like figure, and the prettiest hands and feet imaginable. +She had first attracted Mrs. Greyne’s attention by her devotion to St. +Paul’s Cathedral, and this devotion she still kept up. Whenever she had +an hour or two free she always—so she herself said—spent it in “<i lang="fr">ce +charmant</i> St. Paul.”</p> + +<p>As she entered the oracle’s retreat she cast down her eyes, and +trembled visibly.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Miss Verbèna?” inquired Mrs. Greyne, with a kindly English +accent, calculated to set any poor French creature quite at ease.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Verbèna trembled more.</p> + +<p>“I have received bad news, madame.”</p> + +<p>“I grieve to hear it. Of what nature?”</p> + +<p>“Mamma has <i lang="fr">une bronchite très grave</i>.”</p> + +<p>“A what, Miss Verbèna?”</p> + +<p>“Pardon, madame. A very grave bronchitis. She cries for me.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!”</p> + +<p>“The doctors say she will die.”</p> + +<p>“This is very sad.”</p> + +<p>The Levantine wept. Even Suez Canal folk <span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">158</span>are not proof against all +human sympathy. Mr. Greyne blew his nose beside the fire, and Mrs. +Greyne said again:</p> + +<p>“I repeat that this is very sad.”</p> + +<p>“Madame, if I do not go to mamma to-morrow I shall not see her more.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne looked very grave.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” she remarked. She thought profoundly for a moment, and then +added: “Indeed!”</p> + +<p>“It is true, madame.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly Mademoiselle Verbèna flung herself down on the Persian carpet +at Mrs. Greyne’s large but well-proportioned feet, and, bathing them +with her tears, cried in a heartrending manner:</p> + +<p>“Madame will let me go! madame will permit me to fly to poor mamma—to +close her dying eyes—to kiss once again⸺”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne was visibly affected, and even Mrs. Greyne seemed somewhat +put about, for she moved her feet rather hastily out of reach of the +dependant’s emotion, and made her scramble up.</p> + +<p>“Where is your poor mother?”</p> + +<p>“In Paris, madame. In the Rue St. Honoré, where I was born. Oh, if she +should die there! If she should⸺”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne raised her hand, commanding silence.</p> + +<p>“You wish to go there?”</p> + +<p>“If madame permits.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">159</span></p> + +<p>“When?”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow, madame.”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow? This is decidedly abrupt.”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Mais la bronchite, madame</i>, she is abrupt, and death, she may be +abrupt.”</p> + +<p>“True. One moment!”</p> + +<p>There was an instant’s silence for Mrs. Greyne to let loose her brain +in. She did so, then said:</p> + +<p>“You have my permission. Go to-morrow, but return as soon as possible. +I do not wish Adolphus to lose his still uncertain grasp upon the +irregular verbs.”</p> + +<p>In a flood of grateful tears Mademoiselle Verbèna retired to make her +preparations. On the morrow she was gone.</p> + +<p>The morrow was a day of much perplexity, much bustle and excitement +for Mr. Greyne and the valet, Darrell. They were preparing for +Algiers. In the morning, at an early hour, Mr. Greyne set forth in the +barouche with Mrs. Greyne to purchase African necessaries: a small +but well-supplied medicine chest, a pith helmet, a white-and-green +umbrella, a Baedeker, a couple of Smith & Wesson Springfield revolvers +with a due amount of cartridges, a dozen of Merrin’s exercise-books—on +mature reflection Mrs. Greyne thought that two would hardly contain a +sufficient amount of African frailty for her present purpose—a packet +of lead pencils, some bottles of a remedy for seasickness, a silver +flask for cognac, and various <span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">160</span>other trifles such as travellers in +distant continents require.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Darrell was learning French for the journey, and packing his +own and his master’s trunks. The worthy fellow, a man of twenty-five +summers, had never been across the Channel—the Greynes being by no +means prone to foreign travel—and it may, therefore, be imagined that +he was in a state of considerable expectation as he laid the trousers, +coats, and waistcoats in their respective places, selected such boots +as seemed likely to wear well in a tropical climate, and dropped those +shirts which are so contrived as to admit plenty of ventilation to the +heated body into the case reserved for them.</p> + +<p>When Mr. Greyne returned from his shopping excursion the barouche, +loaded almost to the gunwale—if one may be permitted a nautical +expression in this connection—had to be disburdened, and its contents +conveyed upstairs to Mr. Greyne’s bedroom, into which Mrs. Greyne +herself presently entered to give directions for their disposing. Nor +was it till the hour of sunset that everything was in due order, the +straps set fast, the keys duly turned in the locks—the labels—“Mr. +Eustace Greyne: Passenger to Algiers: <i lang="fr">via</i> Marseilles”—carefully +written out in a full, round hand. Rook’s tickets had been bought; +so now everything was ready, and the last evening in England might +be spent by Mr. Greyne in the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">161</span>drawing-room and by Darrell in the +servants’ hall quietly, socially, perhaps pathetically.</p> + +<p>The pathos of the situation, it must be confessed, appealed more to +the master than to the servant. Darrell was very gay, and inclined to +be boastful, full of information as to how he would comport himself +with “them there Frenchies,” and how he would make “them pore, godless +Arabs sit up.” But Mr. Greyne’s attitude of mind was very different. As +the night drew on, and Mrs. Greyne and he sat by the wood fire in the +magnificent drawing-room, to which they always adjourned after dinner, +a keen sense of the sorrow of departure swept over them both.</p> + +<p>“How lonely you will feel without me, Eugenia,” said Mr. Greyne. “I +have been thinking of that all day.”</p> + +<p>“And you, Eustace, how desolate will be your tale of days! My mind runs +much on that. You will miss me at every hour.”</p> + +<p>“You are so accustomed to have me within call, to depend upon me for +encouragement in your life-work. I scarcely know how you will get on +when I am far across the sea.”</p> + +<p>“And you, for whom I have labored, for whom I have planned and +calculated, what will be your sensations when you realize that a +gulf—the Gulf of Lyons—is fixed irrevocably between us?”</p> + +<p>So their thoughts ran. Each one was full of tender pity for the other. +Towards bedtime, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">162</span>however, conscious that the time for colloquy was +running short, they fell into more practical discourse.</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” said Mr. Greyne, “whether I shall find any difficulty +in gaining the information you require, my darling. I suppose these +places”—he spoke vaguely, for his thoughts were vague—“are somewhat +awkward to come at. Naturally they would avoid the eye of day.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne looked profound.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Evil ever seeks the darkness. You will have to do the same.”</p> + +<p>“You think my investigations must take place at night?”</p> + +<p>“I should certainly suppose so.”</p> + +<p>“And where shall I find a cicerone?”</p> + +<p>“Apply to Rook.”</p> + +<p>“In what terms? You see, dearest, this is rather a special matter, +isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Very special. But on no account hint that you are in Algiers for +‘Catherine’s’ sake. It would get into the papers. It would be cabled to +America. The whole reading world would be agog, and the future interest +of the book discounted.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne looked at his wife with reverence. In such moments he +realized, almost too poignantly, her great position.</p> + +<p>“I will be careful,” he said. “What would you recommend me to say?”</p> + +<p>“Well”—Mrs. Greyne knit her superb <span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">163</span>forehead—“I should suggest that +you present yourself as an ordinary traveler, but with a specially +inquiring bent of mind and a slight tendency towards the—the—er—hidden +things of life.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you wish me to visit the public houses?”</p> + +<p>“I wish you to see everything that has part or lot in African frailty. +Go everywhere, see everything. Bring your notes to me, and I will +select such fragments of the broken commandments as suit my purpose, +which is, as always, the edifying of the human race. Only this time I +mean to purge it as by fire.”</p> + +<p>“That corner house in Park Lane, next to the Duke of Ebury’s, would +suit us very well,” said Mr. Greyne reflectively.</p> + +<p>“We could sell our lease here at an advance,” his wife rejoined. “You +will not waste your journey, Eustace?”</p> + +<p>“My love,” returned Mr. Greyne with decision, “I will apply to Rook on +arrival, and, if I find his man unsatisfactory, if I have any reason +to suspect that I am not being shown everything—more especially in +the Kasbah region, which, from the guide-books we bought to-day, is, +I take it, the most abandoned portion of the city—I will seek another +cicerone.”</p> + +<p>“Do so. And now to bed. You must sleep well to-night in preparation for +the journey.”</p> + +<p>It was their invariable habit before retiring <span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">164</span>to drink each a tumbler +of barley water, which was set out by the butler in Mrs. Greyne’s +study. After this nightcap Mrs. Greyne wrote up her anticipatory +diary, while Mr. Greyne smoked a mild cigar, and then they went to +bed. To-night, as usual, they repaired to the sanctum, and drank their +barley water. Having done so, Mr. Greyne drew forth his cigar-case, +while Mrs. Greyne went to her writing-table, and prepared to unlock the +drawer in which her diary reposed, safe from all prying eyes.</p> + +<p>The match was struck, the key was inserted in the lock, and turned. +As the cigar end glowed the drawer was opened. Mr. Greyne heard a +contralto cry. He turned from the arm-chair in which he was just about +to seat himself.</p> + +<p>“My love, is anything the matter?”</p> + +<p>His wife was bending forward with both hands in the drawer, telling +over its contents.</p> + +<p>“My diary is not here!”</p> + +<p>“Your diary!”</p> + +<p>“It is gone.”</p> + +<p>“But”—he came over to her—“this is very serious. I presume, like +all diaries, it is full of⸺” Instinctively he had been about to say +“damning”; he remembered his dear one’s irreproachable character and +substituted “precious secrets.”</p> + +<p>“It is full of matter which must never be <span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">165</span>given to the world—my secret +thoughts, my aspirations. The whole history of my soul is there.”</p> + +<p>“Heavens! It must be found.”</p> + +<p>They searched the writing-table. They searched the room. No diary.</p> + +<p>“Could you have taken it to my room, and left it there?” asked Mr. +Greyne.</p> + +<p>They hastened thither, and looked—in vain. By this time the servants +were gone to bed, and the two searchers were quite alone on the ground +floor of their magnificent mansion. Mrs. Greyne began to look seriously +perturbed. Her Roman features worked.</p> + +<p>“This is appalling,” she exclaimed. “Some thief, knowing it priceless, +must have stolen the diary. It will be published in America. It will +bring in thousands—but to others, not to us.”</p> + +<p>She began to wring her hands. It was near midnight.</p> + +<p>“Think, my love, think!” cried Mr. Greyne. “Where could you have taken +it? You had it last night?”</p> + +<p>“Certainly. I remember writing in it that you would be sailing to +Algiers on the <cite>Général Bertrand</cite> on Thursday of this week, and +that on the night I should be feeling widowed here. The previous night +I wrote that yesterday I should have to tell you of your mission. You +know I always put down beforehand what I shall do, what I shall even +think on each succeeding <span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">166</span>day. It is a practice that regulates the mind +and conduct, that helps to uniformity.”</p> + +<p>“How true! Who can have taken it? Do you ever leave it about?”</p> + +<p>“Never. Am I a madwoman?”</p> + +<p>“My darling, compose yourself! We must search the house.”</p> + +<p>They proceeded to do so, and, on coming into the schoolroom, Mrs. +Greyne, who was in front, uttered a sudden cry.</p> + +<p>Upon the table of Mademoiselle Verbèna lay the diary, open at the +following entry:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>On Thursday next poor Eustace will be on board the <cite>Général +Bertrand</cite>, sailing for Algiers. I shall be here thinking of +myself, and of him in relation to myself. God help us both. Duty is +sometimes stern. <i lang="fr">Mem</i>. The corner house in Park Lane, next +the Duke of Ebury’s, has sixty years still to run; the lease, that +is. Thursday—poor Eustace!</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>“What does this portend?” cried Mrs. Greyne.</p> + +<p>“My darling, it passes my wit to imagine,” replied her husband.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">167</span> + <h3>III</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">The</span> parting of Mr. and Mrs. Greyne on the following morning was very +affecting. It took place at Victoria Station, in the midst of a +small crowd of admiring strangers, who had recognised the commanding +presence of the great novelist, and had gathered round to observe her +manifestations.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne was considerably shaken by the event of the previous night. +Although, on the discovery of the diary, the house had been roused, and +all the servants closely questioned, no light had been thrown upon its +migration from the locked drawer to the schoolroom table. Adolphus and +Olivia, jerked from sleep by the hasty hands of a maid, could only weep +and wan. The powdered footmen, one and all, declared they had never +heard of a diary. The butler gave warning on the spot, keeping on his +nightcap to give greater effect to his pronunciamento. It was all most +unsatisfactory, and for one wild moment Mrs. Greyne seriously thought +of retaining her husband by her as a protection against the mysterious +thief who had been at work in their midst. Could it be Mademoiselle +Verbèna? The dread surmise occurred, but Mr. Greyne rejected it.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">168</span></p> + +<p>“Her father was a count,” he said. “Besides, my darling, I don’t +believe she can read English; certainly not unless it is printed.”</p> + +<p>So there the matter rested, and the moment of parting came.</p> + +<p>There was a murmur of respectful sympathy as Mrs. Greyne clasped +her husband tenderly in her arms, and pressed his head against her +prune-coloured bonnet strings. The whistle sounded. The train moved on. +Leaning from a reserved first-class compartment, Mr. Greyne waved a +silk pocket-handkerchief so long as his wife’s Roman profile stood out +clear against the fog and smoke of London. But at last it faded, grew +remote, took on the appearance of a feebly-executed crayon drawing, +vanished. He sank back upon the cushions—alone. Darrell was travelling +second with the dressing-case.</p> + +<p>It was a strange sensation, to be alone, and <i lang="fr">en route</i> to +Algiers. Mr. Greyne scarcely knew what to make of it. A schoolboy +suddenly despatched to Timbuctoo could hardly have felt more terribly +emancipated than he did. He was so absolutely unaccustomed to freedom, +he had been for so long without the faintest desire for it, that to +have it thrust upon him so suddenly was almost alarming. He felt +lonely, anxious, horribly unmarried. To divert his thoughts he drew +forth a Merrin’s exercise-book and a pencil, and wrote on the first +page, in large letters, “<cite>African Frailty, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">169</span>Notes for</cite>.” Then he +sat gazing at the title of his first literary work, and wondering what +on earth he was going to see in Algiers.</p> + +<p>Vague visions of himself in the bars of African public-houses, in +mosques, in the two-pair-backs of dervishes, in bazaars—which he +pictured to himself like those opened by royalties at the Queen’s +Hall—in Moorish interiors surrounded by voluptuous ladies with large +oval eyes, black tresses, and Turkish trousers of spangled muslin, +flitted before his mental gaze. When the train ran upon Dover Pier, +and the white horses of the turbulent Channel foamed at his feet, he +started as one roused from a Rip Van Winkle sleep. Severe illness +occupied his whole attention for a time, and then recovery.</p> + +<p>In Paris he dined at the buffet like one in a dream, and, at the +appointed hour, came forth to take the <i lang="fr">rapide</i> for Marseilles. +He looked for Darrell and the dressing-case. They were not to be +seen. There stood the train. Passengers were mounting into it. Old +ladies with agitated faces were buying pillows and nibbling biscuits. +Elderly gentlemen with yellow countenances and red ribands in their +coats were purchasing the <cite>Figaro</cite> and the <cite>Gil Blas</cite>. +Children with bare legs were being hauled into compartments. Rook’s +agent was explaining to a muddled tourist in a tam-o’-shanter the +exact difference between the words “<i lang="fr">Oui</i>” and “<i lang="fr">Non</i>.” The +bustle of departure was in the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">170</span>air, but Darrell was not to be seen. +Mr. Greyne had left him upon the platform with minute directions as +to the point from which the train would start and the hour of its +going. Yet he had vanished. The most frantic search, the most frenzied +inquiries of officials and total strangers, failed to elicit his +whereabouts, and, finally, Mr. Greyne was flung forcibly upward into +the <i lang="fr">wagonlit</i>, and caught by the <i lang="fr">contrôleur</i> when the train +was actually moving out of the station.</p> + +<p>A moment later he fell exhausted upon the pink-plush seat of his +compartment, realising his terrible position. He was now utterly +alone; without servant, hair-brushes, toothbrushes, razors, sponges, +pajamas, shoes. It was a solitude that might be felt. He thought of +the sea journey with no kindly hand to minister to him, the arrival +in Africa with no humble companion at his side, to wonder with him at +the black inhabitants and help him through the customs—to say nothing +of the manners. He thought of the dread homes of iniquity into which +he must penetrate by night in search of the material for the voracious +“Catherine.” He had meant to take Darrell with him to them all—Darrell, +whose joyful delight in the prospect of exploring the Eastern +fastnesses of crime had been so boyish, so truly English in its frank, +its even boisterous sincerity.</p> + +<p>And now he was utterly alone, almost like Robinson Crusoe.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">171</span></p> + +<p>The <i lang="fr">contrôleur</i> came in to make the bed. Mr. Greyne told him the +dreadful story.</p> + +<p>“No doubt he has been lured away, monsieur. The dressing-case was of +value?”</p> + +<p>“Crocodile, gold fittings.”</p> + +<p>“Probably monsieur will never see him again. As likely as not he will +sleep in the Seine to-night, and at the morgue to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne shuddered. This was an ill omen for his expedition. He drank +a stiff whisky-and-soda instead of the usual barley water, and went to +bed to dream of bloody murders in which he was the victim.</p> + +<p>When the train ran into Marseilles next morning he was an unshaven, +miserable man.</p> + +<p>“Have I time to buy a tooth-brush,” he inquired anxiously at the +station, “before the boat sails for Algiers?”</p> + +<p>The <i lang="fr">chef de gare</i> thought so. Monsieur had four hours, if +that was sufficient. Mr. Greyne hastened forth, had a Turkish bath, +purchased a new dressing-case, ate a hasty <i lang="fr">déjeuner</i>, and took +a cab to the wharf. It was a long drive over the stony streets. He +glanced from side to side, watching the bustling traffic, the hurry +of the nations going to and from the ships. His eyes rested upon two +Arabs who were striding along in his direction. Doubtless they were +also bound for Algiers. He thought they looked most wicked, and hastily +took a note of them for “African Frailty.” Beside his sense of loss +and loneliness marched the sense <span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">172</span>of duty. The great woman at home in +Belgrave Square, founder of his fortunes, mother of his children, she +depended upon him. Even in his own hour of need he would not fail her. +He took a lead pencil, and wrote down:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Saw two Arab ruffians. Bare legs. Look capable of anything. Should +not be surprised to hear that they had⸺</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>There he paused. That they had what? Done things. Of course, but what +things? That was the question. He exerted his imagination, but failed +to arrive at any conclusion as to their probable crimes. His knowledge +of wickedness was really absurdly limited. For the first time he +felt slightly ashamed of it, and began to wish he had gone into the +militia. He comforted himself with the thought that in a fortnight +he would probably be fit for the regular army. This thought cheered +him slightly, and it was with a slight smile upon his face that he +welcomed the first glimpse of the <cite>Général Bertrand</cite>, which was +lying against the quay ready to cast off at the stroke of noon. Most of +the passengers were aboard, but, as Mr. Greyne stepped out of his cab, +and prepared to pay the Maltese driver, a trim little lady, plainly +dressed in black, and carrying a tiny and rather coquettish hand-bag, +was tripping lightly across the gangway. Mr. Greyne glanced at her as +he turned to follow, glanced, and then started. That back was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">173</span>surely +familiar to him. Where could he have seen it before? He searched his +memory as the little lady vanished. It was a smart, even a <i lang="fr">chic</i> +back, a back that knew how to take care of itself, a back that need not +go through the world alone, a back, in fine, that was most distinctly +attractive, if not absolutely alluring. Where had he seen it before, +or had he ever seen it at all? He thought of his wife’s back, flat, +powerful, uncompromising. This was very different, more—how should he +put it to himself?—more Algerian, perhaps. He could vaguely conceive +it a back such as one might meet with while engaged in adding to one’s +stock of knowledge of—well—African frailty.</p> + +<p>At this moment the steward appeared to show him to his cabin, and his +further reflections were mainly connected with the Gulf of Lyons.</p> + +<p>Twilight was beginning to fall when, so far as he was capable of +thinking, he thought he would like a breath of air. For some moments +he lay quite still, dwelling on this idea which had so mysteriously +come to him. Then he got up, and thought again, seated upon the cabin +floor. He knew there was a deck. He remembered having seen one when he +came aboard. He put on his fur coat, still sitting on the cabin floor. +The process took some time—he fancied about a couple of years. At last, +however, it was completed, and he rose to his feet with the assistance +of the washstand and the berth.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">174</span></p> + +<p>The ship seemed very busy, full of almost American activity. He thought +a greater calm would have been more decent, and waited in the hope +that the floor would presently cease to forget itself. As it showed no +symptoms of complying with his desire he endeavoured to spurn it, and, +in the fulness of time, gained the companion.</p> + +<p>It was very strange, as he remembered afterwards, that only when he had +gained the companion did the sense of his utter loneliness rush upon +him with overwhelming force: one of the ironies of life, he supposed. +Eventually he shook the companion off with a good deal of difficulty, +and found himself installed upon planks under a grey sky, and holding +fast to a railing, which was all that interposed between him and +eternity.</p> + +<p>At first he was only conscious of greyness and the noise of winds +and waters, but presently a black daub seemed to hover for a second +somewhere on the verge of his world, to hover and disappear. He +wondered what it was. A smut, perhaps. He rubbed his face. The daub +returned. It was very large for a smut. He strove to locate it, and +found that it must be somewhere on his left cheek. With a great +effort he took out his pocket-handkerchief. Suddenly the daub assumed +monstrous proportions. He turned his head, and perceived the lady in +black whom he had seen tripping over the gangway on his arrival.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">175</span></p> + +<p>She was a few steps from him, leaning upon the rail in an attitude of +the deepest dejection, with her face averted; yet it struck him that +her right shoulder was oddly familiar, as her back had surely been. The +turn of her head, too—he coughed despairingly. The lady took no notice. +He coughed again. Interest was quickening in him. He was determined to +see the lady’s face.</p> + +<p>This time she looked around, showing a pale countenance bedewed with +tears, and totally devoid of any expression which he could connect with +a consciousness of his presence. For a moment she stared vacantly at +him, while he, with almost equal vacancy, regarded her. Then a thrill +of surprise shook him. A sudden light of knowledge leaped up in him, +and he exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle Verbèna!”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur?” murmured the lady, with an accent of surprise.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle Verbèna! Surely it is—it must be!”</p> + +<p>He had staggered sideways, nearing her.</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle Verbèna, do you not know me? It is I, Eustace Greyne, the +father of your pupils, the husband of Mrs. Eustace Greyne?”</p> + +<p>An expression of stark amazement came into the lady’s face at these +words. She leaned forward till her eyes were close to Mr. Greyne’s then +gave a little cry.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">176</span></p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Mon Dieu!</i> It is true! You are so altered that I could not +recognise. And then—what are you doing here, on the wide sea, far from +madame?”</p> + +<p>“I was just about to ask you the very same question!” cried Mr. Greyne.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">177</span> + <h3>IV</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">“<span class="smcap">Alas</span>, monsieur!” said Mademoiselle Verbèna in her silvery voice, “I go +to see my poor mother.”</p> + +<p>“But I understood that she was dying in Paris.”</p> + +<p>“Even so. But, when I reached the Rue St. Honoré, I found that they +had removed to Algiers. It was the only chance, the doctor said—a warm +climate, the sun of Africa. There was no time to let me know. They took +her away at once. And now I follow—perhaps to find her dead.”</p> + +<p>Large tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Greyne was deeply affected.</p> + +<p>“Let us hope for the best,” he exclaimed, seized by a happy inspiration.</p> + +<p>The Levantine strove to smile.</p> + +<p>“But you, monsieur, why are you here? Ah! perhaps madame is with you! +Let me go to her! Let me kiss her dear hands once more⸺”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne mournfully checked her fond excitement.</p> + +<p>“I am quite alone,” he said.</p> + +<p>A tragic expression came into the Levantine’s face.</p> + +<p>“But, then⸺” she began.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">178</span></p> + +<p>It was impossible for him to tell her about “Catherine.” He was, +therefore, constrained to subterfuge.</p> + +<p>“I—I was suddenly overtaken by—by influenza,” he said, in some +confusion. “The doctor recommended change of air, of scene. He +suggested Algiers⸺”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Mon Dieu!</i> It is like poor mamma!”</p> + +<p>“Precisely. Our constitutions are—are doubtless similar. I shall take +this opportunity also of improving my knowledge of African manners +and—and customs.”</p> + +<p>A strange smile seemed to dawn for a second on Mademoiselle Verbèna’s +face, but it died instantaneously in a grimace of pain.</p> + +<p>“My teeth make me bad,” she said. “Ah, monsieur, I must go below, to +pray for poor mamma—” she paused, then softly added, “and for monsieur.”</p> + +<p>She made a movement as if to depart, but Mr. Greyne begged her to +remain. In his loneliness the sight even of a Levantine whom he knew +solaced his yearning heart. He felt quite friendly towards this poor, +unhappy girl, for whom, perhaps, such a shock was preparing upon the +distant shore.</p> + +<p>“Better stay!” he said. “The air will do you good.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, if I die, what matter? Unless mamma lives there is no one in the +world who cares for me, for whom I care.”</p> + +<p>“There—there is Mrs. Greyne,” said her <span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">179</span>husband. “And then St. +Paul’s—remember St. Paul’s.”</p> + +<p>“Ah <i lang="fr">ce charmant</i> St. Paul’s! Shall I ever see him more?”</p> + +<p>She looked at Mr. Greyne, and suddenly—he knew not why—Mr. Greyne +remembered the incident of the diary, and blushed.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur has fever!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne shook his head. The Levantine eyed him curiously.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur wishes to say something to me, and does not like to speak.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne made an effort. Now that he was with this gentle lady, with +her white face, her weeping eyes, her plain black dress, the mere +suspicion that she could have opened a locked drawer with a secret key, +and filched therefrom a private record, seemed to him unpardonable. +Yet, for a brief instant, it had occurred to him, and Mrs. Greyne had +seriously held it. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbèna, and a sudden +impulse to tell her the truth overcame him.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Tell me, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>In broken words—the ship was still very busy—Mr. Greyne related the +incident of the loss and finding of the diary. As he spoke a slight +change stole over the Levantine’s face. It certainly became less pale.</p> + +<p>“But you have fever now!” cried Mr. Greyne anxiously.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">180</span></p> + +<p>“I! No; I flush with horror, not with fever! The diary, the sacred +diary of madame, exposed to view, read by the children, perhaps the +servants! That footman, Thomas, with the nose of curiosity! Ah! I +behold that nose penetrating into the holy secrets of the existence of +madame! I behold it—ah!”</p> + +<p>She burst into a fit of hysterics, the laughing species, which is +so much more terrible than the other sort. Mr. Greyne was greatly +concerned. He lurched to her, and implored her to be calm; but she only +laughed the more, while tears streamed down her cheeks. The vision of +Thomas gloating over Mrs. Greyne’s diary seemed utterly to unnerve her, +and Mr. Greyne was able to measure, by this ebullition of horror, the +depth of the respect and affection entertained by her for his beloved +wife. When, at length, she grew calmer he escorted her towards her +cabin, offering her his arm, on which she leaned heavily. As soon as +they were in the narrow and heaving passage she turned to him, and said:</p> + +<p>“Who can have taken the diary?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne blushed again.</p> + +<p>“We think it was Thomas,” he said.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Verbèna looked at him steadily for a moment, then she +cried:</p> + +<p>“God bless you, monsieur!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne was startled by the abruptness of this pious ejaculation.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">181</span></p> + +<p>“Why?” he inquired.</p> + +<p>“You are a good man. You, at least, would not condescend to insult a +friendless woman by unworthy suspicions. And madame?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Greyne”—stammered Mr. Greyne—“is convinced that it was Thomas. In +fact—in fact, she was the first to say so.”</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Verbèna tenderly pressed his hand.</p> + +<p>“Madame is an angel. God bless you both!”</p> + +<p>She tottered into her cabin, and, as she shut the door, Mr. Greyne +heard the terrible, laughing hysterics beginning again.</p> + +<p>The next day an influence from Africa seemed spread upon the sea. Calm +were the waters, calm and blue. No cloud appeared in the sky. The +fierce activities of the ship had ceased, and Mademoiselle Verbèna +tripped upon the deck at an early hour, to find Mr. Greyne already +installed there, and looking positively cheerful. He started up as he +perceived her, and chivalrously escorted her to a chair.</p> + +<p>Everyone who has made a voyage knows that the sea breeds intimacies. +By the time the white houses of Algiers rose on their hill out of the +bosom of the waves Mademoiselle Verbèna and Mr. Greyne were—shall we +say like sister and brother? She had told him all about her childhood +in dear Paris, the death of her father the count, murmuring the name +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">182</span>of Louis XVI., the poverty of her mother the countess, her own resolve +to put aside all aristocratic prejudices and earn her own living. +He, in return, had related his Eton days, his momentary bias towards +the militia, his marriage—as an innocent youth—with Miss Eugenia +Hannibal-Barker. Coming to later times, he was led to confide to the +tender-hearted Levantine the fact that he hoped to increase his stock +of knowledge while in Africa. Without alluding to “Catherine,” he +hinted that the cure of influenza was not his only reason for foreign +travel.</p> + +<p>“I wish to learn something of men and—and women,” he murmured in the +shell-like ear presented to him. “Of their passions, their desires, +their—their follies.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” cried Mademoiselle Verbèna. “Would that I could assist monsieur! +But I am only an ignorant little creature, and know nothing of the +world! And I shall be ever at the bedside of mamma.”</p> + +<p>“You will give me your address? You will let me inquire for the +countess?”</p> + +<p>“Willingly; but I do not know where I shall be. There will be a message +at the wharf. To what hotel goes monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“The Grand Hotel.”</p> + +<p>“I will write there when I have seen mamma. And meanwhile⸺”</p> + +<p>They were coming into harbour. The heights of Mustapha were visible, +the woods <span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">183</span>of the Bois de Boulogne, the towers of the Hotel Splendid.</p> + +<p>“Meanwhile, may I beg monsieur not to⸺” She hesitated.</p> + +<p>“Not to what?” asked Mr. Greyne most softly.</p> + +<p>“Not to let anyone in England know that I am here?”</p> + +<p>She paused. Mr. Greyne was silent, wondering. Mademoiselle Verbèna +drooped her head.</p> + +<p>“The world is so censorious. It might seem strange that I—that +monsieur—a man young, handsome, fascinating—the same ship—I have no +chaperon—<i lang="fr">enfin</i>⸺”</p> + +<p>She could get out no more. Her delicacy, her forethought touched Mr. +Greyne to tears.</p> + +<p>“Not a word,” he said. “You are right. The world is evil, and, as you +say, I am a—not a word!”</p> + +<p>He ventured to press her hand, as an elder brother might have pressed +it. For the first time he realised that even to the husband of Mrs. +Eustace Greyne the world might attribute—Goodness gracious! What might +not the militia think, for instance?</p> + +<p>He felt himself, for one moment, potentially a dog.</p> + +<p>They parted in a whirl of Arabs on the quay. Mr. Greyne would have +stayed to assist Mademoiselle Verbèna, but she bade him go. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">184</span>She +whispered that she thought it “better” that they should not seem +to—<i lang="fr">enfin</i>!</p> + +<p>“I will write to-morrow,” she murmured. “<i lang="fr">Au revoir!</i>”</p> + +<p>On the last word she was gone. Mr. Greyne saw nothing but Arabs and +hotel porters. Loneliness seemed to close in on him once more.</p> + +<p>That very evening, after a cup of tea, he presented himself at the +office of Rook near the Place du Gouvernement. As he came in he felt a +little nervous. There were no tourists in the office, and a courteous +clerk with a bright and searching eye at once took him in hand.</p> + +<p>“What can we do for you, sir?”</p> + +<p>“I am a stranger here,” began Mr. Greyne.</p> + +<p>“Quite so, sir, quite so.”</p> + +<p>The clerk twiddled his business-like thumbs, and looked inquiring.</p> + +<p>“And being so,” Mr. Greyne went on, “it is naturally my wish to see as +much of the town as possible; as much as possible, you understand.”</p> + +<p>“You want a guide? Alphonso!”</p> + +<p>Turning, he shouted to an inner room, from which in a moment emerged a +short, stout, swarthy personage with a Jewish nose, a French head, an +Arab eye with a squint in it, and a markedly Maltese expression.</p> + +<p>“This is an excellent guide, sir,” said the clerk. “He speaks +twenty-five languages.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">185</span></p> + +<p>The stout man, who—as Mr. Greyne now perceived—had on a Swiss suit +of clothes, a panama hat, and a pair of German elastic-sided boots, +confessed in pigeon English, interspersed occasionally with a word or +two of something which Mr. Greyne took to be Chinese, that such was +undoubtedly the case.</p> + +<p>“What do you wish to see? The mosque, the bazaars, St. Eugène, La +Trappe, Mustapha, the baths of the Etat-Major, the Jardin d’Essai, the +Villa-Anti-Juif, the⸺”</p> + +<p>“One moment!” said Mr. Greyne.</p> + +<p>He turned to the clerk.</p> + +<p>“May I take a chair?”</p> + +<p>“Be seated, sir, pray be seated, and confer with Alphonso.”</p> + +<p>So saying, he gave himself to an enormous ledger, while Mr. Greyne took +a chair opposite to Alphonso, who stood in a Moorish attitude looking +apparently in the direction of Marseilles.</p> + +<p>“I have come here,” said Mr. Greyne, lowering his voice, “with a +purpose.”</p> + +<p>“You wish to see the Belle Fatma. I will arrange it. She receives every +evening in her house in the Rue⸺”</p> + +<p>“One minute! One minute! You said the something ‘Fatma’?”</p> + +<p>“The Belle Fatma, the most beautiful woman of Africa. She receives +every⸺”</p> + +<p>“Pardon me! One moment! Is this lady⸺”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">186</span></p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne paused.</p> + +<p>“Sir?” said Alphonso, settling his Spanish neck-tie, and gazing +steadily towards Marseilles.</p> + +<p>“Is this lady—well, sinful?”</p> + +<p>Alphonso threw up his hands with a wild Asiatic gesture.</p> + +<p>“Sinful! La Belle Fatma! She is a lady of the utmost respectability +known to all the town. You go to her house at eight, you take coffee +upon the red sofas, you talk with La Belle, you see the dances and hear +the music. Do not fear, sir; it is good, it is respectable as England, +your country⸺”</p> + +<p>“If it is respectable I don’t want to see it,” interposed Mr. Greyne. +“It would be a waste of time.”</p> + +<p>The clerk lifted his head from the ledger, and Alphonso, by means of +standing with his back almost square to Mr. Greyne, and looking over +his right shoulder, succeeded at length in fixing his eye upon him.</p> + +<p>“I have not travelled here to see respectable things,” continued Mr. +Greyne, with a slight blush. “Quite the contrary.”</p> + +<p>“Sir?”</p> + +<p>The voice of Alphonso seemed to have changed, to have taken on a hard, +almost a menacing tone. Mr. Greyne thought of his beloved wife, of +Merrin’s exercise-books, and clenched his hands, endeavouring to feel, +and to go on, like a militiaman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">187</span></p> + +<p>“Quite the contrary,” he repeated firmly; “my object in coming to +Africa is to—to search about in the Kasbah, and the disrep⸺” He +choked, recovered himself, and continued: “Disreputable quarters of +Algiers—hem⸺”</p> + +<p>“What for, sir?”</p> + +<p>The voice of Alphonso was certainly changed.</p> + +<p>“What for?” said Mr. Greyne, growing purple. “For frailty.”</p> + +<p>“Sir?”</p> + +<p>“For frailty—for wickedness.”</p> + +<p>A slight cackle emanated from the ledger, but immediately died away. A +dead silence reigned in the office, broken only by the distant sound of +the sea, and by the hard breathing of Alphonso, who had suddenly begun +to pant.</p> + +<p>“I wish to go to all the wicked places—<em>all</em>!”</p> + +<p>The ledger cackled again more audibly. Mr. Greyne felt a prickling +sensation run over him, but the thought of “Catherine” nerved him to +his awful task.</p> + +<p>“It is my wife’s express desire that I should do so,” he added +desperately, quite forgetting Mrs. Greyne’s injunction to keep her dark +in his desire to stand well with Rook’s.</p> + +<p>The ledger went off into a hyena imitation, and Alphonso, turning still +more away from Mr. Greyne, so as to get the eye fuller upon <span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">188</span>him, +exclaimed, in a mixture of Aryan and Eurasian languages:</p> + +<p>“Sir, I am a respectable, unmarried man. I was born in Buenos Ayres, +educated in Smyrna, came of age in Constantinople, and have practised +as guide in Bagdad and other particular cities. I refuse to have +anything to do with you and your wife.”</p> + +<p>So saying, he bounced into the inner room, and banged the door, while +the ledger gave itself up to peals of merriment, and Mr. Greyne +tottered forth upon the sea-front, bathed in a cold perspiration, and +feeling more guilty than a murderer.</p> + +<p>It was a staggering blow. He leaned over the stone parapet of the low +wall, and let the soft breezes from the bay flit through his hair, and +thought of Mrs. Greyne spurned by Alphonso. What was he to do? Kicked +out of Rook’s, to whom could he apply? There must be wickedness in +Algiers, but where? He saw none, though night was falling and stout +Frenchmen were already intent upon their absinthe.</p> + +<p>“Does monsieur wish to see the Kasbah to-night?”</p> + +<p>Was it a voice from heaven? He turned, and saw standing beside him a +tall, thin, audacious-looking young man, with coal-black moustaches, +magnificent eyes, and an air that was half-languid, half-serpentine.</p> + +<p>“Who are you?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">189</span></p> + +<p>“I am a guide, monsieur. Here are my certificates.”</p> + +<p>He produced from the inner pocket of his coat a large bundle of dirty +papers.</p> + +<p>“If monsieur will deign to look them over.”</p> + +<p>But Mr. Greyne waved them away. What did he care for certificates? +Here was a guide to African frailty. That was sufficient. He was in a +desperate mood, and uttered desperate words.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” he said rapidly, “are you wicked?”</p> + +<p>“Very wicked, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Good!”</p> + +<p>“Wicked, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Right!”</p> + +<p>“Wrong, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“I mean that it is good for me that you are wicked.”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur is very good.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but I wish to be—that is, to see the other thing. Can you +undertake to show me everything shocking in Algiers?”</p> + +<p>“But certainly, monsieur. For a consideration.”</p> + +<p>“Name your price.”</p> + +<p>“Two hundred pounds, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne started. It seemed a high figure.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur thought it would be more? I make a special price, because I +have taken a <span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">190</span>fancy to monsieur. I remove fifty pounds. Monsieur, of +course, will pay all expenses.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, of course.”</p> + +<p>It was no time to draw back.</p> + +<p>“How long will it take?”</p> + +<p>“To see all the shocking?”</p> + +<p>“Precisely.”</p> + +<p>“There is a good deal. A fortnight, three weeks. It depends on +monsieur. If he is strong, and can do without sleep⸺”</p> + +<p>“We shall have to be up at night?”</p> + +<p>“Naturally.”</p> + +<p>“I shall go to bed during the day, and get through it in a fortnight.”</p> + +<p>“Perfectly.”</p> + +<p>“Be at the Grand Hotel to-night at ten o’clock precisely.”</p> + +<p>“At ten o’clock I will be there. Monsieur will pay a little in advance?”</p> + +<p>“Here are twenty pounds,” cried Mr. Greyne recklessly.</p> + +<p>The audacious-looking young man took the notes with decision, made a +graceful salute, and disappeared in the direction of the quay, while +Mr. Greyne walked to his hotel, flushed with excitement, and feeling +like the most desperate criminal in Africa. If the militia could see +him now!</p> + +<p>At dinner he drank a bottle of champagne, and afterwards smoked a +strong cigar over his coffee and liqueur. As he was finishing these +frantic enjoyments the head waiter—a personage <span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">191</span>bearing a strong +resemblance to an enlarged edition of Napoleon the First—approached him +rather furtively, and, bending down, whispered in his ear:</p> + +<p>“A gentleman has called to take monsieur to the Kasbah.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne started, and flushed a guilty red.</p> + +<p>“I will come in a moment,” he answered, trying to assume a nonchalant +voice, such as that in which a hardened major of dragoons announces +that in his time he was a devil of a fellow.</p> + +<p>The head waiter retired, looking painfully intelligent, and Mr. Greyne +sprang upstairs, seized a Merrin’s exercise-book and a lead pencil, +put on a dark overcoat, popped one of the Springfield revolvers into +the pocket of it, and hastened down into the hall of the hotel, where +the audacious-looking young man was standing, surrounded by saucy +chasseurs in gay liveries and peaked caps, by Algerian waiters, and by +German-Swiss porters, all of whom were smiling and looking choke-full +of sympathetic comprehension.</p> + +<p>“Ha!” said Mr. Greyne, still in the major’s voice. “There you are!”</p> + +<p>“Behold me, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“That’s good.”</p> + +<p>“Wicked, monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Well, let’s be off to the mosque.”</p> + +<p>One of the chasseurs—a child of eight who <span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">192</span>was thankful that he knew no +better—burst into a piping laugh. The waiters turned hastily away, and +the German-Swiss porters retreated to the bureau with some activity.</p> + +<p>“To the mosque—precisely, monsieur,” returned the guide, with complete +self-possession.</p> + +<p>They stepped out at once upon the pavement, where a carriage was in +waiting.</p> + +<p>“Where are we going?” inquired Mr. Greyne in an anxious voice.</p> + +<p>“We are going to the heights to see the Ouled,” replied the guide. +“<i lang="fr">En avant!</i>”</p> + +<p>He bounded in beside Mr. Greyne, the coachman cracked his whip, the +horses trotted. They were off upon their terrible pilgrimage.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">193</span> + <h3>V</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">On</span> the following afternoon, at a quarter to three, when Mr. Greyne +came down to breakfast, he found, lying beside the boiled eggs, a +note directed to him in a feminine handwriting. He tore it open with +trembling fingers, and read as follows:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="smcap right">1 Rue du Petit Negre.</p> + +<p><span class="smcap">Dear Monsieur</span>,—I am here. Poor mamma is in the hospital. +I am allowed to see her twice a day. At all other times I remain +alone, praying and weeping. I trust that monsieur has passed a good +night. For me, I was sleepless, thinking of mamma. I go now to +church.</p> + +<p class="smcap right">Adele Verbena.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>He laid this missive down, and sighed deeply. How strangely innocent it +was, how simple, how sincere! There were white souls in Algiers—yes, +even in Algiers. Strange that he should know one! Strange that he, who +had filled a Merrin’s exercise-book with tiny writing, and had even +overflowed on to the cover after “crossing” many pages, should receive +the child-like confidences of one! “I go now to the church.” Tears came +into his eyes as he laid the letter down beside a pile of buttered +toast over which the burning afternoon sun of Africa was shining.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">194</span></p> + +<p>“Monsieur will take milk and sugar?”</p> + +<p>It was the head waiter’s Napoleonic voice. Mr. Greyne controlled +himself. The man was smiling intelligently. All the staff of the hotel +smiled intelligently at Mr. Greyne to-day—the waiters, the porters, the +chasseurs. The child of eight who was thankful that he knew no better +had greeted him with a merry laugh as he came down to breakfast, and an +“<i lang="fr">Oh, là, là</i>!” which had elicited a rebuke from the proprietor. +Indeed, a wave of human sympathy flowed upon Mr. Greyne, whose ashy +face and dull, washed-out eyes betrayed the severity of his night-watch.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur will feel better after a little food.”</p> + +<p>The head waiter handed the buttered toast with bland majesty, at the +same time shooting a reproving glance at the little chasseur, who was +peeping from behind the door at the afternoon breakfaster.</p> + +<p>“I feel perfectly well,” replied Mr. Greyne, with an attempt at +cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>“Still, monsieur will feel much better after a little food.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne began to toy with an egg.</p> + +<p>“You know Algiers?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I was born here, monsieur. If monsieur wishes to explore to-night +again the Kasbah I can⸺”</p> + +<p>But Mr. Greyne stopped him with a gesture that was almost fierce.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">195</span></p> + +<p>“Where is the Rue du Petit Nègre?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur wishes to go there to-night?”</p> + +<p>“I wish to go there now, directly I have finished break—lunch.”</p> + +<p>The head waiter’s face was wreathed with humorous surprise.</p> + +<p>“But monsieur is wonderful—superb! Never have I seen a traveller like +monsieur!”</p> + +<p>He gazed at Mr. Greyne with tropical appreciation.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur had better have a carriage. The street is difficult to find.”</p> + +<p>“Order me one. I shall start at once.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne pushed away the sunlit buttered toast, and got up.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur is superb. Never have I seen a traveller like monsieur!”</p> + +<p>Napoleon’s voice was almost reverent. He hastened out, followed slowly +by Mr. Greyne.</p> + +<p>“A carriage for monsieur! Monsieur desires to go to the Rue du Petit +Nègre!”</p> + +<p>The staff of the hotel gathered about the door as if to speed a royal +personage, and Mr. Greyne noticed that their faces too were touched +with an almost startled reverence. He stepped into the carriage, signed +feebly, but with determination, to the Arab coachman, and was driven +away, followed by a parting “<i lang="fr">Oh, là, là</i>!” from the chasseur, +uttered in a voice that sounded shrill with sheer amazement.</p> + +<p>Through winding, crowded streets he went, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">196</span>by bazaars and Moorish +bath-houses, mosques and Catholic churches, barracks and cafés, till at +length the carriage turned into an alley that crept up a steep hill. It +moved on a little way, and then stopped.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur must descend here,” said the coachman. “Mount the steps, go +to the right and then to the left. Near the summit of the hill he will +find the Rue du Petit Nègre. Shall I wait for monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>The coachman began to make a cigarette, while Mr. Greyne set forth to +follow his directions, and, at length, stood before an arch, which +opened into a courtyard adorned with orange-trees in tubs, and paved +with blue and white tiles. Around this courtyard was a three-storey +house with a flat roof, and from a bureau near a little fountain +a stout Frenchwoman called to demand his business. He asked for +Mademoiselle Verbèna, and was at once shown into a saloon lined with +chairs covered with yellow rep, and begged to take a seat. In two +minutes Mademoiselle Verbèna appeared, drying her eyes with a tiny +pocket-handkerchief, and forcing a little pathetic smile of welcome. +Mr. Greyne clasped her hand in silence. She sat down in a rep chair at +his right, and they looked at each other.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Mais, mon Dieu!</i> How monsieur is changed!” cried the Levantine. +“If madame <span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">197</span>could see him! What has happened to monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Miss Verbèna,” replied Mr. Greyne, “I have seen the Ouled on the +heights.”</p> + +<p>A spasm crossed the Levantine’s face. She put her handkerchief to it +for a moment.</p> + +<p>“What is an Ouled?” she inquired, withdrawing it.</p> + +<p>“I dare not tell you,” he replied solemnly.</p> + +<p>“But indeed I wish to know, so that I may sympathise with monsieur.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne hesitated, but his heart was full; he felt the need of +sympathy. He looked at Mademoiselle Verbèna, and a great longing to +unburden himself overcame him.</p> + +<p>“An Ouled,” he replied, “is a dancing-girl from the desert of Sahara.”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Mon Dieu!</i> How does she dance? Is it a valse, a polka, a +quadrille?”</p> + +<p>“No. Would that it were!”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Greyne, unable further to govern his desire for full +expression, gave Mademoiselle Verbèna a slightly Bowdlerised +description of the dances of the desert. She heard him with amazement.</p> + +<p>“How terrible!” she exclaimed when he had finished. “And does one pay +much to see such steps of the Evil One?”</p> + +<p>“I gave her twenty pounds. Abdallah Jack⸺”</p> + +<p>“Abdallah Jack?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">198</span></p> + +<p>“My guide informed me that was the price. He tells me it is against the +law, and that each time an Ouled dances she risks being thrown into +prison.”</p> + +<p>“Poor lady! How sad to have to earn one’s bread by such devices, +instead of by teaching to the sweet little ones of monsieur the +sympathetic grammar of one’s native country.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne was touched to the quick by this allusion, which brought, as +in a vision, the happy home in Belgrave Square before him.</p> + +<p>“You are an angel!” he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Verbèna shook her head.</p> + +<p>“And this poor Ouled, you will go to her again?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. It seems that she is in communication with all the—the—well, all +the odd people of Algiers, and that one can only get at them through +her.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed?”</p> + +<p>“Abdallah Jack tells me that while I am here I should pay her a weekly +salary, and that, in return, I shall see all the terrible ceremonies of +the Arabs. I have decided to do so⸺”</p> + +<p>“Ah, you have decided!”</p> + +<p>For a moment Mr. Greyne started. There seemed a new sound in +Mademoiselle Verbèna’s voice, a gleam in her dark brown eyes.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” he said, looking at her in wonder. “But I have not yet told +Abdallah Jack.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">199</span></p> + +<p>The Levantine looked gently sad again.</p> + +<p>“Ah,” she said in her usual pathetic voice, “how my heart bleeds for +this poor Ouled. By the way, what is her name?”</p> + +<p>“Aishoush.”</p> + +<p>“She is beautiful?”</p> + +<p>“I hardly know. She was so painted, so tattooed, so very—so very +different from Mrs. Eustace Greyne.”</p> + +<p>“How sad! How terrible! Ah, but you must long for the dear bonnet +strings of madame?”</p> + +<p>Did he? As she spoke Mr. Greyne asked himself the question. Shocked +as he was, fatigued by his researches, did he wish that he were back +again in Belgrave Square, drinking barley water, pasting notices of his +wife’s achievements into the new album, listening while she read aloud +from the manuscript of her latest novel? He wondered, and—how strange, +how almost terrible—he was not sure.</p> + +<p>“Is it not so?” murmured Mademoiselle Verbèna.</p> + +<p>“Naturally I miss my beloved wife,” said Mr. Greyne with a certain +awkwardness. “How is your poor, dear mother?”</p> + +<p>Tears came at once into the Levantine’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“Very, very ill, monsieur. Still there is a chance—just a chance that +she may not die. Ah, when I sit here all alone in this strange <span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">200</span>place, +I feel that she will perish, that soon I shall be quite deserted in +this cruel, cruel world!”</p> + +<p>The tears began to flow down her cheeks with determination. Mr. Greyne +was terribly upset.</p> + +<p>“You must cheer up,” he exclaimed. “You must hope for the best.”</p> + +<p>“Sitting here alone, how can I?”</p> + +<p>She sobbed.</p> + +<p>“Sitting here alone—very true!”</p> + +<p>A sudden thought, a number of sudden thoughts, struck him.</p> + +<p>“You must not sit here alone.”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur!”</p> + +<p>“You must come out. You must drive. You must see the town, distract +yourself.”</p> + +<p>“But how? Can a—a girl go about alone in Algiers?”</p> + +<p>“Heaven forbid! No; I will escort you.”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur!”</p> + +<p>A smile of innocent, girlish joy transformed her face, but suddenly she +was grave again.</p> + +<p>“Would it be right, <i lang="fr">convenable</i>?”</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne was reckless. The dog potential rose up in him again.</p> + +<p>“Why not? And, besides, who knows us here? Not a soul.”</p> + +<p>“That is true.”</p> + +<p>“Put on your bonnet. Let us start at once!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">201</span></p> + +<p>“But I do not wear the bonnet. I am not like madame.”</p> + +<p>“To be sure. Your hat.”</p> + +<p>And as she flew to obey him, Mr. Eustace Greyne found himself impiously +thanking the powers that be for this strange chance of going on the +spree with a toque. When Mademoiselle Verbèna returned he was looking +almost rakish. He eyed her neat black hat and close-fitting black +jacket with a glance not wholly unlike that of a militiaman. In her +hand she held a vivid scarlet parasol.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur,” she said, “it is terrible, this <i lang="fr">ombrelle</i>, when mamma +lies at death’s door. But what can I do? I have no other, and cannot +afford to buy one. The sun is fierce. I dare not expose myself to it +without a shelter.”</p> + +<p>She seemed really distressed as she opened the parasol, and spread +the vivid silk above her pretty black-clothed figure; but Mr. +Greyne thought the effect was brilliant, and ventured to say so. As +they passed the bureau by the fountain on their way out the stout +Frenchwoman cast an approving glance at Mademoiselle Verbèna.</p> + +<p>“The little rat will not see much more of the little negro now,” she +murmured to herself. “After all, the English have their uses.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">202</span> + <h3>VI</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">In</span> Belgrave Square Mrs. Eustace Greyne was beginning to get slightly +uneasy. Several things combined to make her so. In the first place, +Mademoiselle Verbèna had never returned from her mother’s Parisian +bedside, and had not even written a line to say how the dear parent +was, and when the daughter’s nursing occupation was likely to be over. +In the second place, Adolphus, in consequence of the Levantine’s +absence, had totally lost his grasp, always uncertain, upon the +irregular verbs. In the third place, Darrell, the valet, had returned +to London the day after his departure from it, minus not only his +master’s dressing-case, but minus everything he possessed. His story +was that, while waiting at the station in Paris for his master’s +appearance, he had entered into conversation with an agreeable +stranger, and been beguiled into the acceptance of an absinthe at a +café just outside. After swallowing the absinthe he remembered nothing +more till he came to himself in a deserted waiting-room at the Gare +du Nord, back to which he had been mysteriously conveyed. In his +pocket was no money, no watch, only the return half of a second-class +ticket from London to Paris. He, therefore, wandered about the streets +till <span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">203</span>morning broke, and then came back to London a crestfallen and +miserable man, bemoaning his untoward fate, and cursing “them blasted +Frenchies” from the bottom of his British heart.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne’s anxiety on her husband’s behalf, now that he was thrown +absolutely unattended upon the inhospitable shores of Africa, was not +lessened by a fourth circumstance, which, indeed, worried her far more +than all the others put together. This was Mr. Greyne’s prolonged +absence from her side. Precisely one calendar month had now elapsed +since he had buried his face in her prune bonnet strings at Victoria +Station, and there seemed no prospect of his return. He wrote to her, +indeed, frequently, and his letters were full of wistful regret and +longing to be once more safe in the old homestead in Belgrave Square, +drinking barley water, and pasting Romeike & Curtice notices into the +new album which lay, gaping for him, upon the table of his sanctum. But +he did not come; nay, more, he wrote plainly that there was no prospect +of his coming for the present. It seemed that the wickedness of Africa +was very difficult to come at. It did not lie upon the surface, but +was hidden far down in depths to which the ordinary tourist found it +almost impossible to penetrate. In his numerous letters Mr. Greyne +described his heroic and unremitting exertions to fill the Merrin’s +note-books with <span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">204</span>matter that would be suitable for the purging of +humanity. He set out in full his interview with Alphonso at the office +of Rook, and his definite rejection by that cosmopolitan official. +According to the letters, after this event he had spent no less than a +fortnight searching in vain for any sign of wickedness in the Algerian +capital. He had frequented the cafés, the public bars, the theatres, +the churches. He had been to the Velodrome. He had sat by the hour in +the Jardin d’Essai. At night he had strolled in the fairs and hung +about the circus. Yet nowhere had he been able to perceive anything but +the most innocent pleasure, the simple merriment of a gay and guileless +population to whom the idea of crime seemed as foreign as the idea of +singing the English national anthem.</p> + +<p>During the third week it was true that matters—always according to Mr. +Greyne’s letters home—slightly improved. While walking near the quay, +in active search for nautical outrage, he saw an Arab dock labourer, +who had been over-smoking kief, run amuck, and knock down a couple of +respectable snake-charmers who were on the point of embarkation for +Tunis with their reptiles. This incident had filed up a half-score of +pages in exercise-book number one, and had flooded Mr. Greyne with +hope and aspiration. But it was followed by a stagnant lull which had +lasted for days, and had only been disturbed by the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">205</span>trifling incident +of a gentleman in the Jewish quarter of the town setting fire to a +neighbour’s bazaar, in the very natural endeavour to find a French +half-penny which he had chanced to drop among a bale of carpets while +looking in to drive a soft bargain. As Mrs. Greyne wired to Algiers, +such incidents were of no value to “Catherine.”</p> + +<p>A very active interchange of views had gone on between the husband +and wife as time went by, and the book was at a standstill. At first +Mrs. Greyne contented herself with daily letters, but latterly she +had resorted to wires, explanatory, condemnatory, hortatory, and even +comminatory. She began bitterly to regret her husband’s well-proven +innocence, and wished she had despatched an uncle of hers by marriage, +an ex-captain in the Royal Navy, who, she began to feel certain, would +have been able to find far more frailty in Algiers than poor Eustace, +in his simplicity, would ever come at. She even began to wish that +she had crossed the sea in person, and herself boldly set about the +ingathering of the material for which she was so impatiently waiting.</p> + +<p>Her uneasiness was brought to a head by a letter from a house agent, +stating that the corner mansion in Park Lane next to the Duke of +Ebury’s was being nibbled at by a Venezuelan millionaire. She +wired this terrible fact at once to Africa, adding, at an enormous +expenditure of cash:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">206</span></p> + +<blockquote> +<p>This will never do. You are too innocent, and cannot see what lies +before you. Obtain assistance. Go to the British consul.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Mr. Greyne at once cabled back:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Am following your advice. Will wire result. Regret my innocence, +but am distressed that you should so utterly condemn it.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Upon receiving this telegram at night, before a lonely dinner, Mrs. +Eustace Greyne was deeply moved. She felt she had been hasty. She +knew that to very few women was it given to have a husband so free +from all masculine infirmities as Mr. Greyne. At the same time there +was “Catherine,” there was the mansion in Park Lane, there was the +Venezuelan millionaire. She began to feel distracted, and, for the +first time in her life, refused to partake of sweetbreads fried in +mushroom ketchup, a dish which she had greatly affected from the time +when she wrote her first short story. While she was in the very act of +waving away this delicacy a footman came in with a foreign telegram. +She opened it quickly, and read as follows:—</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="mb0">British consul horrified; was ignominiously expelled from +consulate; great scandal; am much upset, but will never give in, +for your sake.</p> +<div class="smcap right">Eustace.</div> +</blockquote> + +<p>As the dread meaning of these words penetrated at length to Mrs. +Greyne’s voluminous <span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">207</span>brain a deep flush overspread her noble features. +She rose from the table with a determination that struck awe to the +hearts of the powdered underlings, and, drawing herself up to her full +height, exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Send Mrs. Forbes at once to my study, if you please—at once, do you +understand?”</p> + +<p>In a moment Mrs. Forbes, who was the great novelist’s maid, appeared on +the threshold of the oracle’s lair. She was a sober-looking, black-silk +personage, who always wore a pork-pie cap in the house, and a Mother +Hubbard bonnet out of it. Having been in service with Mrs. Greyne ever +since the latter penned her last minor poetry—Mrs. Greyne had been a +minor poet for three years soon after she put her hair up—Mrs. Forbes +had acquired a certain literary expression of countenance and a manner +that was decidedly prosy. She read a good deal after her supper of an +evening, and was wont to be the arbiter when any literary matter was +discussed in the servants’ hall.</p> + +<p>“Madam?” she said, respectfully entering the room, and bending the +pork-pie cap forward in an attentive attitude.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne was silent for a moment. She appeared to be thinking +deeply. Mrs. Forbes gently closed the door, and sighed. It was nearly +her supper-time, and she felt pensive.</p> + +<p>“Madam?” she said again.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne looked up. A strange fire burned in her large eyes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">208</span></p> + +<p>“Mrs. Forbes,” she said at length, with weighty deliberation, “the +mission of woman in the world is a great one.”</p> + +<p>“Very true, madam. My own words to Butler Phillips no longer ago than +dinner this midday.”</p> + +<p>“It is the protecting of man—neither more nor less.”</p> + +<p>“My own statement, madam, to Second Footman Archibald this self-same +day at the tea-board.”</p> + +<p>“Man needs guidance, and looks for it to us—or rather to me.”</p> + +<p>At the last word Mrs. Forbes pinched her lips together, and appeared +older than her years and sourer than her normal temper.</p> + +<p>“At this moment, Mrs. Forbes,” continued Mrs. Greyne, with rising +fervour, “he looks for it to me from Africa. From that dark continent +he stretches forth his hands to me in humble supplication.”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Greyne has not been taken with another of his bilious attacks, I +hope, madam?” said Mrs. Forbes.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne smiled. The ignorance of the humbly born entertained her. +It was so simple, so transparent.</p> + +<p>“You fail to understand me,” she answered. “But never mind; others have +done the same.”</p> + +<p>She thought of her reviewers. Mrs. Forbes smiled. She also could be +entertained.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">209</span></p> + +<p>“Madam?” she inquired once more after a pause.</p> + +<p>“I shall leave for Africa to-morrow morning,” said Mrs. Greyne. “You +will accompany me.”</p> + +<p>There was a dead silence.</p> + +<p>“You will accompany me. Do you understand? Obtain assistance from +the housemaids in the packing. Select my quietest gowns, my least +conspicuous bonnets. I have my reasons for wishing, while journeying to +Africa and remaining there, to pass, if possible, unnoticed.”</p> + +<p>Again there was a pause. Mrs. Greyne looked up at Mrs. Forbes, and +observed a dogged expression upon her countenance.</p> + +<p>“What is the matter?” she asked the maid.</p> + +<p>“Do we go by Paris, madam?” said Mrs. Forbes.</p> + +<p>“Certainly.”</p> + +<p>“Then, madam, I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t risk it, not if it was +ever so⸺”</p> + +<p>“Why not? Why this fear of Lutetia?”</p> + +<p>“Madam, I’m not afraid of any Lutetia as ever wore apron, but to go +to Paris to be drugged with absint, and put away in a third-class +waiting-room like a package—I couldn’t madam, not even if I have to +leave your service.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne recognised that the episode of the valet had struck home to +the lady’s maid.</p> + +<p>“But you will not leave my side.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">210</span></p> + +<p>“They will absint you, madam.”</p> + +<p>“But you will travel first in a sleeping-car.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Forbes put up her hand to her pork-pie cap, as if considering.</p> + +<p>“Very well, madam, to oblige you I will undergo it,” she said at +length. “But I would not do the like for another living lady.”</p> + +<p>“I will raise your wages. You are a faithful creature.”</p> + +<p>“Does master expect us, madam?” asked Mrs. Forbes as she prepared to +retire.</p> + +<p>A bright and tender look stole into Mrs. Greyne’s intellectual face.</p> + +<p>“No,” she replied.</p> + +<p>She turned her large and beaming eyes full upon the maid.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Forbes,” she said, with an amount of emotion that was very rare +in her, “I am going to tell you a great truth.”</p> + +<p>“Madam?” said Mrs. Forbes respectfully.</p> + +<p>“The sweetest moments of life, those which lift man nearest heaven, and +make him thankful for the great gift of existence, are sometimes those +which are unforeseen.”</p> + +<p>She was thinking of Mr. Greyne’s ecstasy when, upon the inhospitable +African shore where he was now enduring such tragic misfortunes, he +perceived the majestic form of his loved one—his loved one whom he +believed to be in Belgrave Square—coming towards him to soothe, to +comfort, to direct. She brushed away a tear.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">211</span></p> + +<p>“Go, Mrs. Forbes,” she said.</p> + +<p>And Mrs. Forbes retired, smiling.</p> + +<p>An epic might well be written on the great novelist’s journey to +Africa, upon her departure from Charing Cross, shrouded in a black +gauze veil, her silent thought as the good ship <cite>Empress</cite> rode +cork-like upon the Channel waves, her ascetic lunch—a captain’s biscuit +and a glass of water—at the buffet at Calais, her arrival in Paris when +the shades of night had fallen. An epic might well be written. Perhaps +some day it will be, by herself.</p> + +<p>In Paris she suffered a good deal on account of Mrs. Forbes, who, +in her fear of “absint,” became hysterical, and caused not a little +annoyance by accusing various inoffensive French travellers of +nefarious designs upon her property and person. In the Gulf of Lyons +she suffered even more, and as, unluckily, the wind was contrary +and the sea prodigious during the whole of the passage across the +Mediterranean, both she and Mrs. Forbes arrived at Algiers four hours +late, in a condition which may be more easily imagined than properly +described.</p> + +<p>Genius in thrall to the body, and absolutely dependent upon green +chartreuse for its flickering existence, is no subject for even a +sympathetic pen. Sufficient to say that, when the ship came in under +the lights of Algiers, the crowd of shouting Arabs was struck to +silence by the spectacle of Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">212</span>Forbes endeavouring +to disembark, in bonnets that were placed seaward upon the head instead +of landward, unbuttoned boots, and gowns soaked with the attentions of +the waves.</p> + +<p>After being gently and permanently relieved of their light +hand-baggage, the mistress and maid, who seemed greatly overwhelmed +by the sight of Africa, and who moved—or rather were carried—as in a +dream, were placed reverently in the nearest omnibus, and conveyed to +the farthest hotel, which was situated upon a lofty hill above the +town. Here a slightly painful scene took place.</p> + +<p>Having been assisted by the staff into a Moorish hall, Mrs. Greyne +inquired in a reticent voice for her husband, and was politely informed +that there was no person of the name of Greyne in the hotel. For a +moment she seemed threatened with dissolution, but with a supreme +effort calling upon her mighty brain she surmised that her husband was +possibly passing under a pseudonym in order to throw America off the +scent. She, therefore, demanded to have the guests then present in the +hotel at once paraded before her. As there was some difficulty about +this—the guests being then at dinner—she whispered for the visitors’ +book, thinking that, perchance, Mr. Greyne had inscribed his name +there, and that the staff, being foreign, did not recognise it as +murmured by herself. The book was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">213</span>brought, upon its cover in golden +letters the words: “Hôtel Loubet et Majestic.” Then explanations of a +somewhat disagreeable nature occurred, and Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, +after a heavy payment had been exacted for their conveyance to a place +they had desired not to go to, were carried forth, and consigned to +another vehicle, which at length brought them, on the stroke of nine, +to the Grand Hotel.</p> + +<p>Having been placed reverently in the brilliantly-lighted hall, they +were surrounded by the proprietor, the <i lang="fr">mâitre d’hôtel</i> and his +assistants, the porters, and the chasseurs, with all of whom Mr. Greyne +was now familiar. Brandy and water having been supplied, together with +smelling-salts and burnt feathers, Mrs. Greyne roused herself from an +acute attack of lethargy, and asked for Mr. Greyne. A joyous smile ran +round the circle.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Greyne,” said the proprietor, “who is living here for the +winter?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Eustace Greyne,” murmured the great novelist, grasping her bonnet +with both hands.</p> + +<p>The <i lang="fr">mâitre d’hôtel</i> drew nearer.</p> + +<p>“Madame wishes to see Monsieur Greyne?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“I do—at once.”</p> + +<p>A blessed consciousness of Mother Earth was gradually beginning to +steal over her. She even strove feebly to sit up on her chair, a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">214</span>German-Swiss porter of enormous size assisting her.</p> + +<p>“But Monsieur Greyne is out.”</p> + +<p>“Out?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, madame. Monsieur Greyne is always out at night.”</p> + +<p>The eyes of the little chasseur who knew no better began to twinkle. +Mrs. Forbes gave a slight cough. Tears filled the novelist’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“God bless my Eustace!” she murmured, deeply touched by this evidence +of his devotion to her interests.</p> + +<p>“Madame says⸺” asked the proprietor.</p> + +<p>“Where does Mr. Greyne go?” inquired the novelist.</p> + +<p>“To the Kasbah, madame.”</p> + +<p>“I knew it!” cried Mrs. Greyne, with returning animation. “I knew it +would be so!”</p> + +<p>“Madame is acquainted with Monsieur Greyne?” said the <i lang="fr">mâitre +d’hôtel</i>, while the little crowd gathered more closely about the +wave-worn group.</p> + +<p>“I am Mrs. Eustace Greyne,” returned the great novelist recklessly. “I +am the wife of Mr. Eustace Greyne.”</p> + +<p>There was a moment of supreme silence. Then a loud, an even piercing +“<i lang="fr">Oh, là, là!</i>” broke upon the air, succeeded instantaneously by a +burst of laughter that seemed to thrill with all the wild blessedness +of boyhood. It came, of course, from the little chasseur; it came, and +stayed. Nothing could stop it, and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">215</span>eventually the happy child had to +be carried forth upon the sea-front to enjoy his innocent mirth at +leisure and in solitude beneath the African stars. Mrs. Greyne did not +notice his disappearance. She was intent upon important matters.</p> + +<p>“At what time does Mr. Greyne usually set forth?” she asked of the +proprietor, whose face now bore a strangely twisted appearance, as if +afflicted by a toothache.</p> + +<p>“Immediately after dinner, madame, if not before. Of late it has +generally been before.”</p> + +<p>“And he stays out late?”</p> + +<p>“Very late, madame.”</p> + +<p>The twisted appearance began to seem infectious. It was visible upon +the faces of most of those surrounding Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes. +Indeed, even the latter showed some signs of it, although the large +shadow cast over her features by the hind side of her Mother Hubbard +bonnet to some extent disguised them from the public view.</p> + +<p>“Till what hour?” pursued Mrs. Greyne in a voice of almost yearning +tenderness and pity.</p> + +<p>“Well, madame”—the proprietor displayed some slight confusion—“I really +can hardly say. The <i lang="fr">maître d’hôtel</i> can perhaps inform you.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne turned her ox-like eyes upon the enlarged edition of +Napoleon the First.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Greyne seldom returns before <span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">216</span>seven or eight o’clock in the +morning, madame. He then retires to bed, and comes down to breakfast at +about four o’clock in the afternoon.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne was touched to the very quick. Her husband was sacrificing +his rest, his health—nay, perhaps even his very life—in her service. +It was well she had come, well that a period was to be put to these +terrible researches. They should be stopped at once, even this very +night. Better a thousand literary failures than that her husband’s +existence should be placed in jeopardy. She rose suddenly from her +chair, tottered, gasped, recovered herself, and spoke.</p> + +<p>“Prepare dinner for me at once,” she said, “and order a carriage and a +competent guide to be before the door in half-an-hour.”</p> + +<p>“Madame is going out? But madame is ill, tired!”</p> + +<p>“It matters not.”</p> + +<p>“Where does madame wish to go?”</p> + +<p>“I am going to the Kasbah to find my husband.”</p> + +<p>“I will escort madame.”</p> + +<p>The proprietor, the <i lang="fr">maître d’hôtel</i>, the waiters, the porters, +the chasseurs, Mrs. Greyne and Mrs. Forbes, all turned about to face +the determined speaker.</p> + +<p>And there before them, his dark eyes gleaming, his long moustaches +bristling fiercely—there stood Abdallah Jack.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">217 + </span> + <h3>VII</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">Man</span> is a self-deceiver. It must, therefore, ever be a doubtful point +whether Mr. Eustace Greyne, during his residence in Africa, absolutely +lost sight of his sense of duty; whether, beguiled by the lively +attentions of a fiercely foreign town, he deliberately resolved to +take his pleasure regardless of consequences and of the sacred ties of +Belgrave Square. We prefer to think that some vague idea of combining +two duties—that which he owed to himself and that which he owed to Mrs. +Greyne—moved him in all he did, and that the subterfuge into which +he was undoubtedly led was not wholly selfish, not wholly criminal. +Nevertheless, that he had lied to his beloved wife is certain. Even +while she sat over a cutlet and a glass of claret in the white-and-gold +dining-room of the Grand Hotel, preparatory to her departure to the +Kasbah with Abdallah Jack, the dozen of Merrin’s exercise-books lay +upstairs in Mr. Greyne’s apartments filled to the brim with African +frailty. Already there was material enough in their pages to furnish +forth a library of “Catherines.” Yet Mr. Greyne still lingered far +from his home, and wired to that home fabricated accounts of the +singular innocence of Algiers. He even allowed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">218</span>it to be supposed that +his own innocence stood in the way of his fulfilment of Mrs. Greyne’s +behests—he who could now have given points in knowledge of the world to +whole regiments of militiamen!</p> + +<p>It was not right, and, doubtless, he must stand condemned by every +moralist. But let it not be forgotten that he had fallen under the +influence of a Levantine.</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle Verbèna’s mother, hidden in some unnamed hospital of +Algiers, appeared to be one of those ingenious elderly ladies who can +hover indefinitely upon the brink of death without actually dying. +During the whole time that Mr. Greyne had been in Africa her state had +been desperate, yet she still clung to life. As her daughter said, she +possessed extraordinary vitality, and this vitality seemed to have +been inherited by her child. Despite her grave anxieties Mademoiselle +Verbèna succeeded in sustaining a remarkable cheeriness, and even a +fascinating vivacity, when in the company of others. As she said to +Mr. Greyne, she did not think it right to lay her burdens upon the +shoulders of her neighbours. She, therefore, forced herself to appear +contented, even at various moments gay, when she and Mr. Greyne were +lunching, dining, or supping together, were driving upon the front, +sailing upon the azure waters of the bay, riding upon the heights +beyond El-Biar, or, ensconced in a sumptuous private box, listening +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">219</span>to the latest French farce at one or another of the theatres. Only +one day, when they had driven out to the monastery at La Trappe de +Staouëli, did a momentary cloud descend upon her piquant features, and +she explained this by the frank confession that she had always wished +to become a nun, but had been hindered from following her vocation by +the necessity of earning money to support her aged parents.</p> + +<p>Mr. Greyne had never seen the Ouled since his first evening in Algiers, +but he still paid her a weekly salary, through Abdallah Jack, who +explained to him that the interesting lady, in a discreet retirement, +was perpetually occupied in arranging the exhibitions of African +frailty at which he so frequently assisted. She was, in fact, earning +her liberal salary. Mademoiselle Verbèna and Abdallah Jack had met on +several occasions, and Mr. Greyne had introduced the latter to the +former as his guide, and had generously praised his abilities; but +Mademoiselle Verbèna took very little notice of him, and, as time went +on, Abdallah Jack seemed to conceive a most distressing dislike of her. +On several occasions he advised Mr. Greyne not to frequent her company +so assiduously, and when Mr. Greyne asked him to explain the meaning of +his monitions he took refuge in vague generalities and Eastern imagery. +He had a profound contempt for women as companions, which grieved +Mr. Greyne’s Western ideas, and evidently <span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">220</span>thought that Mademoiselle +Verbèna ought to be clapped forthwith into a long veil, and put away in +a harem behind an iron grille. When Mr. Greyne explained the English +point of view Abdallah Jack took refuge in a sulky silence; but during +the week immediately preceding the arrival of Mrs. Greyne his temper +had become actively bad, and Mr. Greyne began seriously to consider +whether it would not be better to pay him a last <i lang="fr">douceur</i>, and +tell him to go about his business.</p> + +<p>Before doing this, however, Mr. Greyne desired to have one more +interview with the mysterious Ouled on the heights, to whom he owed the +knowledge which would henceforth enable him to cut out the militia. +He said so to Abdallah Jack. The latter agreed sulkily to arrange it; +and matters so fell out that on the night of Mrs. Greyne’s arrival +her husband was seated in a room in one of the remotest houses of the +Kasbah, watching the Ouled’s mysterious evolutions, while Mademoiselle +Verbèna—as she herself had informed Mr. Greyne—sat in the hospital by +the bedside of her still dying mother. Abdallah Jack had apparently +been most anxious to assist at Mr. Greyne’s interview with the Ouled, +but Mr. Greyne had declined to allow this. The evil temper of the guide +was beginning to get thoroughly upon his employer’s nerves, and even +the natural desire to have an interpreter at hand was overborne by the +dislike of Abdallah <span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">221</span>Jack’s morose eyes and sarcastic speeches about +women. Moreover, the Ouled spoke a word or two of uncertain French.</p> + +<p>Thus, therefore, things fell out, and such was the precise situation +when Mrs. Greyne flicked a crumb from her chocolate brocade gown, tied +her bonnet strings, and rose from table to set forth to the Kasbah with +Abdallah Jack.</p> + +<p>It was a radiant night. In the clear sky the stars shone brilliantly, +looking down upon the persistent convulsions of the little chasseur, +who had not yet recovered from his attack of merriment on learning who +Mrs. Greyne was. The sea, quite calm now that the great novelist was +no longer upon it, lapped softly along the curving shores of the bay. +The palm-trees of the town garden where the band plays on warm evenings +waved lazily in the soft and scented breeze. The hooded figures of the +Arabs lounged against the stone wall that girdles the sea-front. In the +brilliantly-illuminated restaurants the rich French population gathered +about the little tables, while the withered beggars stared in upon the +oyster shells, the champagne bottles, and the feathers in the women’s +audacious hats.</p> + +<p>When Mrs. Greyne emerged upon the pavement before the Grand Hotel, +attended by Mrs. Forbes and the guide, she paused for a moment, and +cast a searching glance upon the fairy scene. In this voluptuous +evening and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">222</span>strange environment life seemed oddly dream-like. She +scarcely felt like Mrs. Greyne. Possibly Mrs. Forbes also felt unlike +herself, for she suddenly placed one hand upon her left side, and +tottered. Abdallah Jack supported her. She screamed aloud.</p> + +<p>“Madam!” she said. “It is the vertigo. I am overtook!”</p> + +<p>She was really ill; her face, indeed, became the colour of a plover’s +egg.</p> + +<p>“Let me go to bed, madam,” she implored. “It is the vertigo, madam. I +am overtook!”</p> + +<p>Under ordinary circumstances Mrs. Greyne would have prescribed a +dose of Kasbah air, but to-night she felt strange, and she wanted +strangeness. Mrs. Forbes with the vertigo, in a small carriage, would +be inappropriate. She, therefore, bade her retire, mounted into the +vehicle with Abdallah Jack, and was quickly driven away, her bonnet +strings floating upon the winsome wind.</p> + +<p>“You know my husband?” she asked softly of the guide.</p> + +<p>Abdallah Jack replied in French that he rather thought he did.</p> + +<p>“How is he looking?” continued Mrs. Greyne in a slightly yearning +voice. “My Eustace!” she added to herself, “my devoted one!”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Greyne is pale as washed linen upon the Kasbah wall,” replied +Abdallah Jack, lighting a cigarette, and wreathing the great <span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">223</span>novelist +in its grey-blue smoke. “He is thin as the Spahi’s lance, he is nervous +as the leaves of the eucalyptus-tree when the winds blow from the +north.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne was seriously perturbed.</p> + +<p>“Would I had come before!” she murmured, with serious self-reproach.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Greyne is worse than all the English,” pursued Abdallah Jack +in a voice that sounded to Mrs. Greyne decidedly sinister. “He is worse +than the tourists of Rook, who laugh in the doorways of the mosques and +twine in their hair the dried lizards of the Sahara. Even the guide +of Rook rejected him. I only would undertake him because I am full of +evil.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, and to wish she +had not been so ready to pander to Mrs. Forbes’ vertigo. She stole a +sidelong glance at her strange companion. The carriage was small. The +end of his bristling black moustache was very near. What he said of +Mr. Greyne did not disturb her, because she knew that her Eustace had +sacrificed his reputation to do her service; but what he said about +himself was not reassuring.</p> + +<p>“I think you must be doing yourself an injustice,” she said in a rather +agitated voice.</p> + +<p>“Madame?”</p> + +<p>“I do not believe you are so bad as you imply,” she continued.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">224</span></p> + +<p>The carriage turned with a jerk out of the brilliantly-lighted +thoroughfare that runs along the sea into a narrow side street, crowded +with native Jews, and dark with shadows.</p> + +<p>“Madame does not know me.”</p> + +<p>The exact truth of this observation struck home, like a dagger, to the +mind of Mrs. Greyne.</p> + +<p>“I am a wicked person,” added Abdallah Jack, with a profound +conviction. “That is why Monsieur Greyne chose me as his guide.”</p> + +<p>The novelist began to quake. Her chocolate brocade fluttered. Was she +herself to learn at first hand, and on her first evening in Africa, +enough about African frailty to last her for the rest of her life? And +how much more of life would remain to her after her stock of knowledge +had been thus increased? The carriage turned into a second side street, +narrower and darker than the last.</p> + +<p>“Are we going right?” she said apprehensively.</p> + +<p>“No, madame; we are going wrong—we are going to the wicked part of the +city.”</p> + +<p>“But—but—you are sure Mr. Greyne will be there?”</p> + +<p>Abdallah Jack laughed sardonically.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur Greyne is never anywhere else. Monsieur Greyne is wicked as +is a mad Touareg of the desert.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you quite understand my husband,” said Mrs. Greyne, +feeling in duty <span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">225</span>bound to stand up for her poor, maligned Eustace. +“Whatever he may have done he has done at my special request.”</p> + +<p>“Madame says?”</p> + +<p>“I say that in all his proceedings while in Algiers Mr. Greyne has been +acting under my directions.”</p> + +<p>Abdallah Jack fixed his enormous eyes steadily upon her.</p> + +<p>“You are his wife, and told him to come here, and to do as he has done?”</p> + +<p>“Ye-yes,” faltered Mrs. Greyne, for the first time in her life feeling +as if she were being escorted towards the criminal dock by a jailer +with Puritan tendencies.</p> + +<p>“Then it is true what they say on the shores of the great canal,” he +remarked composedly.</p> + +<p>“What do they say?” inquired Mrs. Greyne.</p> + +<p>“That England is a land of female devils,” returned the guide as the +carriage plunged into a filthy alley, between two rows of blind houses, +and began to ascend a steep hill.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne gasped. She opened her lips to protest vigorously, but +her head swam—either from indignation or from fatigue—and she could +not utter a word. The horses mounted like cats upward into the dense +blackness, from which dropped down the faint sounds of squealing music +and of hoarse cries and laughter. The wheels bounded over the stones, +sank into the deep ruts, scraped against the sides <span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">226</span>of the unlighted +houses. And Abdallah Jack sat staring at Mrs. Greyne as an English +clergyman’s wife might stare at the appalling rites of some deadly +cannibal encountered in a far-off land, with a stony wonder, a sort of +paralysed curiosity.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the carriage stopped on a piece of waste land covered with +small pebbles. Abdallah Jack sprang out.</p> + +<p>“Why do we stop?” said Mrs. Greyne, turning as pale as ashes.</p> + +<p>“The carriage can go no farther. Madame must walk.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne began to tremble.</p> + +<p>“We are to leave the coachman?”</p> + +<p>“I shall escort madame, alone.”</p> + +<p>The great novelist’s tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She felt +like a Merrin’s exercise-book, every leaf of which was covered with +African frailty. However, there was no help for it. She had to descend, +and stand among the pebbles.</p> + +<p>“Where are we going?”</p> + +<p>Abdallah Jack waved his hand towards a stone rampart dimly seen in the +faint light that emanated from the starry sky.</p> + +<p>“Down there into the alley of the Dead Dervishes.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne could not repress a cry of horror. At that moment she would +have given a thousand pounds to have Mrs. Forbes at her side.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">227</span></p> + +<p>Abdallah Jack grasped her by the hand, and led her ruthlessly forward. +Gazing with terror-stricken eyes over the crumbling rampart of the +Kasbah, she saw the city far below her, the lights of the streets, +the lights of the ships in harbour. She heard the music of a bugle, +and wished she were a Zouave safe in barracks. She wished she were a +German-Swiss porter, a merry chasseur—anything but Mrs. Eustace Greyne. +One thing alone supported her in this hour of trial, the thought of her +husband’s ecstasy when she appeared upon the dread scene of his awful +labours, to tell him that he was released, that he need visit them no +more.</p> + +<p>The alley of the Dead Dervishes is long and winding. To Mrs. Greyne +it seemed endless. As she threaded it with faltering step, gripped by +the feverish hand of Abdallah Jack, who now began to display a strange +and terrible excitement, she became a centre of curiosity. Unwashed +Arabs, rakish Zouaves in blue and red, wandering Jews of various +nationalities, unveiled dancing-girls covered with jewels, stared in +wonder upon the chocolate brocade and the floating bonnet strings, +followed upon her footsteps, pointing with painted fingers, and making +remarks of a personal nature in French, Arabic, and other unknown +tongues. She moved in the midst of a crowd, on and on before lighted +interiors from which wild music flowed.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">228</span></p> + +<p>“Shall we never be there?” she panted to Abdallah Jack. “My limbs +refuse their office.” She jogged against a Tunisian Jewess in a pointed +hat, and rebounded upon an enormous Riff in a tattered sheep-skin. “I +can go no farther.”</p> + +<p>“We are there! Behold the house of the Ouled!”</p> + +<p>As he uttered the last word he burst into a bitter laugh, and drew Mrs. +Greyne, now gasping for breath, through an open doorway into a little +hall of imitation marble, with fluted pillars adorned with oilcloth, +and walls hung with imported oleographs. From a chamber on the right, +near a winding staircase covered with blue-and-white tiles, came the +sound of laughter, of song, and of a hideous music conveyed to the +astonied ear by pipes and drums.</p> + +<p>“They are in there!” exclaimed Abdallah Jack, folding his arms, and +looking at Mrs. Greyne. “Go to your husband!”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Greyne put her hands to her magnificent forehead, and tottered +forward. She reached the door, she pushed it, she entered. There +upon a wooden dais, surrounded by gilt mirrors and artificial roses, +she beheld her husband, in a check suit and a white Homburg hat, +performing the wildest evolutions, while opposite him a lady, smothered +in coloured silks and coins, tattooed and painted, dyed and scented, +covered with kohl and crowned with <span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">229</span>ostrich feathers, screamed a nasal +chant of the East, and bounded like an electrified monkey.</p> + +<p>“Eustace!” cried Mrs. Greyne, leaning for support against an oleograph.</p> + +<p>Her husband turned.</p> + +<p>“Eustace!” she cried again. “It is I!”</p> + +<p>He stood as if turned to stone. Mrs. Greyne hesitated, started, moved +forward to the dais, and stared upon the Ouled, who had also ceased +from dancing, and looked strangely surprised, even confused, by the +great novelist’s intrusion.</p> + +<p>“Miss Verbèna!” she exclaimed. “Miss Verbèna in Algiers!”</p> + +<p>“Eugenia!” said Mr. Greyne in a husky voice, “what is this you say? +This lady is the Ouled.”</p> + +<p>A sardonic laugh came from the doorway. They turned. There stood +Abdallah Jack. He advanced roughly to the Ouled.</p> + +<p>“Come,” he said angrily. “Have we not earned the money of the stranger? +Have we not earned enough? To-morrow you shall marry me as you have +promised, and we will return to our own land, to the canal where you +and I were born. And nevermore shall the Levantine instruct the babes +of the English devils, but dwell veiled and guarded in the harem of her +master.”</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle Verbèna!” said Mr.Greyne in a more husky voice. +“But—but—your dying mother?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">230</span></p> + +<p>“She sleeps, monsieur, in the white sands of Ismailia, beside the +bitter lake. I trust that madame can now go on with the respectable +‘Catherine.’”</p> + +<p>And with an ironic reverence to Mrs. Eustace Greyne she placed her hand +in Abdallah Jack’s and vanished from the room.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>“Catherine’s Repentance,” published in a gigantic volume not many weeks +ago, was preceded by Mr. Eustace Greyne’s. When last heard of he was +seated in the magnificent library of the corner house in Park Lane next +to the Duke of Ebury’s, busily engaged in pasting the newspaper notices +of Mrs. Greyne’s greatest work into a superb new album.</p> + +<p>The Abdallah Jacks have returned to the Suez Canal, bearing with them a +snug little fortune to be invested in the purchase of a coal wharf at +Port Said, and a remarkably handsome crocodile dressing-case, fitted +with gold, and monogrammed with the initials “E. G.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">231</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Desert"><i>DESERT AIR</i></h2> +</div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap">ON an evening of last summer I was dining in London at the Carlton with +two men. One of them was an excellent type of young England, strong, +healthy, athletic, and straightforward. The other was a clever London +doctor who was building up a great practice in the West End. At dessert +the conversation turned upon a then recent tragedy in which a great +reputation had gone down, and young England spoke rather contemptuously +of the victim, with the superior surprise human beings generally +express about the sin which does not happen to be theirs.</p> + +<p>“I can’t understand it!” was his conclusion. “It’s beyond me.”</p> + +<p>“Climate,” said the doctor quietly.</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“Climate. Air.”</p> + +<p>Young England looked inexpressively astonished.</p> + +<p>“But hang it all!” he exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say change of air +means change of nature?”</p> + +<p>“Not to everyone. Not to you, perhaps. Have you travelled much?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">232</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I’ve been to Paris for the Grand Prix, and to Monte⸺”</p> + +<p>“For the gambling. That’s hardly travelling. Now, I’ve studied this +subject a little, quietly in Harley Street. I’m no traveller myself, +but I have dozens of patients who are. And I’m convinced that the +modern facilities for travel, besides giving an infinity of pleasure, +bring about innumerable tragedies.”</p> + +<p>He turned to me.</p> + +<p>“You go abroad a great deal. What do you say?”</p> + +<p>“That you’re perfectly right. And I’m prepared to affirm that, in +highly-strung, imaginative, or over-worked people change of climate +does sometimes actually cause, or seem to cause, change of nature.”</p> + +<p>Young England, who was by no means highly-strung or imaginative, looked +politely dubious, but the doctor was evidently pleased.</p> + +<p>“An ally!” he cried.</p> + +<p>He glanced at me for an instant, then added:</p> + +<p>“You’ve got a case that proves it, at any rate to you, in your mind.”</p> + +<p>“Quite true.”</p> + +<p>“Can you give it us?”</p> + +<p>“Jove! let’s have it!” exclaimed young England.</p> + +<p>“Certainly, if you like,” I said. “I don’t know whether you ever heard +of the Marnier affair?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">233</span></p> + +<p>Young England shook his head, but the doctor replied at once.</p> + +<p>“Three years ago, wasn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Four.”</p> + +<p>“And it happened in some remote place in the Sahara Desert?”</p> + +<p>“In Beni-Kouidar. I was with Henry Marnier in Beni-Kouidar at the time.”</p> + +<p>“Go ahead!” said young England more eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Poor Marnier was not an old friend of mine, but an acquaintance whom I +had met casually at Beni-Mora, which is known as a health resort.”</p> + +<p>“I send patients there sometimes,” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“The railway stops at Beni-Mora. To reach Beni-Kouidar one must go on +horse or camel back over between three and four hundred kilometres of +desert, sleeping on the way at Travellers’ Houses—Bordjs as they are +called there. Beni-Kouidar lies in the midst of immeasurable sands, +and the air that blows through its palm gardens, and round its mosque +towers, and down its alleys under the arcades, is startling: dry as the +finest champagne, almost fiercely pure and fresh, exhilarating—well, +too exhilarating for certain people.”</p> + +<p>The doctor nodded.</p> + +<p>“Champagne goes very quickly to some heads,” he interjected.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">234</span></p> + +<p>“Beni-Kouidar has nothing to say to modern civilisation. It is a wild +and turbulent city, divided into quarters—the Arab quarter, the Jews’ +quarter, the freed negroes’ quarter, and so on—and furthermore, is +infested at certain seasons by the Sahara nomads, who camp in filthy +tents on the huge sand dunes round about, and sell rugs, burnouses, and +Touareg work to the inhabitants, buying in return the dates for which +the palms of Beni-Kouidar are celebrated.</p> + +<p>“I wanted to see a real Sahara city to which the Cook’s tourist had not +as yet penetrated, and I resolved to ride there from Beni-Mora. When +Henry Marnier heard of it he asked if he might accompany me.</p> + +<p>“Marnier was a young man who had recently left Oxford, and who had +come out to Beni-Mora only a week before to see his mother, who was +going through the sulphur cure. He was what is generally called a +‘serious-minded young man’; intellectual, inclined to grave reading and +high thinking, totally devoid of frivolity, a little cold in manner and +temperament, one would have sworn; in fact, a type of a very well-known +kind of Oxford undergraduate, the kind that takes a good tutorship +for a year or so after leaving the University, and then becomes a +schoolmaster or a clergyman. Marnier, by the way, intended to take +orders.</p> + +<p>“Now, this sort of young man is not precisely <span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">235</span>my sort, and especially +not my sort in the Sahara Desert. But I did not want to be rude to +Marnier, who was friendly and agreeable, and obviously anxious to +increase his already considerable store of knowledge. So I put my +inclinations in my pocket, and, with inward reluctance, I agreed.</p> + +<p>“We set off with Safti, my faithful one-eyed Arab guide, and after +three long days of riding and talking—as I had feared—Maeterlink and +Tolstoy, Henley and Verlaine (this last being utterly condemned by +Marnier as a man of weak character and degraded life) we saw the towers +of Beni-Kouidar aspiring above the shifting sands, the tufted summits +of the thousands of palm-trees, and heard the dull beating of drums and +the cries of people borne to us over the spaces of which silence is the +steady guardian.</p> + +<p>“We were all pretty tired, but Marnier was especially done up. He had +recently been working very hard for the ‘first’ with which he had left +Oxford, and was not in good condition. We were, therefore, glad enough +when we rode through the wide street thronged with natives, turned +the corner into the great camel market, and finally dismounted before +the door of the one inn, the ‘Rendezvous des Amis,’ a mean, dusty, +one-storey building, on whose dirty white wall was a crude painting of +a preposterous harridan in a purple empire gown, pouring wine for a +Zouave who was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">236</span>evidently afflicted with elephantiasis. Yet, tired as I +was, I stepped out into the camel market for a moment before going into +the house, emptied my lungs, and slowly filled them.</p> + +<p>“‘What air!’ I said to Marnier, who had followed me.</p> + +<p>“‘It is extraordinary,’ he answered in his rather dry tenor voice. +‘I should say like the best champagne, if I did not happen to be a +teetotaller.’</p> + +<p>“(The market, I must explain, was not at that moment in active +operation.)</p> + +<p>“After a <i lang="fr">bain de siege</i>—we both longed for total immersion—and +some weak tea, in which I mingled a spoonful of rum, we felt better, +but we reposed till dinner, and once again Marnier, in his habitually +restrained and critical manner, discussed contemporary literature, and +what Plato and Aristotle, judging by their writings, would have been +likely to think of it. And once again I felt as if I were in the ‘High’ +at Oxford, and was almost inclined to wish that Marnier was the rowdy +type of undergrad, who ducks people in water troughs and makes bonfires +in quads.”</p> + +<p>“H’m!” said the doctor gravely. “Better, perhaps, if he had been.”</p> + +<p>“Much better,” I answered. “At seven o’clock we ate a rather tough +dinner in the small, bare <i lang="fr">salle-à-manger</i>, on the red brick floor +of which sand grains were lying. Our <span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">237</span>only companion was a bearded +priest in a dirty soutane, the aumônier of Beni-Kouidar, who sat at a +little table apart, and greeted our entrance with a polite bow, but did +not then speak to us.</p> + +<p>“When the meal was ended, however, he joined us as we stood at the inn +door looking out into the night. A moon was rising above the palms, and +gilding the cupolas of the Bureau Arabe on the far side of the Market +Square. A distant noise of tomtoms and African pipes was audible. +And all down the hill to our left—for the land rose to where the inn +stood—fires gleamed, and we could see half-naked figures passing and +repassing them, and others squatting beside, looking like monks in +their hooped burnouses.</p> + +<p>“‘You are going out, messieurs?’ said the aumônier politely.</p> + +<p>“I looked at Marnier.</p> + +<p>“‘You’re too done up, I expect?’ I said to him.</p> + +<p>“His face was pale, and he certainly had the demeanour of a tired man.</p> + +<p>“‘No,’ he answered. ‘I should like to stroll in this wonderful air.’</p> + +<p>“I turned to the priest.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes, monsieur,’ I said.</p> + +<p>“‘I come here to take my meals, but I live at the edge of the town. +Perhaps you will permit me to accompany you for a little way.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">238</span></p> + +<p>“‘We shall be delighted, and we know nothing of Beni-Kouidar.’</p> + +<p>“As we stepped out into the market Marnier paused to light his pipe. +But suddenly he threw away the match he had struck.</p> + +<p>“‘No, it’s a sin to smoke in this air,’ he said.</p> + +<p>“And he drew a deep breath, looking at the round moon.</p> + +<p>“The priest smiled.</p> + +<p>“‘I have lived here for four years,’ he said, ‘and cannot resist my +cigar. But you are right. The air of Beni-Kouidar is extraordinary. +When first I came here it used to mount to my head like wine.’</p> + +<p>“‘Bad for you, Marnier!’ I said, laughing.</p> + +<p>“Then I added, to the aumônier:</p> + +<p>“‘My friend never drinks wine, and so ought to be peculiarly +susceptible to such an influence.’”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">239</span> + <h3>II</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">“<span class="smcap">Opposite</span> to the aumônier’s dwelling was the great dancing-house of the +town, and when we had bade him good-night, and turned to go back to the +inn, I rather tentatively suggested to Marnier that, perhaps, it would +be interesting to look in there for a moment.</p> + +<p>“‘All right,’ he responded, with his most donnish manner. ‘But I expect +it will be rather an unwashed crowd.’</p> + +<p>“A quantity of native soldiers—the sort that used to be called +Turcos—were gathered round the door. We pushed our way through them, +and entered. The café was large, with big white pillars and a double +row of divans in the middle, and divans rising in tiers all round. +On the left was a large doorway, in which gorgeously-dressed painted +women, with gold crowns on their heads, were standing, smoking +cigarettes, and laughing with the Arabs; and at the end farthest +from the street entrance was a raised platform, on which sat three +musicians—a wild-looking demon of a man blowing into an instrument with +an immense funnel, and two men beating tomtoms. The noise they made was +terrific. The piper wore a voluminous burnouse, and as <span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">240</span>the dancers +came in in pairs from the big doorway, which led into the court where +they all live together, each in her separate little room with her own +front door, they threw their door keys into the hood that was attached +to it. As soon as they had finished dancing they went to the hood, and +rummaged violently for them again. And all the time the piper blew +frantically into his instrument, and rocked himself about like a man in +a convulsion.</p> + +<p>“We sat on one of the raised divans, with coffee before us on a wooden +stool, and Marnier observed it all with a slightly supercilious +coldness. The women, who were dressed in different shades of red, and +were the most amazing trollops I ever set eyes on, came and went in +pairs, fluttered their painted fingers, twittered like startled birds, +jumped and twirled, wriggled and revolved, and inclined their greasy +foreheads to the impenetrable spectators, who stuck silver coins on +to the perspiring flesh. And Marnier sat and gazed at them with the +aloofness of one who watches the creatures in puddle water through a +microscope. I could scarcely help laughing at him, but I wished him +away. For to me there was excitement, there was even a sort of ecstasy, +in the utter barbarity of this spectacle, in the moving scarlet figures +with their golden crowns and tufts of ostrich plumes, in the serried +masses of turbaned and hooded spectators, in the rocking forms of the +musicians, in <span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">241</span>the strident and ceaseless uproar that they made.</p> + +<p>“And through the doorway where the Turcos—I like the old name—crowded I +saw the sand filtering in from the desert, and against the black leaves +of a solitary palm-tree, with leaves like giant Fatma hands, I saw the +silver disc of the moon.</p> + +<p>“‘I vote we go,’ said Marnier’s light tenor voice in my ear. ‘The +atmosphere’s awful in here.’</p> + +<p>“‘Very well,’ I said.</p> + +<p>“I got up; but just then a girl, dressed in midnight purple embroidered +with silver, came in from the doorway, and began to dance alone. She +was very young—fourteen, I found out afterwards—and, in contrast to the +other women, extremely beautiful. There were grace, seduction, mystery, +and coquetry in her face and in all her movements. Her long black eyes +held fire and dreams. Her fluttering hands seemed beckoning us to the +realms of the thousand and one nights. I stood where I had got up, and +watched her.</p> + +<p>“‘I say, aren’t we going?’ said Marnier’s voice in my ear.</p> + +<p>“I cursed the day when I had agreed to take him with me, leaped down +to the earth, and struggled towards the door. As we neared it the girl +sidled down the room till she was exactly in front of Marnier. Then +she danced before him, smiling with her immense eyes, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">242</span>which she fixed +steadily upon him, and bending forward her pretty head, covered with a +cloth of silver handkerchief.</p> + +<p>“‘Give her something,’ I said to him, laughing, as he stared back at +her grimly.</p> + +<p>“He thrust his hand into his pocket, found a franc, stuck it awkwardly +against her oval forehead, and followed me out.</p> + +<p>“When we were in the sandy street he walked a few steps in +silence, then stood still, and, to my surprise, stared back at the +dancing-house. Then he put his hand to his head.</p> + +<p>“‘Is the air having its alcoholic effect?’ I asked in joke.</p> + +<p>“As I spoke a handsome Arab, splendidly dressed in a pale blue robe, +red gaiters and boots, and a turban of fine muslin, spangled with gold, +passed us slowly, going towards the dancing-house. He cast a glance +full of suspicion and malice at Marnier.</p> + +<p>“‘What’s up with that fellow?’ I said, startled.</p> + +<p>“The Arab went on, and at that moment the faithful Safti joined us. He +never left me long out of his sight in these outlandish places.</p> + +<p>“‘That is the Batouch Sidi, the brother of the Caïd of Beni-Kouidar,’ +he said. ‘Algia, the dancer to whom Monsieur Henri has just given +money, is his <i lang="fr">chère amie</i>. But as the government has just made +him a sheik, he <span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">243</span>dares not have her in his house for fear of the +scandal. So he has put her with the dancers. That is why she dances, to +deceive everyone, not to make money. She is not as the other dancers. +But everyone knows, for Batouch is mad with jealousy. He cannot bear +that Algia should dance before strangers, but what can he do? A sheik +must not have a scandal in his dwelling.’</p> + +<p>“We walked on slowly. When we got to the door of the ‘Rendezvous des +Amis’ Marnier stood still again, and looked down the deserted, moonlit +camel market.</p> + +<p>“‘I never knew air like this,’ he said in a low voice.</p> + +<p>“And once more he expelled the air from his lungs, and drew in a long, +slow breath, as a man does when he has finished his dumbbell exercise +in the morning.</p> + +<p>“‘Don’t drink too much of it,’ I said. ‘Remember what the aumônier told +us!’</p> + +<p>“Marnier looked at me. I thought there was something apprehensive in +his eyes. But he said nothing, and we turned in.</p> + +<p>“The next day I rode out with Safti into the desert to visit a sacred +personage of great note in the Sahara, Sidi El Ahmed Ben Daoud +Abderahmann. To my relief Marnier declined to come. He said he was +tired, and would stroll about the city. When we got back at sundown +the innkeeper handed me a note. I opened it, and found it was from the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">244</span>aumônier, saying that he would be greatly obliged if I would call and +see him on my return, as he had various little curiosities which he +would be glad to show me. Marnier was not in the inn, and, as I had +nothing particular to do, I walked at once to the aumônier’s house. +As I have said, it was the last in the town. The dancing-house was on +the opposite side of the way; but the aumônier’s dwelling jutted out a +little farther into the desert, and looked full on a deep depression of +soft sand bounded by a big dune, which loomed up like a couchant beast +in the fading yellow light.</p> + +<p>“The aumônier met me at his door, and escorted me into a pleasant room, +where his collection of Arab weapons, coins, and old vases, cups, and +various utensils, dug up, he told me, at Tlemcen, was arranged. But to +my surprise he scarcely took time to show it to me before he said:</p> + +<p>“‘Though a stranger, may I venture to speak rather intimately to you, +monsieur?’</p> + +<p>“‘Certainly,’ I replied, in some astonishment.</p> + +<p>“‘Your friend is young.’</p> + +<p>“‘Marnier?’</p> + +<p>“‘Is that his name? Well, I would not leave him to stroll about too +much alone, if I were you.’</p> + +<p>“‘Why, monsieur?’</p> + +<p>“‘He is likely to get into trouble. The people here are a wild and +violent race. He would <span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">245</span>do well to bear in mind the saying of a +traveller who knew the desert men better than most people: “If you want +to be friendly with them, and safe among them, give cigarettes to the +men, and leave the women alone.” I see a good deal, monsieur, owing to +the situation of my little house.’</p> + +<p>“I looked at him in silence. Then I said:</p> + +<p>“‘What have you seen?’</p> + +<p>“He led me to the door, and pointed towards the great dune beyond the +dancing-house.</p> + +<p>“‘I saw your friend this afternoon talking there with one whom it is +especially unsafe to be seen with in Beni-Kouidar.’</p> + +<p>“‘With whom?’</p> + +<p>“‘A dancer called Algia.’</p> + +<p>“‘Talking, monsieur! Marnier knows no Arabic.’</p> + +<p>“The aumônier pursed his lips in his black beard.</p> + +<p>“‘The conversation appeared to be carried on by signs,’ he responded. +‘That did not make it less but more dangerous.’</p> + +<p>“I’m afraid I was rude, and whistled softly.</p> + +<p>“‘Monsieur l’Aumônier,’ I said, ‘you must forgive me, but this air is +certainly the very devil.’</p> + +<p>“He smiled, not without irony.</p> + +<p>“‘I became aware of that myself, monsieur, when first I came to live in +Beni-Kouidar. But I am a priest, and—well, monsieur, I was given <span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">246</span>the +strength to say: “Get thee behind me, Satan.”’</p> + +<p>“A softer look came into his sunburnt, wrinkled face.</p> + +<p>“‘Better take your friend away as soon as possible,’ he added, ‘or +there will be trouble.’”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">247</span> + <h3>III</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent">“<span class="smcap">That</span> night I found myself confronted by a Marnier whom I had never +seen before. The desert wine had gone to the lad’s brain. That was +certain. No intonations of the Oxford don lurked in the voice. No +reminiscences of the Oxford ‘High’ clung about the manner. A man sober +and the same man drunk are scarcely more different than the Marnier who +had ridden with me up the sandy street of Beni-Kouidar the previous day +and the man who sat opposite to me at dinner in the ‘Rendezvous des +Amis’ that night. I knew in a moment that the aumônier was right, and +that I must get the lad away at once from the intoxicant which nature +poured out over this far-away city. His eyes were shining feverishly, +and when I mentioned Mr. Ruskin in a casual way he looked unutterably +bored.</p> + +<p>“‘Ruskin and all those fellows seem awfully slow and out of place +here,’ he exclaimed. ‘One doesn’t want to bother about them in the +Sahara.’</p> + +<p>“I changed the subject.</p> + +<p>“‘There doesn’t seem very much to see here,’ I said carelessly. ‘We +might get away the day after to-morrow, don’t you think?’</p> + +<p>“He drew his brows down.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">248</span></p> + +<p>“‘The horses won’t be sufficiently rested,’ he said curtly.</p> + +<p>“‘Oh yes; I fancy they will.’</p> + +<p>“‘Well, I don’t fancy I shall. The long ride took it out of me.’</p> + +<p>“‘Turn in to-night, then, directly after dinner.’</p> + +<p>“He looked at me with sharp suspicion. I met his gaze blandly.</p> + +<p>“‘I mean to,’ he said after a short pause.</p> + +<p>“I knew he was telling me a lie, but I only said: ‘That’s right!’ and +resolved to keep an eye on him.</p> + +<p>“Directly dinner was over he sprang up from the table.</p> + +<p>“‘Good-night,’ he said.</p> + +<p>“And before I could reply he was out of the <i lang="fr">salle-à-manger</i>; and +I heard him tramp along the brick floor of the passage, go into his +room, and bang the door.</p> + +<p>“The aumônier was getting up from his little table, and shaking the +crumbs from his soutane.</p> + +<p>“‘You are quite right, monsieur,’ I said to him. ‘I must get my friend +away.’</p> + +<p>“‘I shall be sorry to lose you,’ replied the good priest. ‘But—desert +air, desert air!’</p> + +<p>“He shook his head, half wistfully, half laughingly, bowed, put on his +broad-brimmed black hat, and went out.</p> + +<p>“After a moment I followed him. I stood in the doorway of the inn, and +lit a cigar. I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">249</span>knew Marnier was not going to bed, and meant to catch +him when he came out, and join him. In common politeness he could +scarcely refuse my company, since he had asked me as a favour to let +him come with me to Beni-Kouidar. I waited, watching the moon rise, +till my cigar was smoked out. Then I lit another. Still he did not +come. I heard the distant throb of tomtoms beyond the Bureau Arabe in +the quarter of the freed negroes. They were having a fantasia. I began +to think that I must have been mistaken, and that Marnier had really +turned in. So much the better. The ash dropped from the stump of my +second cigar, and the deserted camel market was flooded with silver +from the moon-rays. I knew there was only one door to the inn. Slowly I +lit a third cigar.</p> + +<p>“A large cloud went over the face of the moon. A gust of wind struck my +face. Suddenly the night had changed. The moon looked forth again, and +was again obscured. A second gust struck me like a blow, and my face +was stung by a multitude of sand grains. I heard steps behind me in the +brick passage, turned swiftly, and saw the landlord.</p> + +<p>“‘I must shut the door, m’sieu,’ he said. ‘There’s a bad sandstorm +coming up.’</p> + +<p>“As he spoke the wind roared, and over the camel market a thick fog +seemed to fall abruptly. It was a sheet of sand from the surrounding +dunes. I threw away my cigar, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">250</span>stepped into the passage, and the +landlord banged the door, and drove home the heavy bolts.</p> + +<p>“Then I went to Marnier’s room, and knocked. I felt sure, but I thought +I would make sure before going to my room.</p> + +<p>“No answer.</p> + +<p>“I knocked again loudly.</p> + +<p>“Again no answer.</p> + +<p>“Then I turned the handle, and entered.</p> + +<p>“The room was empty. I glanced round quickly. The small window was +open. All the windows of the inn were barred, but, as I learned later, +a bar in Marnier’s had been broken, and was not yet replaced when we +arrived at Beni-Kouidar. In consequence of this it was possible to +squeeze through into the arcade outside. This was what Marnier had +done. My precise, gentlemanly, reserved, and methodical acquaintance +had deliberately given me the slip by sneaking out of a window like a +schoolboy, and creeping round the edge of the inn to the <i lang="fr">fosse</i> +that lay in the shadow of the sand dunes. As I realised this I realised +his danger.</p> + +<p>“I ran to my room, fetched my revolver, slipped it into my pocket, and +hurried to the front door. The landlord heard me trying to undo the +bolts, and came out protesting.</p> + +<p>“‘M’sieu cannot go out into the storm.’</p> + +<p>“‘I must.’</p> + +<p>“‘But m’sieu does not know what Beni-Kouidar <span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">251</span>is like when the sand is +blown on the wind. It is <i lang="fr">enfer</i>. Besides, it is not safe. In the +darkness m’sieu may receive a <i lang="fr">mauvais coup</i>.’</p> + +<p>“‘Make haste, please, and open the door. I am going to fetch my friend.’</p> + +<p>“He pulled the bolts, grumbling and swearing, and I went out into +<i lang="fr">enfer</i>. For he was right. A sandstorm at night in Beni-Kouidar is +hell.</p> + +<p>“Luckily, Safti joined me mysteriously from the deuce knows where, and +we staggered to the dancing-house somehow, and struggled in, blinded, +our faces scored, our clothes heavy with sand, our pockets, our very +boots, weighed down with it.</p> + +<p>“The tomtoms were roaring, the pipe was yelling, blown by the frantic +demon with his hood full of latch keys, the impassible, bearded faces +were watching the painted women who, in their red garments and their +golden crowns, promenaded down the earthen floor, between the divans, +fluttering their dyed fingers, smiling grotesquely like idols, bending +forward their greasy foreheads to receive the tribute of their admirers.</p> + +<p>“I ran my eyes swiftly over the mob. Marnier was not in it. I pushed my +way towards the doorway on the left which gave on to the court of the +dancers.</p> + +<p>“Safti caught hold of my arm.</p> + +<p>“‘It is not safe to go in there on such a <span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">252</span>night, Sidi. There are no +lamps. It is black as a tomb. And no one can tell who may be there. +Nomads, perhaps, men of evil from the south. Many murders have been +done in the court on black nights, and no one can say who has done +them. For all the time men go in and out to the rooms of the dancers.’</p> + +<p>“‘Nevertheless, Safti, I must⸺’</p> + +<p>“I stopped speaking, for at this moment Batouch, the brother of the +Caïd of Beni-Kouidar, came slowly in through the doorway from the +blackness of the sand-swept court. There was a strange smile on his +handsome face, and he was caressing his black beard gently with one +delicate hand. He saw me, smiled more till I caught the gleam of his +white teeth, passed on into the dancing-house, sat down on a divan, and +called for coffee. I could not take my eyes from him. Every movement +he made fascinated me. He drew from his pale blue robe a silver box, +opened it, lifted out a pinch of tobacco, and began carefully to roll a +cigarette. And all the time he smiled.</p> + +<p>“A glacial cold crept over my body. As he lit his cigarette I caught +hold of Safti, and hurried through the doorway into the blackness of +the whirling sand.”</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>Here I stopped.</p> + +<p>“Well?” said young England. “Well?”</p> + +<p>The doctor did not speak.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">253</span></p> + +<p>“Well,” I answered. “Algia danced that night. While she was dancing +we found a dead body in the court. It was Marnier’s. A knife had been +thrust into him from behind!”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the doctor.</p> + +<p>“But—” exclaimed young England, “it was that fellow? It was Batouch?”</p> + +<p>I shrugged my shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Nobody ever found out who did it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but of course⸺”</p> + +<p>He checked himself, and an expression of admiration dawned slowly over +his healthy, handsome face.</p> + +<p>“I say,” he said, “to be able to roll a cigarette directly afterwards! +What infernal cheek!”</p> + +<p>“Desert air!” I replied. “My dear chap—desert air!”</p> + +<p>The doctor nodded.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_254"></a><a id="Page_255"></a>255</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Fin_Tireur">“<i>FIN TIREUR</i>”</h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">TWO years ago I was travelling by diligence in the Sahara Desert on the +great caravan route, which starts from Beni-Mora and ends, they say, +at Tombouctou. For fourteen hours each day we were on the road, and +each evening about nine o’clock we stopped at a Bordj, or Travellers’ +House, ate a hasty meal, threw ourselves down on our gaudy Arab rugs, +and slept heavily till the hour before dawn, drugged by fatigue and +by the strong air of the desert. In the late afternoon of the third +day of our journeying we drove into a sandstorm. A great wind arose, +carrying with it innumerable multitudes of sand grains, which whirled +about the diligence and the struggling horses, blotting out the desert +as completely as a London fog blots out the street on a November day. +The cold became intense, and very soon I began to long for the next +halting-place.</p> + +<p>“Where do we stop to-night?” I shouted to the French driver, who, with +his yellow toque pulled down over his ears, was chirping encouragement +to his horses.</p> + +<p>“Sidi-Hamdane,” he answered, without turning his head. “At the inn of +‘Fin Tireur.’”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">256</span></p> + +<p>Three hours later we drew up before a low building, from which a light +shone kindly, and I scrambled down stiffly, and lurched into the +longed-for shelter.</p> + +<p>There was a man in the doorway, a short, sturdy, middle-aged Frenchman, +with strong features, a tuft of grey beard, heavy eyebrows, and dark, +prominent eyes, with a hot, shining look in them.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Bon soir</i>, m’sieu,” he said.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Bon soir</i>,” I answered.</p> + +<p>This was my host, the innkeeper whom the driver had called “Fin Tireur.”</p> + +<p>I found out afterwards that he was not only landlord of the desolate +inn, but cook, garcon; in fact, the whole personnel. He lived there +absolutely alone, and was the only European in this Arab village +lost in the great spaces of the Sahara. This information I drew from +him while he waited upon me at dinner, which I ate in solitude. My +companions of the diligence were Arabs, who had melted away like ghosts +into the desolation so soon as the diligence had rolled into the paved +courtyard round which the one-storied house was built.</p> + +<p>When I had finished dinner I lit a cigar. I was now quite alone in the +bare <i lang="fr">salle-à-manger</i>. The storm was at its height; the sand was +driven like hail against the wooden shutters of the windows, and I felt +dreary enough. The French driver was no doubt supping in the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">257</span>kitchen +with the landlord, perhaps beside a fire. I began to long for company, +for warmth, and I resolved to join them. I opened the door, therefore, +and peered out into the passage. There was no sound of voices; but I +saw a light at a little distance, went towards it, and found myself in +a small kitchen, where the landlord was sitting alone by a red wood +fire in the midst of his pots and pans, smoking a thin black cigar, and +reading a dirty number of the <cite>Journal Anti-Juif</cite> of Algiers. He +put it down politely as I came in.</p> + +<p>“You’re alone, monsieur,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Yes, m’sieu. The driver has gone to see to the horses.”</p> + +<p>I offered him one of my Havanas, which he accepted with alacrity, and +drew up with him before the fire.</p> + +<p>“You have been living here long, monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Twenty years, m’sieu.”</p> + +<p>“Twenty years alone in this desert place!”</p> + +<p>“Nineteen years alone, m’sieu. Before that I had my little Marie.”</p> + +<p>“Marie?”</p> + +<p>“My child, m’sieu. She is buried in the sand behind the inn.”</p> + +<p>I looked at him in silence. His brown, wrinkled face was calm, but in +his prominent eyes there was still the hot shining look I had observed +in them when I arrived.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">258</span></p> + +<p>“The palms begin there,” he added. “Year by year I have saved what I +could, and now I have bought all the palm-trees near where she lies.”</p> + +<p>He puffed away at his Havana.</p> + +<p>“You come from France?” I asked presently.</p> + +<p>“From the Midi—I was born at Cassis, near Marseille.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you ever intend to go back there?”</p> + +<p>“Never, m’sieu. Would you have me desert my child?”</p> + +<p>“But,” I said gently, “she is dead.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but I have promised her that her <i lang="fr">bon papa</i> will lie with +her presently for company. Leave her alone with the Arabs!”</p> + +<p>A sudden look of horror came into his face.</p> + +<p>“You don’t like the Arabs?”</p> + +<p>“Like the dirty dogs! You haven’t been told about me, m’sieu?”</p> + +<p>“Only that your name was ‘Fin Tireur.’”</p> + +<p>“‘Fin Tireur.’ Yes; that’s what they call me in the desert.”</p> + +<p>“You’re a sportsman? A ‘capital shot’?”</p> + +<p>He laughed suddenly, and his laugh made me feel cold.</p> + +<p>“Oh! they don’t call me ‘Fin Tireur’ because I can hit gazelle, and +bring them home for supper. No, no! Shall I tell you why?”</p> + +<p>He looked at me half defiantly, half wistfully, I thought.</p> + +<p>“But if I do, perhaps your stomach will <span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">259</span>turn against the food I cooked +with these hands,” he added suddenly, stretching out his hands towards +me. “You are English, m’sieu?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Then I daresay you won’t understand.”</p> + +<p>“I think I shall,” I answered, looking full at him.</p> + +<p>The way he had spoken of his child had drawn me to him. Whatever he had +done, I felt that chivalry and tenderness were in this man.</p> + +<p>“Why do they call you ‘Fin Tireur’?”</p> + +<p>“The men of the Midi, m’sieu, are not like the men of the rest of +France,” said Fin Tireur—“at least so they say. We are boasters, +perhaps; but we’ve got more love of adventure, more wish to see the +world, and do something big in it. They’re talkers, you know, in the +Midi, and they tell of what they’ve done. I heard them at Cassis when +I was a boy, and one day I saw a Zouave in front of the inn balcony, +where folks come on fête days to eat the bouillabaisse. The talk I had +heard made me wish to rove; but when I saw the Zouave, in his big red +trousers and blue and red jacket, I said to myself: ‘As soon as my +three years’ service is over I’ll go to Africa, and make my fortune.’ I +did my three years at Grenoble, m’sieu, and when it was done I carried +out my resolve. I came to Africa; but I didn’t come alone.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">260</span></p> + +<p>He puffed at his cigar for a minute or two, and the hot look in his +eyes became more definite, like a fanned flame.</p> + +<p>“You took a comrade?”</p> + +<p>“I took a wife, a girl of Cassis. A good girl she was then.”</p> + +<p>He paused again, then continued, in rather a loud voice: “She was good, +m’sieu, because she had seen nothing. That’s often the way. It was I +who put it into her head that there were things to be seen better than +rocks, and dead white dusty roads, and fishing boats against the quay. +I’ve thought of that since I—since I got my name of Fin Tireur. Her +name was Marie, and she was eighteen when we stood before the priest. +Next day we went to Marseille, and took the boat for Algiers. Our heads +were full of I don’t know what. We thought we were clever ones, and +should do well in a country like Africa. And so we did at first. We got +into a hotel at Algiers. She was housemaid, and I was porter in the +hall, and what with the goings and comings—strangers giving us a little +when we’d done our best for them—we made some money, and we saved it. +And I wish to God we’d spent it, every sou!”</p> + +<p>His voice became fierce for a moment. Then he continued, with an +obvious effort to be calm: “You see, m’sieu, at Algiers we had nothing +to say to the Arabs. With the money we’d saved we left Algiers, and +came into the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">261</span>desert to take a café which was to let near the station +at Beni-Mora.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve just come from there.”</p> + +<p>“They call it ‘Au Retour du Sahara.’”</p> + +<p>“I’ve had coffee there.”</p> + +<p>“That was ours, and there little Marie was born. In those days there +weren’t many strangers in Beni-Mora. The railway had only just come +there, and it was wild enough. Very few, except the Arabs. Well, they +were often our customers. We learned to talk a bit of their language, +and they a bit of ours; and, having no friends out there, I might say +we made sort of friends with some of them. The dirty dogs! The camels!”</p> + +<p>He struck his clenched hand down on the table. As he talked he had lost +his former consciousness of my close observation.</p> + +<p>“But they know how to please women, m’sieu.”</p> + +<p>“They are often very handsome,” I said.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t only that. They can stare a woman down as a wild beast can, +and that’s what women like. I never so much as looked on them as +men—not in that way, for a Cassis woman, m’sieu. But Marie⸺”</p> + +<p>He choked, ground his teeth on his cigar stump, let it drop, and +stamped out the glowing end on the brick floor with his heel.</p> + +<p>“She served them, m’sieu,” he resumed, after clearing his throat. “But +I was mostly there, and I don’t see how—but women can always <span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">262</span>find +the way. Well, one day she went to what they call a sand-diviner. She +didn’t pretend anything. She told me she wanted to go, and I was ready. +I was always ready that she should have any little pleasure. I couldn’t +leave the café, so she went off alone to a room he had by the Garden of +the Gazelles, at the end of the dancing-street.”</p> + +<p>“I know—over the place where they smoke the kief.”</p> + +<p>“She didn’t answer, but went and sat down under the arbour, opposite to +where they wash the clothes. I followed her, for she looked ill.</p> + +<p>“‘Did he read in the sand for you?’ I said.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes,’ she said; ‘he did.’</p> + +<p>“‘What things did he read?’</p> + +<p>“She turned, and looked right at me. ‘That my fate lies in the sand,’ +she said—‘and yours, and hers.’</p> + +<p>“And she pointed at little Marie, who was playing with a yellow kid we +had then just by the door.</p> + +<p>“‘What’s that to be afraid of?’ I asked her. ‘Haven’t we come to the +desert to make our fortune, and isn’t there sand in the desert?’</p> + +<p>“‘Not much by here,’ she said.</p> + +<p>“And that’s true, m’sieu. It’s hard ground, you know, at Beni-Mora.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said, offering him another cigar.</p> + +<p>He refused it with a quick gesture.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">263</span></p> + +<p>“She never would say another word as to what the sand-diviner had told +her; but she was never the same from that day. She was as uneasy as a +lost bitch, m’sieu; and she made me uneasy too. Sometimes she wouldn’t +speak to our little one when the child ran to her, and sometimes she’d +catch her up, and kiss her till the little one’s cheek was as red as if +you’d been striking it. And then one day, after dark, she went.”</p> + +<p>“Went!”</p> + +<p>“I’d been ill with fever, and gone to spend the night at the sulphur +baths; you know, m’sieu, Hammam-Salahkin, under the mountains. I came +back just at dawn to open the café. When I got off my mule at the door +I heard”—his face twitched convulsively—“the most horrible crying of a +child. It was so horrible that I just stood there, holding on to the +bridle of the mule, and listening, and didn’t dare go in. I’d heard +children cry often enough before; but—<i lang="fr">mon Dieu!</i>—never like that. +At last I dropped the bridle, and went in, with my legs shaking under +me. I found the little one alone in the house, and like a mad thing. +She’d been alone all night.”</p> + +<p>His face set rigidly.</p> + +<p>“And her mother knew I should be all night at the Hammam,” he said. +“Fin Tireur—yes, it was coming back, and finding my little one left +like that in such a place, made me earn the name.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</span></p> + +<p>He fell suddenly into a moody silence. I broke it by saying: “It was +the sand-diviner?”</p> + +<p>He looked at me sharply. “I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“You never found out?”</p> + +<p>“At Beni-Mora the women go veiled,” he said harshly.</p> + +<p>Suddenly I realised the horror of the situation: the deserted husband +living on with his child in the midst of the ordained and close secrecy +of Beni-Mora, where many of the women never set foot out of doors, and +those who do, unless they are the public dancers, are so heavily veiled +that their features cannot be recognised.</p> + +<p>“What did you do?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“I searched, as far as one can search in an Arab town, and found out +nothing. I wanted to tear the veil from every woman in the place; and +then I was sent away from Beni-Mora.”</p> + +<p>“By whom?”</p> + +<p>“The French authorities, my own countrymen,” he laughed bitterly. “To +save me from getting myself murdered, m’sieu.”</p> + +<p>“You would have been.”</p> + +<p>“Why not? Then I came here to keep the inn for the diligence that +carries the mails to the south, for I wouldn’t leave the country till⸺”</p> + +<p>He paused.</p> + +<p>“And the sand-diviner?”</p> + +<p>“I left him at Beni-Mora. He smiled, and <span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</span>said he knew no more than I; +and perhaps he didn’t. How was I to tell?”</p> + +<p>“But your name of Fin Tireur?”</p> + +<p>“Ah!”—the thing in his eyes glowed like a thing red-hot—“I’d been here +eleven months when, one afternoon of summer, just near sunset, I heard +a noise of drums beating and African pipes screaming, and the snarl of +camels on the road you came to-night. I was in the house, in this room +where we are sitting now, and little Marie was playing just outside by +the well, so that I could see her through the window. By the sounds, I +knew a great caravan was coming up, and passing towards the south. They +always water at the well, and I stood by the window to see them. Little +Marie stood too, shading her eyes with her bit of a hand. The drums and +pipes got louder, and round the corner of the inn came as big a caravan +as I’ve ever seen; near a hundred camels, horsemen, and led mules and +donkeys, Kabyle dogs and goats, the music playing all the time, and +a Caïd’s flag flying in the front. They made for the well, as I knew +they would, and little Marie stood all the while watching them. M’sieu, +there were square packs on some of the camels, and veiled women on the +packs.”</p> + +<p>He looked across at me hard.</p> + +<p>“Veiled women?” I repeated.</p> + +<p>“When they got to the well they made the camels kneel for the women to +get down; and one of the women, when she was down, caught <span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</span>sight of +Marie standing there, with her little hand shading her eyes. That woman +gave a great cry behind her veil. I heard it, m’sieu, as I stood by the +window there, and I saw the woman run at the little one.”</p> + +<p>He got up from his seat slowly, and stood by the wooden shutter, +against which the sand was driven by the wind.</p> + +<p>“In a place like this, m’sieu, one keeps a revolver here.”</p> + +<p>He put his hand to a pocket at the back of his breeches, brought out a +revolver, and pointed it at the shutter.</p> + +<p>“When I heard the woman cry I took my revolver out. When I saw the +woman run I fired, and the bullet struck the veil.”</p> + +<p>He put the revolver back into his pocket, and sat down again quietly.</p> + +<p>“And that’s why they call me Fin Tireur.”</p> + +<p>I said nothing, and sat staring at him.</p> + +<p>“When the camels had been watered the caravan went on.”</p> + +<p>“But—but the Arabs⸺”</p> + +<p>“The Caïd had the body tied across a donkey—they told me.”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t see?”</p> + +<p>“No. I took the little one in. She was screaming, and I had to see +to her. It was two days afterwards, when I was at the market, that a +scorpion stung her. She was dead when I came back. Well, m’sieu, are +you sorry you ate your supper?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</span></p> + +<p>Before I could reply, the door opening into the courtyard gaped, and +the driver entered, followed by a cloud of whirling sand grains.</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Nom d’un chien!</i>” he exclaimed. “Get me a tumbler of wine, for +the love of God, Fin Tireur. My throat’s full of the sand. <i lang="fr">Sacré nom +d’un nom d’un nom!</i>”</p> + +<p>He pulled off his coat, turned it upside down, and shook the sand out +of the pockets, while Fin Tireur went over to the corner of the kitchen +where the bottles stood in a row against the earthen wall.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_268"></a><a id="Page_269"></a>269</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Halima"><i>HALIMA AND THE SCORPIONS</i></h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">IN travelling about the world one collects a number of those trifles of +all sorts, usually named “curiosities,” many of them worthless if it +were not for the memories they recall. The other day I was clearing out +a bureau before going abroad, and in one of the drawers I came across a +hedgehog’s foot, set in silver, and hung upon a tarnished silver chain. +I picked it up in the Sahara, and here is its history.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>Mohammed El Aïd Ben Ali Tidjani, marabout of Tamacine, is a great +man in the Sahara Desert. His reputation for piety reaches as far +as Tunis and Algiers, to the north of Africa, and to the uttermost +parts of the Southern Desert, even to the land of the Touaregs. He +dwells in a sacred village of dried mud and brick, surrounded by a +high wall, pierced with loopholes, and ornamented with gates made of +palm wood, and covered with sheets of iron. In his mansion, above +the entrance of which is written “L’Entrée de Sidi Laïd,” are clocks +innumerable, musical boxes, tables, chairs, sofas, and even framed +photographs. Negro servants bow before him, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</span>wives, brothers, children, +and obsequious hangers-on of various nationalities, black, bronze, +and <i lang="fr">café au lait</i> in colour, offer him perpetual incense. Rich +worshippers of the Prophet and the Prophet’s priests send him presents +from afar; camels laden with barley, donkeys staggering beneath sacks +of grain, ostrich plumes, silver ornaments, perfumes, red-eyed doves, +gazelles whose tiny hoofs are decorated with gold-leaf or painted in +bright colours. The tributes laid before the tomb of Cheikh Sidi El +Hadj Ali ben Sidi El Hadj Aïssa are, doubtless, his perquisites as +guardian of the saint. He dresses in silks of the tints of the autumn +leaf, and carries in his mighty hand a staff hung with apple-green +ribbons. And his smile is as the smile of the rising sun in an +oleograph.</p> + +<p>This personage one day blessed the hedgehog’s foot I at present +possess, and endowed it solemnly with miraculous curative properties. +It would cure, he declared, all the physical ills that can beset a +woman. Then he gave it into the hands of a great Agha, who was about to +take a wife, accepted a tribute of dates, a grandfather’s clock from +Paris, and a grinding organ of Barbary as a small acknowledgment of his +generosity, and probably thought very little more about the matter.</p> + +<p>Now, in the course of time, it happened that the hedgehog’s foot came +into the possession of a dancing-girl of Touggourt, called Halima. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">271</span>How Halima got hold of it I cannot say, nor does anyone in Touggourt +exactly know, so far as I am aware. But, alas! even Aghas are sometimes +human, and play pitch and toss with magical things. As Grand Dukes who +go to disport themselves in Paris sometimes hie them incognito to the +“Café de la Sorcière,” so do Aghas flit occasionally to Touggourt, and +appear upon the high benches of the great dancing-house of the Ouled +Naïls in the outskirts of the city. And Halima was young and beautiful. +Her eyes were large, and she wore a golden crown ornamented with very +tall feathers. And she danced the dance of the hands and the dance of +the fainting fit with great perfection. And the wives of Aghas have to +put up with a good deal. However it was, one evening Halima danced with +the hedgehog’s foot that had been blessed dangling from her jewelled +girdle. And there was a great scandal in the city.</p> + +<p>For in the four quarters of Touggourt, the quarter of the Jews, of +the foreigners, of the freed negroes, and of the citizens proper, it +was known that the hedgehog’s foot had been blessed and endowed with +magical powers by the mighty marabout of Tamacine.</p> + +<p>Halima herself affirmed it, standing at the front door of her terraced +dwelling in the court, while the other dancers gathered round, looking +like a troop of macaws in their feathers and their finery. With a +brazen pride <span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">272</span>she boasted that she possessed something worth more than +uncut rubies, carpets from Bagdad, and silken petticoats sewn with +sequins. And the Ouled Naïls could not gainsay her. Indeed, they turned +their huge, kohl-tinted eyes upon the relic with envy, and stretched +their painted hands towards it as if to a god in prayer. But Halima +would let no one touch it, and presently, taking from her bosom her +immense door key, she retired to enshrine the foot in her box, studded +with huge brass nails, such as stands by each dancer’s bed.</p> + +<p>And the scandal was very great in the city that such a precious thing +should be between the hands of an Ouled Naïl, a girl of no repute, come +thither in a palanquin on camelback to earn her dowry, and who would +depart into the sands of the south, laden with the gold wrung from the +pockets of loose livers.</p> + +<p>Only Ben-Abid smiled gently when he heard of the matter.</p> + +<p>Ben-Abid belonged to the <cite>Tribu des blancs</cite>, and was the singer +attached to the café of the smokers of the hashish. He it was who +struck each evening a guitar made of goatskin backed by sand tortoise, +and lifted up his voice in the song “Lalia”:</p> + +<div class="center-container"> + <div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="i0">“Ladham Pacha who has left the heart of his enemies trembling—</div> + <div class="center">O Lalia! O Lalia!</div> + <div class="i0">The love of women is no more sweet to me after thy love.</div> + <div class="i0"><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">273</span>Thy hand is white, and thy bracelets are of the purest silver—</div> + <div class="i0">And I, Ladham Pacha, love thee, without thought of what will come.</div> + <div class="center">O Lalia! O Lalia!</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p>The assembled smokers breathed out under the black ceiling their deep +refrain of “Wurra-Wurra!” and Larbi, in his Zouave jacket and his +tight, pleated skirt, threw back his small head, exposing his long +brown throat, and danced like a tired phantom in a dream.</p> + +<p>Ben-Abid smiled, showing two rows of lustrous teeth.</p> + +<p>“Should Halima fall ill, the foot will not avail to cure her,” he +murmured. “Ben Ali Tidjani’s blessing could never rest on an Ouled +Naïl, who, like a little viper of the sand, has stolen into the Agha’s +bosom, and filled his veins with subtle poison. She deems she has a +treasure; but let her beware: that which would protect a woman who +wears the veil will do naught for a creature who shows her face to the +stranger, and dances by night for the Zouaves and for the Spahis who +patrol the dunes.”</p> + +<p>And he struck his long fingers upon the goatskin of his instrument, +while Kouïdah, the boy who played upon the little glasses and shook the +tambourine of reeds, slipped forth to tell in the city what Ben-Abid +had spoken.</p> + +<p>Halima was enraged when she heard of it, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">274</span>more especially as there +were found many to believe Ben-Abid’s words. She stood before her room +upon the terrace, where Zouaves were playing cards with the dancers +in the sun, and she cursed him in a shrill voice, calling him son of +a scorpion, and requesting that Allah would send great troubles upon +his relations, even upon his aged grandmother. That the miraculous +reputation of her treasure should be thus scouted, and herself +insulted, vexed her to the soul.</p> + +<p>“Let the son of a camel with a swollen tongue dare to come to me and +repeat what he has said!” she cried. “Let him come out from his lair in +the café of the hashish smokers, and, as Allah is great, I will spit in +his face. The reviler of women! The son of a scorpion! Cursed be his⸺”</p> + +<p>And then once more she desired evil to the grandmother of Ben-Abid, and +to all his family. And the Zouaves and the dancers laughed over their +card games. Indeed, the other dancers were merry, and not ill-pleased +with Ben-Abid’s words. For even in the Sahara the women do not care +that one of them should be exalted above the rest.</p> + +<p>Now, in Touggourt gossip is carried from house to house, as the sand +grains are carried on the wind. Within an hour Ben-Abid heard that his +grandmother had been cursed, and himself called son of a scorpion, by +Halima. Kouïdah, the boy, ran on naked feet to tell <span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">275</span>him in the café of +the hashish smokers. When he heard he smiled.</p> + +<p>“To-night I will go to the dancing-house, and speak with Halima,” he +murmured. And then he plucked the guitar of goatskin that was ever in +his hands, and sang softly of the joys of Ladham Pacha, half closing +his eyes, and swaying his head from side to side.</p> + +<p>And Kouïdah, the boy, ran back across the camel market to tell in the +court of the dancers the words of Ben-Abid.</p> + +<p>That night, when the nomads lit their brushwood fires in the +market; when the Kabyle bakers, in their striped turbans and their +close-fitting jerseys of yellow and of red, ran to and fro bearing the +trays of flat, new-made loaves; when the dwarfs beat on the ground +with their staffs to summon the mob to watch their antics; and the +story-tellers put on their glasses, and sat them down at their boards +between the candles; Ben-Abid went forth secretly from the hashish +café wrapped in his burnous. He sought out in the quarter of the freed +negroes a certain man called Sadok, who dwelt alone.</p> + +<p>This Sadok was lean as a spectre, and had a skin like parchment. He was +a renowned plunger in desert wells, and could remain beneath the water, +men said, for a space of four minutes. But he could also do another +thing. He could eat scorpions. And this he would do for a small sum of +money. Only, during the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">276</span>fast of Ramadan, between the rising and the +going down of the sun, so long as a white thread could be distinguished +from a black, he would not eat even a scorpion, because the tasting of +food by day in that time is forbidden by the Prophet.</p> + +<p>When Ben-Abid struck on his door Sadok came forth, gibbering in his +tangled beard, and half naked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, brother!” said Ben-Abid. “Here is money if thou canst find me +three scorpions. One of them must be a black scorpion.”</p> + +<p>Sadok shot out his filthy claw, and there was fire in his eyes. But +Ben-Abid’s fingers closed round the money paper.</p> + +<p>“First thou must find the scorpions, and then thou must carry them with +thee to the court of the dancers, walking at my side. For, as Allah +lives, I will not touch them. Afterwards thou shalt have the money.”</p> + +<p>Sadok’s soul drew the shutters across his eyes. Then he led the way by +tortuous alleys to an old and ruined wall of a <i>zgag</i>, in which +there were as many holes as there are in a honeycomb. Here, as he knew, +the scorpions loved to sleep. Thrusting his fingers here and there +he presently drew forth three writhing reptiles. And one of them was +black. He held them out, with a cry, to Ben-Abid.</p> + +<p>“The money! The money!” he shrieked.</p> + +<p>But Ben-Abid shrank back, shuddering.</p> + +<p>“Thou must bring them to the dancers’ <span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">277</span>court. Hide them well in thy +garments that none may see them. Then thou shalt have the money.”</p> + +<p>Sadok hid the scorpions upon his shaven head beneath his turban, and +they went by the dunes and the lonely ways to the café of the dancers.</p> + +<p>Already the pipers were playing, and many were assembled to see the +women dance; but Ben-Abid and Sadok pushed through the throng, and +passed across the café to the inner court, which is open to the air, +and surrounded with earthen terraces on which, in tiers, open the rooms +of the dancers, each with its own front door. This court is as a mighty +rabbit warren, peopled with women instead of rabbits. Pale lights +gleamed in many doorways, for the dancers were dressing and painting +themselves for the dances of the body, of the hands, of the poignard, +and of the handkerchief. Their shrill voices cried one to another, +their heavy bracelets and necklets jingled, and the monstrous shadows +of their crowned and feathered heads leaped and wavered on the yellow +patches of light that lay before their doors.</p> + +<p>“Where is Halima?” cried Ben-Abid in a loud voice. “Let Halima come +forth and spit in my face!”</p> + +<p>At the sound of his call many women ran to their doors, some half +dressed, some fully attired, like Jezebels of the great desert.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">278</span></p> + +<p>“It is Ben-Abid!” went up the cry of many voices. “It is Ben-Abid, who +laughs to scorn the power of the hedgehog’s foot. It is the son of +the camel with the swollen tongue. Halima, Halima, the child of the +scorpion calls thee!”</p> + +<p>Kouïdah, the boy, who was ever about, ran barefoot from the court +into the café to tell of the doings of Ben-Abid, and in a moment the +people crowded in, Zouaves and Spahis, Arabs and negroes, nomads from +the south, gipsies, jugglers, and Jews. There were, too, some from +Tamacine, and these were of all the most intent.</p> + +<p>“Where is Halima?” went up the cry. “Where is Halima?”</p> + +<p>“Who calls me?” exclaimed the voice of a girl.</p> + +<p>And Halima came out of her door on the first terrace at the left, +splendidly dressed for the dance in scarlet and gold, carrying two +scarlet handkerchiefs in her hands, and with the hedgehog’s foot +dangling from her girdle of thin gold, studded with turquoises.</p> + +<p>Ben-Abid stood below in the court with Sadok by his side. The crowd +pressed about him from behind.</p> + +<p>“Thou hast called me the son of a scorpion, Halima,” he said, in a loud +voice. “Is it not true?”</p> + +<p>“It is true,” she answered, with a venomous smile of hatred. “And thou +hast said that <span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">279</span>the hedgehog’s foot, blessed by the great marabout +of Tamacine, would avail naught against the deadly sickness of a +dancing-girl. Is it not true?”</p> + +<p>“It is true,” answered Ben-Abid.</p> + +<p>“Thou art a liar!” cried Halima.</p> + +<p>“And so art thou!” said Ben-Abid slowly.</p> + +<p>A deep murmur rose from the crowd, which pressed more closely beneath +the terrace, staring up at the scarlet figure upon it.</p> + +<p>“If I am a liar thou canst not prove it!” cried Halima furiously. “I +spit upon thee! I spit upon thee!”</p> + +<p>And she bent down her feathered head from the terrace and spat +passionately in his face.</p> + +<p>Ben-Abid only laughed aloud.</p> + +<p>“I can prove that I have spoken the truth,” he said. “But if I am +indeed the son of a scorpion, as thou sayest, let my brothers speak for +me. Let my brothers declare to all the Sahara that the truth is in my +mouth. Sadok, remove thy turban!”</p> + +<p>The plunger of the wells, with a frantic gesture, lifted his turban and +discovered the three scorpions writhing upon his shaven head. Another, +and longer, murmur went up from the crowd. But some shrank back and +trembled, for the desert Arabs are much afraid of scorpions, which +cause many deaths in the Sahara.</p> + +<p>“What is this?” cried Halima. “How can the scorpions speak for thee?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">280</span></p> + +<p>“They shall speak well,” said Ben-Abid. “Their voices cannot lie. Sleep +to-night in thy room with these my brothers. Irena and Boria, the +Golden Date and the Lotus Flower, shall watch beside thee. Guard in +thy hand, or in thy breast, the hedgehog’s foot that thou sayest can +preserve from every ill. If, in the evening of to-morrow, thou dancest +before the soldiers, I will give thee fifty golden coins. But, if thou +dancest not, the city shall know whether Ben-Abid is a truth-teller, +and whether the blessings of the great marabout can rest upon such +a woman as thou art. If thou refusest thou art afraid, and thy fear +proveth that thou hast no faith in the magic treasure that dangles at +thy girdle.”</p> + +<p>There was a moment of deep silence. Then, from the crowd burst forth +the cry of many voices:</p> + +<p>“Put it to the proof! Ben-Abid speaks well. Put it to the proof, and +may Allah judge between them.”</p> + +<p>Beneath the caked pigments on her face Halima had gone pale.</p> + +<p>“I will not,” she began.</p> + +<p>But the cries rose up again, and with them the shrill, twittering +laughter of her envious rivals.</p> + +<p>“She has no faith in the marabout!” squawked one, who had a nose like +an eagle’s beak.</p> + +<p>“She is a liar!” piped another, shaking out <span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">281</span>her silken petticoats as a +bird shakes out its plumes.</p> + +<p>And then the twitter of fierce laughter rose, shriek on shriek, and was +echoed more deeply by the crowd of watching men.</p> + +<p>“Give me the scorpions!” cried Halima passionately. “I am not afraid!”</p> + +<p>Her desert blood was up. Her fatalism—even in the women of the Sahara +it lurks—was awake. In that moment she was ready to die, to silence +the bitter laughter of her rivals. It sank away as Sadok grasped the +scorpions in his filthy claw, and leaped, gibbering in his beard, upon +the terrace.</p> + +<p>“Wait!” cried Halima, as he came upon her, holding forth his handful of +writhing poison.</p> + +<p>Her bosom heaved. Her lustrous eyes, heavy with kohl, shone like those +of a beast at bay.</p> + +<p>Sadok stood still, with his naked arm outstretched.</p> + +<p>“How shall I know that the son of a scorpion will pay me the fifty +golden coins? He is poor, though he speaks bravely. He is but a singer +in the café of the smokers of the hashish, and cannot buy even a new +garment for the close of the feast of Ramadan. How, then, shall I know +that the gold will hang from my breasts when to-morrow, at the falling +of the sun, I dance before the men of Touggourt?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">282</span></p> + +<p>Ben-Abid put his hand beneath his burnous, and brought forth a bag tied +at the mouth with cord.</p> + +<p>“They are here!” he said.</p> + +<p>“The Jews! He has been to the Jews!” cried the desert men.</p> + +<p>“Bring a lamp!” said Ben-Abid.</p> + +<p>And while Irena and Boria, the Golden Date and the Lotus Flower, held +the lights, and the desert men crowded about him with the eyes of +wolves that are near to starving, he counted forth the money on the +terrace at Halima’s feet. And she gazed down at the glittering pieces +as one that gazes upon a black fate.</p> + +<p>“And now set my brothers upon the maiden,” Ben-Abid said to Sadok, +gathering up the money, and casting it again into the bag, which he +tied once more with the cord.</p> + +<p>Halima did not move, but she looked upon the scorpion that was black, +and her red lips trembled. Then she closed her hand upon the hedgehog’s +foot that hung from her golden girdle, and shut her eyes beneath her +ebon eyebrows.</p> + +<p>“Set my brothers upon her!” said Ben-Abid.</p> + +<p>The plunger of the wells sprang upon Halima, opened her scarlet bodice +roughly, plunged his claw into her swelling bosom, and withdrew +it—empty.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">283</span></p> + +<p>“Kiss her close, my brothers!” whispered Ben-Abid.</p> + +<p>A long murmur, like the growl of the tide upon a shingly beach, arose +once more from the crowd. Halima turned about, and went slowly in at +her lighted doorway, followed by Irena and Boria. The heavy door of +palm was shut behind them. The light was hidden. There was a great +silence. It was broken by Sadok’s voice screaming in his beard to +Ben-Abid, “My money! Give me my money!”</p> + +<p>He snatched it with a howl, and went capering forth into the darkness.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>When the next night fell upon the desert there was a great crowd +assembled in the café of the dancers. The pipers blew into their pipes, +and swayed upon their haunches, turning their glittering eyes to and +fro to see what man had a mind to press a piece of money upon their +well greased foreheads. The dancers came and went, promenading arm in +arm upon the earthen floor, or leaping with hands outstretched and +fingers fluttering. The Kabyle attendant slipped here and there with +the coffee cups, and the wreaths of smoke curled lightly upward towards +the wooden roof.</p> + +<p>But Halima came not through the open doorway holding the scarlet +handkerchiefs above her head.</p> + +<p>And presently, late in the night, they laid <span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">284</span>her body in a palanquin, +and set the palanquin upon a running camel, and, while the dancers +shrilled their lament amid the sands, they bore her away into the +darkness of the dunes towards the south and the tents of her own people.</p> + +<p>The jackals laughed as she went by.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>But the hedgehog’s foot was left lying upon the floor of her chamber. +Not one of the dancers would touch it.</p> + +<p>That night I was in the café, and, hearing of all these things from +Kouïdah, the boy, I went into the court, and gathered up the trinket +which had brought a woman to the great silence. Next day I rode on +horseback to Tamacine, asked to see the marabout and told him all the +story.</p> + +<p>He listened, smiling like the rising sun in an oleograph, and twisting +in his huge hands, that were tinted with the henna, the staff with the +apple-green ribbons.</p> + +<p>When I came to the end I said:</p> + +<p>“O, holy marabout, tell me one thing.”</p> + +<p>“Allah is just. I listen.”</p> + +<p>“If the scorpions had slept with a veiled woman who held the hedgehog’s +foot, how would it have been? Would the woman have died or lived?”</p> + +<p>The marabout did not answer. He looked at me calmly, as at a child who +asks questions <span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">285</span>about the mysteries of life which only the old can +understand.</p> + +<p>“These things,” he said at length, “are hidden from the unbeliever. You +are a Roumi. How, then, should you learn such matters?”</p> + +<p>“But even the Roumi⸺”</p> + +<p>“In the desert there are mysteries,” continued the marabout, “which +even the faithful must not seek to penetrate.”</p> + +<p>“Then it is useless to⸺”</p> + +<p>“It is very useless. It is as useless as to try to count the grains of +the sand.”</p> + +<p>I said no more.</p> + +<p>Mohammed El Aïd Ben Ali Tidjani smiled once more, and beckoned to a +negro attendant, who ran with a musical box, one of the gifts of the +faithful.</p> + +<p>“This comes from Paris,” he said, with a spreading complacence.</p> + +<p>Then there was within the box a sounding click, and there stole forth a +tinkling of Auber’s music to <cite>Masaniello</cite>, “Come o’er the moonlit +sea!”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_286"></a><a id="Page_287"></a>287</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Desert_Drum"><i>THE DESERT DRUM</i></h2> +</div> + +<h3>I</h3> + +<p class="drop-cap">I AM not naturally superstitious. The Saharaman is. He has many +strange beliefs. When one is at close quarters with him, sees him day +by day in his home, the great desert, listens to his dramatic tales +of desert lights, visions, sounds, one’s common-sense is apt to be +shaken on its throne. Perhaps it is the influence of the solitude and +the wide spaces, of those far horizons of the Sahara where the blue +deepens along the edge of the world, that turns even a European mind +to an Eastern credulity. Who can tell? The truth is that in the Sahara +one can believe what one cannot believe in London. And sometimes +circumstances—chance if you like to call it so—steps in, and seems to +say, “Your belief is well founded.”</p> + +<p>Of all the desert superstitions the one which appealed most to my +imagination was the superstition of the desert drum. The Saharaman +declares that far away from the abodes of men and desert cities, among +the everlasting sand dunes, the sharp beating, or dull, distant rolling +of a drum sometimes breaks upon the ears of travellers voyaging through +the desolation. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">288</span>They look around, they stare across the flats, they +see nothing. But the mysterious music continues. Then, if they be +Sahara-bred, they commend themselves to Allah, for they know that some +terrible disaster is at hand, that one of them at least is doomed to +die.</p> + +<p>Often had I heard stories of the catastrophes which were immediately +preceded by the beating of the desert drum. One night in the Sahara I +was a witness to one which I have never been able to forget.</p> + +<p>On an evening of spring, accompanied by a young Arab and a negro, +I rode slowly down a low hill of the Sahara, and saw in the sandy +cup at my feet the tiny collection of hovels called Sidi-Massarli. +I had been in the saddle since dawn, riding over desolate tracks in +the heart of the desert. I was hungry, tired, and felt almost like a +man hypnotised. The strong air, the clear sky, the everlasting flats +devoid of vegetation, empty of humanity, the monotonous motion of my +slowly cantering horse—all these things combined to dull my brain and +to throw me into a peculiar condition akin to the condition of a man +in a trance. At Sidi-Massarli I was to pass the night. I drew rein and +looked down on it with lack-lustre eyes.</p> + +<p>I saw a small group of palm-trees, guarded by a low wall of baked +brown earth, in which were embedded many white bones of dead <span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">289</span>camels. +Bleached, grinning heads of camels hung from more than one of the +trees, with strings of red pepper and round stones. Beyond the wall +of this palm garden, at whose foot was a furrow full of stagnant +brownish-yellow water, lay a handful of wretched earthen hovels, with +flat roofs of palmwood and low wooden doors. To be exact, I think there +were five of them. The Bordj, or Travellers’ House, at which I was to +be accommodated for the night, stood alone near a tiny source at the +edge of a large sand dune, and was a small, earth-coloured building +with a pink tiled roof, minute arched windows, and an open stable for +the horses and mules. All round the desert rose in humps of sand, +melting into stony ground where the saltpetre lay like snow on a wintry +world. There were but few signs of life in this place; some stockings +drying on the wall of a ruined Arab café, some kids frisking by a heap +of sacks, a few pigeons circling about a low square watchtower, a +black donkey brooding on a dust heap. There were some signs of death; +carcasses of camels stretched here and there in frantic and fantastic +postures, some bleached and smooth, others red and horribly odorous.</p> + +<p>The wind blew round this hospitable township of the Sahara, and the +yellow light of evening began to glow above it. It seemed to me at that +moment the dreariest place in the dreariest dream man had ever had.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">290</span></p> + +<p>Suddenly my horse neighed loudly. Beyond the village, on the opposite +hill, a white Arab charger caracoled, a red cloak gleamed. Another +traveller was coming in to his night’s rest, and he was a Spahi. I +could almost fancy I heard the jingle of his spurs and accoutrements, +the creaking of his tall red boots against his high peaked saddle. As +he rode down towards the Bordj—by this time, I, too, was on my way—I +saw that a long cord hung from his saddle-bow, and that at the end +of this cord was a man, trotting heavily in the heavy sand like a +creature dogged and weary. We came in to Sidi-Massarli simultaneously, +and pulled up at the same moment before the arched door of the Bordj, +from which glided a one-eyed swarthy Arab, staring fixedly at me. This +was the official keeper of the house. In one hand he held the huge +door key, and as I swung myself heavily on the ground I heard him, in +Arabic, asking my Arab attendant, D’oud, who I was and where I hailed +from.</p> + +<p>But such attention as I had to bestow on anything just then was given +to the Spahi and his companion. The Spahi was a magnificent man, tall, +lithe, bronze-brown and muscular. He looked about thirty-four, and had +the face of a desert eagle. His piercing black eyes stared me calmly +out of countenance, and he sat on his spirited horse like a statue, +waiting patiently till the guardian of the Bordj was ready to attend to +him. My gaze travelled <span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">291</span>from him along the cord to the man at its end, +and rested there with pity. He, too, was a fine specimen of humanity, a +giant, nobly built, with a superbly handsome face, something like that +of an undefaced Sphinx. Broad brows sheltered his enormous eyes. His +rather thick lips were parted to allow his panting breath to escape, +and his dark, almost black skin, was covered with sweat. Drops of sweat +coursed down his bare arms and his mighty chest, from which his ragged +burnous was drawn partially away. He was evidently of mixed Arab and +negro parentage. As he stood by the Spahi’s horse, gasping, his face +expressed nothing but physical exhaustion. His eyes were bent on the +sand, and his arms hung down loosely at his sides. While I looked at +him the Spahi suddenly gave a tug at the cord to which he was attached. +He moved in nearer to the horse, glanced up at me, held out his hand, +and said in a low, musical voice, speaking Arabic:</p> + +<p>“Give me a cigarette, Sidi.”</p> + +<p>I opened my case and gave him one, at the same time diplomatically +handing another to the Spahi. Thus we opened our night’s acquaintance, +an acquaintance which I shall not easily forget.</p> + +<p>In the desolation of the Sahara a travelling intimacy is quickly +formed. The one-eyed Arab led our horses to the stable, and while my +two attendants were inside unpacking the tinned food and the wine I +carried with me on <span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">292</span>a mule, I entered into conversation with the Spahi, +who spoke French fairly well. He told me that he was on the way to El +Arba, a long journey through the desert from Sidi-Massarli, and that +his business was to convey there the man at the end of the cord.</p> + +<p>“But what is he? A prisoner?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“A murderer, monsieur,” the Spahi replied calmly.</p> + +<p>I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with +one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent.</p> + +<p>“Does he understand French?”</p> + +<p>“A little.”</p> + +<p>“And he committed murder?”</p> + +<p>“At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man’s throat.”</p> + +<p>“Why?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know, monsieur. Perhaps he was jealous. It is hot in Tunis +in the summer. That was five years ago, and ever since he has been in +prison.”</p> + +<p>“And why are you taking him to El Arba?”</p> + +<p>“He came from there. He is released, but he is not allowed to live +any more in Tunis. Ah, monsieur, he is mad at going, for he loves a +dancing-girl, Aïchouch, who dances with the Jewesses in the café by +the lake. He wanted even to stay in prison, if only he might remain in +Tunis. He never saw her, but he was in the same town, you understand. +That was something. All the first day he ran behind my <span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">293</span>horse cursing +me for taking him away. But now the sand has got into his throat. He is +so tired that he can scarcely run. So he does not curse any more.”</p> + +<p>The captive giant smiled at me again. Despite his great stature, his +powerful and impressive features, he looked, I thought, very gentle +and submissive. The story of his passion for Aïchouch, his desire to +be near her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him +sincerely.</p> + +<p>“What is his name?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“M’hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said.”</p> + +<p>I was weary with riding and wanted to stretch my legs, and see what was +to be seen of Sidi-Massarli ere evening quite closed in, so at this +point I lit a cigar and prepared to stroll off.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur is going for a walk?” asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my +cigar.</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I will accompany monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“Or monsieur’s cigar-case,” I thought.</p> + +<p>“But that poor fellow,” I said, pointing to the murderer. “He is tired +out.”</p> + +<p>“That doesn’t matter. He will come with us.”</p> + +<p>The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over +the sand behind us like some exhausted animal.</p> + +<p>By this time twilight was falling over the Sahara, a grim twilight, +cold and grey. The <span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">294</span>wind was rising. In the night it blew half a +gale, but at this hour there was only a strong breeze in which minute +sand-grains danced. The murderer’s feet were shod with patched +slippers, and the sound of these slippers shuffling close behind +me made me feel faintly uneasy. The Spahi stared at my cigar so +persistently that I was obliged to offer him one. When I had done so, +and he had loftily accepted it, I half turned towards the murderer. The +Spahi scowled ferociously. I put my cigar-case back into my pocket. +It is unwise to offend the powerful if your sympathy lies with the +powerless.</p> + +<p>Sidi-Massarli was soon explored. It contained a Café Maure, into which +I peered. In the coffee niche the embers glowed. One or two ragged +Arabs sat hunched upon the earthen divans playing a game of cards. At +least I should have my coffee after my tinned dinner. I was turning to +go back to the Bordj when the extreme desolation of the desert around, +now fading in the shadows of a moonless night, stirred me to a desire. +Sidi-Massarli was dreary enough. Still it contained habitations, men. I +wished to feel the blank, wild emptiness of this world, so far from the +world of civilisation from which I had come, to feel it with intensity. +I resolved to mount the low hill down which I had seen the Spahi +ride, to descend into the fold of desert beyond it, to pause there a +moment, out of sight of the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">295</span>hamlet, listen to the breeze, look at the +darkening sky, feel the sand-grains stinging my cheeks, shake hands +with the Sahara.</p> + +<p>But I wanted to shake hands quite alone. I therefore suggested to the +Spahi that he should remain in the Café Maure and drink a cup of coffee +at my expense.</p> + +<p>“And where is monsieur going?”</p> + +<p>“Only over that hill for a moment.”</p> + +<p>“I will accompany monsieur.”</p> + +<p>“But you must be tired. A cup of⸺”</p> + +<p>“I will accompany monsieur.”</p> + +<p>In Arab fashion he was establishing a claim upon me. On the morrow, +when I was about to depart, he would point out that he had guided me +round Sidi-Massarli, had guarded me in my dangerous expedition beyond +its fascinations, despite his weariness and hunger. I knew how useless +it is to contend with these polite and persistent rascals, so I said no +more.</p> + +<p>In a few minutes the Spahi, the murderer and I stood in the fold of the +sand dunes, and Sidi-Massarli was blotted from our sight.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">296</span> + <h3>II</h3> +</div> + +<p class="noindent"><span class="smcap">The</span> desolation here was complete. All around us lay the dunes, +monstrous as still leviathans. Here and there, between their strange, +suggestive shapes, under the dark sky one could see the ghastly +whiteness of the saltpetre in the arid plains beyond, where the low +bushes bent in the chilly breeze. I thought of London—only a few +days’ journey from me—revelled for a moment in my situation, which, +contrary to my expectation, was rather emphasised by the presence of my +companions. The gorgeous Spahi, with his scarlet cloak and hood, his +musket and sword, his high red leggings, the ragged, sweating captive +in his patched burnous, ex-butcher looking, despite his cord emblem of +bondage, like reigning Emperor—they were appropriate figures in this +desert place. I had just thought this, and was regarding my Sackville +Street suit with disgust, when a low, distinct and near sound suddenly +rose from behind a sand dune on my left. It was exactly like the dull +beating of a tom-tom. The silence preceding it had been intense, for +the breeze was as yet too light to make more than the faintest sighing +music, and in the gathering darkness this abrupt and gloomy noise +produced, I supposed, by some <span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">297</span>hidden nomad, made a very unpleasant, +even sinister impression upon me. Instinctively I put my hand on the +revolver which was slung at my side in a pouch of gazelle skin. As I +did so, I saw the Spahi turn sharply and gaze in the direction of the +sound, lifting one hand to his ear.</p> + +<p>The low thunder of the instrument, beaten rhythmically and +persistently, grew louder and was evidently drawing nearer. The +musician must be climbing up the far side of the dune. I had swung +round to face him, and expected every moment to see some wild figure +appear upon the summit, defining itself against the cold and gloomy +sky. But none came. Nevertheless, the noise increased till it was a +roar, drew near till it was actually upon us. It seemed to me that I +heard the sticks striking the hard, stretched skin furiously, as if +some phantom drummer were stealthily encircling us, catching us in +a net, a trap of horrible, vicious uproar. Instinctively I threw a +questioning, perhaps an appealing, glance at my two companions. The +Spahi had dropped his hand from his ear. He stood upright, as if at +attention on the parade-ground of Biskra. His face was set—afterwards +I told myself it was fatalistic. The murderer, on the other hand, +was smiling. I remember the gleam of his big white teeth. Why was he +smiling? While I asked myself the question the roar of the tom-tom grew +gradually less, as if the man <span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">298</span>beating it were walking rapidly away +from us in the direction of Sidi-Massarli. None of us said a word till +only a faint, heavy throbbing, like the beating of a heart, I fancied, +was audible in the darkness. Then I spoke, as silence fell.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur, it is no one.”</p> + +<p>The Spahi’s voice was dry and soft.</p> + +<p>“What is it?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur, it is the desert drum. There will be death in Sidi-Massarli +to-night.”</p> + +<p>I felt myself turn cold. He spoke with such conviction. The murderer +was still smiling, and I noticed that the tired look had left him. +He stood in an alert attitude, and the sweat had dried on his broad +forehead.</p> + +<p>“The desert drum?” I repeated.</p> + +<p>“Monsieur has not heard of it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I have heard—but—it can’t be. There must have been someone.”</p> + +<p>I looked at the white teeth of the murderer, white as the saltpetre +which makes winter in the desert.</p> + +<p>“I must get back to the Bordj,” I said abruptly.</p> + +<p>“I will accompany monsieur.”</p> + +<p>The old formula, and this time the voice which spoke it sounded +natural. We went forward together. I walked very fast. I wanted to +catch up that music, to prove to myself that it was produced by human +fists and sticks upon <span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">299</span>an instrument which, however barbarous, had been +fashioned by human hands. But we entered Sidi-Massarli in a silence, +only broken by the soughing of the wind and the heavy shuffle of the +murderer’s feet upon the sand.</p> + +<p>Outside the Café Maure D’oud was standing with the white hood of his +burnous drawn forward over his head; one or two ragged Arabs stood with +him.</p> + +<p>“They’ve been playing tom-toms in the village, D’oud?”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur asks if⸺”</p> + +<p>“Tom-toms. Can’t you understand?”</p> + +<p>“Ah! Monsieur is laughing. Tom-toms here! And dancers, too, perhaps! +Monsieur thinks there are dancers? Fatma and Khadija and Aïchouch⸺”</p> + +<p>I glanced quickly at the murderer as D’oud mentioned the last name, a +name common to many dancers of the East. I think I expected to see upon +his face some tremendous expression, a revelation of the soul of the +man who had run for one whole day through the sand behind the Spahi’s +horse, cursing at the end of the cord which dragged him onward from +Tunis.</p> + +<p>But I only met the gentle smile of eyes so tender, so submissive, that +they were as the eyes of a woman who had always been a slave, while the +ragged Arabs laughed at the idea of tom-toms in Sidi-Massarli.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">300</span></p> + +<p>When we reached the Bordj I found that it contained only one good-sized +room, quite bare, with stone floor and white walls. Here, upon a deal +table, was set forth my repast; the foods I had brought with me, and a +red Arab soup served in a gigantic bowl of palmwood. A candle guttered +in the glass neck of a bottle, and upon the floor were already spread +my gaudy striped quilt, my pillow, and my blanket. The Spahi surveyed +these preparations with a deliberate greediness, lingering in the +narrow doorway.</p> + +<p>I sat down on a bench before the table. My attendants were to eat at +the Café Maure.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going to sleep?” I asked of D’oud.</p> + +<p>“At the Café Maure, monsieur, if monsieur is not afraid to sleep alone. +Here is the key. Monsieur can lock himself in. The door is strong.”</p> + +<p>I was helping myself to the soup. The rising wind blew up the skirts of +the Spahi’s scarlet robe. In the wind—was it imagination?—I seemed to +hear some thin, passing echoes of a tom-tom’s beat.</p> + +<p>“Come in,” I said to the Spahi. “You shall sup with me to-night, +and—and you shall sleep here with me.”</p> + +<p>D’oud’s expressive face became sinister. Arabs are almost as jealous as +they are vain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">301</span></p> + +<p>“But, monsieur, he will sleep in the Café Maure. If monsieur wishes for +a companion, I⸺”</p> + +<p>“Come in,” I repeated to the Spahi. “You can sleep here to-night.”</p> + +<p>The Spahi stepped over the lintel with a jingling of spurs, a rattling +of accoutrements. The murderer stepped in softly after him, drawn by +the cord. D’oud began to look as grim as death. He made a ferocious +gesture towards the murderer.</p> + +<p>“And that man? Monsieur wishes to sleep in the same room with him?”</p> + +<p>I heard the sound of the tom-tom above the wail of the wind.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I said.</p> + +<p>Why did I wish it? I hardly know. I had no fear for, no desire to +protect myself. But I remembered the smile I had seen, the Spahi’s +saying, “There will be death in Sidi-Massarli to-night,” and I was +resolved that the three men who had heard the desert drum together +should not be parted till the morning. D’oud said no more. He waited +upon me with his usual diligence, but I could see that he was furiously +angry. The Spahi ate ravenously. So did the murderer, who more than +once, however, seemed to be dropping to sleep over his food. He was +apparently dead tired. As the wind was now become very violent I did +not feel disposed to stir out again, and I ordered D’oud to bring us +three cups of coffee <span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">302</span>to the Bordj. He cast a vicious look at the +Spahi and went out into the darkness. I saw him no more that night. A +boy from the Café Maure brought us coffee, cleared the remains of our +supper from the table, and presently muttered some Arab salutation, +departed, and was lost in the wind.</p> + +<p>The murderer was now frankly asleep with his head upon the table, and +the Spahi began to blink. I, too, felt very tired, but I had something +still to say. Speaking softly, I said to the Spahi:</p> + +<p>“That sound we heard to-night⸺”</p> + +<p>“Monsieur?”</p> + +<p>“Have you ever heard it before?”</p> + +<p>“Never, monsieur. But my brother heard it just before he had a stroke +of the sun. He fell dead before his captain beside the wall of Sada. He +was a tirailleur.”</p> + +<p>“And you think this sound means that death is near?”</p> + +<p>“I know it, monsieur. All desert people know it. I was born at +Touggourt, and how should I not know?”</p> + +<p>“But then one of us⸺”</p> + +<p>I looked from him to the sleeping murderer.</p> + +<p>“There will be death in Sidi-Massarli to-night, monsieur. It is the +will of Allah. Blessed be Allah.”</p> + +<p>I got up, locked the heavy door of the Bordj, and put the key in the +inner pocket of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">303</span>my coat. As I did so, I fancied I saw the heavy black +lids of the murderer’s closed eyes flutter for a moment. But I cannot +be sure. My head was aching with fatigue. The Spahi, too, looked stupid +with sleep. He jerked the cord, the murderer awoke with a start, +glanced heavily round, stood up. Pulling him as one would an obstinate +dog, the Spahi made him lie down on the bare floor in the corner of +the Bordj, ere he himself curled up in the thick quilt which had been +rolled up behind his high saddle. I made no protest, but when the Spahi +was asleep, his lean brown hand laid upon his sword, his musket under +his shaven head, I pushed one of my blankets over to the murderer, who +lay looking like a heap of rags against the white wall. He smiled at me +gently, as he had smiled when the desert drum was beating, and drew the +blanket over his mighty limbs and face.</p> + +<p>I did not mean to sleep that night. Tired though I was my brain was +so excited that I felt I should not. I blew out the candle without +even the thought that it would be necessary to struggle against sleep. +And in the darkness I heard for an instant the roar of the wind +outside, the heavy breathing of my two strange companions within. For +an instant—then it seemed as if a shutter was drawn suddenly over +the light in my brain. Blackness filled the room where the thoughts +develop, crowd, stir in endless activities. Slumber fell upon <span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">304</span>me like +a great stone that strikes a man down to dumbness, to unconsciousness.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>Far in the night I had a dream. I cannot recall it accurately now. I +could not recall it even the next morning when I awoke. But in this +dream, it seemed to me that fingers felt softly about my heart. I +was conscious of their fluttering touch. It was as if I were dead, +and as if the doctor laid for a moment his hand upon my heart to +convince himself that the pulse of life no longer beat. And this action +wove itself naturally into the dream I had. The fingers so soft, so +surreptitious, were lifted from my breast, and I sank deeper into the +gulf of sleep, below the place of dreams. For I was a tired man that +night. At the first breath of dawn I stirred and woke. It was cold. I +put out one hand and drew up my quilt. Then I lay still. The wind had +sunk. I no longer heard it roaring over the desert. For a moment I +hardly remembered where I was, then memory came back and I listened for +the deep breathing of the Spahi and the murderer. Even when the wind +blew I had heard it. I did not hear it now. I lay there under my quilt +for some minutes listening. The silence was intense. Had they gone +already, started on their way to El Arba? The Bordj was in darkness, +for the windows were very small, and dawn had scarcely begun to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">305</span>break +outside and had not yet filtered in through the wooden shutters which +barred them. I disliked this complete silence, and felt about for the +matches I had laid beside the candle before turning in. I could not +find them. Someone had moved them, then. The heaviness of sleep had +quite left me now, and I remembered clearly all the incidents of the +previous evening. The roll of the desert drum sounded again in my +ears. I threw off my quilt, got up, and moved softly over the stone +floor towards the corner where the murderer had lain down to sleep. I +bent down to touch him and touched the stone. They had gone, then! It +was strange that I had not been waked by their departure. Besides, I +had the key of the door. I thrust my hand into the breast-pocket of +my coat which I had worn while I slept. The key was no longer there. +Then I remembered my dream and the fingers fluttering round my heart. +Stumbling in the blackness I came to the place where the Spahi had +lain, stretched out my hands and felt naked flesh. My hands recoiled +from it, for it was very cold.</p> + +<p>Half-an-hour later the one-eyed Arab who kept the Bordj, roused by my +beating upon the door with the butt end of my revolver, came with D’oud +to ask what was the matter. The door had to be broken in. This took +some time. Long before I could escape, the light of the sun, entering +through the little arched <span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">306</span>windows, had illumined the nude corpse of +the Spahi, the gaping red wound in his throat, the heap of murderer’s +rags that lay across his feet.</p> + +<p>M’hammed Bouaziz, in the red cloak, the red boots, sword at his side, +musket slung over his shoulder, was galloping over the desert on his +way to freedom.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>But six months later he was taken at night outside a café by the lake +at Tunis. He was gazing through the doorway at a girl who was posturing +to the sound of pipes between two rows of Arabs. The light from the +café fell upon his face, the dancer uttered a cry.</p> + +<p>“M’hammed Bouaziz!”</p> + +<p>“Aïchouch!”</p> + +<p>The law avenged the Spahi, and this time it was not to prison they led +my friend of Sidi-Massarli, but to an open space before a squad of +soldiers just when the dawn was breaking.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">307</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Princess"><i>THE PRINCESS AND THE JEWEL DOCTOR</i></h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">IN St. Petersburg society there may be met at the present time a +certain Russian Princess, who is noted for her beauty, for an ugly +defect—she has lost the forefinger of her left hand—and for her +extraordinary attachment to the city of Tunis, where she has spent +at least three months of each year since 1890—the year in which she +suffered the accident that deprived her of a finger. What that accident +was, and why she is so passionately attached to Tunis, nobody in +Russia seems to know, not even her doting husband, who bows to all her +caprices. But two persons could explain the matter—a Tunisian guide +named Abdul, and a rather mysterious individual who follows a humble +calling in the Rue Ben-Ziad, close to the Tunis bazaars. This latter is +the Princess’s personal attendant during her yearly visit to Tunis. He +accompanies her everywhere, may be seen in the hall of her hotel when +she is at home, on the box of her carriage when she drives out, close +behind her when she is walking. He is her shadow in Africa. Only when +she goes back to Russia does he return to his profession in the Rue +Ben-Ziad.</p> + +<p>This is the exact history of the accident <span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">308</span>which befell the Princess +in 1890. In the spring of that year she arrived one night at Tunis. +She had not long been married to an honourable man whom she adored. +She was rich, pretty, and popular. Yet her life was clouded by a great +fear that sometimes made the darkness of night almost intolerable to +her. She dreaded lest the darkness of blindness should come upon her. +Both her mother, now dead, and her grandfather had laboured under this +defect. They had been born with sight, and had become totally blind +ere they reached the age of forty. Princess Danischeff—as we may call +her for the purpose of this story—trembled when she thought of their +fate, and that it might be hers. Certain books that she read, certain +conversations on the subject of heredity that she heard in Petersburg +society fed her terror. Occasionally, too, when she stood under a +strong light she felt a slight pain in her eyes. She never spoke of her +fear, but she fell into a condition of nervous exhaustion that alarmed +her husband and her physician. The latter recommended foreign travel +as a tonic. The former, who was detained in the capital by political +affairs, reluctantly agreed to a separation from his wife. And thus +it came about, that, late one night of spring, the Princess and her +companion, the elderly Countess de Rosnikoff, arrived in Tunis at the +close of a tour in Algeria, and put up at the Hotel Royal.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">309</span></p> + +<p>The bazaars of Tunis are among the best that exist in the world of +bazaars, and, on the morning after her arrival, the Princess was +anxious to explore them with her companion. But Madame de Rosnikoff was +fatigued by her journey from Constantine. She begged the Princess to go +without her, desiring earnestly to be left in her bedroom with a cup of +weak tea and a French novel. The Princess, therefore, ordered a guide +and set forth to the bazaars.</p> + +<p>The guide’s name was Abdul. He was a talkative young Eastern, and as he +turned with the Princess into the network of tiny alleys that spreads +from the Bab-el-bahar to the bazaars, he poured forth a flood of +information about the marvels of his native city. The Princess listened +idly. That morning she was cruelly pre-occupied. As she stepped out of +the hotel into the bright sunshine she had felt a sharp pain in her +eyes, and now, though she held over her head a large green parasol, the +pain continued. She looked at the light and thought of the darkness +that might be coming upon her, and the chatter of Abdul sounded vague +in her ears. Presently, however, she was forced to attend to him, for +he asked her a direct question.</p> + +<p>“To-day they sell jewels by auction near the Mosquée Djama-ez-Zitouna,” +he said. “Would the gracious Princess like to see the market of the +jewels?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">310</span></p> + +<p>The Princess put her hand to her eyes and assented in a low voice. +Abdul turned out of the sunshine into a narrow alley covered with a +wooden roof. It was full of shadows and of squatting men, who held out +brown hands to the Princess as she passed. But she was staring at the +shadows and did not see the merchants of Goblin Market. Leaving this +alley Abdul led her abruptly into a dense crowd of Arabs, who were +all talking, gesticulating, and moving hither and thither, apparently +under the influence of extreme excitement. Many of them held rings, +bracelets, or brooches between their fingers, and some extended palms +upon which lay quantities of uncut jewels—turquoises, sapphires, and +emeralds. At a little distance a grave man was noting down something in +a book. But the Princess scarcely observed the progress of the jewel +auction. Her attention had been attracted by an extraordinary figure +that stood near her. This was an immensely tall Arab, dressed in a +dingy brown robe, and wearing upon his shaven head, which narrowed +almost to a point at the back, a red fez with a large black tassel. +His claw-like hands were covered with rings and his bony wrists with +bracelets. But the attention of the Princess was riveted by his eyes. +They were small and bright, and squinted horribly—so horribly, that it +was impossible to tell at what he was looking. These eyes gave to his +face an expression of diabolic and ruthless <span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">311</span>vigilance and cunning. +He seemed at the same time to be seeing everything and to be gazing +definitely at nothing.</p> + +<p>“That is Safti, the jewel doctor,” murmured Abdul in the ear of the +Princess.</p> + +<p>“A jewel doctor! What is that?” asked the Princess.</p> + +<p>“When you are sick he cures you with jewels.”</p> + +<p>“And what can he cure?” said the Princess, still looking at Safti, +who was now bargaining vociferously with a fat Arab for a piece of +milk-white jade.</p> + +<p>“All things. I was sick of a fever that comes with the summer. He gave +me a stone crushed to a powder, and I was well. He saved from death one +of the Bey’s sons, who was dying from hijada. And then, too, he has a +stone in a ring which can preserve sight to him who is going blind.”</p> + +<p>The Princess started violently.</p> + +<p>“Impossible!” she cried.</p> + +<p>“It is true,” said Abdul. “It is a green stone—like that.”</p> + +<p>He pointed to an emerald which an Arab was holding up to the light.</p> + +<p>The Princess put her hand to her eyes. They still ached, and her +temples were throbbing furiously.</p> + +<p>“I cannot stay here,” she said. “It is too hot. But—tell the jewel +doctor that I wish to visit him. Where does he live?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">312</span></p> + +<p>“In a little street, Rue Ben-Ziad, in a little house. But he is rich.” +Abdul spread his arms abroad. “When will the gracious Princess⸺?”</p> + +<p>“This afternoon. At—at four o’clock you will take me.”</p> + +<p>Abdul spoke to Safti, who turned, squinted horribly at the Princess, +and salaamed to her with a curious and contradictory dignity, turning +his fingers, covered with jewels, towards the earth.</p> + +<p>That afternoon, at four, when the venerable Madame de Rosnikoff was +still drinking her weak tea and reading her French novel, the Princess +and Abdul stood before the low wooden door of the jewel doctor’s house. +Abdul struck upon it, and the terrible physician appeared in the dark +aperture, looking all ways with his deformed eyes, which fascinated +the Princess. Having ascertained that he could speak a little broken +French, like many of the Tunisian Arabs, she bade Abdul wait outside, +and entered the hovel of the jewel doctor, who shut close the door +behind her.</p> + +<p>The room in which she found herself was dark and scented. Faint +light from the street filtered in through an aperture in the wall, +across which was partially drawn a wooden shutter. Round the room +ran a divan covered with straw matting, and Safti now conducted the +Princess ceremoniously to this, and handed her a cup of thick coffee, +which he took from <span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">313</span>a brass tray that was placed upon a stand. As she +sipped the coffee and looked at the pointed head and twisted gaze +of Safti, the Princess heard some distant Arab at a street corner +singing monotonously a tuneless song, and the scent, the darkness, +the reiterated song, and the tall, strange creature standing silently +before her gave to her, in their combination, the atmosphere of a +dream. She found it difficult to speak, to explain her errand.</p> + +<p>At length she said: “You are a doctor? You can cure the sick?”</p> + +<p>Safti salaamed.</p> + +<p>“With jewels? Is that possible?”</p> + +<p>“Jewels are the only medicine,” Safti replied, speaking with sudden +volubility. “With the ruby I cure madness, with the white jade the +disease of the hijada, and with the bloodstone hæmorrhage. I have made +a man who was ill of fever wear a topaz, and he arose from bed and +walked happily in the street.”</p> + +<p>“And with an emerald,” interrupted the Princess; “have you not +preserved sight with an emerald? They told me so.”</p> + +<p>Safti’s expression suddenly became grim and suspicious.</p> + +<p>“Who said that?” he asked sharply.</p> + +<p>“Abdul. Is it true? Can it be true?”</p> + +<p>Her cheeks were flushed. She spoke almost with violence, laying her +hand upon his arm. Safti seemed to stare hard into the corners of <span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">314</span>the +little room. Perhaps he was really looking at the Princess. At length +he said: “It is true.”</p> + +<p>“I will give any price you ask for it,” said the Princess.</p> + +<p>“You!” said Safti. “But you⸺”</p> + +<p>Suddenly he lifted his lean hands, took the face of the Princess +between them quite gently, and turned it towards the small window. She +had begun to tremble. Holding her soft cheeks with his brown fingers, +Safti remained motionless for a long time, during which it seemed to +the Princess that he was looking away from her at some distant object. +She watched his frightful and surreptitious eyes, that never told the +truth, she heard the distant Arab’s everlasting song, and her dream +became a nightmare. At last Safti dropped his hands and said:</p> + +<p>“It may be that some day you will need my emerald.”</p> + +<p>The Princess felt as if at that moment a bullet entered her heart.</p> + +<p>“Give it me—give it me!” she cried. “I am rich. I⸺”</p> + +<p>“I do not sell my medicines,” Safti answered. “Those who use them must +live near me, here in Tunis. When they are healed they give back to me +the jewel that has saved them. But you—you live far off.”</p> + +<p>With the swiftness of a woman the Princess saw that persuasion would be +useless. Safti’s <span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">315</span>face looked hard as brown wood. She seemed to recover +from her emotion, and said quietly:</p> + +<p>“At least you will let me see the emerald?”</p> + +<p>Safti went to a small bureau that stood at the back of the room, +opened one of its drawers with a key which he drew from beneath his +dingy robe, lifted a small silver box carefully out, returned to the +Princess, and put the box into her hand.</p> + +<p>“Open it,” he said.</p> + +<p>She obeyed, and took out a very small and antique gold ring, in which +was set a rather dull emerald. Safti drew it gently from her, and put +it upon the forefinger of her left hand. It was so tiny that it would +not pass beyond the joint of the finger, and it looked ugly and odd +upon the Princess, who wore many beautiful rings. Now that she saw it +she felt the superstition that had sprung from her terror dying within +her. Safti, with his crooked eyes, must have read her thought in her +face, for he said:</p> + +<p>“The Princess is wrong. That medicine could cure her. The one who wears +it for three months in each year can never be blind.”</p> + +<p>Taking the emerald from her finger, he touched her two eyes with it, +and it seemed to the Princess that, as he did so, the pain she felt in +them withdrew. Her desire for the jewel instantly returned.</p> + +<p>“Let me wear it,” she said, putting forth all her charm to soften the +jewel doctor. “Let <span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">316</span>me take it with me to Russia. I will make you rich.”</p> + +<p>Safti shook his head.</p> + +<p>“The Princess may wear it here, in Tunis,” he replied. “Not elsewhere.”</p> + +<p>She began to temporise, hoping to conquer his resistance later.</p> + +<p>“I may take it with me now?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“At a fee.”</p> + +<p>“I will pay it.”</p> + +<p>The jewel doctor went to the door, and called in Abdul. Five minutes +later the Princess passed the singing Arab at the corner of the street, +Rue Ben-Ziad. She had signed a paper pledging herself to return the +emerald to Safti at the end of forty-eight hours, and to pay 125 francs +for her possession of it during that time. And she wore the emerald on +the forefinger of her left hand.</p> + +<p>On the following morning Madame de Rosnikoff said to the Princess:</p> + +<p>“I hate Tunis. It has an evil climate. The tea here is too strong, and +I feel sure the drains are bad. Last night I was feverish. I am always +feverish when I am near bad drains.”</p> + +<p>The Princess, who had slept well, and had waked with no pain in her +eyes, answered these complaints cheerily, made the Countess some +tea that was really weak, and drove her out in the sunshine to see +Carthage. The Countess did not see it, because there is no longer +a Carthage. She went to bed that night in a <span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">317</span>bad humour, and again +complained of drains the next morning. This time the Princess did not +heed her, for she was thinking of the hour when she must return the +emerald to Safti.</p> + +<p>“What an ugly ring that is,” said the old Countess. “Where did you get +it? It is too small. Why do you wear it?”</p> + +<p>“I—I bought it in the bazaars,” answered the Princess.</p> + +<p>“My dear, you wasted your money,” said the companion; and she went to +bed with another French novel.</p> + +<p>That afternoon the Princess implored Safti to sell her the emerald, and +as he persistently declined she renewed her lease of it for another +forty-eight hours. As she left the jewel doctor’s home she did not +notice that he spoke some words in a low and eager voice to Abdul, +pointing towards her as he did so. Nor did she see the strange bustle +of varied life in the street as she walked slowly under the great +Moorish arch of the Porte de France. She was deeply thoughtful.</p> + +<p>Since she had worn the ugly ring of Safti she had suffered no pain +from her eyes, and a strange certainty had gradually come upon her +that, while the emerald was in her possession, she would be safe from +the terrible disease of which she had so long lived in terror. Yet +Safti would not let her have the ring. And she could not live for ever +in Tunis. Already she had prolonged her stay abroad, and was due in +Russia, where her anxious husband <span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">318</span>awaited her. She knew not what to +do. Suddenly an idea occurred to her. It made her flush red and tingle +with shame. She glanced up, and saw the lustrous eyes of Abdul fixed +intently upon her. As he left her at the door of the hotel he said,</p> + +<p>“The Princess will stay long in Tunis?”</p> + +<p>“Another week at least, Abdul,” she answered carelessly. “You can go +home now. I shall not want you any more to-day.”</p> + +<p>And she walked into the hotel without looking at him again. When she +was in her room she sent for a list of the steamers sailing daily from +Tunis for the different ports of Africa and Europe. Presently she came +to the bedside of Madame de Rosnikoff.</p> + +<p>“Countess,” she said, “you are no better?”</p> + +<p>“How can I be? The drains are bad, and the tea here is too strong.”</p> + +<p>“There is a boat that leaves for Sicily at midnight—for Marsala. Shall +we go in her?”</p> + +<p>The old lady bounded on her pillow.</p> + +<p>“Straight on by Italy to Russia?” she cried joyfully.</p> + +<p>The Princess nodded. A fierce excitement shone in her pretty eyes, and +her little hands were trembling as she looked down at the dull emerald +of Safti.</p> + +<div class="center">•<span class="col2">•</span> + <span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span><span class="col2">•</span></div> + +<p>At eleven o’clock that night the Princess and the Countess got into a +carriage, drove to the edge of the huge salt lake by which Tunis lies, +and went on board the <cite>Stella d’Italia</cite>. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">319</span>The sky was starless. +The winds were still, and it was very dark. As the ship glided out from +the shore the old Countess hurried below. But the Princess remained +on deck, leaning upon the bulwark, and gazing at the fading lights of +the city where Safti dwelt. Two flames seemed burning in her heart, +a fierce flame of joy, a fierce flame of contempt—of contempt for +herself. For was she not a common thief? She looked at Safti’s ring on +her finger, and flushed scarlet in the darkness. Yet she was joyful, +triumphant, as she heard the beating of the ship’s heart, and saw the +lights of Tunis growing fainter in the distance, and felt the onward +movement of the <cite>Stella d’Italia</cite> through the night. She felt +herself nearer to Russia with each throb of the machinery. And from +Russia she would expiate her sin. From Russia she would compensate +Safti for his loss. The lights of Tunis grew fainter. She thought of +the open sea.</p> + +<p>But suddenly she felt that the ship was slowing down. The engines beat +more feebly, then ceased to beat. The ship glided on for a moment in +silence, and stopped. A cold fear ran over the Princess. She called to +a sailor.</p> + +<p>“Why,” she said, “why do we stop? Is anything wrong?”</p> + +<p>He pointed to some lights on the port side.</p> + +<p>“We are off Hammam-Lif, madame,” he said. “We are going to lie to for +half-an-hour to take in cargo.”</p> + +<p>To the Princess that half-hour seemed all <span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">320</span>eternity. She remained upon +deck, and whenever she heard the splash of oars as a boat drew near, or +the guttural sound of an Arab voice, she trembled, and, staring into +the blackness, fancied that she saw the tall figure, the pointed head, +and the deformed eyes of the jewel doctor. But the minutes passed. The +cargo was all got on board. The boats drew off. And once again the ship +shuddered as the heart of her began to beat, and the ebon water ran +backward from her prow.</p> + +<p>Then the Princess was glad. She laid the hand on which shone Safti’s +emerald upon the bulwark, and gazed towards the sea, turning her back +upon the lights of Hammam-Lif. She thought of safety, of Russia. She +did not hear a soft step drawing near upon the deck behind her. She did +not see the flash of steel descending to the bulwark on which her hand +was laid.</p> + +<p>But suddenly the horrible cry of a woman in agony rang through the +night. It was instantly succeeded by a splash in the water, as a tall +figure dived over the vessel’s side.</p> + +<p>When the sun rose on the following day over the minarets of Tunis the +<cite>Stella d’Italia</cite>, with the Princess on board, was far out at sea.</p> + +<p>The emerald of Safti was once more in the little house in the Rue +Ben-Ziad.</p> + +<p>It was still upon the Princess’s finger.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">321</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Mirage"><i>THE FIGURE IN THE MIRAGE</i></h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">ON a windy night of Spring I sat by a great fire that had been built +by Moors on a plain of Morocco under the shadow of a white city, and +talked with a fellow-countryman, stranger to me till that day. We had +met in the morning in a filthy alley of the town, and had forgathered. +He was a wanderer for pleasure like myself, and, learning that he was +staying in a dreary hostelry haunted by fever, I invited him to dine +in my camp, and to pass the night in one of the small peaked tents +that served me and my Moorish attendants as home. He consented gladly. +Dinner was over—no bad one, for Moors can cook, can even make delicious +caramel pudding in desert places—and Mohammed, my stalwart <i lang="fr">valet +de chambre</i>, had given us most excellent coffee. Now we smoked by +the great fire, looked up at the marvellously bright stars, and told, +as is the way of travellers, tales of our wanderings. My companion, +whom I took at first to be a rather ironic, sceptical, and by nature +unimaginative globe-trotter—he was a hard-looking, iron-grey man of +middle-age—related the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">322</span>usual tiger story, the time-honoured elephant +anecdote, and a couple of snake yarns of no special value, and I was +beginning to fear that I should get little entertainment from so +prosaic a sportsman, when I chanced to mention the desert.</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said my guest, taking his pipe from his mouth, “the desert is the +strangest thing in nature, as woman is the strangest thing in human +nature. And when you get them together—desert and woman—by Jove!”</p> + +<p>He paused, then he shot a keen glance at me.</p> + +<p>“Ever been in the Sahara?” he said.</p> + +<p>I replied in the affirmative, but added that I had as yet only seen the +fringe of it.</p> + +<p>“Biskra, I suppose,” he rejoined, “and the nearest oasis, Sidi-Okba, +and so on?”</p> + +<p>I nodded. I saw I was in for another tale, and anticipated some history +of shooting exploits under the salt mountain of El Outaya.</p> + +<p>“Well,” he continued, “I know the Sahara pretty fairly, and about the +oddest thing I ever could believe in I heard of and believed in there.”</p> + +<p>“Something about gazelle?” I queried.</p> + +<p>“Gazelle? No—a woman!” he replied.</p> + +<p>As he spoke a Moor glided out of the windy darkness, and threw an +armful of dry reeds on the fire. The flames flared up vehemently, and I +saw that the face of my companion had changed. The hardness of it was +smoothed <span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">323</span>away. Some memory, that held its romance, sat with him.</p> + +<p>“A woman,” he repeated, knocking the ashes out of his pipe almost +sentimentally—“more than that, a French woman of Paris, with the +nameless charm, the <i lang="fr">chic</i>, the⸺But I’ll tell you. Some years ago +three Parisians—a man, his wife, and her unmarried sister, a girl of +eighteen, with an angel and a devil in her dark beauty—came to a great +resolve. They decided that they were tired of the Francais, sick of +the Bois, bored to death with the boulevards, that they wanted to see +for themselves the famous French colonies which were for ever being +talked about in the Chamber. They determined to travel. No sooner was +the determination come to than they were off. Hôtel des Colonies, +Marseilles; steamboat, <cite>Le Général Chanzy</cite>; five o’clock on a +splendid, sunny afternoon—Algiers, with its terraces, its white villas, +its palms, trees, and its Spahis!”</p> + +<p>“But⸺” I began.</p> + +<p>He foresaw my objection.</p> + +<p>“There were Spahis, and that’s a point of my story. Some fête was on in +the town while our Parisians were there. All the African troops were +out—Zouaves, chasseurs, tirailleurs. The Governor went in procession +to perform some ceremony, and in front of his carriage rode sixteen +Spahis—probably got in from that desert camp of theirs near El Outaya. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">324</span>All this was long before the Tsar visited Paris, and our Parisians +had never before seen the dashing Spahis, had only heard of them, +of their magnificent horses, their turbans and flowing Arab robes, +their gorgeous figures, lustrous eyes, and diabolic horsemanship. You +know how they ride? No cavalry to touch them—not even the Cossacks! +Well, our French friends were struck. The unmarried sister, more +especially, was <i lang="fr">bouleversée</i> by these glorious demons. As they +caracoled beneath the balcony on which she was leaning she clapped +her little hands, in their white kid gloves, and threw down a shower +of roses. The falling flowers frightened the horses. They pranced, +bucked, reared. One Spahi—a great fellow, eyes like a desert eagle, +grand aquiline profile—on whom three roses had dropped, looked up, +saw mademoiselle—call her Valérie—gazing down with her great, bright +eyes—they were deuced fine eyes, by Jove!⸺”</p> + +<p>“You’ve seen her?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“—and flashed a smile at her with his white teeth. It was his last +day in the service. He was in grand spirits. ‘<i lang="fr">Mon Dieu! Mais +quelles dents!</i>’ she sang out. Her people laughed at her. The Spahi +looked at her again—not smiling. She shrank back on the balcony. +Then his place was taken by the Governor—small imperial, <i lang="fr">chapeau +de forme</i>, evening dress, landau and pair. Mademoiselle <span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">325</span>was +<i lang="fr">désolée</i>. Why couldn’t civilised men look like Spahis? Why were +all Parisians commonplace? Why—why? Her sister and brother-in-law +called her the savage worshipper, and took her down to the café on +the terrace to dine. And all through dinner mademoiselle talked of +the <i lang="fr">beaux</i> Spahis—in the plural, with a secret reservation in +her heart. After Algiers our Parisians went by way of Constantine to +Biskra. Now they saw desert for the first time—the curious iron-grey, +velvety-brown, and rose-pink mountains; the nomadic Arabs camping in +their earth-coloured tents patched with rags; the camels against the +skyline; the everlasting sands, broken here and there by the deep green +shadows of distant oases, where the close-growing palms, seen from far +off, give to the desert almost the effect that clouds give to Cornish +waters. At Biskra mademoiselle—oh! what she must have looked like under +the mimosa-trees before the Hôtel de l’Oasis!⸺”</p> + +<p>“Then you’ve seen her,” I began.</p> + +<p>“—mademoiselle became enthusiastic again, and, almost before they +knew it, her sister and brother-in-law were committed to a desert +expedition, were fitted out with a dragoman, tents, mules—the whole +show, in fact—and one blazing hot day found themselves out in +that sunshine—you know it—with Biskra a green shadow on that sea, +the mountains behind <span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">326</span>the sulphur springs turning from bronze to +black-brown in the distance, and the table flatness of the desert +stretching ahead of them to the limits of the world and the judgment +day.”</p> + +<p>My companion paused, took a flaming reed from the fire, put it to his +pipe bowl, pulled hard at his pipe—all the time staring straight before +him, as if, among the glowing logs, he saw the caravan of the Parisians +winding onward across the desert sands. Then he turned to me, sighed, +and said:</p> + +<p>“You’ve seen mirage?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I answered.</p> + +<p>“Have you noticed that in mirage the things one fancies one sees +generally appear in large numbers—buildings crowded as in towns, +trees growing together as in woods, men shoulder to shoulder in large +companies?”</p> + +<p>My experience of mirage in the desert was so, and I acknowledged it.</p> + +<p>“Have you ever seen in a mirage a solitary figure?” he continued.</p> + +<p>I thought for a moment. Then I replied in the negative.</p> + +<p>“No more have I,” he said. “And I believe it’s a very rare occurrence. +Now mark the mirage that showed itself to mademoiselle on the first +day of the desert journey of the Parisians. She saw it on the northern +verge of the oasis of Sidi-Okba, late in the afternoon. As <span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">327</span>they +journeyed Tahar, their dragoman—he had applied for the post, and got +it by the desire of mademoiselle, who admired his lithe bearing and +gorgeous aplomb—Tahar suddenly pulled up his mule, pointed with his +brown hand to the horizon, and said in French:</p> + +<p>“‘There is mirage! Look! There is the mirage of the great desert!’</p> + +<p>“Our Parisians, filled with excitement, gazed above the pointed ears of +their beasts, over the shimmering waste. There, beyond the palms of the +oasis, wrapped in a mysterious haze, lay the mirage. They looked at it +in silence. Then Mademoiselle cried, in her little bird’s clear voice:</p> + +<p>“‘Mirage! But surely he’s real?’</p> + +<p>“‘What does mademoiselle see?’ asked Tahar quickly.</p> + +<p>“‘Why, a sort of faint landscape, through which a man—an Arab, I +suppose—is riding, towards Sidi—what is it?—Sidi-Okba! He’s got +something in front of him, hanging across his saddle.’</p> + +<p>“Her relations looked at her in amazement.</p> + +<p>“‘I only see houses standing on the edge of water,’ said her sister.</p> + +<p>“‘And I!’ cried the husband.</p> + +<p>“‘Houses and water,’ assented Tahar. ‘It is always so in the mirage of +Sidi-Okba.’</p> + +<p>“‘I see no houses, no water,’ cried mademoiselle, straining her eyes. +‘The Arab rides fast, like the wind. He is in a hurry. One <span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">328</span>would think +he was being pursued. Why, now he’s gone!’</p> + +<p>“She turned to her companions. They saw still the fairy houses of the +mirage standing in the haze on the edge of the fairy water.</p> + +<p>“‘But,’ mademoiselle said impatiently, ‘there’s nothing at all now—only +sand.’</p> + +<p>“‘Mademoiselle dreams,’ said Tahar. ‘The mirage is always there.’</p> + +<p>“They rode forward. That night they camped near Sidi-Okba. At dinner, +while the stars came out, they talked of the mirage, and mademoiselle +still insisted that it was a mirage of a horseman bearing something +before him on his saddle-bow, and riding as if for life. And Tahar said +again:</p> + +<p>“‘Mademoiselle dreams!’</p> + +<p>“As he spoke he looked at her with a mysterious intentness, which she +noticed. That night, in her little camp-bed, round which the desert +winds blew mildly, she did indeed dream. And her dream was of the magic +forms that ride on magic horses through mirage.</p> + +<p>“The next day, at dawn, the caravan of the Parisians went on its way, +winding farther into the desert. In leaving Sidi-Okba they left behind +them the last traces of civilisation—the French man and woman who keep +the auberge in the orange garden there. To-day, as they journeyed, +a sense of deep mystery flowed upon the heart of mademoiselle. She +felt that she was a little cockle-shell of a boat which, accustomed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">329</span>hitherto only to the Seine, now set sail upon a mighty ocean. The fear +of the Sahara came upon her.”</p> + +<p>My companion paused. His face was grave, almost stern.</p> + +<p>“And her relations?” I asked. “Did they feel⸺”</p> + +<p>“Haven’t an idea what they felt,” he answered curtly.</p> + +<p>“But how do you know that mademoiselle⸺”</p> + +<p>“You’ll understand at the end of the story. As they journeyed in the +sun across the endless flats—for the mountains had vanished now, and +nothing broke the level of the sand—mademoiselle’s gaiety went from +her. Silent was the lively, chattering tongue that knew the jargon of +cities, the gossip of the Plage. She was oppressed. Tahar rode close +at her side. He seemed to have taken her under his special protection. +Far before them rode the attendants, chanting deep love songs in the +sun. The sound of those songs seemed like the sound of the great desert +singing of its wild and savage love to the heart of mademoiselle. At +first her brother-in-law and sister bantered her on her silence, but +Tahar stopped them, with a curious authority.</p> + +<p>“‘The desert speaks to mademoiselle,’ he said in her hearing. ‘Let her +listen.’</p> + +<p>“He watched her continually with his huge eyes, and she did not mind +his glance, though <span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">330</span>she began to feel irritated and restless under the +observation of her relations.</p> + +<p>“Towards noon Tahar again described mirage. As he pointed it out he +stared fixedly at mademoiselle.</p> + +<p>“The two other Parisians exclaimed that they saw forest trees, a +running stream, a veritable oasis, where they longed to rest and eat +their <i lang="fr">déjeuner</i>.</p> + +<p>“‘And mademoiselle?’ said Tahar. ‘What does she see?’</p> + +<p>“She was gazing into the distance. Her face was very pale, and for a +moment she did not answer. Then she said:</p> + +<p>“‘I see again the Arab bearing the burden before him on the saddle. He +is much clearer than yesterday. I can almost see his face⸺’</p> + +<p>“She paused. She was trembling.</p> + +<p>“‘But I cannot see what he carries. It seems to float on the wind, like +a robe, or a woman’s dress. Ah! <i lang="fr">mon Dieu!</i> how fast he rides!’</p> + +<p>“She stared before her as if fascinated, and following with her eyes +some rapidly-moving object. Suddenly she shut her eyes.</p> + +<p>“‘He’s gone!’ she said.</p> + +<p>“‘And now—mademoiselle sees?’ said Tahar.</p> + +<p>“She opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>“‘Nothing.’</p> + +<p>“‘Yet the mirage is still there,’ he said.</p> + +<p>“‘Valérie,’ cried her sister, ‘are you mad <span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">331</span>that you see what no one +else can see, and cannot see what all else see?’</p> + +<p>“‘Am I mad, Tahar?’ she said gravely, almost timidly, to the dragoman.</p> + +<p>“And the fear of the Sahara came again upon her.</p> + +<p>“‘Mademoiselle sees what she must,’ he answered. ‘The desert speaks to +the heart of mademoiselle.’</p> + +<p>“That night there was moon. Mademoiselle could not sleep. She lay in +her narrow bed and thought of the figure in the mirage, while the +moonbeams stole in between the tent pegs to keep her company. She +thought of second sight, of phantoms, and of wraiths. Was this riding +Arab, whom she alone could see, a phantom of the Sahara, mysteriously +accompanying the caravan, and revealing himself to her through the +medium of the mirage as if in a magic mirror? She turned restlessly +upon her pillow, saw the naughty moonbeams, got up, and went softly +to the tent door. All the desert was bathed in light. She gazed out +as a mariner gazes out over the sea. She heard jackals yelping in the +distance, peevish in their insomnia, and fancied their voices were +the voices of desert demons. As she stood there she thought of the +figure in the mirage, and wondered if mirage ever rises at night—if, +by chance, she might see it now. And, while she stood wondering, far +away across the sand there floated up a silvery haze, like <span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">332</span>a veil of +spangled tissue—exquisite for a ball robe, she said long after!—and in +this haze she saw again the phantom Arab galloping upon his horse. But +now he was clear in the moon. Furiously he rode, like a thing demented +in a dream, and as he rode he looked back over his shoulder, as if he +feared pursuit. Mademoiselle could see his fierce eyes, like the eyes +of a desert eagle that stares unwinking at the glaring African sun. He +urged on his fleet horse. She could hear now the ceaseless thud of its +hoofs upon the hard sand as it drew nearer and nearer. She could see +the white foam upon its steaming flanks, and now at last she knew that +the burden which the Arab bore across his saddle and supported with his +arms was a woman. Her robe flew out upon the wind; her dark, loose hair +streamed over the breast of the horseman; her face was hidden against +his heart; but mademoiselle saw his face, uttered a cry, and shrank +back against the canvas of the tent.</p> + +<p>“For it was the face of the Spahi who had ridden in the procession of +the Governor—of the Spahi to whom she had thrown the roses from the +balcony of Algiers.</p> + +<p>“As she cried out the mirage faded, the Arab vanished, the thud of the +horse’s hoofs died in her ears, and Tahar, the dragoman, glided round +the tent, and stood before her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight like +ebon jewels.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">333</span></p> + +<p>“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘mademoiselle sees the mirage?’</p> + +<p>“Mademoiselle could not speak. She stared into the eyes of Tahar, and +hers were dilated with wonder.</p> + +<p>“He drew nearer to her.</p> + +<p>“‘Mademoiselle has seen again the horseman and his burden.’</p> + +<p>“She bowed her head. All things seemed dream-like to her. Tahar’s voice +was low and monotonous, and sounded far away.</p> + +<p>“‘It is fate,’ he said. He paused, gazing upon her.</p> + +<p>“‘In the tents they all sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Even the watchman sleeps, +for I have given him a powder of hashish, and hashish gives long +dreams—long dreams.’</p> + +<p>“From beneath his robe he drew a small box, opened it, and showed to +mademoiselle a dark brown powder, which he shook into a tiny cup of +water.</p> + +<p>“‘Mademoiselle shall drink, as the watchman has drunk,’ he said—‘shall +drink and dream.’</p> + +<p>“He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by +the eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the +hashish, swayed, and fell forward into his arms.</p> + +<p>“A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon, +rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon <span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">334</span>his saddle +he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all the +night beat the thunderous music of a horse’s hoofs spurning the desert +sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she no +longer saw.”</p> + +<p>My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but +sat looking at me in silence.</p> + +<p>“The Spahi?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Had claimed the giver of the roses.”</p> + +<p>“And Tahar?”</p> + +<p>“The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a +notable shot.”</p> + +<p>“A strange tale,” I said. “How did you come to hear it?”</p> + +<p>“A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting +expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story +was told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an +earth-coloured tent and watched the sun go down.”</p> + +<p>“Told you by an Arab?”</p> + +<p>He shook his head.</p> + +<p>“By whom, then?”</p> + +<p>“By a woman with a clear little bird’s voice, with an angel and a devil +in her dark beauty, a woman with the gesture of Paris—the grace, the +<i lang="fr">diablerie</i> of Paris.”</p> + +<p>Light broke on me.</p> + +<p>“By mademoiselle!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“Pardon,” he answered; “by madame.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_335">335</span></p> + +<p>“She was married?”</p> + +<p>“To the figure in the mirage; and she was content.”</p> + +<p>“Content!” I cried.</p> + +<p>“Content with her two little dark children dancing before her in the +twilight, content when the figure of the mirage galloped at evening +across the plain, shouting an Eastern love song, with a gazelle—instead +of a woman—slung across his saddle-bow. Did I not say that, as the +desert is the strangest thing in nature, so a woman is the strangest +thing in human nature? Which heart is most mysterious?”</p> + +<p>“Its heart?” I said.</p> + +<p>“Or the heart of mademoiselle?”</p> + +<p>“I give the palm to the latter.”</p> + +<p>“And I,” he answered, taking off his wide-brimmed hat—“I gave it when +I saluted her as madame before the tent door, out there in the great +desert.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_336"></a><a id="Page_337"></a>337</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Saftis"><i>SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY</i></h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">SAFTI is a respectable, one-eyed married man who lives in a brown earth +house in the Sahara Desert. He has a wife and five children, and in +winter he works for his living and theirs. When the morning dawns, +and the great red sun rises above the rim of the wide and wonderful +land which is the only land that Safti knows, he wraps his white +burnous around him, pulls his hood up over his closely-shaven head, +rolls and lights his cigarette, and sets forth to his equivalent of +an office. This is the white arcade of a hotel where unbelieving dogs +of travellers come in winter. I am an unbelieving dog of a traveller, +and I come there in winter, and Safti comes there for me. I, in fact, +am Safti’s profession. By me, and others like me, he lives. For a +consideration he shows me round the market, which I knew by heart six +years ago, and takes me up the mosque tower, from which I gazed over +the flying pigeons and the swaying palms when Safti was comparatively +young and frisky. Together we visit the gazelles in their pretty +garden, and the Caïd’s <span class="pagenum" id="Page_338">338</span>Mill, from which one sees the pink and purple +mountains of the Aures. We ride to the Sulphur Baths, we drive to +Sidi-Okba. We take our <i lang="fr">déjeuner</i> out to the yellow sand dunes, +and we sip our coffee among the keef smokers in Hadj’s painted café. We +listen to the songs of the negro troubadour, and we smile at Algia’s +dancing when the silver moon comes up and the Kabyle dogs round the +nomads’ tents begin their serenades. And then I give Safti five francs +and my blessing, and he bids me “<i lang="fr">Bonne nuit!</i>” and his ghostly +figure is lost in the black shadows of the palm-trees.</p> + +<p>Oh, Safti works hard, very hard in winter. The other day I asked him: +“Don’t you get exhausted, Safti, with all this exertion to keep the +Sahara home together? You are getting on in years now.”</p> + +<p>“Ah yes, Sidi; I am already thirty-two, alas!”</p> + +<p>He was thirty-five when I first met him; but he is as clever at +subtraction as a London beauty.</p> + +<p>“Good heavens! So much! But, then, how can you keep up the wear and +tear of this tumultuous life? You must have an iron strength. Such work +as you do would break down an American millionaire.”</p> + +<p>Safti raised his one dark eye piously towards Allah’s dwelling.</p> + +<p>“Sidi, I must labour for my children. But in the summer, when you and +all the travellers <span class="pagenum" id="Page_339">339</span>are gone from the Sahara to your fogs and the +darkness of your days, I take my little holiday.”</p> + +<p>“Your holiday! But is it long enough?”</p> + +<p>“It lasts for only five months, Sidi; but it is enough for me. I am +strong as the lion.”</p> + +<p>I gazed at him with an admiration I could not repress. There was, +indeed, something of the hero about this simple-minded Saharaman. We +were at the edge of the oasis, in a remote place looking towards the +quivering mirage which guards dead Okba’s tomb. A tiny earthen house, +with a flat terrace ending in the jagged bank of the Oued Biskra, was +crouched here in the shade. From it emerged a pleasant scent of coffee. +Suddenly Safti’s bare legs began to “give.” I felt it would be cruel +to push on farther. We entered the house, seated ourselves luxuriously +upon a baked divan of mud, set our slippers on a reed mat, rolled our +cigarettes, and commanded our coffee. When a Kabyle boy with a rosebud +stuck under his turban had brought it languidly, I said to Safti:</p> + +<p>“And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday.”</p> + +<p>Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of +repose.</p> + +<p>“Each day is like its brother, Sidi,” he responded, gazing out through +the low doorway to the shimmering Sahara.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_340">340</span></p> + +<p>“Then tell me how you pass a summer day.”</p> + +<p>The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke.</p> + +<p>“<em>Sahah</em>, Sidi.”</p> + +<p>“<i lang="fr">Merci.</i>”</p> + +<p>We sipped.</p> + +<p>“A day in summer, Sidi, when the great heats begin in June? Well, at +five in the morning I get up⸺”</p> + +<p>“And light the fire,” I murmured mechanically.</p> + +<p>The one eye stared in blank amazement.</p> + +<p>“Proceed, Safti. You get up at five. That is very early.”</p> + +<p>“The sun rises at a quarter to five.”</p> + +<p>“To call you. Well?”</p> + +<p>“I eat three fresh figs, and sometimes four. I then mount upon my mule, +and I ride very quietly into Biskra to take coffee with my friends.”</p> + +<p>“That is half-an-hour’s exercise?”</p> + +<p>“About half-an-hour. After taking coffee with my friends we play at +dominoes. It is forbidden for the Arabs to play at cards in Biskra. I +remain in the café at the corner⸺”</p> + +<p>“I know—by the Garden of the Gazelles!”</p> + +<p>“—till eleven o’clock, at which time I again mount upon my mule, and +return quietly to my home. When I reach there I eat with my wife and +children sour milk, bread, and dates from my palm-trees which I have +kept from <span class="pagenum" id="Page_341">341</span>the autumn. At twelve we all go to bed together in a black +room.”</p> + +<p>“A black room?”</p> + +<p>“We fear the flies.”</p> + +<p>“I see.”</p> + +<p>“Till four in the afternoon I, my wife, and my children sleep in the +black room. At that hour I rise once more, and go quietly to the Café +Maure in old Biskra, near my house. I play cards there for five coffees +till seven o’clock. At seven the mosquitoes arrive, and prevent us from +playing any more.”</p> + +<p>“How intrusive! Always at seven?”</p> + +<p>“Always at seven. I then walk very quietly with my friends to the end +of the oasis.”</p> + +<p>“To the Tombuctou road?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sidi; to get the air. We come back by the same road quietly, and +I go to my house, and eat a cold kous-kous with my wife and children. +After this I return to the café and play ronda till one o’clock.”</p> + +<p>“One o’clock at night?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. At one o’clock I go with my friends very quietly to bathe in the +stream beneath the wall near the mosque. We stay in the water for, +perhaps, an hour, and when we come out we drink lagmi.”</p> + +<p>“What’s lagmi?”</p> + +<p>“Palm wine. Then at three o’clock I go to my home, mount upon the roof +quietly with my wife and children, and sleep till dawn.”</p> + +<p>“And you do this for five months?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_342">342</span></p> + +<p>“For five months, Sidi.”</p> + +<p>“And—and your wife, Safti?”</p> + +<p>I felt that I was very indiscreet; but Safti is good-natured, and has +bought quite a number of palm-trees out of his savings when with me.</p> + +<p>“My wife, Sidi?”</p> + +<p>“What does she do all the time?”</p> + +<p>“She remains quietly in my house.”</p> + +<p>“She never goes out?”</p> + +<p>“Never, except upon the roof to take a little air.”</p> + +<p>“Doesn’t she get rather bor⸺”</p> + +<p>The one eye began to look remarkably vague.</p> + +<p>“And you find five months of this life a sufficient rest in the course +of the year?”</p> + +<p>Safti smiled at me with resignation.</p> + +<p>“I cannot take more, Sidi; I am not a rich Englishman.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Safti, you must make the best of your fate. It is the will of +Allah that you should toil.”</p> + +<p>“<em>Shal-làh!</em> I will take another coffee, Sidi.”</p> + +<p>“Larbi!”</p> + +<p>I called the Kabyle boy.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_343">343</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Smain"><i>SMAÏN</i></h2> +</div> + +<blockquote> + <p>“When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe.”</p> + + <p class="smcap right">Sahara Saying.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p class="drop-cap">FAR away in the desert I heard the sound of a flute, pure sound in the +pure air, delicate, sometimes almost comic with the comicality of a +child who bends women to kisses and to nonsense-words. We had passed +through the sandstorm, Safti and I, over the wastes of saltpetre, and +come into a land of palm gardens where there was almost breathless +calm. The feet of the camels paddled over the soft brown earth of the +narrow alleys between the brown earth walls, and we looked down to +right and left into the shady enclosed spaces, seamed with water rills, +dotted with little pools of pale yellow water, and saw always giant +palms, with wrinkled trunks and tufted, deep green foliage, brooding +in their squadrons over the dimness they had made. The activity of man +might be discerned here in the regularity of the artificial rills, +the ordered placing of the trees, each of which, too, stood on its +oval hump. But no man was seen; no flat-roofed huts appeared; no robe, +pale blue or white, fluttered among the shadows; no dog <span class="pagenum" id="Page_344">344</span>blinked in +the golden patches of the sun—only the sound of the flute came to us +from some hidden place ceaselessly, wild and romantic, full of an odd +coquetry, and of an absurdity that was both uncivilised and touching.</p> + +<p>I stopped to listen, and looked round, searching the vistas between the +palms.</p> + +<p>“Where does it come from?” I asked of Safti.</p> + +<p>His one eye blinked languidly.</p> + +<p>“From some gardener among the trees. All who dwell in Sidi-Matou are +gardeners.”</p> + +<p>The persistent flute gave forth a shower of notes that were like drops +of water flung softly in our faces.</p> + +<p>“He is in love,” added Safti with a slight yawn.</p> + +<p>“How do you know?”</p> + +<p>“When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe. That is what they +say in the Sahara.”</p> + +<p>“And you think he is alone under some palm-tree playing for himself?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; he is quite alone. If he is much in love he will play all day, +and, perhaps, all night too.”</p> + +<p>“But she cannot hear him.”</p> + +<p>“That does not matter. He plays for his own heart, and his own heart +can hear.”</p> + +<p>I listened. Since Safti had spoken the music meant more to me. I tried +to read the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_345">345</span>player’s heart in the endless song it made. Trills, +twitterings, grace notes, little runs upward ending in the air—surely +it was a boy’s heart, and not unhappy.</p> + +<p>“It is coming nearer,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Yes. Ah, it is Smaïn!”</p> + +<p>Safti’s one eye is sharp. I had seen no one. But as he spoke a tall +youth in a single white garment glided into my view, his eyes bent +down, his brown fingers fluttering on a long reed flute covered with +red arabesques. His feet were bare, and he moved slowly.</p> + +<p>Safti hailed him with the accented violence peculiar to the Arabs. +He stopped playing, looked, and smiled all over his young face. In +a moment he was on our side of the earth wall, and talking busily, +staring at me the while with unabashed curiosity. For few strangers +come to Sidi-Amrane, and Smaïn had never wandered far.</p> + +<p>“What does he say?” I asked of Safti.</p> + +<p>“I tell him we shall be at Touggourt to-morrow night, and shall stay +there a week. He answers that his heart is there with Oreïda.”</p> + +<p>“What! Does his lady-love live at Touggourt?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; she is a dancer.”</p> + +<p>Smaïn smiled. He did not understand French, but he knew we were +speaking of his love affair, and he was not afflicted with shyness. +As he accompanied us to the village he <span class="pagenum" id="Page_346">346</span>played again, and I read his +nature in the soft sounds of his flute.</p> + +<p>All that day he stayed with us, and nearly all that day he played. Even +when he guided me through the village, where, between terraced houses, +pretty children—the girls in deep purple, with yellow flowers stuck in +their left nostrils, the boys in white—danced with a boisterous grace +round brushwood fires, his flute was at his lips, and his fingers +fluttered ceaselessly. And as night drew on the music was surely more +amorous, and I seemed to see Oreïda drawing near over the sands.</p> + +<p>Smaïn was but sixteen, tall and slim as a reed, with a poetic face and +lustrous, languid eyes. I imagined Oreïda a child too—one of those +flowers of the desert that blossom early and fade ere noontide comes. +Sometimes such flowers are very beautiful. As I heard the flute of +Smaïn in the pale yellow twilight I knew that Oreïda was beautiful—with +one of those exquisite, lithe figures, whose movements make a song; +with long, narrow dark eyes, mysterious pools of light and shadow; with +thick hair falling loosely round a low, broad forehead; and perfect +little hands, made for the dance of the hands that the Bedouin loves so +well.</p> + +<p>All this I knew from the sound of Smaïn’s flute. I told it to Safti, +and bade him ask Smaïn if it were not true.</p> + +<p>Smaïn’s reply was:</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_347">347</span></p> + +<p>“She is more beautiful than that; she is like the young gazelle, and +like the first day after the fast of Ramadan.”</p> + +<p>Then he played once more while the moon rose over the palm gardens, and +Safti, lighting his pipe of keef with tender deliberateness, remarked +placidly:</p> + +<p>“He would like to come with us to Touggourt and to die there at +Oreïda’s feet, but his father, Said-ben-Kouïdar, wishes him to remain +at Sidi-Matou and to pack dates. He is young, and must obey. Therefore +he is sad.”</p> + +<p>The smoke rose up in a cloud round Smaïn and his flute, and now I +thought that, indeed, there was a wild pathos in the music. The moon +went up the sky, and threw silver on the palms. The gay cries from the +village died down. The gardeners lay upon the earth divans under the +palmwood roofs, and slept. And at last Smaïn bade us good-bye. I saw +his white figure glide across the great open space that the moon made +white as it was. And when the shadows took him I still heard the faint +sound of his flute, calling to his heart and to the distant Oreïda +through the magical stillness of the night.</p> + +<p>The next day we reached Touggourt, and in the evening I went with Safti +and the Caïd of the Nomads to the great café of the dancers in the +outskirts of the town. At the door Arab soldiers were lounging. The +pipes squealed within like souls in torment. In the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_348">348</span>square bonfires +were blazing fiercely, and the whole desert seemed to throb with beaten +drums. Within the café was a crowd of Arabs, real nomads, some in +rags, some richly dressed, all gravely attentive to the dancers, who +entered from a court on the left, round which their rooms were built in +terraces, and danced in pairs between the broad divans.</p> + +<p>“Tell me when Oreïda comes,” I said to Safti, while the Caïd spread +forth his ample skirts, and turned a cigarette in his immense black +fingers.</p> + +<p>The dancers came and went. They were amazing trollops, painted until, +like the picture of Balzac’s madman, they were chaotic, a mere mess of +frantic colours. Not for these, I thought, did Smaïn play his flute. +The time wore on. I grew drowsy in the keef-laden air, despite the +incessant uproar of the pipes. Suddenly I started—Safti had touched me.</p> + +<p>“There is Oreïda, Sidi.”</p> + +<p>I looked, and saw a lonely dancer entering from the court, large, +weary, crowned with gold, tufted with feathers, wrinkled, with greedy, +fatigued eyes, and hands painted blood-red. She was like an idol in its +dotage. Over her spreading bosom streamed multitudes of golden coins, +and many jewels shone upon her wrists, her arms, her withered neck. She +advanced slowly, as if bored, until she was in the midst of the crowd. +Then she wriggled, stretched forth her hands, slowly stamped her <span class="pagenum" id="Page_349">349</span>feet, +and promenaded to and fro, occasionally revolving like a child’s top +that is on the verge of “running down.”</p> + +<p>“That is not Oreïda,” I said to Safti, smiling at his absurd mistake. +For this was the oldest and ugliest dancer of them all.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, Sidi, it is. Ask the Caïd.”</p> + +<p>I asked that enormous potentate, who was devouring the withered lady +with his eyes. He wagged his head in assent. Just then the dancer +paused before us, and thrusting forward her greasy forehead, enveloped +us with a sphinx-like smirk. As I hastily pressed a two-franc piece +above her eyebrows Safti addressed her animatedly in Arabic. I caught +the word “Smaïn.” The lady smiled, and made a guttural reply; then, +with a somnolent wink at me, she waddled onward, flapping the blood-red +hands and stamping heavily upon the earthen floor.</p> + +<p>“Smaïn loves that!” I said to Safti.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sidi. Oreïda is famous, and very rich. She has houses and many +palm-trees, and she is much respected by the other dancers.”</p> + +<p>A week later Safti and I were again at Sidi-Matou, on our way homeward +through the desert. The moon was at the full now, and when we rode +up to the Bordj the open space in front of it, between us and the +village, was flooded with delicate light. Against it one tree, which +looked like Paderewski grown very <span class="pagenum" id="Page_350">350</span>old, stood up with tousled branches. +In the village bonfires flared, and the dark figures of skipping +children passed and re-passed before them. We heard youthful cries +echoing across the sands. Soon they faded. The lights went out, and the +wonderful silence of night in the desert came in to its heritage.</p> + +<p>I sat on the edge of an old stone well before the Bordj, while Safti +smoked his keef. Near midnight, quivering across the sands, came +the faint sound of a flute moving from the village towards the deep +obscurity of the palm gardens. I knew that air, those trills, those +little runs, those grace notes.</p> + +<p>“It is Smaïn,” I said to Safti.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sidi. He will play all night alone among the palms. He is in +love.”</p> + +<p>“But with Oreïda! Is it possible?”</p> + +<p>“Did he not say that she was like the first day after the fast of +Ramadan? When an African says that his heart is big with love.”</p> + +<p>The flute went on and on, and I said to myself and to the moon, as I +had often said before:</p> + +<p>“He that is born in the Sahara is an impenetrable mystery.”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum" id="Page_351">351</span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Spinster"><i>THE SPINSTER</i></h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">I HAD arrived at Inley Abbey that afternoon, and was sitting at dinner +with Inley and his pretty wife, whom I had not seen for five years, +since the day I was his best man, when we all heard faintly the +tolling of a church bell. Lady Inley shook her shoulders in a rather +exaggerated shudder.</p> + +<p>“Someone dead!” said her husband.</p> + +<p>“It’s a mistake to build a church in the grounds of a house,” Lady +Inley said in her clear, drawling soprano voice. “That noise gives me +the blues.”</p> + +<p>“Whom can it be for?” asked Inley.</p> + +<p>“Miss Bassett, probably,” Lady Inley replied carelessly, helping +herself to a bonbon from a little silver dish.</p> + +<p>Inley started.</p> + +<p>“Miss Sarah Bassett! What makes you think so?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, while you were away in town she got ill. Didn’t you know?”</p> + +<p>“No,” said Inley.</p> + +<p>I could see that he was moved. His dark, short face had changed +suddenly, and he stopped eating his fruit. Lady Inley went on +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_352">352</span>crunching the bonbon between her little white teeth with all the +enjoyment of a pretty marmoset.</p> + +<p>“Influenza,” she said airily. “And then pneumonia. Of course, at her +age, you know⸺ By the way, what is her age, Nino?”</p> + +<p>“No idea,” said Inley shortly.</p> + +<p>He was listening to the dim and monotonous sound of the church bell.</p> + +<p>Lady Inley turned to me with the childish, confidential movement which +men considered one of her many charms.</p> + +<p>“Miss Bassett is, or was, one of those funny old spinsters who always +look the same and always ridiculous. Dry twigs, you know. One size all +the way down. Very little hair, and no emotions. If it weren’t for the +sake of cats, one would wonder why such people are born. But they’re +always cat-lovers. I suppose that’s why they’re so often called old +cats.”</p> + +<p>She uttered a little high-pitched laugh, and got up.</p> + +<p>“Don’t be too long,” she said to me carelessly as I opened the +dining-room door for her. “I want to sing ‘Ohé Charmette’ to you.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t be long,” I answered, thinking what exquisite eyes she had.</p> + +<p>She turned, and went out in her delicious, thin way. No wonder she +had made skeletons the rage in London. When I came back to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_353">353</span>the +dinner-table Inley was sitting with both his brown hands clenched on +the cloth. His black eyes—inherited from his dead mother, who had been +one of the Neapolitan aristocracy—were glittering.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Nino?” I asked as I sat down.</p> + +<p>We had been such intimate friends that even my five years’ absence +abroad had not built up a barrier between us.</p> + +<p>“I wonder if it is Miss Bassett?” he said, looking at me earnestly.</p> + +<p>“But was she a great friend of yours?” I said. “If Lady Inley’s +description of her is accurate, I can hardly imagine so.”</p> + +<p>“Vere doesn’t know what she’s saying.”</p> + +<p>“Then Miss Bassett⸺”</p> + +<p>“Oh, she does look like that; dried up, unemotional, tame, English, +even comic.”</p> + +<p>“The regular spinster, eh?”</p> + +<p>“She looks it. But, damn it all, Vere has no business to say she has no +emotions, to wonder why such people are born. But she doesn’t know—Vere +doesn’t know.”</p> + +<p>His agitation grew, and was inexplicable to me. But I knew Inley, +knew that he was bound to tell me what was on his mind. He could +be reserved, but not with me. So I took a cigar, cut the end off +it deliberately, struck a match, lighted it, and began to smoke in +silence. He followed my example quickly, and then said:</p> + +<p>“Vere talks like that, and, but for Miss <span class="pagenum" id="Page_354">354</span>Bassett, Vere would have been +murdered two years ago.”</p> + +<p>I started, and dropped my cigar on the table.</p> + +<p>“Murdered!”</p> + +<p>“Yes; and I⸺”</p> + +<p>He fixed his eyes on me, and put his hand up to his throat. Nino was +half Neapolitan, and I saw a man being hanged. I picked up my cigar +with a hand that slightly shook.</p> + +<p>“But,” I said, “I always thought Lady Inley and you were very happy +together.”</p> + +<p>It sounded banal, even ridiculous, but I hardly knew what to say. I was +startled. The tolling of the bell, too, was getting on my nerves.</p> + +<p>“One doesn’t write such things,” he said. “You’ve been abroad for +years.”</p> + +<p>“It’s all right now?”</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>“I suppose so. Vere has never had the least suspicion.”</p> + +<p>He drew his chair closer to mine, and was about to go on speaking when +the servants came in with the coffee.</p> + +<p>“Who’s the bell tolling for, Hurst?” he said to the butler.</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t say, my lord.”</p> + +<p>When the servants had gone Inley continued, at first in a calmer voice:</p> + +<p>“Miss Bassett lived in the red cottage just beyond the gate of +the South Lodge from time immemorial. You generally came to us in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_355">355</span>Scotland, I know, but I should think you must have seen her.”</p> + +<p>Suddenly a recollection flashed upon me—a recollection of a long, flat +figure, a drab face, thin hair coming away from a wrinkled forehead +under a mushroom hat, flapping, old-fashioned golden earrings.</p> + +<p>“Not the person I used to call ‘the Plank’?” I said.</p> + +<p>“Did you?”</p> + +<p>He thought for a moment.</p> + +<p>“Yes; I believe you did. I’d forgotten.”</p> + +<p>“She was always in church twenty minutes before the service began, and +always dropped her hymn-book coming out if there were visitors in the +Abbey pew!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes; that’s it. Miss Bassett is very nervous in little ways.”</p> + +<p>“I remember her now perfectly. And you say she⸺”</p> + +<p>I looked at him, and hesitated.</p> + +<p>“She saved Vere’s life and, indirectly, mine. I’ll tell you now we’re +together again at last. I shall never tell Vere.”</p> + +<p>He looked towards the windows, across which dark blue silk curtains +were drawn, as if he could see the passing-bell swinging in the old +square tower. Then he turned to me.</p> + +<p>“You know how mad I was about Vere. It’s always like that with me. +Unless I’m stone I’m fire. After we were married I got even madder. +Having her all to myself was <span class="pagenum" id="Page_356">356</span>like enchantment, and in Italy, too, my +other native land.”</p> + +<p>I thought of Lady Inley’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“I can understand,” I said.</p> + +<p>“Of course, when we got back it had to be different. Friends came in, +and she was run after and admired and written about. You know the +publicity of life in modern London.”</p> + +<p>“City of public-houses and society spies.”</p> + +<p>“I bore it, because it’s supposed to be the thing. And Vere rather +likes it, somehow. So I let her have her fun, as long as it was fun. I +didn’t intend it should ever be anything else.”</p> + +<p>He frowned. When he did that, and his thick eyebrows nearly met, he +looked all Italian.</p> + +<p>“We did the usual things—Paris, Ascot, Scotland, and so on—till Vere +had to lie up.”</p> + +<p>“Your boy?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; Hugo came along. I was glad when that was over. I thought she was +going to die. You knew Seymour Glynd?”</p> + +<p>“Life Guards? Killed hunting a year ago?”</p> + +<p>Inley nodded.</p> + +<p>“He was a great deal with us soon after Hugo’s birth. I thought nothing +of it. I’d known the fellow all my life. But then one nearly always +has.”</p> + +<p>He laughed bitterly.</p> + +<p>“To cut that part short, two years ago in autumn we had Glynd staying +with us down <span class="pagenum" id="Page_357">357</span>here for shooting. There were some others, of course—Mrs. +Jack, Bobbie Elphinton, and Lady Bobbie—but you know the lot.”</p> + +<p>“I did.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” he said, “you’ve been well out of it these years. Well, the shoot +was to break up on a Friday, and I’d arranged to go to town that day +with the rest. Vere didn’t intend to come. She said she was feeling +tired, and was going to have a Friday to Monday rest cure. That’s the +thing, you know, nowadays. You get a Swedish <i lang="fr">masseuse</i> down to +stay, and go to bed and drink milk. Vere had engaged a <i lang="fr">masseuse</i> +to come on the Friday night. On the Thursday, the day before we were +all going to town, Glynd hurt his foot getting over a fence into a +turnip field—at least I thought so.”</p> + +<p>He stopped.</p> + +<p>“Everyone thought so, I believe—except, of course, Vere. I wonder if +they did, though?” he added moodily. “Or whether I was the only—But +what does it matter now? Glynd said he only wanted a couple of days’ +rest to be all right again, and asked me if he might stay on at the +Abbey till the Monday. Of course I said ‘Yes; if he wouldn’t want a +hostess.’ Because Vere said to me, when she heard of it, that she +must have her rest cure all the same. Glynd swore he’d be quite happy +alone. So he stayed, and the rest of us came up to town on the Friday. +Well, <span class="pagenum" id="Page_358">358</span>on the Saturday morning I was walking across the park when I +met the Swedish <i lang="fr">masseuse</i> who was to have gone down to Vere on +the Friday night. I knew her, because Vere had often had her before in +London. ‘Hullo!’ I said. ‘You ought to be down at Inley Abbey with my +wife.’ ‘No, my lord,’ she said. ‘Why not?’ ‘I’ve had a wire from Lady +Inley not to go.’ ‘A wire!’ I said. ‘When did you get it?’ ‘On Thursday +night, my lord.’ ‘You mean last night?’ I said, thinking Vere must have +changed her mind after we had left. ‘No,’ said the woman; ‘on Thursday +night, late.’ Then I remembered that, after Glynd had hurt his foot +and asked to stay, Vere had gone out alone for a drive in her cart, to +get a last breath of air before the rest cure. She must have sent the +telegram herself then. All of a sudden I seemed to understand a lot of +things.”</p> + +<p>He had let his cigar out, and now he noticed that he had. He tossed it +into the fire.</p> + +<p>“I said ‘Good-morning’ to the woman quite quietly, went back to the +house, and told my man I shouldn’t be at home that night.”</p> + +<p>He put his hand on my arm.</p> + +<p>“I felt perfectly calm. Wasn’t that strange?”</p> + +<p>I nodded.</p> + +<p>“There was a train from town reaching <span class="pagenum" id="Page_359">359</span>Ashdridge Station at nine +o’clock at night. I took it. I didn’t care to go to Inley Station, +where everybody would know me, and wonder what I was up to. I didn’t +take any luggage. My man asked if he should pack, and I said ‘No.’ I +didn’t dine. I was at Paddington three-quarters of an hour before the +train was due to start. At last it came in to the platform. Going down +I read the evening papers just like any man going home from business. +Soon after we got away from London I saw there was rain on the carriage +windows. That seemed to me right. We were a little late at Ashdridge. +It was still wet, and I had my coat collar turned up. I don’t believe +they recognised me there. I set out to walk to Inley.”</p> + +<p>“What did you mean to do?”</p> + +<p>“I told you before.”</p> + +<p>I looked into his face, and believed him. Then I thought of Lady +Inley’s childish, delicate beauty, of her slightly affected manner, the +manner of a woman who has always been spoilt, whose paths have been +made very smooth. And here she was living, apparently happily, with a +man who had deliberately travelled down in the night to kill her. How +ignorant we are!</p> + +<p>“You are condemning me,” Inley said, with a touch of hot anger.</p> + +<p>“I was only thinking⸺”</p> + +<p>“Yes?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_360">360</span></p> + +<p>“That we don’t know each other much in the greatest intimacy.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I thought then.”</p> + +<p>He said that in a way which suddenly put me on his side. He must +have seen the change in my feelings, for he went on, with his former +unreserve:</p> + +<p>“I walked fast in the dark. I didn’t think very much, but I remember +that all the trees—there’s a lot of woodland, you know, between +Ashdridge and Inley—seemed alive. Everything seemed to me to be alive +that night. I’ve never had that sensation before or since.”</p> + +<p>I realised what the condition of the man had been when he said that, as +if I were a doctor and a patient had told me the symptom which put me +in possession of his malady.</p> + +<p>“When I reached Inley it was late, and the long village street was +deserted. There were lights in the inn and in the schoolmaster’s house, +but there were no people about. I got through without meeting a soul, +and came on towards the gates of the Abbey.”</p> + +<p>“You meant to go into the house?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. I was sure—somehow I was sure; but I intended to see before I +acted, merely for my own justification. But I was quite sure, as if +Vere herself had told me everything. Soon after I had got clear of the +village I heard a sound of wheels behind me. I stood up against the +hedge, and in a minute or two a fly passed me going slowly. I saw the +driver’s <span class="pagenum" id="Page_361">361</span>face. It wasn’t a man from Inley. Evidently the fly had come +from a distance. It was splashed with mud, and the horse looked tired. +I followed it till it came to the turning just below Miss Bassett’s +cottage, where there’s a narrow lane going to Charfield through the +woods. It went a little way down this lane, and stopped. I waited at +the turning. I could see the light from the lamps shining on the wet +road, and in the circle of light the driver’s breath. He bent down, +and I saw him looking at a big silver watch. Then he put it back. But +he didn’t drive on. I knew what he was waiting for. Vere was going +with—with Glynd. That was more than I had ever thought of, that she +would go. I put my hand into my pocket, took out my revolver, and went +on till I was close to the red cottage. By this time the rain had +stopped. I came up to within a few yards of the Abbey gates, stood for +a moment, and then returned till I was at the wicket of Miss Bassett’s +garden. It’s bounded by a yew hedge, beyond which there is a path +shaded by mulberry-trees. The hedge is low. The path is dark. It was a +blackguardly thing to do, but I thought of nothing except myself, my +wrong, and how I was to wipe it out. I opened the wicket, came into the +path, and stood there under the mulberry-trees behind the hedge. Here +I was in cover, and could see the road. I held my revolver in my hand, +and waited. It never struck <span class="pagenum" id="Page_362">362</span>me that Miss Bassett might be up. I saw +no light in the cottage, and I had a sort of idea that people like her +went to bed at about eight. While I was standing there listening I felt +something rub against my legs. It made me start. Then I heard a little +low noise. I looked down, and there was a great cat holding up its tail +and purring. Its pleasure was horrible to me. I pushed it away with my +foot, but it came back, bending down its head, arching its back, and +pressing against me. I was thinking what to do to get rid of it when I +heard a shrill, husky voice call out:</p> + +<p>“‘Johnny—John-nee!’</p> + +<p>“It was Miss Bassett. I held my breath, and pushed away the cat.</p> + +<p>“‘Johnny, Johnny—John-nee!’ went the voice again.</p> + +<p>“The cat wouldn’t leave me. God knows why it wished to stay. I was +determined to get rid of it, so I put the revolver down on the path, +picked the cat up in my arms, and dropped it over the hedge into the +road. Just as I had caught up the revolver again I was confronted by +Miss Bassett. She had come in slippers up the path in the dark to look +for her cat.”</p> + +<p>I uttered a slight exclamation.</p> + +<p>Inley went on: “She had a handkerchief tied over her cap and under +her chin, and a small lantern in her hands, on which she wore black +mittens. I can see her now. We stood <span class="pagenum" id="Page_363">363</span>there on the path for a minute +staring at each other without a word. The light from the lantern +flickered over the revolver, and I saw Miss Bassett look down at it.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, poured out a glass of water, and drank it off like a man +who has been running.</p> + +<p>“Didn’t she show surprise—fear?” I asked.</p> + +<p>“Not a bit. Women are so extraordinary, even old women who’ve never +been in touch with life, that I’m certain now she understood directly +her eyes fell on the revolver.”</p> + +<p>“What did she do?”</p> + +<p>“After a minute she said: ‘Lord Inley, I’m looking for my cat. Have you +seen him?’</p> + +<p>“‘Yes,’ I said; ‘he’s run into the house.’</p> + +<p>“It was a lie, but I wanted her to go in. I had slipped the revolver +back into my pocket, and tried to assume a perfectly simple, natural +air. I fancied it would be very easy to impose on Miss Bassett when +I heard her question. It sounded so innocent, as if the old lady was +full of her pet. I even thought, perhaps, she had not known what the +revolver was when she looked at it.</p> + +<p>“‘Did he run into the house?’ she said, still looking at me from under +her wrinkled eyelids.</p> + +<p>“‘Yes; when you came out. He was here on the path with me. You called +“Johnny!” and he ran off there between the mulberry-trees.’</p> + +<p>“All the time I was speaking to her I had <span class="pagenum" id="Page_364">364</span>an eye to the road, and +my ears were listening like an Indian’s when he puts his head to the +ground to hear the pad of his enemy.</p> + +<p>“Miss Bassett stood there quietly for a moment as if she were +considering something. She looked prim. I remember that even now—prim +as a caricature. It was only a moment, but it seemed to me an hour. ‘If +they should come,’ I thought, ‘while she is out here!’ The sweat came +out all over my face with impatience—an agony of impatience. I longed +to take the old lady by the shoulders, push her into the cottage, lock +her in, and be alone, able to watch the bit of road from the Abbey +gates to the wicket. But I could do nothing. I was obliged to repress +every sign of agitation. It was devilish.”</p> + +<p>He got up with a sudden jerk from his chair, and stood by the fire. +Even the telling of that moment had set beads of moisture on his +square, low forehead.</p> + +<p>“At last she spoke again.</p> + +<p>“‘I wonder if you’d mind coming in for a minute to help me see if +Johnny really is in the house?’ she said.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what I should have done—refused, I believe, refused her +with an oath, for I began to feel mad; but just at that instant up came +the cat once more, purring like fury, and lifting up his tail. He made +straight for me, and began to rub himself against my legs again.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_365">365</span></p> + +<p>“‘Oh!’ said Miss Bassett, ‘there he is! Naughty Johnny, naughty boy! +Lord Inley, perhaps you’d be so good as just to lift him up and put him +inside the door for me. I always have such a job to get him to come +in of a night. He likes hunting in the woods. Doesn’t he, the naughty +Johnny?’</p> + +<p>“‘Now’s my chance to get rid of her!’ I thought.</p> + +<p>“I bent down, picked the cat up, and went along the path towards the +cottage, Miss Bassett following close behind me. The cat was an immense +beast, awfully heavy, and just as I turned out of the yew path to go up +to the cottage door he began struggling to get away, and scratching. +I held on to him, but it wasn’t easy, and I got my hand torn before +I dropped him down inside the little hall. Away he ran, towards the +kitchen, I suppose. Miss Bassett was very grateful, but I cut her +gratitude short.</p> + +<p>“‘Very glad to have been able to help you,’ I said. ‘Good-night.’</p> + +<p>“‘Good-night, Lord Inley,’ she said.</p> + +<p>“I thought her voice sounded a little bit odd when she said that, and +I just glanced at her funny old face, lit up by the lantern she was +holding in one mittened hand. She didn’t look at me this time as she +had in the garden. Then I went out, and she immediately shut the door.</p> + +<p>“‘Thank God!’ I thought, and I hurried to <span class="pagenum" id="Page_366">366</span>the wicket. I didn’t dare +stay in the garden now. Seeing her had made me realise my blackguardism +in coming in at all, considering my reason. I resolved to hide in the +field at the corner where the road turns off to Charfield. As I opened +the wicket, instinctively I put my hand into my pocket for my revolver.”</p> + +<p>He bent down, looking full into my eyes.</p> + +<p>“It wasn’t there.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Bassett!” I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>“In a moment I realised that Miss Bassett must have grasped the +situation; that her asking me to carry in her cat was a ruse, and that +while the beast was struggling between my hands she must have stolen +the revolver from behind. I say I knew that, and yet even then, when I +thought of her look, her manner, the sort of nervous old thing she was, +I couldn’t believe what I knew. Then I remembered her voice when she +said ‘Good-night’ to me in the passage, her eyes looking down instead +of at me, and that she was only holding the lantern in one hand, +whereas in the garden she was using two. She must have had the revolver +in her other hand concealed in the folds of her dress. I ran back to +the cottage door, and knocked—hard. Not that I thought she’d open. I +knew she wouldn’t, but she did directly. I could hardly speak. I was +afraid of myself just then. At last I said:</p> + +<p>“‘Miss Bassett, you know what I want.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_367">367</span></p> + +<p>“‘You can’t have it,’ she said, looking straight at me.</p> + +<p>“I kept quiet for a second, then I said:</p> + +<p>“‘Miss Bassett, I don’t think you know that you’re running into +danger.’ For I felt that there was danger for her then if she went +against me. She knew it, too, perhaps better than I did. I saw her poor +old hands, all blue veins, beginning to tremble.</p> + +<p>“‘You can’t have it, Lord Inley,’ she repeated.</p> + +<p>“There wasn’t the ghost of a quiver in her voice.</p> + +<p>“‘I must, I will!’ I said, and I made a movement towards her—a violent +movement I know it was.</p> + +<p>“But the old thing stood her ground. Oh, she was a gallant old woman.</p> + +<p>“‘Do what you like to me,’ she said. ‘I’m old. What does it matter? +She’s young.’</p> + +<p>“Then I knew she understood.</p> + +<p>“‘You’ve seen them together!’ I said. ‘Since I went!’</p> + +<p>“She wouldn’t say. Not a word. I was mad. I forgot decency, everything. +I took her. I searched her for the revolver. I searched her roughly—God +forgive me. She trembled horribly, but never said a word. It wasn’t +on her. She must have hidden it somewhere in that moment when she was +alone in the cottage. That was another ruse to keep me searching in +there while—But I saw it <span class="pagenum" id="Page_368">368</span>almost directly. I broke away, and rushed +out and down the road. Something seemed to tell me they had passed. I +got into the lane that leads to Charfield. The fly was gone. Then, all +of a sudden, I felt perfectly calm. I turned, and went up to the Abbey +gates. I knocked them up at the lodge. The keeper came out. When he saw +me he said:</p> + +<p>“‘You, my lord! However did you know?’</p> + +<p>“‘Go on!’ I said. ‘Know what?’</p> + +<p>“‘About Master Hugo?’</p> + +<p>“I didn’t say one way or the other.</p> + +<p>“‘The doctor says it’s a bitter bad quinsy, but there’s just a chance. +Her ladyship’s nearly mad. It only came on a few hours ago quite +sudden.’</p> + +<p>“I went up to the Abbey, and found Vere by the child’s bed. She looked +flushed, and was breathing hard, as if she had just been running.”</p> + +<p>He stopped, and took out his cigar-case.</p> + +<p>“Running!” I said.</p> + +<p>“She had parted finally from Glynd in front of Miss Bassett’s cottage,” +he said. “He told me that afterwards.”</p> + +<p>There was a moment’s silence. Then he spoke more calmly.</p> + +<p>“I went up to town when the child was safe, and had it out with Glynd. +They had meant to go that night. It was the boy who stopped her. She +took it as a judgment. You know <span class="pagenum" id="Page_369">369</span>how women are. Glynd swore she was +stopped in time. You understand?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“He didn’t lie to me.”</p> + +<p>“And your wife?”</p> + +<p>“I never spoke of it to her. I saw her with the boy, and—well, I saw +her with the boy, and what she was to him when he was close to death.”</p> + +<p>His voice went for a moment. Then he added:</p> + +<p>“I told her I’d had a presentiment Hugo was ill. She believed me, I +think. If not, she’s kept her secret.”</p> + +<p>Just then the dining-room door opened, and Lady Inley put in her pretty +head.</p> + +<p>“Are you never coming?” she said with her little childish drawl.</p> + +<p>I got up, and went towards her.</p> + +<p>“By the way, Nino,” she added, “the bell was for poor, funny old Miss +Bassett. What will her cat do, I wonder?”</p> + +<p>As I followed her towards the drawing-room I heard Inley’s voice mutter +behind me:</p> + +<p>“<i lang="la">Requiescat in Pace.</i>”</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"> + <span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_371">371</a></span> + <h2 class="nobreak gesperrt" id="Pancrazias_Hair"><i>PANCRAZIA’S HAIR</i></h2> +</div> + +<p class="drop-cap">ONE autumn I was in Sicily, making a number of mountain excursions, +visiting remote villages hidden in rocky clefts, or perched boldly +on spurs in the eye of the sun, sleeping occasionally at night in +humble rooms to which the gobbling turkey and the audacious pig were +no strangers. Among my many memories of those free and happy days one +stands out—the memory of a tress of splendid black hair.</p> + +<p>On an afternoon, near sunset, I rode up to the edge of a hamlet of +huddled dwellings, where stood a large, old church, Arabic-Norman in +style, and here I dismounted to rest and fill my eyes and heart with +the wonder and the glory of Nature.</p> + +<p>As I gazed I remember thinking: “How small humanity is!”</p> + +<p>A fat old priest shuffled up to recall me from my reveries. He cleared +his throat, saluted me, and begged me to come and see his church.</p> + +<p>We went into the sacristy, and presently stood before an immense and +mouldy cupboard. After much struggling with a rusty key the doors were +opened, and I was confronted <span class="pagenum" id="Page_372">372</span>by a large wooden statue of the Madonna +and Child, covered with fading but still hideous colours, and flecked +with the dust of ages.</p> + +<p>I scarcely noticed the statue, however, for my eyes had fallen upon +something else—a great plait of glorious black hair, thick, long, +twisted with reverent care, strong strand through strand, tied at the +top and bottom by bows of rose-red satin. It hung to the wrist of the +Madonna, and was touched by the little outstretched foot of the infant +Jesus.</p> + +<p>I looked inquiringly at the priest.</p> + +<p>“That is Pancrazia’s hair, signore.”</p> + +<p>“Pancrazia’s hair! Who is, or was, Pancrazia?”</p> + +<p>An expression came into the priest’s face that transformed it—a look so +human, so tender, even so mystical, that suddenly I loved this old man +in his rusty soutane and his wrinkled, patched boots.</p> + +<p>I sat down on a wooden box that stood just below the statue, and the +priest told me the story of the tress of hair.</p> + +<p>I give it in his words, so far as I remember them. But I cannot give +the look in his eyes while he was speaking, or the almost childishly +beautiful simplicity and sincerity of his manner.</p> + +<p>“Pancrazia was never a handsome girl, but always she looked a good +girl. And then she had the most beautiful hair in the village, or, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_373">373</span>indeed, in all the country round. When she was a child it was full of +gleams of gold, but the underneath was always dark; and, as she grew, +the darkness of it crept up, till all over her head the hair was black. +Only in the front, by her temples, there remained little feathers of +gold, which fell down near her kind, pious eyes—eyes that could be +merry, too, and laugh as readily as the eyes of the wicked and the +wanton.</p> + +<p>“Pancrazia was not one of the melancholy who must cry when they pray. +She thought it no wrong to smile at the Madonna; and I have seen her +run out of school in the summer days, and blow kisses to the Mother of +God—where the shrine is by the gateway of the village—as a child might +to her own mother coming down to meet her over the rocks, with, maybe, +the little pig trotting alongside. Why not, signore? She had confidence +in the Madonna; and what is more beautiful than the confidence which +runs out of a young heart like a stream out of a hazel wood? The +Madonna loved it, you may be sure.</p> + +<p>“As Pancrazia grew up, despite her piety—she was the purest-minded +child I ever blessed—the natural feelings grew with her. They come +early, signore, in sunny places; and, thank God, the sun is never long +away from us here. She began to know there’s a life for a maiden that +follows after the child’s life.</p> + +<p>“Ah, signore, I watched over the girl as I <span class="pagenum" id="Page_374">374</span>have watched over a flower +growing in my little garden—you must see my little garden, signore, +before you go.</p> + +<p>“Often I thought: ‘What a mother she will make!’ And sometimes I would +run over the boys of the village to choose a husband for her when she +should be a bit older. But somehow it always ended the same way: I +never could settle on the husband.</p> + +<p>“Well, signore, you know what girls are. She didn’t wait for me to +choose, though nobody respected me as she did. She didn’t think so +much of herself as I thought of her. And while I was saying to myself: +‘Giovanni won’t do, and Stefano won’t do, and Paolo’s not the one, +and may the Madonna preserve her from Giorgio!’ she says to herself: +‘Angelo!’ Not a word more, you may be certain. I can hear her say it, +and see her lips smiling over the word—‘Angelo!’</p> + +<p>“I’d come to him, in my numbering, and I’d said to myself: ‘Angelo +won’t quite do.’ Not that he was a bad boy. And he was a handsome one; +strong, merry, and could play the guitar and dance the tarantella, +and sing ‘O sole mio!’ till you could hear it from Acireale to Capo +Sant’ Alessio pretty near. But— Well, in my eyes, nobody would do for +Pancrazia.</p> + +<p>“In her heart, all the same, she chose Angelo, and it seemed that in +his he chose her. When I saw him with her one twilight by the <span class="pagenum" id="Page_375">375</span>shrine +at the gateway, and saw her kneel down, while he stood beside her, and +crossed himself and looked at her as she was praying—for him, signore, +you may be sure, knowing women—I understood how it was, and I said to +myself: ‘Perhaps the Madonna has done the numbering too, and stopped at +Angelo.’</p> + +<p>“And so I left it, trusting all was right for that pure child, even in +this world of sin.</p> + +<p>“Angelo was a seaman, and was often away. One night when I was in +my garden watering my roses—they are worth seeing, as you will know +presently, signore—I saw Angelo and Pancrazia coming up to the gate +together. I set down the pot of water. Pancrazia was smiling, and he +looked brave—you know how a boy of courage looks when he’s just found +someone who wants to be taken care of, signore?</p> + +<p>“I understood, but I pretended not to, and said innocently: ‘What is +it, my children?’</p> + +<p>“Then she told me, while he just stared at her, with his eyes getting +graver at every word she said. They were going to be husband and wife, +and I was the first to know it. Angelo had to go away in the morning +to Messina. He’d got a job to sail on an orange boat to the Lipari +Islands, and was to be away two months in all. For those two months the +secret was to be kept among us three.</p> + +<p>“It was Pancrazia’s wish. She didn’t want to face the village talk till +Angelo could stay <span class="pagenum" id="Page_376">376</span>beside her. There was always something more retiring +about her than about the other girls. It seemed to go with her purity. +I blessed them both, and, when I’d finished watering my roses, I prayed +for them and for their children.</p> + +<p>“Angelo went away in the morning, and Pancrazia kept up bravely. The +village folk gossiped and laughed, and spoke of the faithlessness of +the men of the sea, but Pancrazia only smiled to herself. And I smiled +too. You see, we knew what had been settled, but they, poor, silly +souls, were ignorant. Yet, as it turned out, I don’t know⸺”</p> + +<p>“Time went on, and one evening, after a month had gone, Pancrazia came +rushing into my garden like a mad thing, with a bit of paper in her +hand. Angelo was desperately ill with fever far away in Lipari, and the +orange boat had had to sail from there and leave him. I scarcely knew +Pancrazia. There was a passion in her I’d never suspected, although I +know the fires that slumber in us, who are almost the sucking children +of Etna, signore, as you might say.</p> + +<p>“‘What shall I do? What shall I do?’ she kept on crying out.</p> + +<p>“‘Pray,’ I said. ‘Pray, my child, to the Madonna della Rocca.’</p> + +<p>“When she left me it was night. Very late I walked out to the wall +above the precipice to look at Etna and the stars, and there, beyond +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_377">377</span>the gateway, on the stones before the shrine, I saw a figure kneeling, +and I heard a little noise of sobbing. I went, and whispered:</p> + +<p>“‘You must not cry thus when you pray, Pancrazia. The Madonna will +think you doubt her.’</p> + +<p>“Then, signore, the sobbing stopped.</p> + +<p>“A week went by, two weeks, and then came news that Angelo was worse, +was dying out there in the islands. That day Pancrazia came again to my +house. She was calm, signore, calm, and her face white and still as a +pan of milk.</p> + +<p>“‘Padre,’ she said, ‘shut the door.’</p> + +<p>“I shut it.</p> + +<p>“‘Padre,’ she said, ‘I’m going to give something to the Madonna della +Rocca, and no one is to know but you. Will you promise never to tell?’</p> + +<p>“I promised solemnly, as she desired.</p> + +<p>“‘Come with me to the church now, padre.’</p> + +<p>“I went with her. She had in her hands a length of red ribbon, and +there was a scissors hanging at her waist.</p> + +<p>“When we were in the church she shut the door, and said:</p> + +<p>“‘Unlock the cupboard in the sacristy, please, padre.’</p> + +<p>“We went into the sacristy, and I unlocked this cupboard, and looked at +her.</p> + +<p>“‘What is it you are giving to the Madonna, my child?’ I asked.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_378">378</span></p> + +<p>“She never said a word, but took the scissors from her waist, and +before I could stop her she had cut off her beautiful hair. Not that +I would have prevented her; no, signore, but it was her one beauty, +except the look of goodness in her face. And somehow it seemed to me +that the Madonna would have wished— But she was right. We should keep +back nothing. She tied the ribbons as they are now, and hung the hair +up there upon the Madonna’s hand, and knelt down, and told her that +she offered it for Angelo, in the hope that her love of him might be +regarded in heaven, and that his life might be spared. That was all.</p> + +<p>“She put a shawl over her poor head, and we came out.</p> + +<p>“Well, presently there was a fine to-do in the village. When the folk +saw Pancrazia’s head they stared, and asked, and laughed. And the +children pointed, and cried out. And the boys—I beat the boys, signore, +and never asked forgiveness. But Pancrazia wouldn’t say a word.</p> + +<p>“Pancrazia’s offering found favour with the Madonna, signore. Her +prayer was heard. Angelo recovered, and returned.”</p> + +<p>The old priest paused. His face was working. The mystical expression I +had observed in his eyes was replaced for a moment by a very different +look. After a silence he continued:</p> + +<p>“No one knew then what we all knew later: <span class="pagenum" id="Page_379">379</span>that he had been nursed back +to life—those were Angelo’s words, and a lie, signore, for his recovery +was the miracle of the Madonna—by a woman of the islands, and that +already his heart was going out to this stranger. He had come back, +though, to keep his word. That I know. But when he saw Pancrazia’s +poor, shorn head he thought again of the island woman, and⸺”</p> + +<p>The old man coughed, and paused.</p> + +<p>“Signore,” he resumed in a loud voice, “when Pancrazia saw his look, +and that his heart was turned by such a thing, she would not say where, +and why, the hair was gone. And I—I had promised. Angelo was but a +lad, his passions were hot, the lust of the eye was awake within him, +and—God and the Madonna forgive him!—where he should have seen the +heart he⸺”</p> + +<p>He paused again.</p> + +<p>“Signore, he went back to the islands, and married the woman who had +nursed him in Lipari.”</p> + +<p>“And Pancrazia?” I asked. “Did she not—pardon me if I hurt you—but did +she not cease to pray to the Madonna?”</p> + +<p>“Cease to pray!” said the old man, and again the mystical look was in +his eyes.</p> + +<p>He drew out his watch, then softly he whispered:</p> + +<p>“Come, signore!”</p> + +<p>We went out to the wall above the precipice. <span class="pagenum" id="Page_380">380</span>Here there is an old +gateway, arching the narrow track by which I had ascended. Just beyond +it, under the towering rocks, is a shrine with a crude picture of the +Madonna and Child. Now, as the old priest pointed with his finger, +I saw on the step before the shrine a plain, dark woman kneeling. A +handkerchief was folded over her head, and fell upon her shoulders. Her +hands were clasped. Her lips were moving. She was absorbed, and did not +see us.</p> + +<p>“That is Pancrazia!” whispered the priest. “She has never married. Each +day at this hour she comes here. Do you know why?”</p> + +<p>“To ask for⸺”</p> + +<p>“She is asking for nothing. She is blessing the Madonna.”</p> + +<p>“Blessing the Madonna!”</p> + +<p>“For having answered her prayer.”</p> + +<p>“But⸺”</p> + +<p>“Signore, when Pancrazia gave her hair to the Madonna della Rocca she +did not think of self. She only asked that her love might be regarded +in heaven, and that Angelo’s life might be spared. Her prayer was +granted. Angelo lives. And each day at this hour Pancrazia comes here +to give thanks to God, and to praise and bless the Holy Madonna della +Rocca.”</p> + +<p>I said nothing, but I thought as I watched the praising woman,</p> + +<p>“How great humanity is!”</p> + +<div class="transnote"> + <div class="large center"><b>Transcriber’s Notes:</b></div> + <ul class="spaced"> + <li>Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.</li> + <li>Illustration facing page 90 added to LOI</li> + </ul> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76971 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76971-h/images/cover.jpg b/76971-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4099765 --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/frontis.jpg b/76971-h/images/frontis.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6c2f24f --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/frontis.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i004.jpg b/76971-h/images/i004.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5495f5 --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i004.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i026.jpg b/76971-h/images/i026.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..55dc7fa --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i026.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i062.jpg b/76971-h/images/i062.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2a21ba3 --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i062.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i073.jpg b/76971-h/images/i073.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb7dfbb --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i073.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i090.jpg b/76971-h/images/i090.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c57298 --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i090.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i130.jpg b/76971-h/images/i130.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..693bbbc --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i130.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/i144.jpg b/76971-h/images/i144.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a8a6fe5 --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/i144.jpg diff --git a/76971-h/images/title.jpg b/76971-h/images/title.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..cdcaf17 --- /dev/null +++ b/76971-h/images/title.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this book outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a61202d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for book #76971 +(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76971) |
