the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, unusually powerful for the time of year, lay warmly on the southern slopes of a tiny spur of the little atlas mountains, glowing redly on the patches of bare earth and naked rock cropping out between the scrubby undergrowth that straggled sparsely up the hill-side, and flickering through the leaves of a clump of olive trees huddled at its base where three horses stood tethered, lazily switching at the troublesome flies with their long tails and shifting their feet uneasily from time to time.
ten miles away to the westward lay blidah, europeanised and noisy, but here was the deep stillness and solitude—though not the arid desolation—of the open desert. the silence was broken only by the monotonous cooing of pigeons and the low murmur of voices.
at a little distance from the picketed horses, out in the full sunshine, a man lay on his back on the soft ground apparently asleep, his hands clasped under his head, his face almost hidden by a sun helmet beneath the brim of which protruded grotesquely a disreputable age-black pipe which even in sleep his teeth held firmly. there were amongst william chalmers’ patients and intimate acquaintances those who affirmed positively that that foul old meerschaum—treasured relic of his hospital days—ranked second in his affections only to the adored wife who was sitting now near his recumbent figure. alert and youthful looking in spite of her grey hairs, she lounged comfortably against a sun warmed rock talking animatedly yet softly to the third member of the party, a well set up man of soldierly appearance who sprawled full length at her feet. there was a certain definite resemblance between the two, a similarity of speech and gesture, that proclaimed a near relationship.
mrs. chalmers broke off in the middle of a sentence to flap her gauntlet gloves at a swarm of persistent flies. “all the same, i think it’s perfectly disgraceful that you are still a bachelor, micky,” she said, with emphatic cousinly candour, resuming an argument which had raged for the last half hour. major meredith grinned with perfect good humour.
“haven’t time for matrimony,” he answered lazily, “too busy watching our wily brothers over the border. and besides,” with a provocative sidelong glance, “marriage is a lottery. we can’t all expect to have bill’s luck.”
mrs. chalmers wrinkled her nose at him disgustedly. “that’s a cliché,” she said with fine scorn, ignoring the implied compliment, “it merely means that you haven’t yet met the right woman. however—” she laughed mischievously—“there’s still hope for you. a year at home after nearly ten years of exile will probably make you change your mind. it’s a pity you didn’t take your leave sooner, there were some charming girls here last winter. unfortunately this year’s sample is not recommendable, there is scarcely a really nice girl in the place—always excepting marny geradine, and she’s married already—poor child.”
“why ‘poor child?’?” asked the soldier, his cousin’s sudden change of tone seeming to call for some comment. “because—” mrs. chalmers paused frowningly, “oh, well, you haven’t seen lord geradine or you wouldn’t ask,” she went on soberly, “he’s been away on a shooting trip since you’ve been here—and the air of algiers has been consequently cleaner,” she added with a little shiver.
major meredith hoisted his long limbs up into a sitting position. “a case of a misfit marriage?” he suggested.
“marriage!” echoed mrs. chalmers scornfully, “it isn’t a marriage, it’s a crime. it makes my blood boil to think of it. and yet i hardly know them. he’s impossible, and she is the shyest, most reserved young woman i have ever met. i’d give a great deal to be able to help her, she seems so lonely and there is tragedy staring at you out of her eyes. but of course one can’t do anything. she isn’t the kind of person who makes confidants. i’ve blundered in pretty often during my life when it hasn’t been my business, but i simply shouldn’t dare to speak to lady geradine of her affairs—though i am old enough to be her mother. ugh! let’s talk of something less revolting,” she said hastily, a trace of huskiness in her voice. and for a time she sat silent, staring absently in front of her with eyes that had become very wistful and tender. then with a shrug and a half sigh she turned again eagerly to her companion. “there is a great deal that wants putting right in the world, micky,” she said with ungrammatical decisiveness, “but i’m not going to spoil a perfect afternoon by moralising. it has been jolly, hasn’t it? i thought you would like this little valley. so few people seem to know of it, no special inducement to bring them here except peace and quietness which most of the folk wintering in algiers don’t seem particularly to hanker after. we found it years ago and have camped here often, a haven of refuge when life was especially strenuous or perplexing. it is sad to think that it is our last visit and that in a few weeks we shall have shaken the dust of algeria off our feet. five years, micky, five years that bill has been marking time in this back of beyond because of my stupid lungs. but they are all right now, thank god, and we are off to america as soon as may be to investigate some new nerve treatment bill is interested in. and when he has picked the brains of his transatlantic confrères we shall come home to end our days in harley street in an odour of sanctity and general stuffiness. won’t london be simply horrid after years of fresh air and open spaces? so, you see, you only just caught us in time. if your leave had been delayed you would have missed us, and i did want you to see our algerian home. it’s been a hectic fortnight, but i’ve enjoyed every minute of it, and i think we’ve managed to show you all the sights of algiers and its immediate surroundings. but i do regret one thing—i wish you could have seen our mystery-man. he is quite a feature of the place. an englishman who lives like an arab—you needn’t pull a face, micky, i don’t mean that he has ‘gone native’ or anything horrid of that kind, he is much too dignified. but he lives in a sort of splendid isolation in the loveliest villa in mustapha, with a retinue like a chief’s. and though he is tremendously popular with the french officers and all the important sheiks who come into algiers he pointedly avoids his fellow countrymen. and he won’t speak to or even look at a woman! he wears arab dress most of the time and would pass for a native anywhere. he lives for months together in the desert and descends on algiers at irregular intervals. one hears that he is in the town, and glimpses him occasionally stalking along with his head in the air rather like a supercilious camel, or riding like a hurricane through the streets in approved arab style, but that is all that the english community ever see of him. and he has obviously heaps of money—and it’s a gorgeous villa. he might be such an acquisition to the place, but, as it is, he is merely an intriguing personality who is ‘wropt in mystery,’ as old nannie used to say. needless to add that in a place like this, where we all discuss our neighbours, he is the subject of endless speculation. but nobody really knows anything about him.”
a faint chuckle came from behind doctor chalmers’ big helmet. “i’m sorry to contradict you, mollie, but that is not strictly accurate,” he said sleepily. his wife sat up with a jerk. “who knows?” she challenged.
“well—i do, for one,” replied doctor chalmers coolly.
“you know, bill—and you’ve never said. how like a man! really, you are the most exasperating creatures on earth. fancy having that pearl of information up your sleeve—i’m getting mixed up in my metaphors, but never mind—and withholding it from the partner of your joys and sorrows. i shouldn’t have passed it on if it was a confidence, you know that very well. but since you have admitted so much you can soothe my outraged feelings by imparting a little more.”
doctor chalmers laughed and stretched lazily. “can’t be done,” he replied succinctly.
“why not? i wouldn’t tell a soul, and micky is only a bird of passage so it can’t possibly matter what he hears. don’t be tiresome, bill, expound.”
but the doctor shook his head. “my dear mollie,” he expostulated, fingering the old pipe tenderly, “a confidence is a confidence and i can’t break it simply to satisfy your curiosity, natural though it may be. and hasn’t the poor devil been discussed enough? how he lives and what he chooses to do in the desert is, after all, entirely his own affair—nobody else’s business.”
“but, bill, one hears such queer stories—”
“queer stories be hanged, m’dear. a silly lot of idiotic gossip, this place is rotten with it. some fool of a busybody starts a rumour without a tithe of foundation to it and it’s all over the town as gospel truth the next day. carew’s mode of life, his antipathy to women, and his obvious sympathy with the arabs make him a bit peculiar. just because the poor chap has the bad taste to ignore your charming sex all the women have got their knives into him. i bet the queer stories you speak of emanate from your blessed feminine tea parties. trust a woman to invent a mystery—”
“but, bill, he is mysterious.”
“rubbish, mollie. he prefers to make his friends amongst the french and he hates women—that’s the sum total of his crimes as far as i’m aware. peculiar, if you like, but certainly not mysterious. and as to the last indictment—” the doctor laughed and winked unblushingly at major meredith, “—personally i call him a sensible chap to mix only with his own broader minded and more enlightened sex—ouch!” he grunted, as his wife’s helmet landed with a thud on his chest.
“bill, you’re horrid. men gossip just as much as women.”
doctor chalmers returned her helmet with an ironical bow. “they may do, my dear,” he said with sudden gravity, “but in algiers it is not the men who gossip about carew. and for the short time we remain in this hot-bed of intrigue you will oblige me by contradicting, on my authority, any silly stories you may hear about him. he’s a friend of mine. i value his friendship, and i won’t have him adversely discussed in my house.”
mrs. chalmers bowed her head to the unexpected storm she had raised. “i’m sorry, dear,” she said contritely, “i didn’t know he was really a friend. in all the years we’ve lived here you’ve hardly ever mentioned him. i do think men are the queerest things,” she added in a puzzled voice that made her companions laugh. her husband rolled over and began to fill his pipe. “there are still a few little secrets i keep from the wife of my bosom,” he murmured teasingly, “but, seriously, mollie, hands off carew.”
“very well, dear,” she replied with surprising meekness. and for some time she sat silent with knitted brows, poking the sand absently with the handle of her whip. then she spoke abruptly—“but there’s no smoke without fire, bill. there must be some foundation for the stories that are told about him. he was divorced or something unpleasant of the kind, wasn’t he?”
“he may have been,” replied the doctor indifferently, pressing the tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe with a blunt thumb, “i don’t know—and i’m afraid i don’t care. i take people as i find them, and gervas carew is one of the whitest, cleanest men i have ever met.”
major meredith looked up with a sudden start.
“gervas carew,” he said quickly, “sir gervas carew?”
the doctor shrugged. “i believe so,” he said guardedly, “though he doesn’t seem to have any use for the title. he drops it here in algeria. and if you have anything detrimental to say about him i’d rather not hear it,” he added shortly, with a sudden flicker of anger in his sleepy blue eyes.
but major meredith was obviously not listening.
“gervas carew—after all these years!” he ejaculated, “so your mystery-man, mollie, turns out to be gervas carew. gad, what a small place the world is! poor old gervas—of all people!”
mrs. chalmers’ eyes danced with excitement. she laid an impatient hand on her cousin’s shoulder, and shook him vigorously. “if you don’t say something more explicit in a minute, micky, i shall scream. it’s no good sitting there looking as if you had seen a ghost and murmuring tragically ‘poor old gervas,’ you’ve simply got to explain. and if bill doesn’t want to listen he can go and saddle the horses. it’s time we made a move anyhow.”
meredith turned slowly and looked at her through narrowing eyelids. “give a dog a bad name, and hang him,” he said with a touch of contempt in his voice. “from what you say, mollie, algiers appears to have been hanging gervas carew pretty thoroughly and, as he was my best friend once, i think it is up to me to explain. you needn’t go, bill,” he added hastily as the doctor heaved himself on to his feet with a smothered word of profanity. “you’re seldom wrong in a diagnosis, old man, and you haven’t made a mistake this time. it’s not a long story, nor, unfortunately, an uncommon one. carew and i were chums at rugby, and until i got my commission and went to india. when he was about twenty-five, shortly after his father’s death and he had succeeded to the title, he married. the girl, who was a few years younger than himself, was the worst kind of society production, artificial to her finger tips. i stayed with them on my first home leave and hated her at sight. but poor old gervas was blindly in love. he worshipped the ground she walked on. she was beautiful, of course, one of those pale-complexioned, copper-haired women who are liable to sudden and tremendous passion—but gervas hadn’t touched her. mentally and morally he was miles above her. she was as incapable of appreciating the fineness of his character as he was of suspecting the falseness of hers. his love didn’t content her and, though she was clever enough to hide it from him, she flirted shamelessly with every man who came to the house. she craved for adulation. anybody was fair game to her. she tried it on with me before i’d been there half a day—but i hadn’t served five years’ apprenticeship in india for nothing and she ended by hating me as thoroughly as i hated her. then the south african war broke out and i did all i could to get to the front but they sent me back to the frontier. and gervas, who had always wanted to be a soldier and had had to content himself with the yeomanry, was in the seventh heaven, poor devil, and took a troop out to the cape, largely composed of men off his own estate. he was invalided back to england after nine months to find that his wife had consoled herself in his absence with an austrian count, of sorts, and had cleared out with the blighter, leaving a delicate baby behind her. the child died the night gervas reached home. i heard what happened from a mutual friend. for a few weeks he was to all intents and purposes out of his mind. he was in a very weak state from his wound, and the double shock of his wife’s faithlessness and the baby’s death—he was devoted to the little chap—was too much for him. then he took up life again, but he was utterly changed. he divorced the woman that she might marry the man she had gone off with and six months afterwards he disappeared.
“that’s ten or twelve years ago and i’ve never been able to get into communication with him since. that’s gervas carew’s story, mollie.
“i can’t give any explanation of his avoidance of english people except that he was always a sensitive sort of chap. but i think that his present attitude towards women, at any rate, is understandable. there was one woman in the world for him—and she let him down.”
there was a long silence after the soldier stopped speaking. mrs. chalmers sat very subdued, blinking away the tears that had risen in her eyes.
“i wish i’d known before, micky. i feel a beast,” she said at last with regretful fervour.
“you might well,” growled her husband unsympathetically, and stalked away to the horses.
major meredith prepared to follow, but lingered for a moment beside his cousin who had also risen to her feet.
“i need hardly add that what i’ve told you is entirely between ourselves, mollie. i only wanted to put carew right with you and bill. what the rest of algiers chooses to think doesn’t matter a tinker’s curse. i wish i could have seen the poor old chap, but as i’m off tomorrow that is hardly probable. still, i’ve located him, which is more than i ever expected to do.”
mrs. chalmers followed him thoughtfully to the clump of olive trees where the doctor with recovered good temper was busily saddling the horses.
they mounted and moved off leisurely down the steep side of the hill, picking a careful way between rocks and scrub and cactus bushes until they reached a narrow track winding in and out at the foot of the mountain a few feet above the bed of the tiny ravine that separated it from the adjoining range.
the track was wide enough only for two to ride abreast and the doctor forged ahead leaving his wife to follow with her cousin.
mrs. chalmers made no further reference to the story she had heard, guessing that meredith would not care to speak of it again, but chatted instead of the neighbourhood through which they were passing.
“these hills are a maze,” she explained with a sweeping gesture of her whip that effectually upset the hitherto irreproachable behaviour of the horse she was riding. she reined him back with difficulty.
“i forgot i mustn’t do that. captain andré told me he couldn’t bear to have a whip whiffled about his ears,” she said laughingly. “some of the gorges are wider than this, perfect camping grounds,” she continued, after she had soothed her mount’s ruffled sensibilities. “very often a sheik will camp here on his way to algiers. extraordinarily interesting they are, especially the ones who come from the far south—the wildest creatures, with hordes of fierce retainers who look as if they would think nothing of murdering one just for the sheer fun of it. but they are always very nice to us—they like the english. i am ashamed to say i have learned very little arabic but when we meet them i smile and say ‘anglaise’ and they get quite excited and salaam and grin and chatter like magpies. then, again, we come here and may ride for miles and never see a soul for days together.”
“that is what one thinks on the frontier but the beggars are there all the time, right enough,” said meredith with a quick smile. “you will be riding over a bit of country that you wouldn’t think could afford cover for a cat and ping goes a bullet past your head. if they weren’t such thundering bad shots i, for one, should have been a goner years ago.” he laughed light-heartedly, and mrs. chalmers glanced at him curiously, marvelling, as she had marvelled frequently in the last fortnight, at the hazardous life that is some men’s portion and the fatalistic indifference it usually engenders. during his short visit she had listened with wonder and amazement to her cousin’s reluctant account of his work on the border.
to meredith it was the great game. now, quite suddenly, she wondered what it would mean to the woman he might make his wife.
“i don’t believe, after all, micky, that men like you ought to marry,” she said pensively. meredith laughed at the patently regretful tone of her voice, for her matchmaking proclivities were notorious.
“i’m quite sure of it,” he replied promptly, and unwillingly mrs. chalmers was obliged to laugh with him.
but further conversation became for the time impossible. the rough track they were following grew narrower and less perceptible until it suddenly vanished altogether and the horses slithered and slipped down to the rocky bed of the dry watercourse at the bottom of the defile. the pass was bearing steadily towards the south and doctor chalmers who was some little distance ahead of them had already disappeared from sight behind a jutting angle of rock where the hill curved abruptly. following in single file they reached the sharp bend and rounding it close under the stark cliff face, emerged into a wider, less rugged valley that stretched on the one hand far up into the mountains and on the other led to open country. a quarter of a mile away, at the entrance of the valley, doctor chalmers was waiting for them. scrambling out of the river bed they spurred their horses, racing to join him, and as they neared he turned in the saddle beckoning vigorously. “you’re in luck, micky,” he shouted, “there’s your man.” and following his pointing finger they saw a small party of horsemen galloping towards the mountains. the leader, who was riding slightly in advance of his escort, was distinguished from his white-clad followers by an embroidered blue cloth burnous that billowed round him in swelling folds. with a little thrill of excitement mrs. chalmers glanced quickly at her cousin, and decided for the second time that day that men were queer creatures. they never did what one expected them to do. a little more than half-an-hour ago micky had expressed a great wish to meet again the friend of his youth. the wish unexpectedly fulfilled, it was to be supposed that his inward gratification would take some outward and visible form. he sat instead motionless on his fretting horse, scowling at the approaching horsemen, his underlip sucked in beneath his trim brown moustache, in very obvious hesitation.
it was doctor chalmers who rode forward and waved his hand with a welcoming shout. and for a moment it seemed as if his greeting was going to pass unrecognised. the horsemen were nearly abreast of them, riding at a tremendous pace, another moment they would have swept past. then, with a powerful jerk that sent the bright bay straight up into the air spinning high on his hind legs, the leader checked his mount suddenly. it was a common trick among the arabs which mrs. chalmers had often witnessed, but she never watched it without a quickening heartbeat, and she gave a little sigh of relief now as the horse came down without the ugly backward tremble she had seen once and dreaded to see again. she was conscious of a feeling of extreme embarrassment at the near presence of the man whose mysterious personality she had discussed freely with her circle of acquaintances during the last five years, but who now appeared to her in a new and totally different light. her warm impulsive heart had been touched by micky meredith’s story and a hot wave of discomfort passed over her as she recollected the idle gossip she had both countenanced and participated in. she determined to delay the inevitable meeting with the much criticised mystery-man until the first greeting and explanations between the two old friends were over. leaving meredith to go alone, she lingered behind under pretext of re-arranging her habit, and for some minutes she bent over her perfectly adjusted safety skirt pulling and patting it into further order while her fidgety horse wheeled and backed impatiently at the forced stand. then she rode forward with unusual diffidence to join the three men who, dismounted, were deep in conversation. they drew apart at her coming and meredith effected the necessary introduction.
in response to mrs. chalmers’ murmured greeting the tall picturesque-looking man who had turned almost reluctantly towards her replied briefly and bowed with grave, unsmiling aloofness that seemed consistent with the arab robes he wore so naturally. she had a swift glimpse of a lean brown clean-shaven face, of a pair of dark blue sombre eyes that did not quite meet her own, and then her husband’s genial voice broke the threatening silence.
“sir gervas is camping in the neighborhood, mollie. he wants micky to wait over until the later train. we shall have to push on as i promised to be in algiers early this evening,” he explained, preparing to remount. “your train leaves blidah at eleven, micky,” he added. “and, carew, the horse is andré’s. see that he gets back all right to the cavalry barracks, will you? ready, mollie? then take hold of that beast of yours. we shall have to run for it.”
as the doctor and his wife cantered off, meredith looked after their retreating figures with a gleam of amusement in his eyes. bill’s diplomacy had been worthy of a greater cause. then he turned to his companion.
“that’s a dam’ good fellow,” he said emphatically, “one in a billion.”
but the silent man beside him did not at the moment seem inclined to discuss doctor chalmers’ merits.
nodding briefly he signed to his servants to bring up the spirited bay that had been removed from the proximity of the other horses.
and as they rode along together meredith tried in vain to trace in this grave, taciturn individual some resemblance to the gay, happy-go-lucky gervas carew of long ago. he wondered, if alone, he would have even known him. carew had apparently recognised him at once, but the recognition was easy, for the passing years had made no great alteration in him; while to meredith the face of his old friend had become the face of a stranger, hardened, remoulded almost, until even the contour seemed different. other changes too became gradually evident. the restless impatience that meredith remembered had given place to a calm imperturbability that was more oriental than occidental. there was a dignity and stateliness in his bearing that contrasted forcibly with his former boyish impulsiveness. of the old gervas carew there was clearly nothing left, and the new gervas seemed reluctant to reveal himself. the threads, too, of the early acquaintance, broken for so long, were curiously difficult to pick up but micky meredith, trained to waiting, was content to let the matter take its course. enough that a desire had been shown for his company, the rest would follow.
once only during the half-hour ride did carew open his mouth. he turned and looked critically at meredith’s mount. “shall we let them out?” he said slowly, with a certain hesitation in his voice as if his mother-tongue came unnaturally. “andré’s horses have a reputation.”
and as they raced neck and neck towards the north over the broken country that bordered the foothills they were skirting, meredith found a certain measure of satisfaction in the fact that one interest, at least, had survived the general upheaval. carew had always been a horseman and a lover of horses. more than ever did he seem so now. and as the soldier looked at the magnificent creature his companion was riding, and, glancing behind him, found the escort thundering close at their heels, he decided that it was not only the courteous cavalry captain at blidah whose stud must have a reputation in the country. it was one bond of sympathy remaining, he reflected, and sat down to ride as he had rarely ridden in his life.
his borrowed horse responded gallantly to the effort demanded of him, but the pace was punishing and the animal’s satiny neck grew dark and seamed with sweat as he strained to keep up with the bay that showed no sign of distress and seemed to be rather checked than urged by his rider. and with the perspiration pouring down his own face meredith was not sorry when a sudden curve in the hillside revealed a deserted fruit farm with carew’s camp scattered amongst the orange trees.
the big double tent of the owner was pitched at some distance from those of its followers, lying in an open clearing where once the farm buildings must have stood. and all about were horses and camels, tethered or wandering at will, and a small army of arabs languidly fulfilling the various duties of the camp or squatting idly on their heels engaged in endless argument.
but the return of the master roused his retainers to sudden and spontaneous activity, and meredith noted with a smile of approval the evident signs of discipline and authority. waiting grooms who had been lounging near the big tent sprang to the horses’ heads and the soldier slid out of the saddle with a grunt of relief and mopped his forehead with a gaudy silk handkerchief. “do you usually ride at that pace?” he enquired, laughing.
carew turned from fondling the big bay that was nozzling him affectionately. “pretty usually,” he answered, “it’s a bad habit one catches in the desert. but i’ve always wanted to try suliman against that grey of andré’s. he had him beaten from the start,” he added with a faint smile, “come have a drink.” and he led the way under the lance-propped awning into the cool dimness of the tent.
meredith glanced about with interest. the costly but sparse furnishings were almost entirely of the country; a small camp table and a solitary deck chair, the sole concessions to european taste, looked incongruous in conjunction with the low inlaid stools and gay brocaded silk mats that were purely arab. a wide divan, heaped with heavy cushions and covered with a couple of leopard skins, stood in the centre of the room. looped back curtains of gold-embroidered silk hung before the entrance to the sleeping apartment.
at first sight meredith thought the tent empty. but as his eyes grew accustomed to the soft light he saw, in a far corner, the slender figure of a child sitting on the ground swaying gently to and fro, his handsome little face upturned in rapt devotion as he crooned softly to himself while the beads of a long rosary slipped through his small brown fingers. the thick rugs on the floor deadened the sound of their footsteps and for a moment the entrance of the two men passed unnoticed. then carew moved and his foot struck sharply against a small brass bowl that had fallen from a nearby stool. at the sound the lad stopped swaying and sat rigid as if listening intently, his face turned eagerly towards them. then with a glad cry he tossed the rosary away and scrambling to his feet came flying across the tent with outstretched hands. a thick cushion that in its bright-hued covering appeared perfectly obvious against the dark rug lay directly in his path but he blundered straight into it and fell headlong before carew could catch him. and as meredith watched the big man bending over the little white-clad figure and saw the stern lines of his face change into a wonderful tenderness, and heard the sudden gentleness of his voice as he murmured in soft quick arabic, he recollected with a feeling of acute dismay the “queer stories” that mollie chalmers had referred to. was this, then, the solution of carew’s protracted sojourns in the desert? to the anglo-indian with his deep-rooted prejudices the supposition was repulsive. it was to him little short of a crime. and yet was there not perhaps an excuse? sudden pity contended with repulsion as he remembered carew’s devotion to his tiny son, and the tragedy that had robbed him of his child. had the ardent desire for parenthood that had formerly been so strong in him risen even against racial restrictions and the misogyny with which he was now accredited?
meredith was relieved when his disturbing thoughts were interrupted. the boy was on his feet again, talking excitedly, but carew silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.
“there is a guest, saba,” he said in french, “salute the english lord, and go bid hosein hasten with the cooling drink.”
suddenly shy the boy moved forward, bending his supple little figure in a deep salaam. then drawing himself erect, he lifted his face to meredith’s with a curiously uncertain movement. and looking down into the beautiful dark eyes raised to his the soldier saw the reason for that hasty tumble and an involuntary exclamation escaped him. he looked enquiringly at his host.
carew nodded. “yes, he’s blind,” he said in english, “but you needn’t pity him. he has never known anything different and he is a thoroughly happy little imp.” and drawing the boy to him with a quick caress he set him with his face towards the door and watched him grope his way from the tent.
then, pulling forward the deck chair, he placed cigarettes beside his guest. from behind a cloud of smoke meredith spoke with obvious constraint. “i’m awfully sorry—” he began awkwardly, and something in his voice made carew turn quickly to look at him. for a moment his sombre eyes rested on the soldier’s embarrassed face, then he shook his head with a grave smile that had in it a trace of bitterness.
“it’s not what you think,” he said evenly, “though i admit the thought is natural. he is not mine—sometimes i wish to god he were. he’s only a waif picked up in the desert, five or six hundred miles away in the south, there. i found him six years ago, when i was helping to clean up an arab raid, lying across his dead mother’s body and whimpering like a hungry kitten. he wasn’t more than a year old. i’ve had him ever since. i don’t think i could get on without the little chap now. he’s an interest, and fills up my time when i’m not otherwise occupied—fills it pretty completely, too, for he is as sharp as a needle and, when the mood takes him, as keen on mischief as any boy with the full use of his eyes. but tell me about yourself. are you still on the frontier?”
and meredith, keenly anxious to renew the old intimacy, let himself be drawn and talked of his life on the indian border as he had never talked of it before. baldly and jerkily at first and then with increasing ease he spoke of the years of arduous work that had claimed his whole time and thought; of perilous journeys and months passed in disguise amongst the savage northern tribes, of hairbreadth escapes and strange experiences, of periods of so-called leave which to the man intent on his job and absorbed in his occupation had only meant work in another form.
for an hour or more his quiet voice went on until the lengthening shadows deepened into blackness and the tent grew dark and obscure, until carew, sitting arab fashion on the divan, was almost invisible and only the glowing end of his cigarette revealed his presence. and meredith—the first plunge made—found him curiously easy to talk to, curiously knowledgeable too. from one or two comments he let fall meredith was inclined to believe that the watching game was no new one to him and the knowledge made his own tale less difficult to tell.
he stopped at last and groped for the matches on the stool beside him. “that about let’s me out,” he said, as he lit a cigarette. carew rose and going to the tent door clapped his hands. “you’re doing a big work, micky,” he said as he came slowly through the gloom. “you’ll end on the indian council if you don’t take care,” he added with almost the old bantering note in his voice.
“if i don’t end with a bullet through my head, which is much more probable,” replied meredith with a quick laugh, blinking at the lighted lamps that were being brought into the tent.
during the dinner that followed the conversation was mainly of algeria. but though carew discussed the country and its conditions, its people and the sport it afforded, of his own life there he said nothing. neither did he refer to the old days when their friendship had meant so much to each. the past was evidently a sealed book that he had no intention of reopening. a tentative remark hazarded by meredith met with no response and it was not until later when they were sitting out in the darkness under the awning that the soldier put the question he had been trying to ask all evening. they had sat for some time in silence, smoking, looking across the moonlit plain, listening to the subdued noises of the camp behind them and to the faint rhythmical thump of a tom-tom far off amongst the orange trees. a tiny breeze drifting, perfume laden, across their faces made meredith think suddenly of the scented gardens of kashmere. he twisted in his chair to get a better view of the starry heavens, and blurted out his question.
“why didn’t you write, old man?”
for a long time there was no answer and he mentally kicked himself for a blundering fool. then carew’s deep voice, deeper even than usual, came out of the darkness. “i couldn’t. i tried once—but there seemed nothing to say. i hoped you would understand.”
meredith moved uncomfortably. “i was—damned sorry,” he muttered gruffly. carew lit a fresh cigarette slowly.
“you needn’t waste any sympathy on me, micky,” he said with a sudden hard laugh. “i was a fool once—but i learnt my lesson—thoroughly.” there was another long silence. then meredith asked abruptly: “why algeria?”
carew shrugged. “i had to go somewhere. the house—its associations were a hell i wasn’t strong enough to stand. so i played the coward’s part and ran away. my people used to winter in algiers when i was a boy. i liked the country. it seemed the natural place to come to, somehow.” he paused. when he spoke again it was in a voice that was new to meredith. “it’s a wonderful place, the desert, micky,” he said dreamily, “it gets you in the end—if you go far enough, and stay long enough. it’s got me all right. i don’t suppose i shall ever leave it now. i come into algiers sometimes, but never for very long. always i go back to it. it holds me as nothing else has ever held me. the mystery of it, the charm of it—always new, never the same, changing from day to day. and its moods, my god, micky, its moods! the peace of heaven one moment and the fury of hell let loose the next. cruel but beautiful, pitiless but fascinating. and, somehow, one forgets the cruelty and only the beauty remains—the beauty of its wonderful solitudes, its marvellous emptiness.”
“and being there—what do you do?” meredith had no wish to appear inquisitive but for the last few minutes he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to fit his old friend into the new setting that seemed so incongruous. gervas and solitude! to meredith, remembering the perpetual house parties at royal carew, the crowds of pleasure-seeking, sport-loving men and women with whom the genial host of those old days had surrounded himself, it appeared a thing incredible. and again he asked with growing perplexity: “what do you do?” and wondered if carew would consign him to the devil. but the retort he half expected did not ensue. “what do i do?” repeated carew slowly. “that was the question i asked myself when i came to algeria, when i seemed to have come to the end of everything—‘what shall i do.’ my first trip into the desert settled that quickly enough. i had always been interested in the arabs—i spoke the language as early as i spoke english—but i only knew the arabs of the towns. so i went down into the south to see the real life of the desert. i met some of the old sheiks who used to come into algiers when i was a boy and who still remembered my father. they made it easy for me and passed me on into districts where otherwise i could never have penetrated, and i saw more than i had ever hoped to see. i started my wanderings with no higher motive than curiosity—and a desire to get away from my own thoughts. it had never occurred to me that up till then i had led an utterly purposeless life, that not a soul in the world was the better for my being in it. but out there in the desert the crying need i found forced me to think, for the reckless waste of life and the ghastly unnecessary suffering i saw appalled me. i knew that one man alone could not do much—but he could do something. it didn’t take me long to make up my mind. the old life was over. i wanted a new life that wouldn’t give me time to think, that would give me opportunity to help the people i had professed to be interested in. i went to paris and studied medicine, specializing in surgery, and took my degree. afterwards i put in six months with a man in switzerland, a brute—but a wizard with the knife, and then came back to algeria. that’s what i do, micky.”
meredith drew a deep breath. “and a dam’ fine thing, too,” he said heartily. and reaching out a long arm he gripped the other’s shoulder for a moment with a pressure that was painful. “so that’s what you do in the desert when you vanish for months at a time, is it?” he said slowly, with a curious expression of relief in his voice and a feeling of self-disgust as he thought of the suspicions that had been forced upon him earlier in the evening.
“it isn’t all plain sailing, i suppose?” he suggested.
“far from it,” replied carew, “but it depends on the district, of course. usually the beggars are grateful enough and i go pretty much where i please. but they are a naturally suspicious people and there are some places i can’t get into at any price. they think my work is a pretext and that i am a spy of the government.”
“and are you?”
“officially, no. but sometimes i see and hear things i think the government should know—it’s a difficult country to administer—and at times the government make use of my knowledge. i have acted as intermediary more than once in negotiations with some of the outlying tribes where it would be impossible to send a regularly accredited agent without a regiment to back him up—and that usually ends in fighting which the government try to avoid. there’s unrest enough in the south without stirring up any more trouble,” he added, turning to speak to a tall, saturnine-looking arab who had suddenly approached with a soft murmur of apology.
the shrill sequel of a stallion and the trampling of hoofs made meredith realise the reason for the interruption.
“time up?” he said regretfully, following carew into the tent. “by jove, it’s late!” he added, glancing at his watch, “can we get into blidah by eleven?”
“not by the way the chalmers brought you,” replied carew with a faint smile, buckling the clasp of the heavy burnous his servant folded about his shoulders. the same escort that had ridden with him earlier in the day was waiting but he dismissed them and alone the two men rode out into the moonlit night. for a time they did not speak. carew had apparently reached the limit of his confidences and meredith was in no mood to break the silence. it had been a curious meeting, a curious renewal of an old friendship, but the soldier was left with an uncomfortable feeling of doubt whether it would not have been kinder if no reminder of his early life had been brought to disturb the peace that, seemingly, his old friend had found in the desert. his presence must have vividly awakened in carew memories of the past. for how much did the past still count with him? did he never regret the fine old property in england where generations of carews had lived since the days of the virgin queen whose visit during a royal progress had given the house its name? meredith had many pleasant recollections of royal carew and the thought of the stately house he had known so full of life and happiness standing now empty and forlorn in the midst of its beautiful park gave him a feeling of sadness.
“will you never go back, gervas?” he asked involuntarily.
“go back—where?”
“to royal carew.”
carew shook his head. “i told you i had done with the old life,” he said rather wearily. “royal carew belongs to the past—and the past is dead. and i couldn’t very well go back now, if i wanted to. i let my cousin have the place. he is my heir, it would have come to him eventually. it was better he should go there while he was still young enough to enjoy it. it’s a damned poor game waiting for dead men’s shoes,” he added with a short laugh.
they were galloping now over undulating country where the crests of the gently swelling hillocks were almost as light as day and the tiny intervening valleys lay like pools of dark, still water. as they reached the summit of a rather larger hill than they had yet encountered, carew slackened speed with a word of warning.
“there is a deserted village in the valley,” he said, pointing down into the darkness, “be careful how you go, it’s a confusing place at night. and if anything happens—sit tight and leave the talking to me,” he added significantly. and as he spurred the bay a half length in advance meredith saw his hand go to the silk shawl that was swathed about his waist. a deserted village—but carew was reaching for his revolver. with a grin meredith took a firmer grip of captain andré’s grey. he had passed through similar deserted villages in india.
“heave ahead,” he said cheerily, and followed his companion closely down the long slope.
the valley was shallower than others they had traversed and here and there a shaft of moonlight cut through the murky gloom. they were on the village before meredith realised its nearness, and as they threaded the empty streets at a slow canter he looked keenly about him with a slight feeling of pleasurable excitement. but no sound broke the stillness and no furtive figures lurking among the ruined huts appeared to justify carew’s warning. then the grey stumbled badly on a heap of rubble lying across the road and until they were clear of the village he gave his whole attention to his borrowed horse. but when they were speeding across the plain once more with the lights of blidah faint in the distance he turned to carew with a look of enquiry. “what might have happened?” he asked curiously.
“anything—murder, probably, if you had been alone.”
meredith chuckled at the casual tone. “healthy spot for a midnight ride!”
“it saves three miles,” replied carew calmly.
and meredith flung back his head and laughed like a boy.