in her bedroom at the villa des ombres marny geradine was standing before the open window staring out into the darkness. she stood very still, her colourless face set like a mask of marble, her hands clasped tightly behind her. only the tempestuous rise and fall of her delicately rounded bosom betrayed the inward tumult that was raging within her. five minutes ago she had dismissed a white faced and pleading ann and now, alone, she was facing a decision that took all her courage to sustain.

it was the night of the governor’s annual ball. by now she should have been dressed. but the wonderful paris creation that geradine had insisted on ordering specially for the occasion still lay in shimmering folds on the chaise longue and marny had not changed from the simple teagown in which she had dined.

she was not going to the ball. she was not going to submit again to the open shame and humiliation that had been her portion throughout her married life but which during the last few weeks had reached a culminating point of horror. her husband’s gross intemperance, his notorious infidelities, his callous disregard for anything beyond his own pleasure, had driven her at last to rebellion. she had reached the end of her endurance. she knew that at home she must continue to suffer the brutal treatment he meted out to her but she had resolved never to appear in public with him again. how would he receive her decision? how would she brave his anger? why did she think only of his strength, of the hectoring bullying voice she dreaded, of the merciless hands that made her shrink in physical fear that was an agony? intolerant of the least opposition to his lightest wish what would he do to her! a shudder of pure terror ran through her. if he would only come—as she knew he would come to demand the reason of her lateness. waiting was torture.

and yet when the door burst open and banged violently to again and she heard his heavy step behind her the dread she had felt before was as nothing to the paralysing fear that now rushed over her robbing her of all power of movement.

she could have shrieked when his hands closed with crushing force on her shoulders and he swung her round to face him. but she managed to control herself and meet his furious stare courageously. he was in the quarrelsome stage of semi-intoxication that of late had been his usual state, drunk enough to be cruel and vindictive, sober enough to be dangerous.

“not dressed yet! what the hell have you been doing all this time? you’re damnably late!”

she was used to being sworn at, she had come to feel that nothing he could say could hurt her any more, and tonight it did not seem to matter very much what he said.

she forced herself to answer him.

“i’m not going to the ball, clyde.”

he glared at her in speechless anger, his hands slipping from her shoulders, his dark red face flushing deeper, the veins on his forehead standing out like whipcord.

“the devil you’re not! and why, might i ask?” he bellowed furiously. panic driven, the temptation to evade the issue she had raised, the cowardly impulse to plead illness to allay his wrath was almost more than she could suppress. but she fought back the words that rushed to her lips and turned away with a little hopeless gesture.

“you know why,” she said in a low voice.

“i’m damned if i do!”

she turned to him swiftly.

“you know, clyde,” she said steadily, “you know perfectly well why i dread going out with you. you’ve known ever since we were married.”

“i know you’re a little fool,” he retorted angrily. “look here, marny, i’ve had enough of this nonsense. you’ll go to this dam’ ball whether you like it or not, just as you will go anywhere and everywhere i choose you shall go. i’ll give you ten minutes to be ready—not a second more. and you can keep your infernal objections to yourself in future. i’m not going to be preached at by anybody, much less by you. look sharp and don’t keep me waiting any longer. ten minutes—that’s your limit,” he shouted and moved as if to leave the room. she shivered, her pale face whiter than before, but her determination was stronger than her fear.

“it’s no use, clyde. i’m not going,” she said slowly. and for the first time he heard a ring of obstinacy in her voice. he swung back towards her, staring at her for a moment incredulously, rocking slightly on his feet, his big hands clenching as he worked himself up to a pitch of passionate rage.

“you mean that?” he said thickly. her dry lips almost refused their office.

“yes,” she whispered faintly.

“you deliberately disobey me?” she wrung her hands in sudden agony. “i’ve always obeyed you, always done what you wished—but this—oh, i can’t. i can’t!”

he towered over her, his bloodshot eyes menacing. “you can’t?” he sneered. “i rather think you both can and will. there’s only one person in this house who says ‘can’t’—and that’s me. you’ll do what you’re told, now and always. put on that dress—and god help you if you keep me waiting!”

she lifted a quivering face of desperate appeal.

“clyde—i—clyde!” her voice broke in a cry of terrible anguish as he struck her, the whole weight of his powerful body behind the smashing blow that sent her reeling across the room to fall with a sickening crash on the parquet floor.

he looked down at her callously, his crimson face twitching, his big frame shaking with passion. then he walked slowly across the room and sat down heavily on the bed, his smouldering eyes still fixed with a look of cruel satisfaction on the prostrate little figure that lay so still. he had no compunction for what he had done. she had come to the wrong shop if she thought she was going to roughride him with any of her silly notions. he would jolly well make it clear to her tonight that he would brook no disobedience, no questioning of his habits, no thwarting of his wishes. damned little puritan—who shrank from his embraces as if she were a ravished nun instead of a normal athletic young woman with healthy red blood in her veins. he wanted a mate in his arms not a beautiful piece of statuary whose reserve and coldness infuriated him. she was his wife—and dam’ lucky to be so. she might have been on the streets if it hadn’t been for him. if she wasn’t satisfied—well, he’d a grievance himself if it came to that. they’d been married five years, why the devil hadn’t she given him the heir he wanted? and lashing himself to greater fury he waited, making no effort to aid her until she regained consciousness. she stirred at last, moaning with pain, her slender body convulsed with terrible shuddering. dragging herself to her feet she stood swaying giddily, her hands pressed on her throbbing temple, her heavy eyes looking listlessly about her till they rested at length on geradine’s massive figure and into them there flashed suddenly the horror of dawning remembrance. with a little choking sound she turned and staggering a few steps fell into a chair before the dressing table, burying her head in her arms amongst the costly appointments that littered its shining surface, her shoulders shaking with hard tearless sobs.

and as geradine had watched her insensible so did he watch her now, pitiless and unmoved. he had no use for half measures. if she had to be taught a lesson it should be at least a thorough one. he lurched to his feet and strode across the room, halting beside her with his arms folded across his broad chest, his foot beating with angry impatience against the floor. “how much longer are you going to keep me waiting?”

the harsh words jarred like a stab of actual pain and sick and faint she raised her eyes to his. one look convinced her of his determination. he meant it, oh, very well she knew he meant it! too dazed, too broken to oppose him further she knew that she would have to obey; that, cost her what it might, she would have to dress and go with him. with a stifled gasp of pain she struggled to her feet, her head reeling, and caught at the table for support, pushing the heavy hair off her forehead and wincing as her fingers touched her injured temple.

“if you will please go i will ring for my maid,” she muttered indistinctly, choking back the hysterical sobs that rose in her throat. “i’ll go when it suits me, and you’ll ring for no maid,” he said sharply. “you’ll dress a dam’ sight quicker with me in the room. it won’t be the first time i’ve valeted you, and it won’t be the last i’m willing to bet. and i’m hanged if i’ll have that grim faced old harridan you call your maid poking her nose in where she isn’t wanted. i’m about fed up with her as it is. she’s not the kind of woman i want about you, anyhow. she’ll have to go, and the sooner the better. you can pay her her wages tomorrow and tell her to clear out by the first available boat.”

“clyde!” the sharp cry was wrung from her. and forgetting her pain, her fear, everything but the heartless ultimatum he had launched at her she sprang towards him, clutching at him with trembling hands, her face working convulsively, pleading as she would not have stooped to plead for herself.

“clyde, clyde, you don’t mean it, you can’t mean it! you can’t send her away, you couldn’t be so cruel. she’s old, i’m all she’s got, it would kill her to leave me. and you promised—you promised me faithfully i might keep her. it will break her heart. oh, clyde, be generous. do what i ask, just this once. if you let me keep her i’ll never oppose you again. i’ll do anything you wish—i’ll be anything you wish—”

a sneering look of triumph crossed his face as he flung her from him. “you’ll do as i wish without any bargains, my lady,” he said significantly. “you’ve had your orders and there’s an end of the matter. the thing’s finished. and might i remind you that the horses have already been waiting an hour?”

that was apparently all that mattered to him. of less value at the moment than the pedigreed animals he prided, distress of mind, the pain and weariness of her bruised and aching body was beyond his consideration. a feeling of numbness came over her, a kind of frozen apathy that seemed to turn her into a mere automaton, and without a word she turned slowly to do his bidding. she had a curious impression that the white-faced weary-looking woman reflected in her mirror was some other than herself, that, divorced from her own body, she was watching the suffering of a total stranger. and as she dressed with mechanical haste only one thing was clear and instant with her—the consciousness of menacing eyes that followed her every movement until their burning stare became a veritable torment. but, throughout the process of her toilet he spoke only once, a characteristic remark: “put a bit o’ colour on your face. you’re as white as a ghost.”

“i haven’t any,” she faltered.

“haven’t—any? good god!” he ejaculated and relapsed into silence. but when she was dressed he came to her, and as his critical gaze travelled slowly over her slim figure the heavy scowl smoothed from his face and the old look of proprietory admiration crept back into his eyes. with the quick change of mood that was so marked in him he caught her in his arms with sudden passion. “damn it all, marny, what the devil do you want to make me lose my temper for?” he grumbled petulantly. “give me a kiss, and don’t be such a little fool again.”

sick with loathing but helpless against his strength perforce she lifted her face to his. but unsatisfied he laughed with angry contempt. “do you call that a kiss? gad, you’ve a lot to learn!” he said scornfully, and crushed his mouth once more against her trembling lips. then he let her go and, swelling with the sense of his own magnanimity, hurried her with heavy jocularity to the waiting carriage, there to soothe his ruffled feelings with a cigar which he smoked in silence during the short drive into algiers.

and huddled in her own corner of the roomy victoria marny leaned back and rested her aching head against the cushions, staring before her with fixed unseeing eyes.

during the five years that had been a physical as well as mental martyrdom she had suffered much at her husband’s hands. in the furious rages to which he was liable he had often hurt her cruelly but until tonight he had never deliberately struck her. but it was not of his brutality towards herself that geradine’s wife was thinking now as the carriage rolled swiftly along the deserted road. her mind was filled with only one thought. ann! how to tell her. how to break to the faithful old woman the fact that her lifelong service must end so abruptly, so callously? where would she go, what would she do? to face the world again at seventy! marny’s hands clenched in sudden anguish. would she even be allowed to help her if necessity arose? herself she was penniless, castle fergus had passed to geradine and she was dependent on him even for the very sous she flung to the arab beggars who clustered round her carriage. how, after tonight, could she ever appeal to him again. and yet, for ann’s sake, she knew that she would have to make that appeal and court not only his almost certain refusal but the consequent anger that would assuredly be directed against herself. why was she such a craven, why did the thought of her own miserable suffering obtrude when it was ann, and only ann, who mattered!

her husband’s impatient voice roused her to the fact that the carriage was at a standstill. tonight, the gala night of the year, the governor’s palace was filled to overflowing, a scene of vivid animation, gorgeous with oriental splendour, rioting with colour and echoing with a confusion of voices laughing and chattering in a score of different languages. the spacious rooms, flaming with lights and decorated with a wealth of scented flowers, were crowded—a motley gathering of nearly every race and creed moving in a never ceasing stream to the strains of the crashing military band.

the gaudy costumes of the desert sheiks, the crimson burnouses of the grave-faced caids, the striking and picturesque uniforms of spahis and zouaves made distinctive notes in the brilliant assembly that eclipsed even the radiant hues of the marvellous toilettes of the french and english ladies.

to marny, dazzled by the light and deafened by the uproar, it seemed as if she had stepped suddenly into pandemonium. for once she was even glad of the nearness of her husband whose burly figure was an effectual barrier against the press that thronged them as they moved slowly towards the low dais where the governor, heated and weary with handshaking but beaming with happiness and hospitality, stood amongst a group of highly placed officials and european consuls. near him general sanois, less obviously enjoying himself, was deep in conversation with a tall and venerable-looking caid. and at the foot of the dais was clustered a little group of sheiks from the far south, gazing about them with calm aloofness but keenly alive to every detail and circumstance of the evening’s entertainment.

there were many curious glances that followed and many eager tongues that discussed the tardy appearance of the two important english guests as they made their slow passage across the room, and the governor whose twinkling eyes were roving constantly in quest of new faces was quick to notice their arrival. punctilious to a nicety he stepped forward to greet them with a deference that was due to geradine’s rank and to the beauty of his wife. but as she responded to his gallant and happy little speech of welcome marny’s voice faltered slightly and her pale face flushed with a wave of beautiful colour, for near her in the little group of desert men beside the dais she saw carew standing clad like them in native robes but distinguished by the dark blue burnous he affected. and geradine, whose french was as limited as was the governor’s english, while replying somewhat laboriously to his host’s courtesies had also noticed the tall arab-clad figure and grasped eagerly at the chance of cutting short a conversation that bored him infinitely.

“i’m hanged if that isn’t my friend of the sandstorm,” he exclaimed, and waved pointedly at carew who, unwilling to add to the public attention already aroused, came forward reluctantly and submitted to a boisterous greeting. with a loud laugh geradine turned again to the visibly astonished governor. “seems a decent sort of chap,” he said condescendingly. “pulled me out of no end of a hole in the desert a week or two ago. introduce him to my wife, will you? she’s interested in the natives. and, marny,” he added, his own slight interest already evaporating, “you speak the lingo better than i do, say something civil to the fellow—only for heaven’s sake remember he’s a mohammedan and don’t put your foot into it and enquire for his wife and family. and when you’re tired of him his excellency will find you partners if you want to dance. i’m off to get a drink.” and with a careless nod he swung on his heel in search of the nearest buffet.

his graceless incivility was no more than much that marny had been called upon frequently to endure but tonight his boorishness was almost more than she could bear. his mistake with regard to carew though regrettable was a perfectly natural one, but his cavalier treatment of the courteous little frenchman was unpardonable. scarlet with shame and confusion she could find no words to break the awkward silence that ensued. but the governor, whose saving sense of humour was fortunately greater than his feeling of mortification, plunged nobly into the breach and made the best of the embarrassing situation in which he found himself. “madame,” he stammered, with twitching lips, “i—i have the honour to present to you monsieur carew—a compatriot of your own,” and fled to hide his secret enjoyment of a contretemps he found exquisitely amusing. carew the woman hater—and he had just introduced him to the most beautiful woman in algiers. bon dieu, quelle comédie! but to marny it was no comedy. miserable and tongue-tied, giddy with pain, she tried vainly to collect herself, to formulate some adequate excuse that should cover her husband’s blunder and lessen the resentment she was sure the man beside her must feel at being publicly forced into an action that was totally against his universally known principles. would he blame her for being the cause, though the unwitting cause, of his present predicament? would he too leave her in this crowded room, the cynosure of curious eyes, to find her way alone to the group of english dowagers with whom she had the slightest acquaintance? super-sensitive and innately shy the very thought of it made her shrink. the few seconds that had passed since the governor’s hurried departure seemed magnified into hours. angry at her own gaucherie she had nerved herself to make some halting apology when the opening bars of a waltz rising above the din of conversation occasioned a general rush for partners and in the comparative quiet that followed she heard the deep soft voice that had become so dear to her speaking with the slow hesitancy she had noticed before.

“you are looking very tired, lady geradine. shall i take you out of this babel?”

and almost before she realised it she found herself walking beside him down the length of the long room, piloted skilfully between the dancing couples who already filled the floor. once or twice he paused to exchange a nod and a passing word with a uniformed officer or an isolated group of arabs, but she hardly noticed these slight interruptions and at length they reached the rapidly emptying entrance hall. crossing it he turned down a short corridor that opened into a little winter garden where chairs were placed amongst palms and banks of tropical plants. at the moment the place was deserted. and quiet and dimly lit to marny it seemed a haven of refuge after the glare and noise of the crowded reception rooms. with a feeling of relief she followed him to a fern-screened couch at the further end of the conservatory and sank into the low seat, stripping the long gloves from her hands and closing her eyes wearily. and looking down at her carew saw her face convulsed with a sudden spasm of pain.

he was still inwardly raging at the incident of a few minutes ago, still seething with the strange hatred that had laid so strong a hold upon him—hatred that, aggravated by geradine’s discourteous and overbearing manner, seemed tonight to have reached its culminant pitch. it was with difficulty that he had controlled himself just now in the ballroom. but something had restrained him, something—more impellent even than his desire to avoid a collision that could only have ended in a public fracas—that had risen up within him at the sight of the girl’s strained face. and as he looked at her now with his black brows drawn together in a heavy scowl he was still wondering at the impulse that had come to him to shield her, still trying vainly to understand his own motive in bringing her here. what had prompted him?

was it anger or pleasure or only pity he felt as he stared again at the little drooping figure? a curious expression crept into his sombre eyes. what a child she looked—what a weary white-faced child!

“you ought to be at home and in bed,” he said, almost roughly. “can i get you anything—champagne or a cup of coffee?”

she glanced up with a start.

“no, please, it’s nothing. only a headache,” she stammered. “i don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight,” she added with a shaky laugh. “i’m not given to headaches. i’m as strong as a horse, really.” but as she uttered her valiant little boast her voice broke and she looked away, twisting her gloves nervously between her hands. he could see that she was struggling with herself but he made no attempt to forestall the explanation he guessed was coming and waited, still standing, for her to speak. she turned to him at last, her troubled gaze not reaching his face but lingering on the picturesque details of his arab dress.

“sir gervas—i’m sorry—that stupid blunder—” she faltered. then suddenly her eyes met his and words came tumbling out in breathless haste. “—but you were with him that night in the desert, you let him think you were an arab. he couldn’t possibly know you were english, that you could understand—”

“do you think i mind being taken for an arab?” he interrupted, pulling his heavy cloak closer round him and sitting down beside her. “it was a perfectly natural mistake and not worth a moment’s consideration, certainly not worth the value of a pair of gloves,” he added with a faint smile. and reaching out he drew them deliberately from between her twitching fingers. his voice was extraordinarily gentle but there was in it an underlying note of finality that made further apology impossible, and with a little sigh she relapsed into silence.

for a time she watched him smoothing the creases from the crumpled gloves, wondering at his unexpected presence.

“i didn’t think you would be here tonight,” she said at length. “you don’t really like—this sort of thing, do you?” she added, with a vague movement of her hand towards the distant ballroom.

“loathe it,” he answered promptly, moving slightly to face her and settling his long limbs more comfortably into the corner of the sofa. “but i make a point of coming to this particular function if i happen to be in algiers. i meet old friends.”

“desert friends?”

he nodded assent to the eager question.

“is that why you wear arab dress?”

“partly,” he shrugged, “they would hardly know me in european clothes. but principally because i prefer it.”

“as you prefer to speak arabic or french, rather than english?” she hazarded.

“how do you know?”

she flushed under his stare and looked away with an odd little smile.

“when you talk you stop sometimes as if you were searching for a word,” she said, rather hesitatingly, “and the other day, in the bouzaréa woods, half the time you were speaking in french.”

“i have scarcely spoken english for twelve years,” he said shortly. then as if to cover the slight piece of personal information he had let slip he added:

“there is no longer any need for you to restrict your rides, lady geradine. the woods are safe enough now.”

she turned to him swiftly. “what do you mean?” she said with sudden breathlessness. and as she listened to his bald unvarnished account of the end of abdul el dhib the colour that had risen to her face died out of it leaving her white to the lips. she was shivering when he finished, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. “and it was because of me—because of what you did for me that night,” she burst out passionately. “oh, i never thought, i never guessed the risk you were taking! and you knew all the time! it was he you meant when you warned me not to ride alone. it was he you thought was coming that morning in the woods when tanner brought the horses, and that very night—oh, if he had killed you, it would have been my fault! and i—i—” she pulled herself up sharply, aghast at the sound of her own voice, at the confession that had been almost wrung from her. a wave of burning colour suffused her face and tingling with shame she averted it hastily, veiling her eyes with the thick dark lashes that swept downward to her cheek—but not before he had seen the look that flashed into them, a look that sent the blood racing madly through his veins and made his heart leap with sudden violence. for a moment he sat rigid, stunned with self-realisation, the hands that were clasped around his knee tightening slowly until the knuckles shone white through the tanned skin. then with a tremendous effort he mastered himself.

“nobody’s fault but my own, i’m afraid,” he said with forced lightness. “i knew the man i was dealing with. i have good friends in algiers who gave me warnings in plenty and because i chose to ignore them what happened was due to my carelessness.”

“it still doesn’t lessen my obligation,” she said in a stifled voice. but his quiet tone, his imperturbable manner was fast restoring her own self-possession. indifferent himself, why should he guess the true cause of her agitation? perhaps what had seemed so blatant to her had escaped him, and he had seen in her outburst only a natural womanly distress for the danger of a man who had risked his life on her behalf. and the formal courtesy of his next words further reassured her. “there was never any obligation,” he said quietly. “i merely did what anybody else would have done under the circumstances.” and abruptly he changed the conversation to the recent race meeting at biskra. convinced that he had not divined her secret, her feeling of self-consciousness and restraint wore gradually away and only the joy of his companionship remained. she would get from it what she could, she would live for the moment and its transient happiness and leave to the future the misery and loneliness that was going to be so much harder to bear than it had ever been. enough that she was with him and that she loved him, loved him as she had never thought it possible to love. a love that should be her secret strength in the bitter years to come.

silence fell between them again. and content to wait until he should choose to speak she sat very still beside him, watching him covertly as he leant back with his hands clasped behind his head, his half-shut eyes staring straight before him as if he saw more than the ferns and fairy lights at which he was looking. tonight his face seemed graver, sterner than she had ever seen it. a tragic face it appeared to her, a face that bore the deep-cut marks of sorrow and disappointment. and she wondered, with a dull pain in her heart, what had been the tragedy that had driven him to the solitary wilds of the desert. she knew nothing of his history, his name and the nature of his work amongst the arabs were all that mrs. chalmers had confided, and she had no means of ever knowing. a being apart, a type that had been a revelation, he would pass out of her life, abruptly as he had come into it, to forget her in the greater interest of his chosen vocation. it was strange to think of him as a doctor, living a life of arduous toil and terrible risk. into what savage and lonely places must he go to wrestle with the pain and suffering he sought to alleviate. el hakim—the desert healer! and she, who loved him, would have no knowledge of his achievements, would never know the final happening that would terminate that life of noble and self-sacrificing endeavour. in the pitiless years that stretched so barrenly ahead she would have only a memory to cling to, a memory that would be at once her consolation and her pain. into the tender, brooding eyes fixed on him there came a look of mingled pride and anguish. he would never know, thank god he would never know! but if he had cared, if she had brought sorrow to him—she caught her trembling lip fiercely between her teeth and began with fumbling haste to draw on the long gloves he had laid on the sofa between them.

“oughtn’t we to be going back to the other room?”

he turned his head slowly.

“there’s plenty of time,” he said lazily, “they are still dancing.”

“but your desert friends—”

“—can wait,” he said succinctly. and dreading the noisy ballroom, too tired and too utterly indifferent at the moment to care if she was outraging the proprieties marny did not press the matter. the quiet conservatory, the restfulness and courage she seemed to derive from the mere presence of the man beside her were giving her strength to meet the ordeal that still lay before her, the ugly scene that invariably terminated geradine’s so-called nights of amusement. it would happen tonight, as it always happened, and she would have to go through with it. for how many more years? she thrust the thought from her and turned again to carew. but before she could speak the peaceful little winter garden was invaded. not a dancing couple seeking for a solitary spot in which to continue a flirtation begun in the ballroom but two men who, deeming the place empty, did not trouble to modulate their voices as they took possession of a wicker seat a few feet away from the fern-hidden sofa.

“and this soi-disant countess—this copper-haired goddess you are raving about—” the words were uttered in fluent french but with a rough slavonic accent.

“soi-disant! i have it from her own lips,” interrupted an indignant voice that carew recognised as belonging to patrice lemaire.

“possibly,” was the caustic rejoinder, “but not necessarily correct for all that. an austrian, you say, from vienna? the wife of a count sach who held a court appointment, and who abused her infamously—and now, since his death, a lady of independent means who travels through europe trying to forget her unhappy past?”

“that is what i said. do you doubt it?”

“your word, no. but the lady’s—yes.”

“why?”

“you forget, my friend, that i am also of vienna. i have no recollection of a count sach who held a court appointment, or of the lady who styles herself countess sach. and she is no more austrian than you are, lemaire. from her accent i should judge her to be english.”

“english? bah! she doesn’t speak a word of the language.”

“she was speaking it very fluently half-an-hour ago with the grand anglais who is drinking himself tipsy in the buffet.”

“with geradine—that beast! bon dieu, she said the very sight of him revolted her!”

“she will probably find the contents of his pocketbook less revolting, my credulous young friend. une femme de moeurs légères, or i’m very much mistaken.”

and listening to the cynical laugh that followed, marny wondered bitterly what more of shame and humiliation was yet in store for her. at the first mention of her husband she had been startled into a quick involuntary movement but a strong arm had held her back in her seat and cool, steady fingers had closed warningly over her ice-cold hands. wrestling with her own misery, she was scarcely conscious of lemaire’s furious protest or of the stormy altercation that ensued, and when at last the sound of the men’s angry voices died away as they took their dispute elsewhere it was some time before she realised that her hands still lay in carew’s firm grasp. she disengaged them silently. there was nothing to say, nothing that either of them could say. they had overheard what was not intended for them to hear. and the austrian’s insinuations were very likely true. geradine had spoken more than once of the beautiful viennese who had recently dawned on algiers society with no introductions but with an audacity of manner that had served her amply instead. that his acquaintance had probably developed into a more intimate relationship was no matter for surprise to the wife who was fully aware of his flagrant infidelities. it was only one more insult added to the many indignities he had put upon her, one more humiliation to bear—and ignore.

but if she was to retain any kind of hold over herself she must end at once the brief companionship that had given her so much happiness. the proximity of the man beside her, the sense of his unspoken sympathy, the sudden realisation of the sensuous appeal of her surroundings with its dim obscurity and intoxicating odour of languorous-scented flowers was filling her with an overwhelming fear of herself. she dared not stay with him, dared not give way to the emotion which, growing momentarily greater, seemed to be robbing her of all strength. the exalted feeling that before had made her glad that only she should suffer was weakening in the natural, human longing for the love that would never be hers. if she could but tell him, could feel if only for once the clasp of his arms around her, the touch of his lips on hers! she shivered. what was she thinking—what shameless thing had she become? and trembling with the very madness of her own wild thoughts she rose quickly to her feet, her face coldly set, her voice tuned to level indifference.

“i am quite rested now, sir gervas. shall we go back to the ballroom?” moving away as she spoke she gave him no option but to follow her, and an incoming stream of people put a period to anything but trivial speech between them.

in the central hall, crowded so as to make progress almost an impossibility, an artillery colonel caught at carew’s arm in passing. “when you have time, mon cher,” he said hurriedly. “his excellency is asking for you. he is in the white salon with sanois and the chief of the ben ezra.”

marny glanced contritely at her escort. how long since he had taken her out of the crowded ballroom, how long had she trespassed on his time?

“i am afraid i have monopolised you very selfishly,” she murmured shyly, “you must have so many friends.”

but her faltering words seemed to be lost in the din of voices, for he made no answer and his attention appeared to be wholly engaged in fending from her the jostling press which surged around them. and five minutes later he had left her with the british consul’s wife and was retracing his steps to join the informal conference that was taking place in the white salon.

he did not go back to the public rooms and the end of the evening found him still sitting in the governor’s study with sanois and a few of the more gallicized chiefs. and for some time after the sheiks had retired he lingered chatting with the general, delaying as long as possible the moment when he must face alone the shattering self-understanding that had come to him.

the chiming of a deep-toned clock warned him at length of the lateness of the hour and he had risen reluctantly to his feet when patrice lemaire burst into the room. the boy’s usually smiling face was flushed with anger and he flung himself into a chair with an explosion of wrath that did not tend to make more comprehensible the rambling sentences he let fall. that somebody had gone home early and defrauded him of the dances she had promised; that somebody else, name witheld, was a vile calumniator; and that there had been a “beastly scene,” which he did not particularise, was all he would vouchsafe. and unable to get anything more definite from him the elder man soon left him to nurse his grievances in solitude.

there were still a few guests wandering about the hall waiting for carriages that were delayed, and a harassed attache seized upon carew to beg a lift for an elderly frenchman who was forlornly contemplating a weary walk back to his hotel at mustapha.

only when he had dropped his talkative companion was carew able to give full sway to his own thoughts, and when he reached the villa he walked up the flagged path too absorbed to notice the shafts of light filtering through the closed jalousies of the big front room which, though kept in scrupulous orderliness, had never been used since his mother’s death.

he passed into the mauresque hall and was moving slowly in the direction of his own rooms when hosein, emerging from a shadowy corner, glided forward to intercept him.

“the lalla,” he murmured hesitatingly, his hands sweeping upward to his forehead in a quick salaam.

his master faced him swiftly.

“the lalla—?” he repeated sharply.

the big arab nodded.

“the lalla who awaits my lord,” he said softly.

for a moment carew’s heart seemed to stand still and under the deep tan his face went suddenly white. she had come to him—god in heaven, she had come to him! hosein’s tall figure was wavering curiously before him as he forced a question in a voice he did not recognise for his own.

“where?”

“in the salon, lord,” replied hosein and gave way with another deep salaam. and the whispering swish-swish of his robes had died away before carew moved.

“in the salon—” he started violently. she had come to him—and he—. his face was rigid as he went towards the painted door.

it yielded to his touch and swung to noiselessly behind him, too noiselessly to be heard by her who, at the further end of the room, was standing before the portrait from which she had stripped the curtains that had veiled it for so many years. she was humming a little song, a frankly indecent song of the boulevards, her copper-crowned head thrown back, her gleaming shoulders twitching from time to time with a petulant movement of impatience.

and behind her, leaning against the portiere in which his hands were clenched, carew stood as if turned to stone staring—staring—not at the slender, girlish form he had hoped and yet dreaded to see, but at the tall sinuously graceful figure of the woman who had been his wife. his wife—that brazen thing of shame, half naked in a dress whose audacity revolted him! fool, fool to have thought his own mad longing possible!—to have thought that she—he wrenched his thoughts from her. and the other? why had he not guessed, why had nothing warned him when he sat listening in the little winter garden to the angry protests of patrice lemaire and the caustic comments of the austrian who “was also of vienna!” and yet, how could he have known, how imagine that she could ever come into his life again. and why had she come? to dupe him once more, to try and make of him again the same besotted fool who had loved her with the blind ardour of a man’s first passion? that love was dead, killed by her own duplicity. between them was an unbridgeable gulf—and the memory of a tiny fragile child abandoned with callous indifference. a rush of cold rage filled him and with blazing eyes he swept across the room.

his soft-booted feet made no sound on the thick rugs and still unconscious of his presence the woman broke off her song with a yawn and a flippant remark addressed to the portrait, and turned to find him at her elbow. for what seemed an eternity they stared at each other, her eyes but little below the level of his, then she turned away with an odd little strangled sound that might have been either a sob or a laugh.

“why are you here?” his deep voice was hard as steel and she raised her head slowly and looked at him, a look in which there was latent admiration, wonder, and an underlying suggestion of cunning curiously blended. “i saw you at the ball. they told me you were going back to the desert. i had to come,” she faltered.

“why?” his face was devoid of all expression as he flung the single word at her. with a lithe, almost feline movement of her graceful body that was undisguisedly alluring she swayed nearer, her eyes all languorous appeal, her hands outstretched towards him. “i came because i could not stay away,” she whispered, her voice a subtle caress, “because—because—oh, gervas, can’t you understand? i had to come—because—i—love you, because i have always loved you—in spite of what i did. and i didn’t know what i was doing. i didn’t think, i didn’t realise, he swept me off my feet. and then when it was too late—too late”—her arms were round his neck, her palpitating limbs pressed close to his—“can you guess what i suffered, can you guess what my life has been! gervas, you loved me once, for the sake of that love forgive me now, forgive—”

throughout her amazing declaration he had stood like a rock, his face averted. but as her voice died away in a trembling whisper he turned his head quickly, too quickly for the comfort of the woman who clung to him with passionate fervidness for in the eyes that dropped almost instantly under his searching gaze he read, not the love and contrition her words implied, but a look of hard, eager cupidity. the look of a gambler who watches a last and desperate throw. it was not a tardy desire for his forgiveness but some other motive which as yet he did not understand that had driven her to seek a reconciliation with the man who had once been clay in her hands. though his heart was dead to her, almost he had pitied her, almost he had believed her. the sobbing pleading voice, the absolute abandon with which she had flung herself upon him had been a wonderful piece of acting. she played her part with a skill and eloquence that, but for that last fatal slip, had almost convinced him. but self-convicted she stood for what she was, a consummate mistress of deceit—a liar as she had always been. to how many others had she made that same glib appeal? to how many others had she tendered the charms she so lavishly displayed? the hateful thought leaped unbidden to his mind as he looked at her with a kind of horror, fastidiously conscious of the deterioration that was so visibly apparent in her. the beautiful face so close to his was exquisite as he remembered it, but he seemed to see it suddenly with new eyes—the face of a woman lost to every sense of morality. to what had she sunk during the years since she had left him? what had she become—she who had been his wife, who had been the mother of his son! “une femme de moeurs légères.” the austrian’s sneering voice seemed to echo hideously through the silent room and with a shudder he unclasped her fingers and put her from him.

“i could have forgiven you—anything,” he said slowly, “but the child—” his voice broke despite him and a look of bitter pain convulsed his face—“the child you left to die alone—and you knew he was dying—”

“it’s a lie,” she cried shrilly. “i didn’t know.”

he raised his hand with a gesture that silenced her.

“it is the truth,” he said with accusing sternness. “do you think there was nobody to tell me? the doctor, the nurses, everybody but you, his mother, knew that he couldn’t live. and you left him. my god, you left him!”

she flung him a glance of furious anger, “you always cared for him more than me,” she sneered, and for a moment she braved him audaciously with heaving bosom and quivering lips. then she flinched under his steady eyes and shrinking from him flung herself face downwards on a sofa and broke into a storm of tears. tears of rage and mortification. with a feeling of suffocation he turned away, not troubling to refute the taunt she knew as well as he to be untrue. the room that was redolent with memories of the noble woman who had lived in it seemed suddenly fouled and contaminated. and heartsick and shaken by the scene he had gone through he crossed to a window and flinging back the jalousies, leant against the framework, staring unseeingly out into the night, struggling to regain the self-control that had almost left him. he was all at sea, striving to solve the problem of the woman who lay sobbing on the sofa behind him. that the life she had chosen had ended in disaster was beyond all question. what she had become was too obvious to be mistaken. it was written plainly on her face for all to see. but what had brought her to such a pass, what had induced the moral débacle that was so apparent? what desperate strait had driven her to the course she had adopted tonight? it was not for love of him she had taken such a step nor did she want his love. what then did she want that she had come to him like any common courtesan seeking by purely physical enticement to regain the old ascendancy she had had over him? there seemed only one possible solution. and yet, remembering the liberal settlement he had made on her, he wondered how even that was possible. with a deep sigh he pulled himself together and went slowly back to her.

“why did you come to me tonight, elinor?”

she was still lying prone among the silken cushions, but at the sound of his voice she sat up, shivering as though the room were cold, her hands clutching at the soft pillows of the sofa.

“i told you,” she said sullenly.

he made a gesture of impatience.

“oh, for god’s sake don’t tell me any lies,” he said wearily. “you never cared for me, you don’t care for me now. tell me the truth. for only the truth will help either of us tonight. why did you come?”

for a second her eyes met his then she looked away and a wave of burning colour swamped the delicate pink and white of her painted cheeks. “because i’m at the end of my tether—because i’m broke,” she said with a reckless laugh that made him wince.

“and the money i settled on you?” he said slowly, hating the necessity that forced him to speak of it.

“gone—long since. did you think i could live on that?” she flashed contemptuously.

with an effort he restrained himself. what use to point out to her that what she regarded as a pittance would have kept an ordinary family in luxury.

“then what you want is money—just money?” he said, his voice as contemptuous as her own.

“i must live,” she retorted.

“and how have you lived?” he said heavily. the colour rose again to her face. “what is that to you?” she muttered.

“nothing—in one sense. if i am to finance you again—everything,” he said curtly. “but i must have details. without them i will do nothing.” he paused for a minute, fighting his abhorrence of the whole situation.

“you call yourself the countess sach. it is not the name of the man for whom you left me. is he dead?”

“i don’t know—i left him,” she answered, very low.

“why?”

“we quarrelled. i left him,” she repeated monotonously.

“did he marry you?”

“no. i—i told you. we quarrelled,” there was a touch of asperity in her fretful voice.

“did he want to marry you? was the rupture your fault or his?” for a long time there was no answer then a whispered “mine” came to him almost inaudibly.

“and the count sach?”

“there is no count sach.”

he turned away with a shrug of hopeless perplexity. he had learned all he cared to know. to force from her the whole story of those sordid years was beyond him. it would do no good to either. she had followed of her own free will the broad path that leads to destruction and she had proved to him again tonight her utter unworthiness. heartless and without shame, she wanted nothing from him but the means of continuing the life she had deliberately chosen. he had provided for her once, by no argument or reasoning was she entitled to his further bounty. in no sense was he responsible for her. in no sense? with his black brows drawn together in the heavy scowl that was so characteristic, he paced from end to end of the long room, wrestling with himself. and on the sofa where she sat immovable the woman watched the passing and repassing of the tall, stately figure, with glittering eyes that were hard with doubt and fear. what would he do? and gradually the thought came to her that if she could ever have loved any one, she might have loved this man. not as he was in those old days at royal carew, but as he was now. how he had changed! and as she looked at the stern set face that was so different from what she remembered, a sudden feeling of fear ran through her. if he would only speak, only stop that monotonous pacing, only do something to end this horrible waiting.

he came to her at last and she stumbled to her feet to meet him. he spoke swiftly, in a voice that was hoarse and strained. he would settle nothing on her, but because she had been his wife, because of the child she had borne him, he would make her an allowance to be paid quarterly through his solicitors. he made no conditions but he warned her that under no circumstances would the allowance ever be increased.

with averted head and tightly compressed lips she listened to him in silence and when he finished speaking she made no comment and gave him no thanks. and no further word was spoken between them until she left the villa in his carriage, driven by hosein whose silent tongue could be depended upon. and as the sound of the wheels died away, carew went back into the house. his face was drawn and gray and his usually elastic step dragged as he passed slowly through the empty halls and across the moonlit courtyard to his own rooms at the back of the house and from there out on to the verandah. for an instant he stood, his haggard eyes upraised to the starry brilliance of the sky, then with a groan that seemed to almost burst his heart, he dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.