CHAPTER III
For a few moments, Marny Geradine, fighting to keep her own mount to a standstill, watched the fast retreating horseman until his tall, upright figure was blurred by the rush of hot tears that filled her eyes. She forced them back before they fell, the relief of tears was a luxury she had learned to deny herself, and turning once more towards Algiers cantered forward as slowly as her eager horse would permit. After all, what was the use of hurrying, she thought with a kind of dreary fatalism. If Clyde had already returned he would have arrived last night, a few minutes extra delay now would make no difference. The mischief would have been done. Nothing she could do would lessen his anger, nothing she could say would convince him against his own inclination. The true story of her terrible experience would find no credence with him. And even all the truth she dare not tell him. The latter part of the night’s adventure could never be divulged. The strange Arab who rescued her, his hospitality, his chivalrous regard and consideration would be beyond her husband’s comprehension. He was incapable of understanding a temperament other than his own, he would believe only the vile conclusion his own foul mind would leap at and hold in spite of all denials. She could never tell him. Enough that his return had found her absent, that she had lost a valuable horse for which he had recently paid a large figure. True, she had been promised that the horse would be returned, and the curious unaccountable faith she had in the man who had made that promise did not waver in spite of the seeming improbability of its fulfillment, but would his return even satisfy Clyde for his temporary loss? A cold feeling of fear ran through her, and then a wave of contemptuous anger at her own cowardice. She could make no explanations and offer no excuses. She would have to be silent as she always was silent rather than lie to shield herself from his imputations. Whatever she did was wrong, no matter how hard she tried to please him she always failed. She wondered, sometimes, how she found courage to go on trying. It all seemed so utterly useless. She pushed the heavy hair off her forehead with a bitter sigh. There wasn’t much courage about her this morning, she thought. The exultation of that wild swift gallop through the night had passed, the new strength that had come to her had evaporated, leaving her utterly weary and sick at heart. It would have settled so many difficulties if the Arab who had abducted her had used with purpose the knife with which he had threatened her the previous day. Death would mean release from a life that was unbearable, and she was not afraid to die. Death was life—and the life she led was death. All whom she loved, all who had ever loved her—for Clyde’s gross passion was not love—were dead. All except Ann—and how much longer would Ann be left to her? Clyde had so often threatened that she must go. For Ann’s sake she must try and struggle on. But if Ann was taken from her—the beautiful, tired little face grew suddenly cold and set like a piece of carved white ivory and the slender, drooping figure drew straighter in the saddle as she wrenched her thoughts to the present. To get it over as soon as might be—to take her medicine like a man. Despite her unhappiness, she smiled at the recollection of the well remembered formula that in her childhood had been her father’s invariable prelude to any correction he administered. And the father who had died so long ago, who had idolised her as she had idolised him, had never punished without reason. Clyde punished without either reason or provocation. The thought goaded her. No matter what form his anger took she would not give him the satisfaction he always hoped for. She would not let him see the physical fear he inspired that even her courageous spirit could not conquer. It would be worse for her in the end for her apparent callousness infuriated him, but she would rather break than bend, rather die than grovel at his feet which she knew was his desire. Avoiding the main road which she was approaching, she struck into a narrow bridle path that wound upward to the woods behind Mustapha, from where she had easy access to the little door that half hidden by flowering shrubs lay at the far end of the villa garden. The courage she still clung to did not extend to braving the curiosity of the gatekeeper at the main entrance. A turn in the track brought her to the path that led down to the garden gate. She reined in and slid to the ground. For a moment she stood still by the horse that had carried her so well, her face pressed against his neck, her fingers caressing the black muzzle thrust affectionately against her arm. Then she turned and handed the bridle to Hosein who was waiting stolidly beside her.
“That is the villa,” she said, pointing downward, “will you tell your master that he may know where to send my horse? It is called the Villa des Ombres. You will not forget?”
The Arab’s dark eyes followed the direction of her hand. “It is known to my lord,” he said gravely, “it is the villa of the Vicomte de Granier, who is his friend.”
She smiled at the little piece of gratuitous information.
“Go, with God,” she murmured shyly in his own tongue. It was one of the few sentences she had learned and as the man heard the stumbling words his gloomy face lit up suddenly and he replied with a flow of soft quick Arabic she could not understand. She watched him mount and, leading the horse she had ridden, move slowly away, not, to her surprise, in the direction from which they had come but along the winding bridle road that led further up the hillside. The trees soon hid him from sight, and with another weary sigh she turned and looked again on the Villa des Ombres. White and dainty as a doll’s house, set in the loveliest garden she had ever seen, surrounded by a high wall washed with palest yellow, the name seemed singularly inappropriate, yet as she looked at it now the significance of it struck her forcibly. For her it was indeed a villa of shadows, dark, menacing shadows that crept nearer to her as she hesitated beside the little path her feet had trodden so often. With a quickening heart-beat she pulled herself together and went down to the tiny doorway. Thick fronds of jasmine trailed across it and she put them aside carefully while she hunted for the key. The door opened inwards and she slipped through, closing it gently behind her, and stood for a moment with all the length of the garden between her and the villa, clutching the burnous closer round her, staring fixedly in the direction of the house. The garden was deserted, it was too early even for the gardeners who were not allowed to disturb by their chattering the protracted slumbers of the English milor who usually lay like a log for hours after the sun had risen. There was no sign of life within the villa. Everything was hushed and still, a brooding silence that oppressed her overwrought nerves. The heavy cloying perfume of the flowering shrubs brought a feeling of nausea that made her choke with sudden breathlessness. Her heart was beating suffocatingly as she started forward, moving slowly from tree to tree, instinctively taking what cover they afforded. At first she hardly realised what she was doing, then a blaze of anger went through her. She flung her shoulders back defiantly. She was not a thief to creep stealthily into her own house; whatever horrible construction Clyde might choose to put upon what had happened, she had done nothing to be ashamed of. With head held high and lips firmly compressed, she flung out from among the sheltering wealth of foliage into the open and walked steadily towards the house. It was a modern villa built in the French style, with all the rooms communicating. The bedrooms were at the back, opening on to a veranda which led to the garden. And to her own bedroom, the room she shared with the brute who owned her, she went with dragging feet. Before the open French window that gave access to the room, she came to a sudden halt and her eyes swept the cool dim interior with one swift glance of apprehension. Then she fell weakly against the window frame with a strangled gasp of relief, trembling violently, conscious for the first time of an overwhelming weariness that seemed to take from her every atom of strength. The room appeared to be empty; the massive bed, its silken curtains hanging from a gilt coronet fixed in the ceiling had not been slept in.
But as she looked again, too tired to move, she saw what she had overlooked at first, the tall gaunt figure of a woman, clothed in black, kneeling beside a big armchair, her neat grey head bowed on her folded arms. And as Marny bent forward eagerly there came to her ears the low soft murmur of a voice raised in passionate prayer.
A faint smile flitted across her pale face.
“Ann,” she whispered.
With a wild cry the woman scrambled to her feet and rushed at her, catching her in her arms with hungry fierceness.