The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

And as he went Marny Geradine’s eyes followed him with a look of yearning sadness, and a deep sigh that was almost a sob escaped her. What had she done! What right had she to intrude herself upon him? Why add to her own unhappiness by prolonging an interview that would only bring her further sorrow. The joy of seeing him, of speaking with him, could lead to nothing but greater misery and regret. But the temptation had been stronger than she could withstand. She loved him so. And what harm could there be when his own indifference was so great! Why did he hate women? Mrs. Chalmers’ information had not gone beyond the bare fact and, herself reserved almost to fastidiousness, she had not sought to probe the reason of his hatred. What, after all, did it matter? The secrets of his past, if there were any secrets, were not her affair. Enough for her that he was a man who had devoted his life to relieving the suffering of the desert people amongst whom he lived. From the doctor’s warm-hearted wife she had learned the significance of the title by which he had called himself that night of terrible memory. So would she have him—the ideal she would treasure in her heart, a man magnificent in his singleness of purpose.

He came back to her slowly, his face inscrutable as the people whose dress he wore, and sat down leisurely, Arab fashion, on the ground near her. Taking her literally at her word and prompted by her eager questions he found that speech was easier than he had anticipated. It was a subject on which he was well qualified to speak, a subject that lay very close to his heart, and gradually his attitude of barely concealed hostility wore away and he talked as, weeks ago, he had talked in his tent to Micky Meredith. But not of himself and his own work. Of these he said nothing, speaking only of the desert and its nomad inhabitants, of the charm and cruelty of the vast sandy wastes, of the petty wars and feuds that raged perpetually amongst the savage and belligerent tribes. His low even voice ran smoothly on, drawing no fanciful picture but relating faithfully the things that were the things he had himself seen, the life he had shared. While he dwelt on the glamour and fascination of the desert wilds he spared her nothing of the squalor and misery, the ghastly needless suffering that was bound up inextricably with the scenes he depicted.

Eagerly she listened to him, happy with just the fact of his nearness, enthralled by the story he told so graphically and which held her spellbound. Her eyes fixed on the sunburnt face that was turned persistently away from her, she was no longer in the little clearing or even near to the Algiers that had proved so great a disappointment to her. She was far away in the burning south, riding beside him over the undulating sweeps of the restless sand, camping under the argent stars and living the life of which she had dreamed—a life that with all its savagery and primitive violence was yet cleaner than the one to which she was condemned. To be with him there, far from the artificial existence that sickened her, to live out her life beside him aiding him in the work of which he would not speak and serving him with all the strength of the love that was consuming her! She clenched her hands with the pain of her own imagining. A dream that could never be realised. There was no room for a woman’s love in the life he led. Alone, and always alone, he would follow the course he had set himself, a solitary dweller in the wilderness pitting his individual strength against the pain and suffering he sought to minimise. And, bound, what would be her loneliness when he rode for the last time out of her life leaving her to a misery that would be greater even than she had known before?

A gasping sob escaped her and horrified at her lack of control she hid her burning face in her hands. But to Carew her agitation seemed only the natural consequence of the grim tale of ruthless Arab ferocity he had just concluded.

“It is cruel, of course,” he said with a slow shrug, “but it is the way of life the whole world over—the strong preying on the weak, the eternal battle for existence, and a callousness that is born of necessity. And Arabs are only children, as all men at heart are children, fighting for what they want and often, from mere perversity, for what they do not want.”

She nodded assent, not trusting her voice to answer him and furtively brushing away the tears of which she was ashamed. And he too fell silent, playing absently with a length of creeper he twined and retwined between his long strong fingers, wondering at the interest she had evinced, wondering at the ease with which he had spoken to her.

At last, through the silence that neither seemed able to break, came the trampling of horses’ hoofs. He looked up with a start and leapt to his feet, his hand reaching instinctively for the revolver in his waistcloth. For himself he did not care, but if Abdul had tracked him here what of the girl beside him? Alone he would have been content to give his enemy the benefit of the doubt—but because of her he could take no chances. He would have to shoot at sight, or be shot himself. He moved quickly, screening her where she sat, and slid the heavy weapon from its resting place. But the next moment he jerked it back with a smothered ejaculation of relief. It was not Abdul el Dhib who rounded the bend in the narrow path but a neat typically English little man straddling with a jockey’s gait between the two horses he led. Only when he turned to find Marny close at his elbows did Carew realise that his face was wet with perspiration. With a gesture of impatience he brushed his hand across his forehead but he did not vouchsafe any explanation. She must have seen the revolver in his hand—explanations could wait. And standing quietly beside him, she did not seem in any hurry to ask but remained silent until the arrival of the groom. The little man brought the horses to a stand with no sign of surprise at the sight of the tall Arab-clad figure towering behind his mistress.

“Nine o’clock, m’lady,” he announced stolidly, and backed her horse into position.

Marny laughed as she placed her foot in the stirrup Carew moved forward to hold.

“Tanner is my timekeeper,” she explained, swinging easily into the saddle, “he always has a watch, and I lose mine as fast as I buy them,” she added, gathering up the reins and settling herself comfortably.