The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

CHAPTER IX

The first pale streaks of dawn were stealing across the sky before Carew stirred from the chair into which he had dropped two hours before to face the knowledge that had come to him in that tense moment of self-understanding in the little winter garden at the Palace. Stunned by the realisation of his own feelings, racked by the painful scene following his return to the villa, at first concrete thought had been impossible. His whole ability to will and do, his whole mental and physical being seemed crushed under a weight of sorrow that for the time was paralysing. He felt numbed, conscious only of the suffering that, clogging his brain, reacted on his body leaving him inert and lifeless.

But gradually his mind cleared and he was able to think more calmly. He loved. For the second time in his life he loved. And yet it seemed to him that only now did he know the depths of his own heart, only now did he comprehend what true devotion could really mean. The love of his early manhood, the love he had given the woman who had been his wife, was not comparable with this overmastering passion that had come to him in his maturity. If he had loved then as he loved now not even the tragedy of twelve years ago could kill that love. And the greater, deeper, more wonderful emotion he had only just realised was as the dust of ashes in his mouth. There was no joy, no hope in this new love. There was only the pain of renunciation and the bitter knowledge that he had brought sorrow to her for whose sake he would gladly die rather than even a shadow should cross her path. For that she also loved him he knew beyond all doubt. He had read it in her eyes, he had heard it in the anguished tones of her voice when the thought of his peril had driven her to self betrayal as she listened to his story of the finish of Abdul el Dhib. The pain that was his was hers also. The thought was torment. Had she not already enough to bear without this additional burden of a love that could never be satisfied, that would bring her only grief and the torturing remembrance of what might have been? What did his own suffering matter compared with the fact that because of him she too must suffer? It would have been better, a thousand times better, if he had never returned from that last hazardous expedition that had ended in the meeting in the deserted village by Blidah. And yet, to his fatalistic reasoning, that same meeting had seemed a thing ordained; but for his coming she must have experienced a fate too horrible even to contemplate. It was almost as if he had been deliberately guided in the choice of road he had taken, as if he had been led to her by some inscrutable ruling of providence. And though at the time he had raged at the necessity that had forced him to help her, though his whole soul had revolted from his self-imposed task, he knew now that love had leaped into being when he had carried her to his camp, and that it was love struggling for recognition that had caused the misery and mental upheaval of the succeeding weeks. But only tonight had he realised it, only tonight had he awakened to a full understanding of the almost unbelievable thing that had happened to him. And how or when during their brief meetings she had come to care for him he did not know, nor would he ever know. He only knew that for some strange inexplicable reason she had given him her love, that though she would never be his he would carry through life the knowledge that her heart was in his keeping. And the knowledge humbled him. How could she care! What could she see in him, a man nearly twice her age who, until tonight, had treated her with scant civility, that she should stoop to bestow on him the priceless treasure of her love. But what did it matter—enough that she did care and that he would have to be content with just the fact of her caring. Content! Good God, was the intolerable ache that filled him, the mad longing that possessed him, contentment! He would never be content. The mere knowledge of their love was not enough. He wanted her, above his very hope of heaven he wanted her. The barriers of defense he had raised about himself were torn away at last. The dead heart that had lain cold and lifeless within him was alive once more. Passion swept, and seething with jealousy he made no effort to stem the elemental impulses that seemed suddenly let loose and for a time only the primitive man in him existed urging his desperate need until even murder seemed justifiable to obtain her—the murder of the one who stood between him and what he wanted. Geradine! His fingers curled and tightened as though they were about the throat of the man he hated with all the force of his being. That strange hatred was no longer incomprehensible, and the thought that had so appalled him the night at the opera he viewed now with cold dispassion. What was the life of such a brute compared with her happiness and well-being! Was it murder to rid the earth of such scum, to free her from the tyranny that was killing her, body and soul? Murder! A terrible smile flitted across his face. For her sake he could do even that. Nothing mattered but her necessity. Beside that justice, honour, the man-made laws of society seemed to fade into utter insignificance. And the laws of God—was he to trample them under foot as well? If it must be. He was willing to risk even his soul to save her from further suffering. But was there need for such a drastic measure—was there no easier way to follow? Was there not the way that others had taken—the way that would free her from a life of bondage, that would give him his heart’s desire? What was scruple to stand between them? They had only one life to live—and she loved him. She would come to him—if he made her. And for her own sake he would make her—for her sake, or for the sake of his own lust?

“But I say unto you that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart!”

He started to his feet with a smothered groan. It was as if he saw the words in letters of fire, blazing accusingly before his tired eyes. A shudder passed over him and something seemed to snap suddenly in his brain dispelling the madness of the last few moments and leaving him aghast at the horror of his own thoughts. She was not for him to covet. He had no right to love her, no right to think of her as he was thinking now—yearning for her, desiring her with all the strength of his manhood. Strength! What strength was left to him who had foresworn himself, who had turned from his lofty ideals and yielded to a passion that was ignoble! Conscience-smitten he saw himself as he was, fallen from his high estate, crashed from his pinnacle of self-righteous exaltation. It was repetition of history wherein his rôle was horribly reversed. He was no better in intention than the man he had reviled twelve years ago. The sin he had condemned was now his sin. He craved another man’s wife, craved her with an intensity that had almost swamped his sense of right and wrong. And she? A dull flush crept over his tanned face. In his mind he had degraded and abased her, had dragged her down to the sordid level of his own carnal desires. Was his love so vile that he must think only of his bodily need? Was physical possession merely the dominating factor of that love? Had the years spent in the desert, the years of self-imposed abstinence, brutalised him so completely that he was incapable of higher, purer sentiment? Did she mean so little to him? Deep down in his heart he knew that she did not, knew that his love was a greater, finer thing than that. It was only the passionate impulse of the moment, the crushing sense of abnegation that made him weak, that made him want her as he was wanting her now—for his own, for that wonderful mating of soul and body that might have been theirs. To take her from the life she loathed to the freer, wilder life he had made his own; to know her safe and happy in his love; to watch the awakening of new hope and peace that would chase the sorrow from her tragic eyes; to be to her what she would be to him—comrade and helper, lover and friend, a partnership made perfect by their mutual love. It was what might have been. But now only a dream of joy that was unattainable, a vision of heaven that made the bitter certainty of its unfulfilment a foretaste of hell. God, how he longed for her! Marny, Marny! With a strangled sob he buried his face in his hands. . . .

It was long before he stirred to move slowly with cramped limbs and aching head to the edge of the verandah where he leant wearily against the pillar that supported the green tiled roof, staring with haggard eyes across the garden at the brightening dawn—a dawn that for once gave him no pleasure.

It was over and done with—the wonderful glimpse of happiness that could never be. There was only one road to follow, the lonely road that had been his for so many years, but lonelier, more desolate now than it ever had been. For her sake and for the sake of what honour was left to him he must go, and go at once. Back to the desert, back to the work he had chosen. Alone—and he must go without seeing her again. He dared not see her. His confidence in himself was gone. And yet how could he go, how could he leave her knowing what her life would be, knowing what she must still endure and suffer at the hands of the drunken bully who possessed her. Geradine, whose name was a by-word, whose brutality and viciousness was discussed by all Algiers, whose behaviour to his girl wife was openly hinted at! Was he to leave her at the mercy of such a man? Even that he must do. She was not his—she was Geradine’s wife. Geradine’s wife—God help her. And his daily, hourly torment would be to know her so. Far from her, powerless to help her, he would have to live with the thought of her continual agony and sorrow. Merciful God, would he be able to bear it!

Made almost tangible by his longing she seemed to come to him where he stood, as once before he had seemed to see her in a strip of brilliant moonlight, and he stretched out his arms hungrily, whispering her name with shaking lips till the mental picture faded and, muffling his face in this thick burnous, he yielded to an agony that was greater than he had ever known. The sky was aflame, the garden resounding with the early songs of birds when he at last regained self-control. But he was blind and deaf to the beauty and harmony about him as he lingered for a few moments striving to bring something like order into the chaos of his thoughts. He was going back to the camp near Blidah, a camp that would be poignantly painful to him with the recollections it would induce. He would see her at every turn, the big tent that had sheltered her would be a perpetual reminder, dominated by the memory of her presence. Even the locality would be hateful to him, but to go further was impossible while Sanois’ arrangements were still incomplete. There was no other course for him to take, no other way by which he could effectually prevent any further meeting between them. With a little shiver he turned and went heavily into the house. The study was rank with the fumes of the lamps that had burnt out during the night, and he passed quickly through to his bedroom beyond.

As he entered it the door on the further side of the room opened and Hosein came in with his usual noiseless tread. He offered no explanation for his appearance at an unusual hour and Carew asked for none, but knowing the man he was positive that the big Arab, on his return to the villa, had spent the remainder of the night in the adjoining dressing room watching and waiting for his master’s coming. Though his gloomy face was, if possible, more gloomy than usual, his mere presence was a relief, and the customary stolidity with which he received his unexpected orders made the giving of them easier. Only a quicker service, a gentler handling of the garments tossed to him denoted an understanding that was more profound than Carew even guessed at. He was packing suit cases and holdalls with methodical deftness when Carew came back from his bath. Taught by years of experience, he knew even better than his master what was required for the protracted journeys in the desert which were to him infinitely preferable to the life in Algiers, and he took a certain pride in his work which was this morning especially noticeable. His face had lightened somewhat and he was patently pleased to be preparing for the road again. Of necessity Hosein was fully aware of the political significance of the forthcoming expedition, he knew also that it was the General Sanois who was responsible for the delay that had kept them so long in Algiers, and watching him as he moved swiftly and silently about the room Carew wondered in what degree his servant connected his hasty departure with the episode of last night. Distasteful as was the thought it was better so than that even Hosein should have an inkling of the real truth.

The valet had already acquainted the household with the altered arrangements and in the study, besides the coffee and rolls that were waiting for him, Carew found Derar full of importance and weighed down with account books and the necessary business devolving on himself that his master’s absence would entail. And while he ate, Carew wrestled with his elderly servitor’s endless questions and reiterated demands for instructions with the patience he had learned in dealing with the native mind. It was useless to remind Derar that the orders he gave were in every particular similar to those given many times before, that there was to be no departure from established precedent but that the villa was to be run on the same lines that always prevailed while he was away.