The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

For a time it appeared as if no other midnight wanderers were abroad, but as he neared the high enclosing wall of the Villa des Ombres his quick ears caught the sound of hurrying, stumbling feet and the raucous intonations of a voice he recognised. Instinctively he shrank into the deeper shadow of the wall as Tanner, the English groom, reeled past him with words that seemed to turn the blood in his veins to ice. “The swine, the swine—the blasted swine! ’E’ll do ’er in, by Gawd, ’e will! Christ, ’ow she screamed—and the damned door locked so as I couldn’t get in! And ’im mad drunk—the beast! My Gawd, my Gawd, what’ll I do? I’ll ’ear them screams till I die!” And sobbing and blaspheming in impotent rage the little man tore on and vanished into the night.

But towards the house from which the groom had fled, Carew was racing with a deadly fear knocking at his heart. The gates were open and, panic-driven, he dashed along the carriage drive and up the steps of the villa hurling himself against the door which, unbarred, gave way before him. In the dimly-lit entrance hall he stumbled and almost fell headlong over the prostrate figure of an Arab who moaned and writhed on the marble floor. Callous to everything but the one ghastly fear that gripped him, Carew kicked his feet clear of the man’s robes and shook him roughly. But the fiercely uttered question died on his lips as a piercing shriek rang through the silent house. A shriek that was followed by others so terrible, so frenzied, that for a moment he reeled under the horror of them. And with the agonizing screams was mingled the sound of a man’s raving and other more pregnant sounds that drove Carew to the verge of madness. With a groan he leaped to the door of the room where was the woman he loved, but, locked from within, it resisted his furious onslaught and, as well acquainted with the villa as he was with his own, he knew that to force in was impossible. Desperately he wrenched at the handle, then a sudden thought came that sent him flying down the corridor. There was another door leading into the drawing room, a secret door that, flush with the wall and hidden by curtains, was possibly unknown to the tenants who had rented the house. Reaching the ante-room with which it communicated and tearing aside the embroidered hangings he flung his whole weight against the fragile panels, crashing through into the room beyond. One sweeping glance sufficed him. Dragging his eyes from the battered little body stretched almost at his feet he crouched for an instant, stiffening like a wild beast preparing to spring, his face the face of a madman.

And startled by his sudden appearance, too blind with passion to recognise the man who had gone through the sandstorm with him, Geradine saw in the tall, robed figure facing him only an unknown Arab who had dared to force a violent entrance into his house and he flung forward with a savage snarl, brandishing the heavy hunting crop with which he had flogged his wife into insensibility.

“You damned nigger,” he bellowed. “What the hell—”

But with the sound of his voice Carew sprang, his clenched fist driving straight at the other’s mouth. For a second Geradine staggered, then with a roar of mingled pain and fury he slashed with the crop at Carew’s face. But the blow fell short and the next moment two powerful arms closed round him. Though strong above the average, his life of intemperance had unfitted him for any protracted struggle and tonight, wearied already by his outburst of savagery and not sober enough to use with advantage what strength he had, he was helpless in the grip of the muscular hands that seemed to be crushing the life out of him. Choked with the strangling hold on his throat he was almost unconscious when the clutching fingers slid suddenly to his arm and he was forced to his knees.

And with the whip that was still wet with her blood Carew avenged the woman who lay so deathly still beside him. Maddened with the thought of her suffering, he wielded the heavy weapon till Geradine’s coat and shirt were torn to ribbons, crimson stained and sticky, till his moans became fainter and finally died away, till his own arm grew tired with the punishment he inflicted. Only then did he fling the whip from him. Scarcely glancing at the inert figure sprawled face downwards on the floor, indifferent whether he had killed him or not, he turned slowly to that other pitiful little figure and, hardly conscious of what he did, tore the burnous from his shoulders, and wrapping it round her lifted her into his arms and carried her away.

The hall was empty as he passed through it. But he was oblivious of the apparently deserted house, oblivious of everything but the slight burden he held. As if in a dream, his mind almost a blank, he followed mechanically the road by which he had come half an hour before. And not until he had reached his own villa, until, led by instinct rather than definite reasoning, he found himself in his own bedroom, did the dream-like feelings pass and he awoke to realize what he had done. But that could wait. At the moment only she mattered.

Laying her on the bed he stripped the blood-wet silken rags from her lacerated shoulders, wincing in agony as they clung to the delicate broken flesh his trembling lips covered with passionate kisses. But he was doctor as well as lover and, forcing his shaking fingers to steadiness, he bathed the cruel wounds with tender skill, doing all that was possible for her comfort before he dropped to his knees to wait till she should regain consciousness. And when at last she stirred it was some time before recognition dawned in the dazed eyes that were gazing blankly into his. But the sudden joy that filled them faded swiftly into a look of terrible fear.

With a cry that greyed his face she flung herself into his arms.

“Don’t let him get me! Don’t—let—him—get me,” she shrieked, again and again, till the horror of it was more than he could bear and he crushed her face against him to stifle the sounds he knew would ring in his ears while life lasted.