The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

Shyness fell on her again as he led her into the adjoining room. And throughout the meal that followed she was very silent, eating mechanically what was put before her and studiously avoiding his eyes as from time to time she glanced with furtive curiosity about the big tent.

His heart ached for her as he watched her with an intentness he was careful to conceal. He was longing to help her, longing to make easier the difficult situation which he knew she was only now realising in its entirety, fearful of augmenting her constraint by any word or gesture that should emphasise the new relationship between them. Love made it easy for him to guess her thoughts. With fine intuition he understood perfectly the struggle that complete realisation must have awakened in her mind. Though she loved him, though she had given herself to him, still he knew that she must be shrinking sensitively from the consequences of her own act. His arms had been a refuge she had turned to in her need, but they were the arms of the man who loved her and here, in his tent, she must be facing the hard fact of her obligation, facing the payment of her freedom—a payment that only love could make endurable. More than ever did his own love clamour for utterance but he gripped himself resolutely, playing the part of impassive host with almost cold courtesy while he attended to her wants and keeping the conversation strictly to trivialities, and trivial conversation was not easy. They knew so little the one of the other. He had as yet no knowledge of her tastes, no knowledge of her interests. In spite of the love that had swept them both off their feet they were, to all intents and purposes, strangers to each other, and further hindered by her shy reserve a common meeting ground was difficult to find.

But when the short twilight had faded and the lamps were lit in the tent, when Hosein had come and gone for the last time leaving them alone, he found it impossible to maintain the detached attitude he had adopted, impossible to avoid reference to certain subjects that must of necessity be discussed between them. The sense of their aloneness, the intimacy of the moment, was stirring him deeply and the sight of her lying amongst the heaped up cushions of the divan, lovelier than he had ever seen her, infinitely pathetic as she seemed in her utter dependence on him, was an appeal that was too strong to be resisted and his heart was beating furiously as he went to her.

And affected no less than he, her breath came fast and her shy eyes met his for only a moment as she moved to make place for him. Sitting down beside her he caught her slim hands up to his lips. Then, still holding them in his firm grasp, he crashed through the faint barrier that had risen between them and spoke with unreserved frankness of the future and the life that they would share together. And afterwards, because he believed that only by mutual confidence and trust could their love be perfected, he broke the silence of years and told her the story of his life, the tragedy that had wrecked his early manhood and driven him to a self-imposed exile, and of the consolation he had found in the work that had become so dear to him. And his own confidence ended, he drew from her, bit by bit, the history of her girlhood and pitiful marriage. But of what she had suffered at the hands of the brute to whom her brother had sold her she would say nothing.

“You know,” she whispered, with quivering lips, “you saw—the morning after the Governor’s ball. I can’t speak of it. It hurts me.” For a moment he held her closely, his eyes blazing as once before she had seen them blaze, then he rose abruptly and striding across the room flung back the closed entrance flap and stood in the open doorway staring out into the night.

She twisted on the divan to watch him, wondering what chain of thought her words had set in motion, wondering if he was vexed at her reticence. But he gave no explanation of his hasty movement, and after a time he came back slowly, his face inscrutable as she had ever known it, and squatted, Arab fashion, on a pile of cushions near her. Lighting a cigarette, for a while he talked fitfully, his brief remarks punctuated by lengthy silences she did not know how to break. And as the evening wore on he grew more and more distrait until finally he ceased to speak at all, sitting motionless with his eyes fixed on the rug, smoking cigarette after cigarette.

She knew that it was late. The tom-toms and pipes, that earlier in the evening had resounded from the men’s quarters, had long since died away. She was conscious of a silence that could be almost felt, she found herself straining her ears to catch some sound that should moderate the deep quiet that was reminiscent of long ago nights in Ireland. But for once there was peace amongst the picketed horses and not even the wail of a jackal came to break the intense stillness. It was as if all the world slept and only she was awake—she and the man to whom she must soon yield the final proof of her love and surrender. She slid her arm across her burning face and shrank closer against the silken pillows, shivering uncontrollably, torn with the conflict that raged within her. She loved him, with her whole being she loved him—madly, utterly. To give him all he demanded would be joy beyond expression—but, oh, dear God, why must their love be stained with sin! Last night he had loved her well enough to let her go—and her coward body had driven her to plead with him until his renunciation became impossible. It was she who was responsible. It was her sin, not his—and let her be the only one to pay. Passionately she prayed it, clenching her teeth to smother the sounds of agony that rose in her throat. Weak with emotion, vaguely frightened by his continued abstraction, she was aching for the clasp of his arms, hungering for his kisses, longing for the comfort and reassurance of his voice. Of what was he thinking as he sat motionless, scowling heavily as he stared into space, no longer even smoking. Was it the remembrance of the early sorrow of which he had told her that made his face so stern and sad? A swift spasm of jealousy shook her. But she crushed it down, her tender brooding eyes growing misty with tears. What need had she to be jealous! The past was over—and his love was hers. He had proved it beyond all doubt. And he had done so much already, it was foolish to expect that every moment of his time could be given to her. He had other matters beside herself to engage his attention, matters that now, because of her, must necessarily have become more complex. It was only natural that he should be pre-occupied and silent. She must be content to wait. He would turn to her again in his own good time.

And when at last he stirred and rose with swift noiselessness to his feet, she was lying so still that he thought she was asleep. For a moment he bent over her, his hands reaching out to the little recumbent body, his strong limbs shaking with the fierce tide of emotion that was pouring over him, his passionate eyes aflame with love and longing. Hungrily he gazed at the woman he had taken for his own. Why did he hesitate? Was she not his, his of her own free will, his to give him all he asked! Of what use to refrain? Who, after what he had done, would believe that he had spared her! And if her fears were justified, if she failed to win release—what would either of them have gained? If not tonight—then sooner or later, for he would never let her go. Wife or mistress, whichever it was to be, he would keep her while the breath of life was in him. Lower and lower he bent till the warm sweet nearness of her, the faint intoxicating perfume of her fragrant hair, and his own desperate need combining shattered the last remnant of his self-control and he swept her up into his arms, straining her to his heaving chest, raining kisses on her lips, her eyes, her palpitating throat, till, panting and exhausted with the force of his ardent embrace, her head fell back against his shoulder and he carried her white-lipped and trembling towards the inner room. But as he reached the screening curtains that barred his impetuous way he came to a sudden halt and the quivering eagerness of his face gave way to a look of doubt and bitter misery. Yearningly he stared into her frightened eyes, then with a gasping sob he slid her slowly to her feet and pushed her gently through the silken hangings. “Go—for God’s sake go,” he muttered, and wrenched the curtain into place.

Not yet! Not while there still remained a chance that he might take her without dishonour. What the world would not believe was yet possible to him who loved her. Until he was sure, beyond all doubt, that she could never be legally free to marry him he would hold her unscathed, unsoiled by his passion. And, Merciful God, how long would that be? How long would he be able to hold out! He was pledged to Sanois and he had sworn to take her with him. Was he strong enough to withstand the temptation of long months spent in close proximity, riding day after day at her side under the burning sun, sleeping night after night with only a frail curtain between them? He did not know. He only knew that tonight his strength was gone and that he dared not stay beside her. The calm radiance of the star-lit sky, the deep stillness of the night mocked his as he fled from the tent he did not trust himself to look back on. A night of mystical beauty, redolent with the subtle odours of the east, languorous and heavy scented—a night for love and the fulfillment of desire.

With a groan he swept his hand across his eyes, wrestling with physical agony that was intolerable, cursing the scruple that kept him from her, cursing the man who stood between them. The blood was beating in his ears and his brain was on fire as he stumbled through the shadowy darkness of the little valley, striving to subdue the longing that possessed him, striving to banish the torturing thought of her nearness. Blind to the road he was taking, he saw only the sweet pale face that had flushed to the touch of his burning kisses, saw only the tempting beauty of the slender loveliness he craved. Was she asleep, as he prayed with all his soul she might be—or was she too awake, longing for him as he was longing for her, suffering as he was suffering? Just now she had trembled in his arms and he had seen the fear that leaped to her flickering eyes, but she had made no effort to repulse him, had made no plea for release. Instead she had clung to him. And it seemed to him that he could still feel the touch of her fingers, ice-cold and shaking against his, still feel the rapid beating of her heart, the tumultuous rise and fall of her delicate bosom as he carried her swiftly across the room. She had been willing, and he—He flung out his hands with a bitter cry and dropped like a log, burying his head in his arms.