The Desert Healer

by E. M. Hull

For a long moment his lips clung to hers, then he laid her on the bed. “You know I love you, Marny,” he answered, “it is because I love you that I am going back to Algiers.” There was a note of intense sadness in his voice that made her bury her face in the pillow to stifle the sobs that were fast growing beyond control, but there was also in it a ring of finality that made further pleading impossible. Nothing she could say would move him. His will was stronger than hers and she knew that, despite the love and consideration that henceforward would make possession so different, she had but exchanged one master for another.

When she raised her head again she was alone and she started up, trembling with dread, listening till her ears ached that she might hear the last sound of his voice. But there was only silence in the adjoining room and, driven by an irresistible impulse, she fled through the communicating curtains. The loose entrance flap was only partially closed and, screened by the looped-back draperies she waited scarcely breathing, straining her eyes through the gloom, praying that she might see him once more.

And when he came it was only a momentary glimpse, a fleeting impression of two shadowy horsemen who flashed past the tent to vanish in the darkness beyond as though they had never been, and sobbingly she stumbled back to the inner room, flinging herself in a passion of tears on the bed where she had wept throughout the lonely hours of the night. She did not question his action, it was enough for her that he had done what he thought best. And there was no bitterness in her grief. Selfless, she did not think of herself. It was only of him she was thinking, only for him she was agonising. The brutal strength she knew by terrible experience, the savage unbridled nature she had learned so thoroughly—what would he do? What ghastly tragedy would ensue from the meeting of these two men so strangely opposite, so strangely linked by a common desire? Tortured by horrible imaginings, mad with fear, she writhed in mental anguish that took from her all power of reasoning, and tossing to and fro on the soft bed that still gave no rest to her aching limbs, she wept until she had no more tears, until exhausted she fell asleep.

It was mid-day before she woke. The room was filled with light, hot with the vertical rays of the sun blazing down on the roof of the tent. Slipping from the bed she stood for a moment holding her throbbing head between her hands, then moved languidly towards the dressing table. At the further end of the room she found a little bathroom, Spartan-like in its appointments but containing all that was needful and half-an-hour later, bathed and refreshed, she went listlessly into the living room.

As she came through the curtain, Hosein, who was squatting on his heels by the doorway, rose to his feet with a deep salaam. And listening to his low-voiced inquiry whether it was her pleasure to eat, she wondered how long he had been waiting there, wondered what lay behind his inscrutable face and suave deferential manner. She had learned from Carew last night of his Arab servant’s devotion, and of the confidence that existed between them, and his presence now gave her a curious feeling of reassurance. She knew without being told that Carew must have left her in his keeping, knew also that Hosein must be perfectly aware of the reason of his master’s absence, and his calm demeanour and untroubled expression seemed insensibly to soothe her own agitation of mind. But when the meal which had appeared with almost magical quickness was finished, when Hosein had gone again and she was alone once more, the temporary courage that had come to her faded as new doubts and fears crowded in upon her more overwhelmingly than before. How could she rest! How could she bear the torture of long hours of waiting—waiting that might never end!

And mingling with the present agony came the memory of past suffering. Why had the way of life been made so difficult for her? To what end the misery she had endured? Was it that through sorrow and pain she might attain to a greater perfection hereafter? Her lips quivered. The goal had been too high for her endeavour. Her faith had not been strong enough to trust only in the Divine Comforter. In her despair she had turned to earthly consolation, and the clamouring of her starved heart had driven her into the arms of the man who loved her. And stronger than she, he had striven to save her from the consequences of her weakness. But she had tempted him—tempted him with her fear, tempted him with her threat of suicide. Why didn’t he hate her for the vile despicable thing she was! Gervas! Gervas! Cold and shivering, tortured with suspense, unconscious of the passing hours, she huddled on the divan, hoping, despairing, until concrete thought became at last impossible, until all her senses seemed merged into one dominant perception as she lay listening, listening for the soft thud of galloping hoofs.

And in the end, it was no actual sound that roused her, but an instinctive intuition, an indefinite something penetrating to her brain that sent her flying with shaking limbs and palpitating heart to the open doorway.

The sun was setting and every detail of the rosy-tinged landscape stood out in sharp and clear relief. But her wild dilated eyes saw nothing of the peaceful beauty of her surroundings as she waited, sick with apprehension for the moment that should determine her fate.

The camp was curiously silent. There was no sign of life, nothing to impede her view except the odd blur that came over her eyes at intervals. How long she stood there she never knew. One thought only held her motionless, one question that her pallid lips repeated monotonously. Which—which?

And then, quite suddenly, she knew—knew even before the three swift moving horses swept into sight from behind the angle of jutting rocks that framed the entrance to the little valley. Faint with the shock of relief she clung to the curtains for support, watching them gallop towards the tent as though the hounds of hell were at their heels. Why were there three? Only one attendant had gone with him. And the horseman who rode so closely behind was no Arab. Her heart seemed to miss a beat as she recognised the slim little figure whose crouching seat in the saddle was so familiar to her. Oh, God, what had happened! Why was Tanner with him!