“a greater liar than moseylama.”—arabic proverb.
three weeks passed, in which the arabian nursed ralph trenchard until the fever, brought on by exhaustion, thirst and terrific heat, had left him, and left him very sane and not unduly weak, and very full of gratitude to the beautiful girl whom he seemed to have seen at his bedside day and night, and who seemed to have changed her dress a hundred times, if she had changed it once.
the nerve-racking jangle of her bracelets and anklets and the overwhelming strength of her perfume drove him wellnigh crazy at times, but, remembering what he would learn from her upon his complete recovery, he stuffed the ends of the silk sheets into his ears and held his nostrils forcibly between thumb and finger under cover of the same luxurious bed-spread.
truly once or twice he grievously feared for his reason.
he wakened one night to see a remarkably handsome and muscular man, clad in naught but a loin-cloth, sitting motionless in the middle of the floor with what looked like a woman’s sandal pressed to his heart; and right strange and idiotic did he look, too, when he placed the sandal upon the floor and proceeded to press his forehead upon it. then, two or three, or maybe more, nights following—for he had completely lost all sense of time—he wakened to see nothing less than a lion rolling blithely upon its back not two yards from him, which, having rolled awhile, proceeded to gambol playfully about the room, then slouched to the doorway, through which it disappeared for good. when he turned slowly upon his[178] bed to see what else might be in store for him, he saw the face of the beautiful girl looking down upon him from a spot ’twixt floor and ceiling as though suspended in mid-air.
he laughed when, the delirium passed, these strange occurrences were explained to him by zarah, who, just because he felt too uncertain for the moment about past events to question her about helen, allowed herself to be deluded into the belief that he had forgotten the tale al-asad had told when he visited the bedouin camp disguised as a holy man. then this evening he sent the youth who waited upon him to ask her to come to him.
she came quickly, zarah the beautiful, the tender, the pitiful, zarah the most perfect hypocrite and liar, and sat at his feet upon the floor, appropriately clothed in black and silver, with the lower part of her lovely face semi-hidden by a yashmak, over which her beautiful eyes gazed into his with an expression which would have deceived even the astutest old holy father.
“where is helen raynor?”
he asked the question abruptly, taking her unawares.
she had intended telling him—if he should remember the nubian’s story—that helen had returned to hutah under escort and had perished in the locust storm, but the abrupt question took her off her guard.
“she is dead and buried in the quicksands,” she lied instantly, uncontrollably, infinitely unwisely, without giving a thought to the far-reaching effects of the lie.
“dead! my god! when? how?”
seeing the terrible mistake she had made, seeing no way out of it, she backed the lie, planning in a flash to give a slight foundation to the disastrous mistake by getting rid of the girl that very night. she laid her henna-tipped, jewelled hand upon ralph trenchard’s and told him the sad story of helen raynor’s death, and mopped her melting, dry eyes with the corner of the silken sheet as she answered his horrified questions.
[179]
“ ... yes! i made a gr-r-reat effort to save her-r, my dear-r schoolmate,” she said, “but, alas! kismet, allah had decr-r-r-eed other-r-wise....” her arms showed like creamy-yellow ivory as she raised them dutifully above her downcast head in a gesture that showed off her alluring figure to perfection. “ ... nay! dear-r helena said no wor-rd, she just died. wher-r-re? oh! in a bed. yes! here in the mountain dwelling. by the mercy of mohammed the pr-r-ophet did she die, so zat her face should be a beautiful memor-r-y to her fr-r-ien’s, even if i, zarah ...” she struck her breast with a beautiful gesture of resignation, but not hard enough to mark it, even in her intense grief. “ ... yea! even if i, zarah, shall have to car-r-y the dr-r-readful picture of it, all br-r-oken, before my eyes until ze day when death shall claim me also.” when ralph trenchard shivered in absolute horror, she shivered also, perhaps out of sympathy for him, perhaps to impress the thought of the english girl’s face upon him—who knows? then she got up and trailed across the floor to a table laden with drinks of divers sweetness and coolness.
he looked at the exquisite picture she made, and, longing to hear more about the girl he loved, stretched out his hand; and she looked at him with the love of all women in her glorious eyes, and walked back to him swiftly and with all the grace of her spanish mother, carrying a tray with glasses of frothing sherbet, which he did not want or touch.
“thou art indeed a man,” she said softly in arabic, as she placed the tray on a stool, ensconced herself cross-legged upon the divan, and leant towards him as she lit her cigarette, so that he was almost suffocated with the pungency of her perfume. “yea! verily amongst my subjects, who are of a truth somewhat misshapen about the legs from overmuch bestriding of the nejdee, thou art indeed a man!”
she sat and looked at him with all her love in her[180] eyes, whilst he sat and wished that in some way he could express his gratitude for all she had done for helen. but when, after much searching in those portions of her raiment which looked as though they might be large enough to conceal a minute pocket, she showed him helen’s wrist-watch upon her palm, then he moved close to her and crushed her hand in both of his until he almost broke her fingers, as she told him how helen had given it to her in memory of old times.
“ ... i give it to you,” she said at last.
it was a sacrifice.
smothered in jewels as she was, yet, with the delight some orientals have in the purloined object, she coveted that looted watch more than all her rubies, emeralds, pearls and diamonds put together in a heap.
he sat for a long time with the tragic, lying, little token in his hand, then turned and looked into the doe-like eyes, which looked fearlessly back into his.
“and this is all? you have nothing else, no little thing, a handkerchief, a hair-pin, anything, no matter how trivial, that belonged to your old school friend?”
zarah shook her beautiful head and sighed as she lied once more with the ease of long-established custom, and the certainty of being able before long to give some foundation to the lie.
“nozing! no little zing! we bur-r-ried her-r, as i have told you, in her-r cloze. she was not beautiful to look upon. a?, a?, she was not pr-r-etty in ze gr-r-eat sleep, so we bur-r-ied her-r-r deep, deep in ze comfor-r-ting sands, which tell no tales.”
she rose once more as she spoke and trailed across the marble floor to the door.
perchance she wished to study astronomy or, perchance, to draw a comparison between the beauty of those who live in luxury and the disfigurement of those who die in battle. whatever her intent, she certainly made a striking[181] picture as she leaned against the lintel, wrapped in a sheath of black and silver.
ralph trenchard stared at her, his eyes wandering from the red curls to the small feet in silver sandals.
she knew his eyes to be upon her, and turned slowly sideways and sighed as she raised her bare arms above her head so that their creamy whiteness shone against the purple background of the sky; she sighed again and pressed her hands upon the spot where by rights her heart should have been, whilst her melting eyes showed fine specimens of the tears of the crocodile as she inwardly asked herself if, in the whole world, there was to be found anything quite so slow as an englishman.
and he sat and gazed and gazed at the exquisite figure, in which he saw the golden head and the broad shoulders, the slender waist and the polished riding-boots, of the girl to whom he had given the gold watch he held in his hand.
he sat quite still for a long time, stunned with horror, then, quite unconscious of what he did, caused the beautiful arabian to totally lose her bearings, so that fear, jealousy and love linked hands in her heart and drove her down the road of tragedy which had been marked out for her through the ages.
saying nothing, he smiled at her and held out his hand, so that, completely on the wrong tack, she ran to him, the silver embroidery glittering in response to her fast-beating heart; then he kissed her hand in gratitude, which was just about the most idiotic thing he could have done, and, considering all things, spoke words of equal idiocy into her willing ear.
“you will come and talk to me to-morrow, will you not?” by talk he meant talk of helen, but how on earth was the arabian to know that? “you will? thank you so much, so very much!” he stopped; then, in his craving to regain his strength so as to get away from the horror of the place where helen lay dead, hidden from[182] him for ever in the ghastly sands, misled the arabian entirely. “can i walk about the camp? can i have a horse or a camel or something to ride in the desert so as to get really strong?”
“ride with me?”
she barely whispered the words.
“rather! if you have the time to spare. it would be awfully kind of you. then we could talk about the school you were at and everything.”
by which he meant helen’s schooldays and helen’s illness and helen’s death; but how was the arabian, blinded by love and vanity, to know that, especially as out of sheer gratitude he held her hand in both of his whilst he talked.
he took her to the steps and watched her descend, then turned and flung himself upon the divan with the watch against his lips, whilst zarah the cruel, wide awake to the danger of his walking amongst her men whilst helen remained in the camp, climbed the narrow path to the building where dwelt the girl he thought to be dead.
“may her envier stumble over her hair.”—arabic proverb.
she had told ralph trenchard that the girl was dead, when not only was she alive, but a person of some consequence in the camp through the thrice cursed episode of the black mare.
knowing nothing about constancy and honour and about as much about the question of nationality in marriage, she was firmly convinced that in time the white man, forgetting helen, would succumb to her beauty and marry her.
but before that thrice blessed day, even before he left his dwelling to walk with her in the camp as he had just suggested, the girl must disappear so that the unlucky[183] lie should have a slight foundation of truth, as have so many falsehoods in the east when sifted to the bottom.
once the girl was dead she would rely upon her own power over her own people to prevent the real facts of the case from reaching his ears.
the first thing was to find a way of ridding herself of the girl who stood as an obstacle in that path of peace and love which ended in the white man’s heart, but, above all, a way which would cause no comment amongst the men. the way was shown her, startlingly clear and simple, within the hour.
she cursed herself, the lie, fate and the black mare as she climbed the steep steps to helen’s prison.
if only she had not saved the girl in the first place, if only, in the second, she had not so foolishly allowed helen to win the men’s hearts by her magnificent horsemanship, if only she had not lied. if it had not been for that thrice cursed episode with lulah, the mare, she would not have hesitated an hour ridding herself of the girl, either by sending her back to civilization under escort or by some more drastic method.
up till then the white girl had meant nothing more than a prisoner to the men, and the disappearance of a prisoner, even one of the white race, would have been no subject of comment amongst them. as it was she could do nothing.
the nubian reported that the men constantly talked about helen; exercised their best horses in the hope that she would one day ride out in the desert with them, either to hunt ostrich with cheetahs or to lead them to the attack on some caravan or company of bedouins. they had taken to standing at the foot of the steep steps to gamble upon the chance of seeing her come out upon the platform, whilst gossip ran high as to the relationship between her and the white man whom the half-caste had saved from the sands of death.
[184]
so that she cursed herself over and over again for the lie she had told ralph.
she lied by nature and by habit; in fact, she found it easier and a good deal more enjoyable to lie than to tell the truth, but she had lied without giving herself time to look at the result of this particular lie from every point of view.
the surly negress, with the gait of a lame hen, rose from her squatting position as her dire mistress passed up the steps, and retired still farther into the shadows, where she occupied herself in the pleasant and stimulating, if not too elegant, task of chewing kaat as a relaxation from the dull work of spying upon the gentle white girl.
zarah stood for a moment and looked through the doorway at helen. she sat upon a pile of cushions, reading by the light of a silver lamp hanging from the ceiling.
certain that the negress had replaced namlah for the purpose of carrying reports about her, she had made up her mind that nothing but reports of normal behaviour should be carried.
she woefully missed the peace and austerity of the other dwelling, also the view of the desert through the cleft, and of the plateau with the rushing, sparkling river; but she made no sign, neither did she complain about the heat, which was so much greater, nor about the clutter of persian rugs, cushions and tables, which only served to intensify it. she had been told that her old dwelling-place had been required for certain prisoners, and that on their account she had been forbidden to walk outside. not a word of which she believed.
certain that eyes continually watched her, she forced herself to read; constantly on the lookout for danger, she smiled upon and spoke gently to the surly negress, who would not open her lips or respond in any way to her friendly advances. she was putting up a plucky fight against loneliness and anxiety. but it was not likely that[185] zarah should understand the moral strength which sustained the english girl in the long, weary days of silence and confinement. it would have suited the arabian better to have seen her crying her eyes out, or pacing the floor in agitation; anything, in fact, rather than sitting quietly reading; so that she made a quick gesture of impatience, upon which helen looked up, shut her book with a snap, and sprang to her feet.
“zarah!” she cried. “it’s ages since i’ve seen you. you haven’t been near me since i was moved from my old place. have you got rid of the bad prisoners? i am so tired of being cooped up in here!”
zarah sat down on a pile of cushions and lit a cigarette, as an answer to her difficulties flashed across her mind at helen’s words.
“you want to walk? you do not like being a pr-r-isoner-r your-r-self. you ar-r-e no pr-r-isoner. you must not go acr-r-oss ze plateau, but ozerwise ze place is all your-r-s.”
as one could not move out of the place without crossing the plateau, the all-ness seemed to be limited to the building and a small space behind, surrounded by towering rocks at which even the goats looked askance.
helen knew it, and suddenly changed the subject. she wanted to get leave to wander about the place as she used to do; she wanted to find the secret path and to speak to namlah; she wanted desperately to escape, but she knew zarah’s astuteness and had a faint conception of her intense hatred for herself; so went warily in her demand for a little more liberty and changed the subject.
“i wonder what this building was used for?” she said, slowly passing her finger over a roughly carved stone panel, tracing the outline of a fish, some kind of a waterfowl and a cross, carved in the centre of a disc in the fifth century by the holy fathers. “the age almost makes me creep, and i often wonder if the dead fathers come back at night to walk about their old home.”
[186]
zarah sprang to her feet in a positive whirlwind of gestures against spirits.
“you br-ring ze bad luck upon your-r-self and ze place, helena. nozing comes her-re or-r leaves her-r-e without my per-r-mission.”
helen seized the opportunity and crossed quickly to where zarah stood, marvelling at her beauty.
“zarah,” she said sweetly, “when are you going to find the time to take me to hutah. i do so want to get back. do you know what i’ve been thinking?” zarah shook her head as she looked at helen, raging inwardly at the english girl’s beauty, especially the golden hair, which, for coolness sake, hung in two great plaits to her knees. “you come with me and stay with me on a return visit, and together we will try and find out what has become of ralph trenchard, because i am sure he is alive. i should know if he wasn’t, i am sure i should.”
zarah turned abruptly away, swinging her cloak about her so that her mouth was hidden. she wanted to laugh, and she wanted to strike the english girl for the possessive way in which she always spoke of the sick man, whom she, zarah, had nursed so assiduously for days and nights; also could she willingly have killed her on the spot for the almost irreparable mistake she had caused her to make by lying about her death.
helen saw nothing of the girl’s fury; she had bent to pick up a box of chocolates, whilst the surly negress watched her through the doorway and inelegantly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“have a sweet, zarah,” helen said gently, offering the box, “and then be really nice and take me for a walk. i shall die if i don’t get a scramble amongst the rocks.”
“wher-r-e do you want to go?” zarah asked, as she zealously filled her mouth with the sweetmeats the surly negress coveted.
“i do so want to see the spear which was flung at your father, and then”—helen laughed so that her request should not be taken too seriously—“then couldn’t we[187] walk across the wonderful hidden path to the desert, then walk back? i’ll pin your train up if you’ve got a safety pin. you are beautiful, zarah; i can’t think why you haven’t been married years ago.”
zarah whirled round on her like a tiger-cat. in her violent jealousy she thought the other sneered at her; in her littleness of mind she failed to catch the ring of honest admiration in the girl’s voice.
“mar-r-ried!” she shrilled. “i am going to be mar-r-ried soon, and you won’t be her-r-e to see the cer-r-emony. oh, do go away!” she pushed helen roughly on one side when she put out her hand in congratulation. “we ar-r-rabians do not expand over-r ze idea of mar-r-riage as you english do.” she walked to the door as she added insolently, “we have no old maids, and i am younger zan you,” then clapped her hands and called the surly negress shrilly, angrily.
“methinks a whip upon the soles would hasten thy feet,” she cried furiously, as the woman ran forward and flung herself face downwards. “thou three-footed jackal, get up!” she struck the woman in the face when she opened her mouth, from which no coherent sound came, owing to her tongue having been split in her youth for misdemeanour, and struck again, until helen caught her by the shoulder and flung her on one side, whereupon the negress fell on her knees, bowed her head to the ground and kissed the arabian’s feet.
“you stop that, zarah!”
the words sounded like the crack of a whip as the two beautiful girls faced each other over the crouching woman.
“she’s dumb, and i never knew it! it’s awful!”
“you fool!” replied the arabian. “her husband beats her after every meal, and sometimes between. get up!” she kicked the woman, who leapt to her feet and stood shivering with bent head.
“the white woman has a desire for exercise after her long confinement owing to the unruliness of the prisoners.[188] dost hear, thou fool? she wishes to walk across the path of peril even to the far side. it is dangerous, and i have tried to prevail against her. one step too far, as thou knowest, and she passes into the keeping of allah, the one and only god. watch thou and pray to allah for her safe return.”
the negress watched them walk slowly along the narrow path until they were out of sight; then, with all the cunning of her race in her rolling eyes, and all a child’s glee at its naughtiness, crept back to the room, and, sidling along the wall, grabbed a handful of french chocolates. if she had waited one instant longer she might have seen a hidden figure crawl away between the rocks as silently as a snake.
blind yussuf went quickly amongst the rocks, as at home and as sure of his footing in his blindness as any goat. he crept through incredibly small places, swinging himself hand over hand at a height where no person with vision would have dared to have even moved, arrived at the cleft, thanks to the short cut, ahead of the girls, dropped like a cat from rock to rock, then, slipping like a shadow between the boulders, sat down in the shadow near the thrown spear.
he listened to the girls’ voices as they made their way down the steep incline. “‘a mouth that prays, a hand that kills.’” he drew a finger down the scars upon his face as he quoted the proverb and sat like an image of fate as the girls stopped quite close to him at the beginning of the path.
“it is quite hard, you see,” said zarah, as she bent and drove her fingers through a few inches of the wet sand. “it is not quite three of your yards wide.”
“but how wonderful!” helen bent and dug her fingers in, then moved them along sideways until her whole hand disappeared into soft, wet, warm sand which pulled it gently. “how dreadful!” then she laughed. she had found her way to the secret path and learned its secret. “i tell you what! you lead the way out, zarah,[189] then we’ll turn and i’ll tread in our footsteps and lead you back.”
zarah laughed also, suddenly, shrilly.
the way showed clear. the end was in sight! upon the return journey she had but to push helen gently and all the difficulties arising out of the accursed lie would be over.
she made a step and put her sandalled foot upon the path, then turned her head and stood quite still, her face convulsed with fury.
like some great guardian spirit blind yussuf stood just behind helen.
“it is not wise, o mistress,” he said gently, “to venture upon the perilous path this night of strong wind. it bloweth from the west unto the east, so that the wayfarer is like to be blown into the sands of death. it is not wise, o mistress, and thanks be to allah that i heard voices as i passed and followed with great swiftness. nay, verily it is not wise.”
he spoke gently, his great cloak hanging motionless in the still night, and salaamed to the ground when the arabian, without a word, beckoned to the bewildered helen and swiftly retraced her steps.
back in her prison, helen walked out to the space behind the dwelling to think over matters as the moon rose over the edge of the mountains. she looked up when a stone rattled down the side to her feet.
upon a ledge to which a goat would have hardly dared to climb sat yussuf. he put his fingers to his lips as he looked down at the girl he could not see but whom he had recognized by her footstep. “a ti balak,” he whispered, then rose and swung himself from rock to rock by the way he had come, whilst helen stood looking up until he disappeared, frozen with fear for his safety; then, more determined than ever, through his warning, to try and find a means of escape, turned and entered her dwelling, just as zarah entered hers and summoned al-asad.
