for a few moments, marny geradine, fighting to keep her own mount to a standstill, watched the fast retreating horseman until his tall, upright figure was blurred by the rush of hot tears that filled her eyes. she forced them back before they fell, the relief of tears was a luxury she had learned to deny herself, and turning once more towards algiers cantered forward as slowly as her eager horse would permit. after all, what was the use of hurrying, she thought with a kind of dreary fatalism. if clyde had already returned he would have arrived last night, a few minutes extra delay now would make no difference. the mischief would have been done. nothing she could do would lessen his anger, nothing she could say would convince him against his own inclination. the true story of her terrible experience would find no credence with him. and even all the truth she dare not tell him. the latter part of the night’s adventure could never be divulged. the strange arab who rescued her, his hospitality, his chivalrous regard and consideration would be beyond her husband’s comprehension. he was incapable of understanding a temperament other than his own, he would believe only the vile conclusion his own foul mind would leap at and hold in spite of all denials. she could never tell him. enough that his return had found her absent, that she had lost a valuable horse for which he had recently paid a large figure. true, she had been promised that the horse would be returned, and the curious unaccountable faith she had in the man who had made that promise did not waver in spite of the seeming improbability of its fulfillment, but would his return even satisfy clyde for his temporary loss? a cold feeling of fear ran through her, and then a wave of contemptuous anger at her own cowardice. she could make no explanations and offer no excuses. she would have to be silent as she always was silent rather than lie to shield herself from his imputations. whatever she did was wrong, no matter how hard she tried to please him she always failed. she wondered, sometimes, how she found courage to go on trying. it all seemed so utterly useless. she pushed the heavy hair off her forehead with a bitter sigh. there wasn’t much courage about her this morning, she thought. the exultation of that wild swift gallop through the night had passed, the new strength that had come to her had evaporated, leaving her utterly weary and sick at heart. it would have settled so many difficulties if the arab who had abducted her had used with purpose the knife with which he had threatened her the previous day. death would mean release from a life that was unbearable, and she was not afraid to die. death was life—and the life she led was death. all whom she loved, all who had ever loved her—for clyde’s gross passion was not love—were dead. all except ann—and how much longer would ann be left to her? clyde had so often threatened that she must go. for ann’s sake she must try and struggle on. but if ann was taken from her—the beautiful, tired little face grew suddenly cold and set like a piece of carved white ivory and the slender, drooping figure drew straighter in the saddle as she wrenched her thoughts to the present. to get it over as soon as might be—to take her medicine like a man. despite her unhappiness, she smiled at the recollection of the well remembered formula that in her childhood had been her father’s invariable prelude to any correction he administered. and the father who had died so long ago, who had idolised her as she had idolised him, had never punished without reason. clyde punished without either reason or provocation. the thought goaded her. no matter what form his anger took she would not give him the satisfaction he always hoped for. she would not let him see the physical fear he inspired that even her courageous spirit could not conquer. it would be worse for her in the end for her apparent callousness infuriated him, but she would rather break than bend, rather die than grovel at his feet which she knew was his desire. avoiding the main road which she was approaching, she struck into a narrow bridle path that wound upward to the woods behind mustapha, from where she had easy access to the little door that half hidden by flowering shrubs lay at the far end of the villa garden. the courage she still clung to did not extend to braving the curiosity of the gatekeeper at the main entrance. a turn in the track brought her to the path that led down to the garden gate. she reined in and slid to the ground. for a moment she stood still by the horse that had carried her so well, her face pressed against his neck, her fingers caressing the black muzzle thrust affectionately against her arm. then she turned and handed the bridle to hosein who was waiting stolidly beside her.
“that is the villa,” she said, pointing downward, “will you tell your master that he may know where to send my horse? it is called the villa des ombres. you will not forget?”
the arab’s dark eyes followed the direction of her hand. “it is known to my lord,” he said gravely, “it is the villa of the vicomte de granier, who is his friend.”
she smiled at the little piece of gratuitous information.
“go, with god,” she murmured shyly in his own tongue. it was one of the few sentences she had learned and as the man heard the stumbling words his gloomy face lit up suddenly and he replied with a flow of soft quick arabic she could not understand. she watched him mount and, leading the horse she had ridden, move slowly away, not, to her surprise, in the direction from which they had come but along the winding bridle road that led further up the hillside. the trees soon hid him from sight, and with another weary sigh she turned and looked again on the villa des ombres. white and dainty as a doll’s house, set in the loveliest garden she had ever seen, surrounded by a high wall washed with palest yellow, the name seemed singularly inappropriate, yet as she looked at it now the significance of it struck her forcibly. for her it was indeed a villa of shadows, dark, menacing shadows that crept nearer to her as she hesitated beside the little path her feet had trodden so often. with a quickening heart-beat she pulled herself together and went down to the tiny doorway. thick fronds of jasmine trailed across it and she put them aside carefully while she hunted for the key. the door opened inwards and she slipped through, closing it gently behind her, and stood for a moment with all the length of the garden between her and the villa, clutching the burnous closer round her, staring fixedly in the direction of the house. the garden was deserted, it was too early even for the gardeners who were not allowed to disturb by their chattering the protracted slumbers of the english milor who usually lay like a log for hours after the sun had risen. there was no sign of life within the villa. everything was hushed and still, a brooding silence that oppressed her overwrought nerves. the heavy cloying perfume of the flowering shrubs brought a feeling of nausea that made her choke with sudden breathlessness. her heart was beating suffocatingly as she started forward, moving slowly from tree to tree, instinctively taking what cover they afforded. at first she hardly realised what she was doing, then a blaze of anger went through her. she flung her shoulders back defiantly. she was not a thief to creep stealthily into her own house; whatever horrible construction clyde might choose to put upon what had happened, she had done nothing to be ashamed of. with head held high and lips firmly compressed, she flung out from among the sheltering wealth of foliage into the open and walked steadily towards the house. it was a modern villa built in the french style, with all the rooms communicating. the bedrooms were at the back, opening on to a veranda which led to the garden. and to her own bedroom, the room she shared with the brute who owned her, she went with dragging feet. before the open french window that gave access to the room, she came to a sudden halt and her eyes swept the cool dim interior with one swift glance of apprehension. then she fell weakly against the window frame with a strangled gasp of relief, trembling violently, conscious for the first time of an overwhelming weariness that seemed to take from her every atom of strength. the room appeared to be empty; the massive bed, its silken curtains hanging from a gilt coronet fixed in the ceiling had not been slept in.
but as she looked again, too tired to move, she saw what she had overlooked at first, the tall gaunt figure of a woman, clothed in black, kneeling beside a big armchair, her neat grey head bowed on her folded arms. and as marny bent forward eagerly there came to her ears the low soft murmur of a voice raised in passionate prayer.
a faint smile flitted across her pale face.
“ann,” she whispered.
with a wild cry the woman scrambled to her feet and rushed at her, catching her in her arms with hungry fierceness.
“my lamb—my lamb—” she sobbed, and held her as if she never meant to let her go. and yielding to the weakness that was growing on her, almost happy for the moment in the shelter of the tender arms wrapped around her, marny laid her aching head on the shoulder of the woman who had nursed her from babyhood. but the transient happiness passed quickly and she freed herself with a single word of interrogation.
“clyde?”
the old woman’s face hardened suddenly. “his lordship’s not back—thank god,” she said, grimly. with an inward prayer of thankfulness marny dropped into a chair. the relief was tremendous, the respite more than she had dared to hope for. as clyde was not yet back then there was no possibility of his arriving before the evening when she would have strength again to meet him. but there was still one thing that had to be arranged before he came. she put aside the trembling hands that were fumbling at the clasp of the enveloping cloak.
“tanner,” she said, hoarsely, “fetch tanner. i must speak to him at once.”
the woman made a gesture of protest. “never mind tanner, miss marny dear,” she said, soothingly. “tanner can wait. let me put you cosily into bed first and then i’ll tell him you are safe home. he’s close by and won’t take any finding. give him his due, he’s been nearly as anxious as me, backwards and forwards between the house and the stables since yesterday morning—and worrying more about you, my precious, i’m bound to admit, than that nasty, vicious horse he’s so partic’lar about,” she added, trying again to unfasten the burnous. marny guessed at the unspoken anxiety that made ann’s fingers so unusually clumsy and smiled reassuringly.
“you don’t understand,” she said, with gentle insistence, “i must see him. don’t fuss, ann dear. i’m not hurt or damaged in any way, i’m only desperately tired. but i can’t rest until i’ve spoken to tanner. bring him here, and then you can coddle me to your heart’s content. but i won’t move from this chair until i’ve seen him.”
“but, miss marny, it’s your bedroom,” exclaimed ann in horrified accents, “and you in that outlandish cloak and all, and your hair—”
“oh, never mind my hair, you dear old propriety, and tanner won’t trouble his head about it being my bedroom. do as i ask you, ann, if you love me,” said marny, wearily. and muttering to herself ann departed grudgingly.
she returned almost immediately followed by an undersized, sharp-faced man, who bore the marks of his calling stamped plainly upon him. half jockey, half groom, cockney from the top of his bullet head to the tips of his neat feet, he accepted the situation with the aplomb of his kind.
saluting smartly, he waited for lady geradine to speak. and marny who liked and trusted the little man did not hesitate.
“i’ve lost the caid, tanner,” she said, bluntly. for a moment his coolness forsook him. “my gawd!” he breathed and stared at her in frank dismay. then he recovered himself quickly. “did you take a toss, m’lady, did ’e ’arm you, the vicious devil—begging your ladyship’s pardon. mrs. ann and me, we’ve been cruel anxious,” he added with the suspicion of a shake in his rasping voice. marny smiled at him and shook her head.
“i’m not hurt, thank you, tanner. the chestnut was stolen. i ought not to have taken him so far from algiers. i forgot that he might be known, might be a temptation to any arab who knew his value—there are a lot of desert men coming into the town just now. anyhow he’s gone. i couldn’t do anything alone. but i—i’ve given information about it and i’m almost certain that he will be sent back. so you needn’t worry, tanner. i’m sure it will be all right. it was my fault entirely, it probably wouldn’t have happened if i had taken you with me. but there is no good in going back to that. i’ll explain to his lordship and—and please keep near the stables, tanner, in case the horse comes back today,” she added, hastily, struggling to keep her voice steady. for a moment the man hesitated, then with a quiet, “very good, m’lady,” he jerked his hand to his forehead and tip-toed from the room. outside in the hall he looked back over his shoulder at the closed door, his face working oddly. “you’ll explain to ’is blooming lordship, will you m’lady? gawd almighty, we all know what that’ll mean! i’d a deal rather take the blame meself—blast ’im!” he muttered, and strode off very far from sharing his mistress’s optimism with regard to the stolen horse.
in the bedroom, marny leant back wearily in the deep armchair, too tired to move, wondering at her own confidence in the promise that had been made to her, wondering at the man himself and at the strange feeling of security she had felt in his presence.
ann’s anxious voice roused her and rising with an effort she submitted without further protest to the ministrations of her old nurse who stripped the tattered clothing from her with exclamations of horror at the sight of the bruises marring the whiteness of the delicate body she worshipped.
she had seen, with almost murder in her heart, similar bruises before on those slim young arms and knew them for what they were, the marks of a man’s merciless fingers. but she made no comment while she bathed the aching limbs, and brushed the tangled mop of curly hair, and finally tucked up her charge in bed as if she were a child again. and until the last drop of strong soup she brought was finished, and she had drawn the jalousies over the open window, she refrained from asking the questions that kept rising to her lips. but when everything she could think of for her mistress’s comfort was done she slipped on to her knees by the bedside and caught the girl’s hands in hers.
“tell me, miss marny dear,” she pleaded, tremulously, “you can’t go bottling things up inside of you forever. it will ease your mind to speak—for once. there’s a lot more than you let out to tanner, you that came home in rags and bruised fit to break my heart. what did they do to you, my precious? where have you been all these weary hours that i’ve been nearly out of my senses with fright—thinking you dead, or worse, and dreading his lordship’d come back and find you gone, and all.”
and thankful for the opportunity of confiding fully once more in the faithful old nurse who, until five years ago, had shared her every secret, marny told her. and ann listened, as she had listened long ago to the frank recital of childish escapades, in silence. only the trembling of her thin lips, the occasional tightening of her worn old hand, betrayed the agitation she would not allow herself to voice. miss marny had been through enough, had suffered enough for one day, she wouldn’t want any more “scenes” now it was all safely over. she brushed the hair tenderly from the damp white forehead and rose to her feet with a long drawn breath. “it was bad enough—god be thanked it wasn’t worse,” she said, softly. “i’d never have believed the day would come when i’d feel a particle of gratitude toward an arab—nasty, slinking, treacherous creatures i’ve always thought them. that man of his lordship’s—malec—fair gives me the creeps. but i suppose there’s good as well as bad amongst them, there must be by what you’ve told me. a christian gentleman couldn’t have done more, and there’s many who’d have done less. what did you say his name was, miss marny?”
marny turned drowsily, settling more comfortably into the pillows.
“he didn’t tell me his name,” she said, sleepily, “he said he was called el hakim.”
“and what might that mean?”
“it means a doctor, i think, but i didn’t know arabs had doctors. perhaps he has something to do with the spahis—he talked french very well—perhaps he—” a big yawn swallowed the end of the sentence, and ann drew up the coverlet with a little admonishing pat. “never you bother your pretty head about him now, my lamb. just go to sleep and forget all about it. and heaven send the man’s as good as his word and gets that dratted horse back,” she added, anxiously to herself as she left the room.
it was late in the afternoon when she reluctantly aroused her mistress and set down a dainty tea tray by the bedside.
“it’s four o’clock, miss marny, and there’s two eggs to your tea. i’ll see you eat every bit of it,” she announced cheerfully, bustling about the room and flinging back the shutters. lady geradine stretched luxuriously and then sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “oh, ann, what fun,” she said with a laugh the old woman had not heard for years. “it’s like nursery days. put heaps of cushions behind me and cut off the tops of the eggs. i’m simply famishing.” then she paused with a square of toast half way to her mouth and the laughter died out of her eyes.
“has the caid come back?”
ann splashed the tea into the saucer at the sudden question.
“not yet, dearie, but its only four o’clock—and the train doesn’t get in until seven,” she said, inconsequently. marny understood very well the meaning of her somewhat obscure sentence, but she gave no sign of understanding. it was part of the pitiful game she played that even ann received no confidences and was allowed to make no comment on the treatment her husband meted out to her. angry with herself for the words that had escaped unintentionally, the old woman stole a penitent glance at the girl who was her idol. but marny was apparently only concerned with the salting of her egg.
“the poor dear isn’t likely to come back by train,” she said lightly, as if the horse alone occupied her mind.
finishing her tea she slipped out of bed and into the wrapper ann held for her. stretching out her arms she patted them tenderly, and then raising them high above her head bent forward easily, sweeping her finger-tips to the ground, and straightened again slowly with a laugh of satisfaction.
“i’m as right as rain, ann,” she said, reassuringly, “not a bit stiff. i’ll dress for dinner now. i can’t be bothered to change again so soon. bring me that white teagown thing i got in paris, it’s loose and cool.”
too loose and too cool, thought ann as she went with primly folded lips to fetch the diaphanous little garment that had been made to lord geradine’s order and which she herself considered neither fit nor decent for her mistress to wear. a dress suitable in its sensuous appeal to the women with whom the viscount chose to associate, but degrading to the innocent girl whom he had married. and when the final touches to lady geradine’s toilet were completed, ann stood back and surveyed her handiwork with grim disapproval. and marny, staring absently into the long mirror, caught the expression in the stern old eyes fixed on her and moved abruptly with a smothered sigh, the colour deepening in her face. the dress was hateful and she loathed it, but in this as in everything else, loyalty to her husband kept her lips closed. even his questionable taste must pass undiscussed. and discussion would make it no easier to bear. she had to submit to it as she had to submit to the man himself. she was not a free agent. legally she was his wife, actually she was a slave to be and do at the whim of a capricious and tyrannical master.
in the early days of her married life, she had tried to rebel, and the memory of those futile struggles was like a horrible nightmare, but the passing years had taught her wisdom and given her strength to accept what she revolted from and detested.
slipping a long chain of uncut emeralds round her neck she went silently out of the room. the drawing room she entered was more english than french in its appointments, bright with gay coloured chintzes and fragrant with masses of flowers banked in every available space. she lingered by a tall basket filled with giant roses, inhaling their delicate perfume and gathering the cool petals against her hot cheeks. then she moved slowly to glance at a porcelain clock ticking noisily on the mantelpiece. little more than an hour before clyde might come and her brief holiday would be over. he rarely left her for so long and the days of respite had flown. with a shiver she lit a cigarette and began to pace the narrow room, her thoughts travelling back over the last five years of bitter misery to the day when, barely seventeen years of age, a child in every sense, she had grown suddenly in the space of a few agonising hours into womanhood, cruelly awakened to what it meant to be clyde geradine’s wife. as he determined to continue so had he begun. the disgust and loathing he inspired in her had never lessened. herself innately chaste, his gross coarseness and frank sensuality appalled her. if he had even once shown that he had been moved by any higher sentiment, had had any nobler thought beyond the purely physical attraction she had for him she would have tried to make allowances. but for him she was merely a perfectly made vigorous young animal by whom he hoped, as he candidly told her, to get the heir on whom he had set his heart. and with nothing to cling to, nothing to hope for, she felt only degradation in her association with him. his moods were variable as his temper was uncertain. he was made up of contradictions. despite his own infidelities, infidelities of which she was fully aware, despite the fact that he deliberately paraded her beauty on every possible occasion, he was possessed with an insensate jealousy. faithless himself he placed no trust in her faithfulness, and was suspicious of every mark of admiration shown her. she was his, he insisted, as much his property as any horse or dog in his stable, his to use as he would. his also, it seemed, to abuse and torture by every subtle mental torment his cruel nature could devise. and not mental only. it pleased him to know her powerless against his strength, it pleased him when the mood was on him to subject her to physical violence that his warped mind held to be within his right. he had bought her, body and soul he had bought her, and brutally he allowed her no possibility of ever forgetting the fact.
motherless before she was old enough to know her loss, she had grown up in a big rambling house in an isolated part of the west coast of ireland. the father she adored had died when she was twelve, leaving her in care of her brother denis, who was ten years her senior. neighbours were few and far between, their visits long since discouraged by the lonely, broken-hearted man who had lived a life of seclusion since his wife’s death. with no companions of her own age, with almost no associates of her own rank, she had spent her days in the open, riding and fishing, content with the limited life she led. ann’s had been the only womanly influence she had known, ann who had been her mother’s nurse and then her own.
and denis, a ne’er-do-well with tastes and inclinations studiously hidden during his father’s lifetime, had, on succeeding to his inheritance, shaken the dust of ireland off his feet to seek a more exhilarating sphere of activity where he had successfully dissipated his patrimony, and incidentally fallen under the influence and into the power of lord geradine who was a past master in all the vices the younger man emulated. marny had never known the real truth of the whole sordid story. she only knew that after years of absence denis had returned, changed almost beyond recognition, bringing with him a stranger who had stayed for a fortnight in the house. she had hated the big domineering englishman at sight, instinctively repelled, and the attention that almost from the first he had shown had terrified her. then he had gone, and a couple of months later denis had reappeared, more haggard, more careworn than before. he had told her a long rambling tale, most of which she had not understood, and had ended with a wild appeal to her to save his honour and the honour of the family she had been taught from childhood to reverence. only by her marriage with lord geradine, it seemed, could the family name escape disgrace. and, ignorant of what she did, carried away by denis’ eloquence, passionately jealous for the name that had gone untarnished for generations, she had consented. she had been given no time for further reflection, and in spite of ann’s horrified remonstrances and pleadings she had been married almost at once. that was five years ago. and for five years she had endured a life of misery, in an alien environment, disillusioned and shocked. her husband’s hold over her brother—a hold she had never comprehended and which had never been explained to her—was the means by which he compelled her submission in everything. and consistently she had done what she thought to be her duty, had striven to please him as far as she was able and had been loyal to him who had never shown loyalty to her.
five years—only five years!
with a bitter sigh she sank wearily into a big chintz covered chesterfield. for a long time she lay thinking, almost dreaming, until at last she awoke with a sudden sense of shock to the import of her thoughts. the arab who had saved her! she could see distinctly every line of his tall, graceful figure, every feature of his grave, bronzed face. she found herself wondering again at the cold austerity of his expression, so different from the appraising glances of admiration usually accorded her and which made her hate the beauty that inspired them. he had not even appeared to know that she was beautiful. his sombre eyes had rested on her with complete indifference, almost, so it seemed to her, with dislike. hyper-sensitive, she had been conscious that his aid, his hospitality had been given unwillingly. she remembered the curt impatient voice, “i do not keep you to please myself—” and wondered why the fact of his indifference seemed so suddenly to hurt her. if he had not been indifferent, if he had looked on her as other men did, what would have been her fate? she would have escaped one horrible peril only to fall into another as horrible. she had been utterly in his power, utterly at his mercy—the mercy of an arab. she owed her honour to an arab—and she did not even know his name! why had he evaded what was a perfectly natural question, why hidden his identity under a sobriquet? was he afraid that she would try to trace him, try to force on him some tangible proof of the gratitude he had refused to listen to? her cheeks burned. what he had done was beyond payment. in all probability she would never see him again. she would have to be content with the meagre information he had given her, content with the memory of a wonderful chivalry she had never thought to experience and which had been a revelation. it was as though some healing power had touched her, like the clean, wholesome breath of some purifying wind penetrating the defiling atmosphere that surrounded her, opening her eyes to a new conception of man’s attitude towards woman. the men she had hitherto met had been uniformly alike in taste and inclination to the husband who forced their society upon her. she shrank from them as she shrank from him with a sense of shame that was unendurable. compelled to participate in a life she abhorred, she seemed to be on the brink of some loathsome pit, choked with the fetid fumes of its foul putrescence, steadily sinking downward into an abyss of horrible and terrible darkness, her whole soul recoiling from the moral destruction that appeared to loom inevitably ahead of her. what did her soul matter to clyde? it was only her body he wanted. it was only physical admiration she saw in the eyes of his friends. yesterday for the first time she had met a man who had ignored her sex, whose gaze had not lingered desirously on the fair exterior compelling a remembrance of her womanhood, whose proximity had not moved her to hot discomfort, but had given instead a sense of security and trust. with him she had felt safe—safe and curiously unstrange. the hours spent in his tent, the long ride through the night at his side, would never be effaced from her memory. he had given her a glimpse of a finer, cleaner manhood than in her unhappy experience she had ever known. in some undefinable way he seemed to have restored the self-respect that year by year she had felt being torn from her. and he was an arab! an arab. she whispered it again, lying very still on the sofa, her fingers twining and untwining restlessly about the emerald chain. what did his nationality matter—it was the man himself who counted. the man who had shown her a nobler type than she had ever met with, the man who had shown her that all strength was not merciless, that all men did not look on women merely as their natural prey. and as with this desert man, so must it be with many men of her own race. her brooding eyes darkened with sudden anguish, and she flung on to her face burying her head in the silken cushions, fighting the agony of misery and revolt that swept over her. why had she been destined for such a fate? why had it been her lot to be thrown only amongst those whose vileness debased the sacred image in which they were made? why had she been given no chance of the happiness that must be the portion of luckier women than she? if it had been otherwise, if for her marriage had meant not only physical union but a higher, holier companionship of mind and spirit, how gladly would she have yielded to a passion hallowed by love, to possession tempered by consideration. if she could have loved and respected where now she only obeyed and endured! a marriage such as hers was ignoble, degrading, horrible beyond all thought. if she had known what it would mean, would she have had the courage to face what she had done in ignorance? she sat up, pushing the heavy hair off her forehead, staring into space with pain-filled eyes. yes, she would have done it again in spite of everything. not for love of denis, she had never loved him—in childhood he had bullied her, in girlhood he had neglected her, and on the threshold of her womanhood he had made her pay the price of his infamy—but for love of the name and family that meant so much to her. and because of that, because her wretchedness was the result of her own willing sacrifice she must struggle on as she had struggled all these five terrible years, beaten and hopeless, but striving to fulfill her part of the marriage vows her husband treated so lightly. but, oh, dear god, she had never known it would be so hard! harder now than ever. why did her thoughts turn so persistently to the man who had saved her? why did the recollection of his chivalry and generosity seem to make her feel so much more acutely the misery of her life? was it only the contrast to the man whose wife she was? she hid her face in her hands with a sharp little cry of fear. it was more than that. quite suddenly she realised it—the full meaning of what had happened to her, the full significance of the thoughts that were crowding in her brain. she shivered, clasping her hands closer over her eyes. why, oh why had this come to her—had she not already enough to bear! and if she had not been bound, if she were free, it would make no difference. he was an arab! then her self-control gave way and she fell back among the cushions, dry-eyed but shaking with emotion. “i wouldn’t have cared,” she wailed, “i wouldn’t care what he was.”
but his indifference had been complete—and she was married! she wrung her hands in an agony of shame and horror. she was married. she was clyde’s wife. to even think of another man was sin. she must tear from her heart the image that in a few short hours had become so deeply implanted. she would never see him again. with quivering lips she whispered it, and writhed at the strange new sense of desolation that came upon her. a companionship that had been so brief, a passing stranger of an alien race whose name she did not even know—and yet the world seemed suddenly empty. she pondered it, ashamed and vaguely frightened. it was because she had trusted him, she thought with a pitiful attempt at self-justification, and because she was tired and overwrought. unnerved, she had allowed his kindness to make too deep an impression.
later, when strength was given her again, she would forget—not him—but the wickedness that filled her heart tonight. she moved listlessly on the sofa, mentally exhausted, too tired almost to care that the caid was still missing, that very soon her husband might be returning and she would have to make her lame explanation and face his inevitable wrath. and for once, honesty compelled her to admit it, he would have good cause for anger. the horse was valuable, and she had had no right to take him so far from algiers unattended. it was asking for trouble in a land of horsemen who stole where they could not buy and who would consider the theft of a noted stallion, that a foreigner purposed to remove from the country, as an act of merit rather than otherwise. all her young life she had ridden alone. but it would be useless to try and explain to clyde the overpowering desire for solitude that had driven her out yesterday morning without the groom whose constant presence put a period to her enjoyment and took from her all the pleasure of her rides.
the clock on the mantelpiece struck seven. she hardly glanced at it. if clyde did come, the train would probably be late. it usually was. and for nearly an hour more she lay still, striving to concentrate her tired mind on trivialities, becoming momentarily drowsier as the room grew darker. she was nearly asleep when the sound of a loud blustering voice echoing from the hall sent her bolt upright on the sofa, her heart beating violently, her wide eyes fixed apprehensively on the door.
she stumbled to her feet as he flung into the room, a tall heavily-built man whose big frame seemed to almost fill the aperture as he stood for a moment in the entrance peering for her in the dim light.
“what the devil are you sittin’ in the dark for?” the truculent tone gave her the key to the mood in which he had returned and her heart beat faster as she heard him fumbling at the electric switchboard by the door. then the room flashed into brilliance as he swept his hand downward with an impatient jerk, and she blinked at the sudden glare of light with a nervous little laugh.
without waiting for an answer he strode towards her and caught her in his arms with the rough masterfulness that was habitual with him. “been asleep—tired of waiting for me? you look like a baby with your hair all ruffled and your cheeks the colour of a two-year-old,” he said, with a short laugh of satisfaction, drawing her closer and bending to kiss her. the hot breath fanning her face was rank with spirits and it took all her resolution to suppress the repugnance his nearness caused her, and meet the heavy eyes that glowed with sudden passion as he crushed his mouth on hers. she was trembling when at last he released her but he did not seem to notice her agitation. he laughed again, looking her slowly up and down with the frank appraisement of a proprietor. “i wanted that,” he remarked complacently, “a fortnight’s a bit too much without your charmin’ society, my dear. you’ll come along too the next time. and the trip wasn’t worth it. no decent heads worth speaking about, not a sight nor smell of a panther, and that ass malec mucked up the arrangements as i knew he would—a rotten show from start to finish. and the train was nearly an hour late getting into algiers, waited an infernal time at a potty little wayside station for some dam’ chief or other to get aboard with most of his tribe. thought we were going to be there all night. can’t think why they let the beggars travel by train. i’m as hot as hell and my throat’s on fire. i want a drink and i want a bath. tell ’em to have dinner ready in half-an-hour.” and with a parting curse at the inefficiency of the algerian railway service he flung out of the room as he had flung into it.
with her hand pressed tightly against the lips that were still quivering from his kisses marny stood struggling to regain her composure and starting nervously as she listened to the angry bellowing that came from her husband’s dressing room. but she drew a swift little breath of relief at the thought that he obviously knew nothing as yet of the caid’s disappearance, that it was not any fault of hers but only the non-success of the shooting trip that had annoyed him. if she could only keep the disastrous knowledge from him until tomorrow—the horse might be back by then. she smothered a sigh and, ringing the bell, gave the order for dinner. his rough handling had further disarranged her ruffled hair and while she smoothed it into order she stared at herself in the mirror with hostile eyes.
he had made her a coward—would he end by making her a liar as well? but at least she need not lie to herself. it was cowardice that made her defer telling him the story of her mishap. it was cowardice that had made her choose the hateful dress she was wearing tonight. she turned away with a gesture of disgust and self scorn, and fell to pacing the room until he joined her again.
during dinner her own silence passed unheeded while he launched into a detailed and grumbling account of the expedition that had fallen far short of his expectations. he cursed the country and its people and the sporting facilities with equal impartiality and with a wealth of highly coloured language that was peculiarly his own, breaking off frequently to swear at the servants who were, notwithstanding, doing their work quickly and well. she knew that he must have been drinking heavily during the day, but his thirst seemed unquenchable and as she watched him gulp down whisky after whisky, she wondered with a feeling of dread what form the inevitable reaction would take. his rages were easier to bear than the moods of maudlin sentimentality that sickened her.
contrary to his usual custom he followed her into the drawing room when dinner was finished, and lighting a cigar took up a commanding position before the flower-filled fireplace with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his dinner jacket, watching her through half-veiled eyes until coffee was brought.
“you’re dam’ pretty tonight, marny,” he remarked condescendingly as he took the fragile cup she held out to him. “i flatter myself that dress was a stroke of genius,” he added, looking with no great favour at the coffee he raised to his lips. a moment later cup and contents went crashing into the flower pots behind him.
“filth!” he ejaculated disgustedly, “if that chap can’t make decent coffee he’ll have to go.” and consigning the cook to perdition he lounged across the room to a chair and turning to the tray-laden table beside him splashed neat cognac wrathfully into a glass. marny put down her own cup without answering. there was nothing wrong with the coffee, it was perfectly made as usual, but expostulation was useless with clyde in his present humour. and he seemed to expect no comment. swallowing the brandy with slow enjoyment, he refilled the glass and, stretching his long limbs lazily, turned to her with the question for which she had been waiting all evening.
“tanner been behaving—beasts all right?” he rapped, with a glance at the clock on the mantlepiece. and fearful that, even at this late hour, he might be meditating a visit to the stables, for the first time in her life she lied, her fingers clutching at the soft cushions of the sofa till they grew stiff and numb.
“tanner has been exemplary. the horses are splendid,” she said with forced easiness. and her answer apparently satisfied him for he grunted approvingly and settled more comfortably into his chair. for some time he did not speak, and she lay still striving to subdue the rapid beating of her heart, acutely conscious of the searching eyes that rarely left her face. but when the coffee tray had been removed he stirred restlessly. “any letters?”
accustomed to doing for him what he was too lazy to do for himself, she rose and fetched the pile of correspondence that had accumulated during his absence, and, going back to the sofa, watched him tearing open and throwing aside letter after letter until she could keep silent no longer.
“aren’t you going to the club?”
he laughed shortly. “not me,” he said, with a glance that made her flinch. “you seem to forget i’ve been away for a fortnight. my wife’s society is good enough for me tonight.”
with an involuntary tremor she turned her head that he might not see the loathing she knew was written on her face, and picked up a novel with shaking fingers. she had not expected that he would go to the club, and only a passionate longing to shorten the hours she must spend alone with him made her propose it. her lips trembled as she turned the pages of the book mechanically, not reading but listening to his angry comments on the letters that were evidently not pleasing to him. he flung the last one from him with a snarl.
“that charming brother of yours is asking for trouble! overrun his allowance again and has the cheek to write and ask for a cheque by return. i’ll see him in hades first. i’ve warned him before the allowance is ample and that i wouldn’t raise it by a single halfpenny. seems to think i’m made of money,” he added, kicking the letter petulantly.
the book slipped to the floor as marny sat up with a jerk, staring at him uncomprehendingly.
“his allowance—denis—i don’t understand,” she said slowly, with a puzzled frown.
he looked at her with a curious smile. “don’t you, my dear?” he said unpleasantly. “neither does denis, apparently. no irishman seems to understand the value of money, and i suppose denis is only conforming to type when he fails to understand that the yearly allowance i make him has got to last a year. he can whistle for what he wants now, i shan’t give it to him.”
“but, clyde, i don’t know what you’re talking about,” she gasped, “the allowance you make him—why do you make denis an allowance? why can’t he live on his own money?”
lord geradine smiled again.
“what money?” he drawled.
she jerked her head impatiently.
“his own money, the estate money, the rents of castle fergus. what he—what we have always lived on. why can’t he manage on that?”
“because the castle fergus rents are paid to me,” replied her husband shortly. she looked at him blankly, putting her hand to her head with a gesture of bewilderment.
“to you,” she faltered, “the castle fergus rents are paid to you? but why—what have you to do with castle fergus? oh, clyde, i don’t know what you mean, truly i don’t.”
lord geradine heaved himself sideways in his chair and poured out a whisky with slow deliberation. “you knew your brother was in a hole when i married you,” he said at last, with a certain irritation in his voice. she winced, and the blood rushed into her white face. “i knew that,” she said shakily, “but i didn’t know it had anything to do with money. i thought it was something—something horrible he had done,” she added with a shiver, her voice breaking pitifully.
geradine emptied the glass and pushed it from him with a hard laugh. “the one sometimes follows from the other,” he said contemptuously, “it was so with denis. he ran through a very tidy fortune in an uncommonly short space of time, and then he did what you are pleased to call ‘something horrible’. i don’t set up to be a model of virtue myself but there are some things i jib at, and i’m damned if i’d soil my hands with the dirty game he played. but he played it once too often when i came on the scenes. he landed himself in the devil of a mess and jolly nearly ended in jail. but for my own reasons that didn’t suit me, and he was dam’ glad to take the terms i offered him. he wanted his liberty and money enough to make it amusing—i wanted you. and there you have it,” he concluded with brutal candour.
she sat quite still, looking at him fixedly her face colourless, trying to realize the meaning of what he had told her. at the moment she hardly knew which she hated most, the brother who had held his sister so cheaply or the man who had been content to drive so shameful a bargain to obtain what he wanted.
“he sold me to you,” she said at last. and the scorn in her voice sent him out of his chair with an oath that made her shudder, “oh, for god’s sake don’t make a tragedy out of it,” he cried angrily. “in any case it’s ancient history. you knew that denis had a reason for pressing our marriage. i don’t know what fancy tale he told you, and i don’t care. we are married and there’s an end of it. and there’s no earthly need to cut up so rough about it. you didn’t do so badly for yourself, you blessed little innocent—and i’m not complaining. don’t be a little fool, marny. i mayn’t be a saint but i’m dam’ fond of you. i wanted you the first minute i laid eyes on you, and i generally get what i want,” he added with a complacent laugh, dropping down on the sofa beside her. then his voice changed as he slid his hand slowly up the soft cool arm under the loose sleeve of her teagown. “i’ve been wanting you pretty badly this last fortnight,” he whispered thickly, and flung his arms around her with sudden violence. for a moment he held her, trembling and helpless in his fierce embrace, and she felt the heavy beating of his heart as he stared down at her with hot desire flaming in his red flecked eyes. then he laughed again, a laugh that made her want to shriek, that made every nerve in her body quiver with passionate revolt, and pushed her from him.
“run along,” he said quickly, “and don’t keep me waiting the infernal age you usually do. tell that old woman to clear out in double quick time if she values her place.”
beyond the door, free from his watching eyes, she buried her face in her hands with a groan of agony. for how many more years, oh, merciful god, must she endure this life of horrible bondage? would she never be free—never escape from his brutality till death released her. if she could only die—but she was too strong to die. misery did not kill. she would live—live until the beauty that was all he cared for faded, live until he had drained from her the strength and vitality that had attracted him. and afterwards? for her there was no afterwards, no hope, no consolation. there was only the present with its difficulties and suffering. the present! she started nervously. how long had she stood there? with a convulsive shudder she went swiftly across the dim lit hall.
and as she passed her husband’s dressing room the door opened suddenly and she came face to face with his arab valet. she had not seen the man since his return and, forcing a smile to her trembling lips, she nodded to him with the kindly greeting she gave invariably to every member of the household. but as he turned to her the words died in an inarticulate gasp and she halted abruptly, staring with horror at the terrible mark that, stretching from forehead to chin, disfigured his face—a mark that could only have been caused by the slashing cut of a powerfully driven whip. “malec—” she cried aghast. but with a quick salaam the man drew back and, slipping past her, vanished down the passage with the lithe noiselessness of his race. she stood as if turned to stone, breathing heavily, her clenched hands pressed against her throbbing temples, sickened by what she had seen. “how can he—oh, how can he?” she moaned. then with a backward glance of fearful apprehension she fled panic-stricken to the door of her own room. but there, with a tremendous effort of will, she regained her self command and went in quietly, smiling with apparent naturalness as ann turned from the open window to meet her. the old woman’s face was radiant. she almost ran across the room.
“miss marny, dear, it’s all right,” she breathed eagerly. “tanner’s just been in. the horse was brought back half an hour ago and he’s not a penny the worse.”
for an instant marny looked at her strangely. then she sank into a chair with a gasp of relief, and stretched out her hands tremblingly.
“ann—oh, ann!” she whispered.
