The Golden Silence Part 39

"My poor child, when Ca.s.sim ben Halim died--at a very convenient time for himself--Sidi El Hadj Mohammed ben Abd-el-Kadr appeared to claim this marabouts.h.i.+p, left vacant by the third marabout in the line, an old, old man whose death happened a few weeks before Ca.s.sim's. This present marabout was his next of kin--or so everybody believes. And that's the way saints.h.i.+ps pa.s.s on in Islam, just as t.i.tles and estates do in other countries. Now do you begin to understand the mystery?"

"Not quite. I----"

"You heard in Algiers that Ca.s.sim had died in Constantinople?"

"Yes. The Governor himself said so."

"The Governor believes so. Every one believes--except a wretched hump-backed idiot in Morocco, who sold his inheritance to save himself trouble, because he didn't want to leave his home, or bother to be a marabout. Perhaps he's dead by this time, in one way or another. I shouldn't be surprised. If he is, Maeddine and Maeddine's father, and a few other powerful friends of Ca.s.sim's, are the only ones left who know the truth, even a part of it. And the great Sidi El Hadj Mohammed himself."

"Oh, Saidee--Ca.s.sim is the marabout!"

"s.h.!.+ Now you know the secret that's kept me a prisoner in his house long, long after he'd tired of me, and would have got rid of me if he'd dared--and if he hadn't been afraid in his cruel, jealous way, that I might find a little happiness in my own country. And worse still, it's the secret that will keep you a prisoner, too, unless you make up your mind to do the one thing which can possibly help you."

"What thing?" Victoria could not believe that the answer which darted into her mind was the one Saidee really meant to give.

Saidee's lips opened, but with the girl's eyes gazing straight into hers, it was harder to speak than she had thought. Out of them looked a highly sensitive yet brave spirit, so true, so loving and loyal, that disloyalty to it was a crime--even though another love demanded it.

"I--I hate to tell you," she stammered. "Only, what can I do? If Maeddine hadn't loved you--but if he hadn't, you wouldn't be here. And being here, we--we must just face the facts. The man who calls himself my husband--I can't think of him as being that any more--is like a king in this country. He has even more power than most kings have nowadays.

He'll give you to Maeddine when he comes home, if Maeddine asks him, as of course he will. Maeddine wouldn't have given you up, there in the desert, if he hadn't been sure he could bribe the marabout to do exactly what he wanted."

"But why can't I bribe him?" Victoria persisted, hopefully. "If he's truly tired of you, my money----"

"He'd laugh at you for offering it, and say you might keep it for a _dot_. He's too rich to be tempted with money, unless it was far more than you or I have ever seen. From his oasis alone he has an income of thousands and thousands of dollars; and presents--large ones and small ones--come to him from all over North Africa--from France, even. All the Faithful in the desert, for hundreds of miles around, give him their first and best dates of the year, their first-born camels, their first foals, and lambs, and mules, in return for his blessing on their palms and flocks. He has wonderful rugs, and gold plate, and jewels, more than he knows what to do with, though he's very charitable. He's obliged to be, to keep up his reputation and the reputation of the Zaoua.

Everything depends on that--all his ambitions, which he thinks I hardly know. But I do know. And that's why I know that Maeddine will be able to bribe him. Not with money: with something Ca.s.sim wants and values far more than money. You wouldn't understand what I mean unless I explained a good many things, and it's hardly the time for explaining more now.

You must just take what I say for granted, until I can tell you everything by and by. But there are enormous interests mixed up with the marabout's ambitions--things which concern all Africa. Is it likely he'll let you and me go free to tell secrets that would ruin him and his hopes for ever?"

"We wouldn't tell."

"Didn't I say that an Arab never trusts a woman? He'd kill us sooner than let us go. And you've learned nothing about Arab men if you think Maeddine will give you up and see you walk out of his life after all the trouble he's taken to get you tangled up in it. That's why we've got to look facts in the face. You meant to help me, dear, but you can't.

You can only make me miserable, because you've spoiled your happiness for my sake. Poor little Babe, you've wandered far, far out of the zone of happiness, and you can never get back. All you can do is to make the best of a bad bargain."

"I asked you to explain that, but you haven't yet."

"You must--promise Maeddine what he asks, before Ca.s.sim comes back from South Oran."

This was the thing Victoria had feared, but could not believe Saidee would propose. She shrank a little, and Saidee saw it. "Don't misunderstand," the elder woman pleaded in the soft voice which p.r.o.nounced English almost like a foreign language. "I tell you, we can't choose what we _want_ to do, you and I. If you wait for Ca.s.sim to be here, it will come to the same thing, but it will be fifty times worse, because then you'll have the humiliation of being forced to do what you might seem to do now of your own free will."

"I can't be forced to marry Maeddine. Nothing could make me do it. He knows that already, unless----"

"Unless what? Why do you look horrified?"

"There's one thing I forgot to tell you about our talk in the desert. I promised him I would say 'yes' in case something happened--something I thought then couldn't happen."

"But you find now it could?"

"Oh, no--no, I don't believe it could."

"You'd better tell me what it is."

"That you--I said, I would promise to marry him if _you wished_ it. He asked me to promise that, and I did, at once."

A slow colour crept over Saidee's face, up to her forehead. "You trusted me," she murmured.

"And I do now--with all my heart. Only you've lived here, out of the world, alone and sad for so long, that you're afraid of things I'm not afraid of."

"I'm afraid because I know what cause there is for fear. But you're right. My life has made me a coward. I can't help it."

"Yes, you can--I've come to help you help it."

"How little you understand! They'll use you against me, me against you.

If you knew I were being tortured, and you could save me by marrying Maeddine, what would you do?"

Victoria's hand trembled in her sister's, which closed on it nervously.

"I would marry him that very minute, of course. But such things don't happen."

"They do. That's exactly what will happen, unless you tell Maeddine you've made up your mind to say 'yes'. You can explain that it's by my advice. He'll understand. But he'll respect you, and won't be furious at your resistance, and want to revenge himself on you in future, as he will if you wait to be forced into consenting."

Victoria sprang up and walked away, covering her face with her hands.

Her sister watched her as if fascinated, and felt sick as she saw how the girl shuddered. It was like watching a trapped bird bleeding to death. But she too was in the trap, she reminded herself. Really, there was no way out, except through Maeddine. She said this over and over in her mind. There was no other way out. It was not that she was cruel or selfish. She was thinking of her sister's good. There was no doubt of that, she told herself: no doubt whatever.

x.x.xVII

Victoria felt as if all her blood were beating in her brain. She could not think, and dimly she was glad that Saidee did not speak again. She could not have borne more of those hatefully specious arguments.

For a moment she stood still, pressing her hands over her eyes, and against her temples. Then, without turning, she walked almost blindly to a window that opened upon Saidee's garden. The little court was a silver cube of moonlight, so bright that everything white looked alive with a strange, spiritual intelligence. The scent of the orange blossoms was lusciously sweet. She shrank back, remembering the orange-court at the Cad's house in Ouargla. It was there that Zorah had prophesied: "Never wilt thou come this way again."

"I'm tired, after all," the girl said dully, turning to Saidee, but leaning against the window frame. "I didn't realize it before. The perfume--won't let me think."

"You look dreadfully white!" exclaimed Saidee. "Are you going to faint?

Lie down here on this divan. I'll send for something."

"No, no. Don't send. And I won't faint. But I want to think. Can I go out into the air--not where the orange blossoms are?"

"I'll take you on to the roof," Saidee said. "It's my favourite place--looking over the desert."

She put her arm round Victoria, leading her to the stairway, and so to the roof.

"Are you better?" she asked, miserably. "What can I do for you?"

"Let's not speak for a little while, please. I can think now. Soon I shall be well. Don't be anxious about me, darling."

Very gently she slipped away from Saidee's arm that clasped her waist; and the softness of the young voice, which had been sharp with pain, touched the elder woman. She knew that the girl was thinking more of her, Saidee, than of herself.

Victoria leaned on the white parapet, and looked down over the desert, where the sand rippled in silvery lines and waves, like water in moonlight.