A Soldier of the Legion Read online

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE AGHA'S ROSE

  Sanda did not know, and would not know for many days, the news ofSidi-bel-Abbes, for she had started on a long journey, to the "wonderfulplace" of which she would have spoken to Max had she not been warned byher father's word and look that the story was "irrelevant."

  If Sanda had tried to tell the tale of that "romance" at which she hadhinted in the Salle d'Honneur, she would have had to begin far back intime when, after his wife's death, Georges DeLisle had by his ownrequest been transferred to the Legion. His first big fight had been inhelping the Agha of Djazerta against a raid of Touaregs, the veiled menof the South, brigands then and always. Since those days, DeLisle andBen Raana, the great desert chief, had been friends. More than once theyhad given each other aid and counsel. When Ben Raana came north withother Caids, bidden to the Governor's ball in Algiers, he paid DeLisle avisit. Each year at the season of date-gathering he sent the colonel ofthe Legion a present of the honey-sweet, amber-clear fruit for which theoasis of Djazerta was famous; and the officer sent to the Agha a parcelof French books, or some new invention in the shape of a clock, such asArabs love. Now he was sending his daughter.

  The way of it was this: just before Sanda's surprise arrival, the Aghaof Djazerta, chief of the Ouled-Mendil, had written a confidentialletter to Colonel DeLisle. He had a young daughter whom he adored.Foolishly (he began to think) he had let her learn French, and allowedher to read French novels. These books had made the girl discontentedwith her cloistered life. Being the only child, and always ratherdelicate, perhaps she had been too much spoiled. Greater freedom thanshe had could not be granted; but seeing her sad Ben Raana had askedhimself what he could do for her happiness. Before long she would marry,of course; but it had occurred to him that meanwhile it might be well ifa companion could be found who would be a safe friend for a girl ofOurieda's position and religion. Did Colonel DeLisle know of any younggentlewoman, English or French, who would be willing to come toDjazerta? She must be educated and accomplished, but above alltrustworthy; one who would not try to make Ourieda wish for a life thatcould never be hers: one who would not attempt to unsettle the child'sreligious beliefs. In writing this letter Ben Raana had shown a naifsort of conceit in his own broad-mindedness, which would have beenrather comic if it had not been pathetic. But to DeLisle it was onlypathetic, because, European though he was, he knew the hidden romance ofthe Agha's life: his worship of a beautiful Spanish wife who had diedyears ago, and for love of whom he had vowed never to take into hisharem any other woman, although he had no son. His nearest male relativewas a nephew, to whom DeLisle imagined that some day Ourieda would bemarried, though the young man was at least a dozen years older thanshe.

  When the letter came, Colonel DeLisle knew of no such person as BenRaana asked for; but he had not answered yet when Sanda unexpectedlyappeared. Hardly had he recovered from the first shock of his surprisewhen he remembered the great march soon to be undertaken--a marchostensibly for maneuvers, but in reality to punish a band of desertraiders, and later, men of the Legion were to begin the laying of a newroad in the far south, even beyond Djazerta. There would be no long restfor the colonel of the First Regiment for many months, consequently hewould be unable to keep Sanda with him. She did not want to go back toFrance or Ireland, so she was told about the Agha of Djazerta and thesixteen-year-old girl, Ourieda, whose Arab name meant "Little Rose."

  Next to staying at the headquarters of the Foreign Legion with itscolonel, Sanda liked the idea of going into the desert and living for awhile the life of an Arab woman with the daughter of a great chief ofthe south. The more she thought of it, the more it appealed to her.Besides, when her father pointed out Djazerta on the map, and not morethan twenty kilometres away the _douar_, or tribal encampment under therule of Ben Raana, she noticed that they seemed to be scarcely a hundredkilometres distant from Touggourt. Probably Richard Stanton would bespending many days or even weeks at Touggourt before he set off acrossvast desert spaces searching for the Lost Oasis. So the girl said toColonel DeLisle that, since she could not at present stay with him, shewould like beyond everything else such a romantic adventure as a visitto the Agha's house.

  The one objection was that, if she went at all, she must start at once,because there was at the moment a great chance for her to travel wellchaperoned. A captain of the Chasseurs d'Afrique had just been orderedfrom Sidi-bel-Abbes to Touggourt, and was leaving at once with his wife.They could take Sanda with them: and at Touggourt Ben Raana would havehis friend's daughter met by an escort and several women servants. Itwas an opportunity not to miss; though otherwise Colonel DeLisle mighthave kept the girl with him for a fortnight longer.

  Sanda would have liked to bid Max good-bye, or if that were notpossible, to write him a letter. But DeLisle said it "would not do." Notthat the newly enlisted soldier would misunderstand: but--he wouldrealize why he heard nothing more from his colonel's daughter. She neednot fear that he would be hurt. So Sanda could send only a thoughtmessage to her friend, and perhaps it reached him in a dream, for thenight of her departure--knowing nothing of it--he was back again in thedim cabin of the _General Morel_ gazing through the dusk at a long,swinging plait of gold-brown hair.

  Sanda, with Captain Amaranthe and his wife, travelled to Oran, thence toBiskra, and from Biskra on the newly finished railway line to Touggourt.It was there that, twenty-two years ago, the beautiful Irish girl whohad run away from home to her soldier lover, joined Georges DeLisle andmarried him. Sanda thought of that, and thought again also that in a fewmonths more Richard Stanton would come to Touggourt for the gettingtogether of his caravan. These two thoughts transformed the wild deserttown with its palms, and tombs of murdered sultans, and its frame ofgolden dunes into a magical city of romance. She felt that some greatthing ought to happen to her there. It was not enough that Touggourtshould give her a first glimpse of the true Sahara. She wanted it togive her more. Nor was it enough that she should be met there by anescort of Bedouins with a chief's nephew at their head, and negro womento be her servants, and a white camel of purest breed for her to ride,she being hidden like an Arab princess in a red-curtained bassourah. Allthis was wonderful, and thrilling as an Eastern story of the MiddleAges; but it meant nothing to her heart. And something deep down in herexpected more of Touggourt even than this. She told herself that a placewith such associations owed more to a child of Georges DeLisle and SandaDe Lisle; and even when she and her cavalcade started away from thegreat oasis city, winding southward among the dunes, she still had theconviction that some day, before very long, Touggourt would pay itsdebt.

  Ben Raana had done what he could to honour Colonel DeLisle through hisdaughter. He had sent a fine caravan to fetch the girl to Djazerta, andaccording to the ideas of desert travellers, no luxury was lacking forher comfort. His half-sister's son, Sidi Tahar Ben Hadj, had under himsome of the best men of the Agha's _goum_, and there were a pair ofgiant, ink-black eunuchs to guard the guest and her two negresses.Silky-soft rugs from Persia lined her bassourah on the side where shewould sit, the balance being kept on the other by her luggage wrappedin bundles; and the whole was curtained with sumptuous _djerbi_, stripedin rainbow tints. Over the _djerbi_, to protect her from the sun, orwind and blowing sand, were hung heavy rugs made by the women of theDjebel Amour mountains, the red and blue folds ornamented by longstrands and woollen tassels of kaleidoscopic colours. Sanda's camel(like that of Ben Hadj and the one which carried the two negresses) wasa _mehari_, an animal of race, as superior to ordinary beasts of burdenas an eagle is nobler than a domestic fowl. There was a musician amongthe camel-drivers, chosen especially--so said Ben Hadj--because he knewand could sing a hundred famous songs of love and war. Also he wasmaster of the Arab flute, and the raeita, "Muezzin of Satan," strangeinstrument of the wicked voice that can cry down all other voices.

  Lest the men should misunderstand and think lightly of the Agha's guest,his nephew did not look upon Sanda's face after the hour of meeting herat Touggo
urt, in the presence of her friends, until he had brought thegirl to his uncle's house, three days later. She was waited upon only bythe women and the two black giants who rode behind the white camels: andaltogether Sidi Tahar Ben Hadj was in his actions an example of thatArab chivalry about which Sanda had read. Nevertheless she was not ableto like him.

  For one thing, though he had a fine bearing and a good enough figure (sofar as she could tell in his flowing robes and burnous), in looks he wasno hero of romance, but a disappointingly ugly man. Ourieda, the Agha'sdaughter, was only sixteen, and Tahar was supposed to be no more than adozen years her elder, but he appeared nearer forty than twenty-eight.He had suffered from smallpox, which had marred his large features anddestroyed the sight of one eye. It had turned white and looked, thoughtSanda, like the eye of a boiled fish. He wore a short black beard that,although thick, showed the shape of a heavy jaw; and his wide-open,quivering nostrils gave him the look of a bad-tempered horse. Althoughhe could speak French, he seemed to the girl singularly alien andremote. Sanda wondered if he had a wife, or wives, and pitied any Arabwoman unfortunate enough to be shut up in his harem.

  On the third morning the great dunes were left behind, and thebassourahs no longer swayed like towers in a rotary earthquake with themovements of the camels. Far away across a flat expanse of golden sand,silvered by saltpetre, a long, low cloud--blue-green as a peacock'stail--trailed on the horizon. It was the oasis of Djazerta, with itsthousands of date palms.

  At first the vision seemed to float behind a veil of sparkling gauze,unreal as a mirage; but toward noon it brightened and sharpened inoutline, until at last the tall trees took individual form, bunches ofunripe dates beneath their spread fan of plumes hanging down likeimmense yellow fists at the end of limp, thin arms cased inorange-coloured gloves.

  There was a _chott_, or dried desert lake, glistening white and lividblue, full of ghostly reflections, to cross; but once on the other sideall the poetic romance of fairy gardens and magic mirrors vanished. Thevast oasis rose out of earthy sand and cracked mud; and the housespiled together beyond it were no longer cubes of molten gold, butsqualid, primitive buildings of sun-dried brick crowding each other forshade and protection, their only beauty in general effect and bizarreoutline.

  "Am I to live in one of those mud hovels?" Sanda wondered. She was notdisheartened even by this thought, for the novelty of the wholeexperience had keyed her up to enjoy any adventure; still it was arelief to go swaying past the huddled town, and to stop before a high,white-washed wall with a small tower on each side of a great gate. Overthe top of the wall Sanda could see the flat roof of a large, low house,not yellow like the others, but pearly white as the two or threeminarets that gleamed above the fringe of palms.

  Somebody must have been watching from one of the squat towers by thegate--each of which had a loophole-window looking out over the caravanway--for even before the head man of the cavalcade could reach the shutportals of faded gray palm-wood, both gates were thrown open, and adozen men in white rushed out. They uttered shouts of joy at sight ofSidi Tahar Ben Hadj, as though he had been absent for months instead ofa few days, and some of the oldest brown faces bent to kiss hisshoulders or elbows.

  Sanda saw a bare courtyard paved only with hard-packed, yellow sand; andthe long front of the house with its few small windows lookedunsympathetic and unattractive. The girl felt disappointed. She hadimagined a picturesque house, a sort of "Kubla Khan" palace in thedesert; and she had expected that perhaps Ourieda and her father, theAgha, would come ceremoniously out through a vast arched doorway towelcome her. But here there was not even the arched entrance of herfancy, only two small doors set as far as possible from one another inthe blank facade. Sanda's _mehari_ was led in front of the eastern door,which was pulled ajar in a secretive way. One of the big negroes helpedher out of the bassourah as usual, when he had forced the white camel toits knees; and to her surprise the other black man made of his longwhite burnous a kind of screen behind which she might pass without beingseen. The women servants--already out of their bassourah--came hurryingalong to join her, silver bracelets a-jingle, chattering encouragementin Arab, scarcely a word of which could Sanda understand.

  Inside the house was a queer kind of vestibule, evidently intended fordefence, with a jutting screen of wall behind the door, and then apassage with a sharp turn in it, and seats along the sides. A very old,withered negro let them in; and still it seemed to the girl anunfriendly greeting for her father's daughter, one who had come so far.But in a minute more she gave a little cry of pleasure, and suddenlyunderstood the mystery. This part of the house was the harem, secret andsacred to the women, since the very meaning of the word "harem" is"hidden."

  She had been ushered through a long, dim corridor, with a sheen of pinkand purple tiles halfway up the white wall to the dark wood of a roughlycarved ceiling, and instead of coming into a room at the end, she walkedunexpectedly into a large fountain court, bright with the crystalbrightness of spraying water and the colour of flowers, shaded withorange trees whose blossoms poured out perfume.

  Perhaps it was not such a wonderful place really, for the house wallswere only of sun-dried sand-brick, white-washed till they gleamed likesnow in sunlight; and the wooden balustrades of the narrow balcony thatjutted out from the upper story were but roughly carved in stars andcrescents, and painted brown to represent cedarwood. Yet it was apicture. The stem of the octagonal tiled fountain was of time-worn,creamy marble; the white house was draped with cascades of wistaria, andpale pink bougainvillea; underneath the shadow of the overhangingbalcony ran wall-seats covered and backed with charming old tiles ofblue and white "ribbon" design; on them were spread white woollen,black-striped rugs delicately woven by Kabyle women; Tuareg cushions ofstamped leather, and pillows of brilliant purple and gold brocade silk.Though no grass carpeted the earthy sand, there were beds of gorgeousflowers under the orange and magnolia trees that patterned the yellowsand with lacy shadow, and a girl like an Arabian Nights' princessstopped feeding a tame gazelle and a troop of doves, to come forwardshyly at sight of Sanda. She was the soul of the picture for the moment.Sanda did not even see that there were other women in it. Nothingcounted except the girl. Everything else was a mere background or aframe.

  There was but a second of silence before words came to either, yet thatinstant impressed upon Sanda so sharply, so clearly, every detail ofOurieda's fantastic beauty, that if she had never seen the girl again,she could by closing her eyes have called up the vision.

  The oval face was so fair and purely chiselled that it seemed Greekrather than Arab. The golden-brown eyes were large and full of dazzlinglight as the sun streamed into them under the curve of their heavy blacklashes. But though they were bright they were very sad, keeping theirinfinite melancholy while the red lips smiled--the sad, far-off gaze ofa desert creature caged. So long were the lashes that they curled upalmost to the low-drawn brows which drooped toward the temples; and thatdroop of the eyebrows, with the peculiar fineness of the aquiline noseand the downward curve of the very short upper lip, gave a fatal andtragic look to the ivory face framed in dark hair. On either side itsdelicate oval fell a thick brown braid, not black, but with a glint ofred where the light struck; and though Ourieda's hair was not so long asSanda's, the two plaits lying over the shoulders and following the lineof the young bust fell below the waist. The girl wore a loose robe ofcoral-red silk, low in the neck, and belted in with a soft,violet-coloured sash. Over this dress was a gandourah of golden gauzewith rose and purple glints in its woof; and a stiff, gold scarf waswound loosely round the dark head. The colours blazed like flamingjewels in the African sunshine. As the Agha's daughter moved forwardsmiling her sad little smile, there came with her a waft of perfume likethe fragrance of lilies; and the tinkling of bracelets on slenderwrists, the clash of anklets on silk-clad ankles, was like a musicalaccompaniment, a faintly played _leit motif_. Perhaps Ourieda haddressed herself in all she had that was most beautiful in honour of herguest.

 
; As usual, Sanda forgot herself with the first thrill of excitement. Inher admiration she did not realize that the other girl wasself-conscious, a little frightened, a little anxious, and evendistrustful. It would have seemed incredible to Sanda DeLisle that anyone on earth, even an inmate of a harem, could possibly be afraid ofher.

  She held out both hands impulsively, exclaiming in French: "Oh, are youOurieda? But you are beautiful as a princess in a fairy story. You areworth coming all this long way to see!"

  Then the Arab girl's smile changed, and for an instant was radiant,unclouded by any thought of sadness. She took Sanda's little glovedhands, and, pressing them affectionately, bent forward to kiss her gueston both cheeks. Her lips were soft and cool as flower petals, though theday was hot, and the scent of lilies swept over Sanda in a fragrantwave. As she kissed the stranger, Ourieda made little birdlike suckingsounds, in the fashion of Arab women when they would show honour to afavoured friend. First she kissed Sanda's right cheek, the right side ofthe body being nobler because the White Angel walks always on the right,jotting down in his book every good deed done; then she kissed the leftcheek, since it is at the left side of man or woman that the wickedBlack Angel stalks, tempting to evil acts, and hastily recording thembefore they can be repented.

  "Why, you are as young as I am, and white and gold as the little youngmoon, and very, very sweet, like honey!" cried the girl, in French asgood as Sanda's, though with the throaty, thrushlike notes thatSpaniards and Arabs put into every language. "I am glad, oh, _really_glad, that you have come to be with me! Now I see you I know I wasfoolish to be afraid."

  Sanda laughed as they stood holding each other's hands and looking intoeach other's eyes. "Afraid of me?" she echoed. "Oh, you couldn't havebeen afraid of _me_!"

  "But I was," said Ourieda. "I was afraid until this minute."

  "Why?" asked Sanda. "Did you fancy I might be big and old and cross,perhaps with stick-out teeth and spectacles, like Englishwomen in Frenchcaricatures?"

  Ourieda shook her head, still gazing at her guest as if she would readthe soul whose experiences had been so different from her own. "No, Ihave never seen any French caricatures," she answered. "I hardly knowwhat they are. And I did not think you would be old, because the Agha,my father, told me you were but a baby when he first knew your father,the Colonel DeLisle. Still, I did not understand that you would look asyoung as I do, or that you would have a face like a white flower, andeyes with truth shining in them, as our wise women say it shines up likea star out of darkness from the bottom of a well."

  "In my country they say the very same thing about truth and a well,"returned Sanda, blushing faintly under the oddly compelling gaze of thesad young eyes. "But do tell me why you felt afraid, if you didn't thinkI should be old and disagreeable?"

  Suddenly the other's face changed. A queer look of extraordinaryeagerness, almost of slyness, transformed it, chasing away something ofits soft beauty. "Hush!" she said, "we can't talk of such things now.Some time soon, perhaps! I forgot we were not alone. I must introduceyou to my Aunt Mabrouka, my father's widowed half-sister, who"--and hervoice hardened--"is like a second mother to me."

  She stepped back, and an elderly woman, who had stood in the backgroundawaiting her turn (though far from humbly, to judge by the flashing ofher eyes), moved forward to welcome the Roumia--the foreigner.

  Then for the first time Sanda realized that Ourieda, the soul of thepicture, was not the only human figure in it besides herself. Lella[1]Mabrouka was a personality, too, and if she had been a woman of someprogressive country, marching with the times, most probably she wouldhave been among the Suffragists. She would have made a handsome man, andindeed looked rather like a stout, short man of middle age, disguised asan inmate of his own harem. She was dressed in white, Arab mourning,considered unlucky for women who have not lost some relative by death,and her square, wrinkled face, the colour of bronze, was dark and harshin contrast. If she had not been partly screened by a great floweringpomegranate bush as she sat in her white dress against the white housewall, Sanda would have seen her on entering the court; but it washopeless to try and appease the lady's scarcely stifled vexation withapologies or explanations. Lella Mabrouka, being of an older generation,had not troubled to learn French, and could understand only a few wordswhich her naturally quick mind had assorted in hearing the Agha talkwith his daughter. Ourieda acted as interpreter for the politeness ofher aunt and guest, but Sanda could not help realizing that all was notwell between the two. A tall old negress (introduced by the girl as abeloved nurse), a woman of haggard yet noble face, stood dutifullybehind Lella Mabrouka, but stabbed the broad white back with keen,suspicious glances that softened into love as her great eyes turned tothe "Little Rose."

  [Footnote 1: Lella, _lady_.]

  Honey could be no sweeter than the words of welcome translated byOurieda, and when Sanda's answers had been put into Arabic, LellaMabrouka received them graciously. Soon aunt and niece and servant wereall chattering and smiling, offering coffee and fruit, and assuring theRoumia that her host was eagerly awaiting permission to meet her. YetSanda could not rid herself of the impression that some hidden drama wasbeing secretly played in this fountain court of sunshine and flowers.