A Soldier of the Legion Read online

  CHAPTER VI

  THE NEWS

  It was after breakfast when they met once more, on a wet deck, in bleaksunshine.

  "I waked up in broad daylight and found you and your suitcase gone,"said the girl. "Oh, how guilty I felt! And then to discover that, justas you thought, the cabin _was_ 63, not 65. What became of you?"

  "I was all right," replied Max evasively. "I got a place to rest andwash."

  "In 65?"

  "No, not there."

  "Why, was there a woman in that cabin, _too_?"

  Max laughed. It was good to have some one to laugh with. "I didn't darelook," he confessed. "And I didn't care to wander about explainingmyself and my belongings to suspicious stewards."

  They walked up and down the deck, shoulder to shoulder, like oldcomrades. Last night there had been so many matters more pressing andmore important, that they had forgotten such trifles as names. Now theyintroduced themselves to each other, though Max had an instant'shesitation before calling himself Doran. To-morrow, or even to-day, hemight learn that which would part him forever from the name and all thathad endeared and adorned it for him.

  "Do you know what I've been calling you?" the girl asked, half ashamed,half shyly friendly, "'St. George.' Because you came and saved me fromthe dragon of the sea that I was afraid of. And that was appropriate,because St. George is my patron saint. I was born on his day, and one ofmy names is Georgette, in honour of him, and of my father, who isGeorges: Colonel Georges DeLisle. My French aunts call me Georgette, forhim. My Irish aunts call me 'Sanda,' for my mother, who was Corisande,and I like being 'Sanda' best."

  She was frank about herself, as if to reward Max for his St. George-likevigil, telling him details of her life in Ireland and France, and how ithad come about that Richard Stanton, her father's friend, had informallyacted as her guardian when she was a child. Somehow, finding her sosimple and outspoken, so kindly interested in him, Max could not bear,on his part, to build up a wall of reserve. He gave the name that hadalways been his: and though he did not tell her the whole story of hisquest, he said that he was in search of a person to whom, if found, allthat had been his would belong. "But you needn't pity me," he addedquickly. "I'm used to the idea now. I shall lose some things by beingpoor, but I shall gain others."

  She gave him a long look, seeing that he wanted no sympathy in words,and that it would jar on him if she tried to offer it. "Yes, you'll gainothers," she echoed. "It must be splendid to be a man. I wonder--ifthings go as you think--will you stay and seek your fortune in Algeria?"

  Seek his fortune in Algeria! Max could not answer for a second or two.Again he seemed to hear Grant Reeves's rather affected voice speakingfar off as if in a gramophone: "Perhaps you won't want to come back toAmerica."

  When Grant had said that, Max had resolved almost fiercely that nothingon earth should keep him from going back as quickly as possible. IfGrant or Edwin Reeves had calmly advised his seeking a new fortune inremote Algeria, he would have flung away the proposition with passion;but when Sanda DeLisle quietly made the suggestion, it was different.America lay behind him in the far distance, where the sun sets. His facewas turned to the east, and Algeria was near. The girl whom he had beenable to help and protect was near, also. And she would be in Algeria. Ifhe hurried home to America he would never see her again. Not that thatought to matter much! They were ships passing each other in the night.Yet--they had exchanged signals. Max had a queer feeling that theybelonged to each other, and that, if it were not for her, he would behideously, desperately homesick at this moment, almost homesick enoughto turn coward and go back with his errand not done. Curiously enough,he felt, too, that she had somewhat the same feeling about him. Silentlythey were helping each other through a crisis.

  "I hadn't thought of staying in Algeria," he answered her at last. "Idon't suppose I shall stay. But--I don't know. Just now my future'shidden behind a big cloud."

  "Like mine!" cried Sanda DeLisle. "Does it comfort you at all to knowthere's some one here, close to your side, who's walking in the dark,exactly as you are?"

  It was the thought that had hovered, dim and wordless, in his own mind."Yes, it does comfort me," he said. "Though I ought to be sorry thatthings aren't clear for you. They will be, though, I hope, before long."

  "And for you," she added. "I wish we could exchange experiences whenwe've found out what's going to become of us. I wish you were going onto Sidi-bel-Abbes."

  "I wish I were," Max said, and he did actually wish it.

  "Will you write and tell me what happens to you?" she rather timidlyasked.

  "I should like to. It's good of you to care."

  "It's not good, but I _do_ care. How could I help it, after all you'vedone for me?"

  "You'll never know what it was to me to have the chance. And will youwrite what your father's verdict is? If you should be going back,perhaps I----"

  "Oh, I shall not be going back!" the girl cried, with sharp decision."But I'll write. And I shall never forget. If men disappoint me--thoughI hope, oh, _so_ much, they will not--I shall remember one loyal friendI have made. After last night and to-day, we couldn't be _less_ thanfriends, could we? even though we never hear from each other again."

  "Thank you for saying that. I feel it, too, more than you can," Maxassured her. "But since we're to be friends, will you let me help youall I can, and see you again on shore, before we go our separate ways?Let me find out about your train, and take you to it, and so on; andperhaps you'll dine with me, if there's time before you start."

  "How good you are!" She gave him one of those soft, sweet glances,which, unlike Billie Brookton's lovely looks, were prompted by noconscious desire to charm. "But you will be so busy with your ownaffairs!"

  "Not too busy for that. I don't suppose it will be very difficult to getat what I've come for. I shall soon know--one way or the other. I mayhave to go on somewhere else, but one day won't matter. I can givemyself a little indulgence, if it's for the last time."

  So they settled it. Max was to be "St. George" and keep off dragons fora few hours more.

  The _General Morel_ was supposed to do the distance between Marseillesand Algiers in twenty-four hours, but on this trip she had an unusuallygood excuse to be late. The storm had delayed her, and every one wasthankful that it was only half-past three when the ship steamed into theold "pirate city's" splendid harbour.

  Max Doran and Sanda DeLisle stood together watching the Atlas mountainsturning from violet blue to golden green, and the clustered pearls onhill and shore transform themselves into white domes. The two landedtogether, also, and Sanda let Max go with her in a big motor omnibus tothe Hotel Saint George, the hotel of her patron saint, whose name Maxremembered well because of postcards picturing its beautiful terrace andgarden, sent him long ago by Rose when he was a cadet at West Point.They discovered that the first train in which Sanda could leave forSidi-bel-Abbes would start at nine o'clock that evening, so the proposeddinner became possible; and Sanda, by the advice of Max, took a room atthe hotel for the rest of the day, inviting him to have tea with her onthe terrace at five, if he were free to come back.

  He waited until the girl had disappeared with a porter and herhand-luggage, and then inquired of the concierge whether theHotel-Pension Delatour still existed. He put the question carelessly, asthough it meant nothing to him, adding, as the man paused to think, thathe had looked in vain for the name in the guide-book.

  "Ah, I remember now, sir," said the concierge. "There used to be a hotelof that name, close to the old town--the Kasbah; quite a little place,for _commercants_, and people like that. Why, yes, to be sure! But thename has been changed, five or six years ago it must be. I think it isthe Hotel-Pension Schreiber now."

  "Oh, and what became of Delatour?" Max heard himself ask, still in thatcarefully careless tone which seemed to his ears almost too well done.

  "I'm not sure, sir, but I rather think he died. Yes, now I recallreading something in _La Depeche Algerienne_, at the time. He'd been abr
ave soldier, and won several medals. There was a paragraph, yes, witha mention of his family. He came from the aristocracy, it said. Perhapsthat's why he didn't turn out a good man of business. Or maybe he dranktoo much or took to drugs. These old retired soldiers who've seen hardfighting in the South often turn that way."

  "Did he leave a widow and children?" Max went on, his throat rather dry.

  "That I can't tell you, sir; but Delatour's successor might know. Icould send there, if----"

  "Thank you. I'll go myself," said Max.

  The concierge advised a cab, although there was of course the tram whichwould take him close to the Hotel Schreiber, and then he could inquirehis way. Max chose the tram. He had thought it not unfair to pay theexpenses of his quest for the Doran heiress with Doran money, since hehad little left that he could call his own. But he had not spent anextra dollar on luxuries; and after a journey from New York to Paris,Paris to Algiers, second-class, a tram as a climax seemed more suitablethan a cab.

  Where the Arab town--old and secret, and glimmering pale as a whitedsepulchre--huddled away from contact with Europe, a narrow street ranlike a bridge connecting West with East, to-day with yesterday. Near theentrance to this street, where it started from a fine open _place_ ofgreat shops and cafes, the Hotel Schreiber stood humbly squeezed inbetween two dull buildings as shabby as itself.

  "In a few minutes I shall know," Max said to himself, as he walked intoa cheaply tiled, dingy hall, smelling of cabbage-soup and beer.

  Commercial travellers' sample boxes and trunks were piled in the dimcorners, and a fat, white little man behind a window labelled "Bureau"glanced up from some calculations, with keen interest in a traveller whofor once looked uncommercial.

  His eyes glazed again when he understood that Monsieur wished only tomake inquiries, not to engage a room. He was civil, however, and glib inFrench with a South-German accent. Madame Delatour had sold her interestin the hotel to him, Anton Schreiber. Unfortunately there had been amortgage. The widow was left badly off, and broken-hearted at herhusband's death. With what little money she had, she had gone to Oran,and through official influence had obtained a concession for a smalltobacconist business, selling also postcards and stamps. She ought tohave done well, for there were many soldiers in Oran. They all wantedtobacco for themselves and postcards for their friends. But Madame lostinterest in life when she lost Delatour--a fine fellow, well spoken of,though never strong since some fever he had contracted in the far South.A friend in Oran had written Schreiber the last news of poor MadameDelatour. That broken heart had failed. She had died suddenly about twoyears ago, and the girl (yes, there was a daughter, a strange youngperson) had been engaged through the influence of Schreiber's Oranfriends, to assist the proprietor of the Hotel Splendide atSidi-bel-Abbes. She was, Schreiber believed, still there, in theposition of secretary; unless she'd lately married. It was some monthssince he'd heard.

  Sidi-bel-Abbes.... Home of the Foreign Legion; home perhaps, of SandaDeLisle!...

  * * * * *

  It was all over, then. The blow had fallen, and Max thought that he mustbe stunned by it, for he felt nothing, except a curious thrill whichcame with the news that he must go to Sidi-bel-Abbes. The Arab name rangin his ears like the sound of bells--fateful bells that chime atmidnight for birth or death. It seemed to him that Something had alwaysbeen waiting, hidden behind a corner of life, calling him toSidi-bel-Abbes, calling for good or evil, for sorrow or happiness, whocould tell? but calling. And his whole past, with its fun and popularityand gay adventure, its one unfinished love story, its one tragicepisode, had been a long road leading him on toward this day--andSidi-bel-Abbes.

  The temptation to go back, to forget his mission, a temptation which hadcome to life many times after it had first been "scotched, not killed,"did not now lift its head. Max had found out within less than an hourafter landing that which would make him penniless and nameless; yet hismost pressing wish seemed to be to get back in time for his appointmentwith Sanda DeLisle, and tell her that he, too, was going toSidi-bel-Abbes.