CHAPTER XV
THE SECRET LINK
The Hand of Fatma was gone from the sky. Ruby had turned to amethyst,amethyst to the gray-blue of star sapphire, and the red fire of thedunes had burned out to an ashen pallor. The change had come suddenlywhile the girls talked; and when Sanda realized it, she shivered alittle, with a touch of superstition she had learned from her two Irishaunts. All this cold whiteness after the jewelled blaze of colour waslike the death of youth and hope. She pushed the thought away hastily,telling herself it had come only because Ourieda had threatened to putan end to her own life rather than marry Tahar; yet it would not go faraway. Like a vaguely visible, ghostly shape it seemed to stand behindthe Arab girl as she talked on, telling the story of her childhood and alove that had grown with her growth.
There was another cousin, it appeared, the son of her mother's sister.He was all Spanish. There was not a drop of Arab blood in his veins,unless it came through Saracen ancestors in the days when Moorish kingsreigned over Andalusia.
"You know, now you've been with us even these few days," Ourieda said,"that the harem of an Arab Caid isn't a nest of wives, as people inEurope who have never seen one suppose! My father has laughed when hetold me Christians believed that. Now, Aunt Mabrouka and I and ourservants are the only women in my father's harem; but when I was alittle girl, before my mother died--I can just remember her--besides mymother herself there was her sister, whose Spanish husband had beendrowned at sea. An Arab man thinks it a disgrace if any women relatedeven distantly to him or his wife are thrown on the world to make theirown living. It could never happen with an Arab woman if she wererespectable. And even though my mother's sister was Spanish and aChristian, my father offered her and her boy a home. Already his ownsister, Aunt Mabrouka, had come to stay with us, and had brought her sonTahar. Neither of the boys lived in the harem of course, for they wereold enough to be in the men's part of the house, and have men for theirservants; but they came every day to see their mothers. Even then,though I was a tiny child, I hated Tahar--and loved Manoeel Valdez. Taharhad had smallpox, and looked just as he looks now, only worse, becausehe has a bad chin that his beard hides; and Manoeel was handsome. Oh, youcan't imagine how handsome Manoeel was! He was like the ideal all girls,even Arab girls, must dream of, I think. I can see him now--as plainlyas I see you in this sad, pale light that comes up from the desert atnight."
"Is it long since you parted?" Sanda asked quickly, to put away thatpersistent thought of trouble.
"We parted more than once, because when our two mothers died, one afteranother, of the same sickness--typhoid fever--Manoeel was sent away toschool. He's nine years older than I am--twenty-five now; a little morethan three years younger than Tahar. My father sent him to theuniversity in Algiers, because, you see, he was Christian--or, rather,he was nothing at all then; he had not settled to any belief. Tahar waslike Aunt Mabrouka, very religious, and did not care much to study,except the Koran and a little French. He went once to Paris, but hedidn't stay long. He said he was homesick. Oh, he is clever in his way!He has known how to make himself necessary to my father."
"And Manoeel Valdez?" asked Sanda.
"My father loved him when he was a boy, because he was of the same bloodas my mother. Although Aunt Mabrouka was jealous even then--for sheruled in the house after my mother's death--she couldn't prejudice myfather's mind against Manoeel, hard as she tried. Manoeel was free to comehere when he liked, for his holidays, or to the _douar_ if we werethere; and he loved life under the great tent. He had a wonderful voice,and he could sing our Arab songs as no one else ever could. Fatherwished him to be a lawyer, and gave money for his education, because weArabs often need lawyers who understand us. But Manoeel cared more formusic than anything else--except for me. When I was eight and he wasseventeen I told him I meant to marry him when I grew up, and he said hewould wait for me. I suppose he was only joking then; but the thought ofhim and the love of him in my heart made me begin to grow into a womansooner than if I had had only the thoughts of a child. It was like thesun opening a flower bud. When he was away I felt hardly alive. When hecame back from Spain to our house or to our tent in the _douar_ Ilived--lived every minute! It was three years ago, when I was thirteen,that he began to love me as a woman. I shall never forget the day hetold me! I was not _hadjaba_ yet. Do you know what that means? I wasconsidered to be a child still, and I could go out with my aunt to thebaths, or with one of our servants, unveiled. I was not shut up in thehouse as I am now. But in my heart I was a woman, because of Manoeel. Andwhen he came home after nearly a year in Seville and other parts ofSpain he felt and saw the difference in me. We were in the _douar_, andlife was free and beautiful. For three months Manoeel and I kept oursecret. He said he would do anything to have me for his wife. He wouldeven become Mohammedan, since religion meant little to him, and loveeverything. He had no money of his own, but he had been told that hecould make a fortune with his voice, singing in opera, and he had beentaking lessons without telling my father. A Frenchman--is "impresario"the right word?--was having his voice trained, and by and by Manoeelwould pay him back out of his earnings. We used to call ourselves"engaged," as girls and men in Europe are engaged to each other insecret. But one day, soon after my thirteenth birthday, Aunt Mabrouka,who must have begun to suspect and spy on us, overheard us talking. Shetold my father. At first he wouldn't believe her, but he surprised meinto confessing. I should never have been so stupid, only, from what hesaid, I thought he already knew everything. After all, it was so little!Just words of love, and some dear kisses! He suspected there was more;and if I hadn't made him understand, he might have killed Manoeel, andme, too. But even as it was, my father and Aunt Mabrouka hurried me fromthe _douar_ in the night, before Manoeel knew that anything had happened.I was brought here; and never since have I been outside this gardenwithout a veil. It was months before I went out at all. And Manoeel wassent away, cursed by my father for ingratitude and treachery, warnednever to come again near Djazerta or the _douar_ as long as he lived,unless he wished for my death as well as his."
"Have you never seen him since?" Sanda asked, her heart beating fastwith the rush of the story as Ourieda had told it.
"Yes, he has seen me, and I have seen him. But we have not spoken,except in letters. For a whole year I heard nothing. Yet I never lostfaith. I seemed to feel Manoeel thinking of me, calling me, far awayacross the desert. I knew that we should meet in life or death. At last,one Friday two years ago--Friday, you know, is the women's day forvisiting the graves of loved ones--I saw Manoeel. He was dressed like abeggar. His face was stained dark brown, and nearly hidden by the hoodof a ragged burnous. But I recognized the eyes. They looked into mine. Irealized that he must have been waiting for me to pass with AuntMabrouka. He knew of course that whenever possible we went on Friday tothe cemetery. I almost fainted with joy; but Allah gave me presence ofmind, and strength to hide my feelings. You have noticed how sharp AuntMabrouka is. It's the great ambition of her life to see the daughter ofthe Agha married to her son. Never for one moment has she trusted mesince she spied out the truth about Manoeel. That Friday, though, Ithwarted her. Oh, it was good to know that Manoeel was near! I hardlydared to hope for more than just seeing him; but he remembered that myold nurse had a grandson in my father's _goum_, a fine rider, who firsttaught him--Manoeel--to sit on a horse. Through my nurse and Ali benSliman I got letters from Manoeel. He told me he had begun to sing inopera, and that if I would wait for him two--or at most three--years, hewould have enough money saved to give me a life in Europe worthy of aprince's daughter, such as I am. He would organize some plan to steal mefrom home, if there were no chance of winning my father's consent, andhe was sure it could be done with great bribes for many people, andrelays of _Maharis_ and horses to get us through the dune-country. Isent word that I would wait for him three years, all the years of mylife! But that was before I knew my father meant me to marry Tahar.
"Not long after Manoeel came to stay in Djazerta, disguised as awander
ing beggar of Touggourt, my father told me what was in his mind. Ifeel sure Aunt Mabrouka suspected from my happier looks that I washearing from Manoeel, for she persuaded my father that I was ill. Sheshut me up and gave me medicine; and I was so afraid Manoeel might bediscovered and murdered, that I sent him word to go away at once, noteven to write me again. He obeyed for my sake, not knowing what mighthappen to me if he refused, but by word of mouth came the message thathe would always be working for our happiness. Well I guessed what hemeant! Yet when my father told me about Tahar, all my faith in Manoeelcould not keep me brave. My father is splendid, but he will stop atnothing with those who go against him. At first he said I must bemarried when I was sixteen, but I reminded him that seventeen was mymother's age when he took her; and I begged him, "for luck," to let mewait. I dared not warn Manoeel, lest they should have laid a trap,expecting me to write him about my marriage. I waited for months, andthen it was too late, for Ali ben Sliman was away. I dared trust no oneelse; and so it is not yet a year ago that I sent a letter to an oldaddress Manoeel had left with Ali. I told him all that had happened, andI said, if I were to be saved it must be before my seventeenth birthday,the end of September. After that I should be dead--or else Tahar's wife.Since then, not hearing, I have sent two more letters to the sameaddress, for I have no other. But no answer has come. Now Ali has diedof fever, and I can never write to Manoeel again unless--unless----"
"Unless what?" breathed Sanda.
"Unless you can manage to help me. _Would_ you, if you could?"
"Yes," answered the other girl, without hesitating. "I'm a guest in theAgha's house, and I've eaten his salt, so it's hateful to work againsthim. But, some day, surely he'll be thankful to a friend who saves youfrom Si Tahar. I'll do anything I can. Yet I'm only a girl likeyourself. What is there I _can_ do? Have you thought?"
"_If_ I have thought!" echoed Ourieda. "I have thought of nothing else,for weeks and weeks, long before you came. I begged my father to find mea companion of my own age, not an Arab girl, but a European, to teachme things and make me clever like my mother. He believed I was piningwith ennui; and because he had put real happiness out of my life, he waswilling to console me as well as he could in some easy way. In spite ofAunt Mabrouka, who may have guessed what was in my mind, he trusts youcompletely, because you are your father's daughter."
"Ah, that's the dreadful part! To betray such a trust!" exclaimed Sanda.
"But after all, I am going to ask so little of you, not a hard thing atall," Ourieda pleaded, frightened at the effect of her own words. "It isa thing only a trusted guest, a woman of the Roumia, could possibly do,yet it's very simple. And when the time comes to do it, you need onlyshut your eyes."
"Tell me what you mean," said Sanda anxiously.
"Every letter you write--not to your father, because he might askquestions, but to a friend--leave the envelope open, and turn your back,or go out of the room. Then don't look into the letter again, or noticeif it seems thicker than before, but fasten it up tightly and seal theenvelope with wax. Will you do that?"
"Yes," said Sanda, rather miserably. "To save you I will do that."
"You have friends in France who would post a letter if they found itenclosed in one of yours, without explanations?"
"I have friends who would do that, perhaps, but to make it more sure Iwill explain. It would not save my conscience to let you slip a letterinto an open envelope, and pretend to myself that I knew nothing aboutit; because I _would_ know, and I think I'd almost rather behypocritical with other people than with myself."
"I told you," exclaimed Ourieda, "that Roumia girls were different fromus even in their secret thoughts! But you will love me, won't you,although you think I am stealthy and sly? I need your love and help!"
"I love you, or I shouldn't have promised what I have just promisednow," Sanda assured her.
"But if there were still more--something harder and moredangerous--would you love me enough to do that thing too?"
"Do you mean something in particular that you have in your mind, or----"
"Yes, oh, yes! I mean something in particular."
"Will you tell me what it is?"
"I am half afraid."
"Don't be afraid. Tell me!"
"Hush!" whispered Ourieda. "Don't you hear some one on thestairs--coming up softly? I must tell you another time. Laugh! Laugh outaloud! Call to the doves!"
The two girls began to chatter together like children. And their youngvoices tinkling out in laughter sounded pitifully small in the immensityof the night-bleached desert.
* * * * *
Far away in the north where colonist farmers had long ago conquered thedesert there was music that evening at Sidi-bel-Abbes, headquarters ofthe Foreign Legion. The soul of the Legion was speaking in itstragic-sweet voice, and the Place Carnot was full of soldierssauntering singly or in pairs, mostly silent, as if to hear their ownheart-secrets cried aloud by telltale 'cellos and flutes and violins.
The townsfolk were there, too; and when the band played some selectionespecially to their liking they buzzed approval. It was only theLegionnaires who talked little, and in tones almost humbly suppressed.Once, years ago, they had violently asserted their right to promenadethe Place Carnot, and enjoy the music of their own famous band, whenlocal authority would insolently have banished them; but now the boonwas won, they were subdued in manner, as if they had never smashedchairs and wrecked bandstand in fierce protest against _bourgeois_tyranny. Immaculate in every detail of their uniform as though each manhad his own servant, these soldiers who spent half their so-calledleisure in scrubbing clothes, polishing steel and brass, and varnishingleather, had nevertheless a piteously dejected bearing whenever theypassed pretty, well-dressed young women. They knew that, whatever theymight once have been, as Foreign Legion men on pay of five centimes aday they were in the eyes of Bel-Abbes girls hopeless ineligibles,poverty-stricken social outcasts, the black sheep of the world. It wasto vie with each other and to make the Legion far outshine Chasseurs andSpahis that they sacrificed two thirds of their spare time in the causeof smartness, not because even the handsomest and youngest cherished anyhope of catching a woman's approving eye.
Just at the moment, however, there was an exception to the depressingrule. The prettiest girls, French, Spanish, and Algerian-born, allcondescended to glance at the _bleu_ who had "knocked out" the formerchampion of the Legion, and, taking his place in the match with theMarseillais, had kept the championship for the First _RegimentEtrangere_. Since the day more than a week ago when the barrack-yard ofthe Legion had been the scene of the great fight--officers looking on inthe front ranks of the invited crowd, and soldiers hanging out ofdormitory windows--every one in Sidi-bel-Abbes had learned to know thehero by sight; and a blackened eye, a bruised cheek-bone, and a swelledlip (the unbecoming badges of his triumph) made recognition easy. Butthe Legion was proud of St. George. Not a man, least of all Four Eyes,grudged him his success, such "luck" as had never fallen to any mererecruit within the memory of the oldest Legionnaires, unless in thebattlefield, where all are equal.
Max realized fully what this "luck" had done for him, and was aware thateyes turned his way; but, far from being proud, he was half-ashamed ofhis conspicuousness, fearing that Colonel DeLisle might disapprove.Also, he knew that the small, brief blaze of his notoriety would die outlike the flame of a candle. A week or two more and the "little tin god"would go down off his wheels. If he meant to be somebody in the Legionhe would have to work as he had never worked in all his life.
With him in the Place Carnot was the Spaniard who had begged for hiscivilian clothes. They were in the same company and of the same age.From the first glance (given and taken when one man was a recruit andthe other did not yet dream of becoming one) something had drawn the twotogether. Then had come the incident of the clothing; and Max had felthimself an unwilling partner in the other's secret. Later, withoutexchanging confidences (since "ask no questions, I'll tell you no lies,"i
s a good general rule in the Legion), they drifted into a tacit kind ofcomradeship, Max admiring the Spaniard, the Spaniard trusting Max.
To-night they walked together in silence, or speaking seldom, like theother Legionnaires, and listening to the music. Suddenly the Spaniardstopped, muttering some word under his breath, and Max saw through thedusk that the olive face had gone ashy pale. "What's the matter, Garcia?Are you ill?" he asked.
The other did not answer. He stood stock still, staring almost stupidlystraight before him.
Max linked an arm in his. "What's wrong? Garcia! What's wrong with you?"he repeated.
The Spaniard started. "I beg your pardon," he stammered, dazed. "Ididn't realize you were--speaking--to me."
Instantly Max guessed that "Juan Garcia," the name appearing with the"_numero matricule_" over the bed of _le bleu_, was as new as his placein the Legion, and as fictitious as the alleged profession of _garcond'hotel_ which accounted cleverly for the recruit's stained eveningclothes.
"I only asked you what was wrong, what made you stop so suddenly?" Maxexplained.
"It was that thing the band is playing now," said the Spaniard. "Strangethey should have it here already! It is out of the new African opera bySaltenet, "La Nailia," produced for the first time ten days ago--a trialperformance at Marseilles, and on now at the Opera Comique in Paris.Good heavens! Another world, and yet these extraordinary men are playingthat song here already--_my_ song!"
"Your song?" involuntarily Max echoed the words.
"My song. If a certain letter hadn't come to me on the night of the lastrehearsal but one, and if we hadn't been in Marseilles, rehearsing, Ishouldn't be here to-night. I should be in Paris, perhaps coming on tothe stage at this moment, where I suppose my understudy is grimacinglike the conceited monkey he is."
"By jove!" was all that Max could find to say. But he put severalemotions into the two words: astonishment, warm sympathy, and some sortof friendly understanding.
"You wonder why I tell you this?" Garcia challenged him.
Max answered quietly: "No, I don't wonder. Perhaps you feel it does yougood to speak. It's strange music!--stirs one up, somehow--makes onethink of things. And I suppose you trust me? You can. But don't go anyfarther unless you're sure you want to."
"I do want to!" burst out the Spaniard. "I've wanted to from thefirst--since you helped me about the clothes. Only you're a reservedfellow yourself. I didn't care to have you think me a gusher. Youguessed why I begged for the clothes?"
"I didn't let myself dwell on it too much."
"You must have guessed. Of course I mean to desert the first chance Iget."
"It's a beastly risk. Did you see that awful photograph the colonel toldthe non-coms to pass around for us to look at, as a warning againstdesertion?"
"The poor wretch they found in the desert, across the Moroccan border,the man who ran away from Bel Abbes before we came? Yes, I saw thepicture. Ghastly! And to think it's the women who mutilate men likethat! But I shan't try to escape by way of Morocco. The danger I'll runis only from being caught and sent to the penal battalion--the awful'Batt d'Aff.' It's a bad enough danger, for I might as well be dead asin prison--better, for I'd be out of misery. But I must run the risk. Ienlisted in the Legion for its protection in getting to Africa, becauseI was in danger of arrest. And you know the Legion, once it's got a man,won't give him up to the police unless he's a murderer. I'm not that,though I came near it. Even while I signed for five years' service, Iknew I should have to desert the minute I could hope to get away. Ishall wait now till the big march begins, and get as far south as therest of you go, in my direction--the direction I want. Then I shall cutaway."
"God help you!" said Max.
"Maybe He will, though I'm a man of no religion. Is love the next bestthing? Everything I've done so far, and what I have to do, is for love.Does that make you think me a fool?"
"No."
"I have to save a girl from being given to a man who isn't fit to kissher little embroidered shoes--bless them! To save her from him--or fromsuicide. The letter told me she would rather die than marry him. That'swhy I'm not in Paris to-night. There'd been other letters before; shesaid in the one which reached me at the theatre--reached me in themidst of rehearsal--thank God--if there is a God--I still have till theend of September. The crisis won't come till then, on her seventeenthbirthday. But what is five months and a half to a man handicapped as Iam? Caught in a trap, and with hardly any money, just when I had afortune almost in my grasp!"
"I can lend you a little," said Max. "I've a few hundred dollars left."He laughed. "It seems a lot here! These poor chaps look on me as amillionaire, a sort of prince, because I've got something behind thedaily five centimes--some dollars to buy decent tobacco for my friendsand myself, and pay fellows to do my washing and so on--fellows wildwith joy to do it! Jove! It makes me feel a brute to think what a fewsous mean to them, gentlemen, some of 'em, who've lived a more luxuriouslife than I have--and----"
"Maybe that's why they're here: because they lived too luxuriously--onother people's money. Tell me, St. George, did you ever hear the name ofManoeel Valdez?"
Max thought for an instant. "Valdez? Let me see ... how ... I know, asinger! He sang last winter in New York, in something or other, a smallpart, and I wasn't there, but I saw great notices. I remember now. Why,you're----"
"Yes. You're right. Don't be afraid to speak. I asked for it."
"Then you _are_----"
"Manoeel Valdez. Saltenet, the man who wrote 'La Nailia,' wrote the man'spart for me, because he thought I could sing it, and because Iunderstand Arab music as maybe no other European does. I was brought upin the desert. The girl I love is a daughter of the desert. God! Howthat music they're playing makes me hear her call me, far away frombehind her ocean of dunes! There's a secret link binding our soulstogether. Nothing can keep them apart. Saltenet was my benefactor. Hehas done everything for me. He would have made my fortune--after I'dmade his; but that's human nature! And twelve nights ago I nearly killedhim because he wouldn't let me go when that girl called--my desertprincess! He vowed he'd have me arrested--anything to stop me. And hetried to hold me by force. I knocked him down in his own private room atthe theatre where we were rehearsing, and then I had to make sure hewasn't dead, for his blood was on my hands, my sleeves, my shirt front.It was only concussion of the brain, but I hoped it would keep himstill, until I'd got well away. That afternoon an officer I knew hadhappened to mention before me that a lot of men were being shipped offto Oran for the Foreign Legion. I remembered. It was as if some voicereminded me. Africa was my goal, but I'd next to no money. I thought,why shouldn't France pay? Well, here I am! Now you know why I mustdesert. Wouldn't you do the same in my place? Have you got it in you, Iwonder, to sacrifice everything in life for a woman?"
Max thought for a moment before risking a reply. Then he answeredslowly: "I--almost believe I have. But who knows?"
"Some day you will know," said Manoeel Valdez, looking away toward thedesert.