XII
While Victoria was still in the lily-garden with her host and hisfriend, the cab which she had ordered to return came back to fetch her.It was early, and Lady MacGregor had expected her to stop for tea, asmost people did stop, who visited Djenan el Djouad for the first time,because every one wished to see the house; and to see the house tookhours. But the dancing-girl, appearing slightly embarrassed as sheexpressed her regrets, said that she must go; she had to keep anengagement. She did not explain what the engagement was, and as shebetrayed constraint in speaking of it, both Stephen and Nevill guessedthat she did not wish to explain. They took it for granted that it wassomething to do with her sister's affairs, something which sheconsidered of importance; otherwise, as she had no friends in Algiers,and Lady MacGregor was putting herself out to be kind, the girl wouldhave been pleased to spend an afternoon with those to whom she couldtalk freely. No questions could be asked, though, as Lady MacGregorremarked when Victoria had gone (after christening the baby panther), itdid seem ridiculous that a child should be allowed to make its own plansand carry them out alone in a place like Algiers, without having anyadvice from its elders.
"I've been, and expect to go on being, what you might call a perpetualchaperon," said she resignedly; "and chaperoning is so ingrained in mynature that I hate to see a baby running about unprotected, doing whatit chooses, as if it were a married woman, not to say a widow. But Isuppose it can't be stopped."
"She's been on the stage," said Nevill reassuringly, Miss Ray havingalready broken this hard fact to the Scotch lady at luncheon.
"I tell you it's a baby! Even John Knox would see that," sharply repliedAunt Caroline.
There was nothing better to do with the rest of the afternoon, Nevillthought, than to take a spin in the motor, which they did, the chauffeurat the wheel, as Nevill confessed himself of too lazy a turn of mind tocare for driving his own car. While Stephen waited outside, he called atDjenan el Hadj (an old Arab house at a little distance from the town,buried deep in a beautiful garden), but the ladies were out. Nevillwrote a note on his card, explaining that his aunt would like to bring afriend, whose relatives had once lived in the house; and this done, theyhad a swift run about the beautiful country in the neighbourhood ofAlgiers.
It was dinner-time when they returned, and meanwhile an answer had comefrom Mrs. Jewett. She would be delighted to see any friend of LadyMacGregor's, and hoped Miss Ray might be brought to tea the followingafternoon.
"Shall we send a note to her hotel, or shall we stroll down afterdinner?" asked Nevill.
"Suppose we stroll down," Stephen decided, trying to appear indifferent,though he was ridiculously pleased at the idea of having a fewunexpected words with Victoria.
"Good. We might take a look at the Kasbah afterward," said Nevill."Night's the time when it's most mysterious, and we shall be close tothe old town when we leave Miss Ray's hotel."
Dinner seemed long to Stephen. He could have spared several courses.Nevertheless, though they sat down at eight, it was only nine when theystarted out. Up on the hill of Mustapha Superieur, all was peacefulunder the moonlight; but below, in the streets of French shops andcafes, the light-hearted people of the South were ready to beginenjoying themselves after a day of work. Streams of electric lightpoured from restaurant windows, and good smells of French cookingfiltered out, as doors opened and shut. The native cafes were crowdedwith dark men smoking chibouques, eating kous-kous, playing dominoes, orsipping absinthe and golden liqueurs which, fortunately not having beeninvented in the Prophet's time, had not been forbidden by him. Curioshops and bazaars for native jewellery and brasswork were still open,lit up with pink and yellow lamps. The brilliant uniforms of youngSpahis and Zouaves made spots of vivid colour among the dark clothes ofEuropeans, tourists, or employes in commercial houses out for amusement.Sailors of different nations swung along arm in arm, laughing and oglingthe handsome Jewesses and painted ladies from the Levant or Marseilles.American girls just arrived on big ships took care of their chaperonsand gazed with interest at the passing show, especially at themagnificent Arabs who appeared to float rather than walk, lookingneither to right nor left, their white burnouses blowing behind them.The girls stared eagerly, too, at the few veiled and swathed figures ofnative women who mingled with the crowd, padding timidly with bare feetthrust into slippers. The foreigners mistook them no doubt for Arabladies, not knowing that ladies never walk; and were but littleinterested in the old, unveiled women with chocolate-coloured faces, whobegged, or tried to sell picture-postcards. The arcaded streets werefull of light and laughter, noise of voices, clatter of horses' hoofs,carriage-wheels, and tramcars, bells of bicycles and horns of motors.The scene was as gay as any Paris boulevard, and far more picturesquebecause of the older, Eastern civilization in the midst of, though neverpart of, an imported European life--the flitting white and brownfigures, like thronging ghosts outnumbering the guests at a banquet.
Stephen and Nevill Caird went up the Rue Bab-el-Oued, leading to the oldtown, and so came to the Hotel de la Kasbah, where Victoria Ray wasstaying. It looked more attractive at night, with its blaze ofelectricity that threw out the Oriental colouring of some crudedecorations in the entrance-hall, yet the place appeared less than eversuited to Victoria.
An Arab porter stood at the door, smoking a cigarette. His fingers werestained with henna, and he wore an embroidered jacket which showedgrease-spots and untidy creases. It was with the calmest indifference heeyed the Englishmen, as Nevill inquired in French for Miss Ray.
The question whether she were "at home" was conventionally put, for itseemed practically certain that she must be in the hotel. Where couldshe, who had no other friends than they, and no chaperon, go at night?It was with blank surprise, therefore, that he and Stephen heard theman's answer. Mademoiselle was out.
"I don't believe it," Stephen muttered in English, to Nevill.
The porter understood, and looked sulky. "I tell ze troot," hepersisted. "Ze gentlemens no believe, zay ask some ozzer."
They took him at his word, and walked past the Arab into the hotel. Afew Frenchmen and Spaniards of inferior type were in the hall, and atthe back, near a stairway made of the cheapest marble, was a windowlabelled "Bureau." Behind this window, in a cagelike room, sat theproprietor at a desk, adding up figures in a large book. He was veryfat, and his chins went all the way round his neck in grooves, as if histhick throat might pull out like an accordion. There was somethingcuriously exotic about him, as there is in persons of mixed races; anolive pallor of skin, an oiliness of black hair, and a jetty brightnessof eye under heavy lids.
This time it was Stephen who asked for Miss Ray; but he was given thesame answer. She had gone out.
"You are sure?"
"Mais, oui, monsieur."
"Has she been gone long?" Stephen persisted, feeling perplexed andirritated, as if something underhand were going on.
"Of that I cannot tell," returned the hotel proprietor, still inguttural French. "She left word she would not be at the dinner."
"Did she say when she would be back?"
"No, monsieur. She did not say."
"Perhaps the American Consul's family took pity on her, and invited herto dine with them," suggested Nevill.
"Yes," Stephen said, relieved. "That's the most likely thing, and wouldexplain her engagement this afternoon."
"We might explore the Kasbah for an hour, and call again, to inquire."
"Let us," returned Stephen. "I should like to know that she's got in allright."
Five minutes later they had left the noisy Twentieth Century behindthem, and plunged into the shadowy silence of a thousand years ago.
The change could not have been more sudden and complete if, from a gailylighted modern street, full of hum and bustle, they had fallen down anoubliette into a dark, deserted fairyland. Just outside was the importedlife of Paris, but this old town was Turkish, Arab, Moorish, Jewish andSpanish; and in Algeria old things do not change.
After all, the
alley was not deserted, though it was soundless as a tombsave for a dull drumming somewhere behind thick walls. They were in anarrow tunnel, rather than a street, between houses that bent towardseach other, their upper stories supported by beams. There was noelectric light, scarcely any light at all save a strip of moonshine,fine as a line of silver inlaid in ebony, along the cobbled way whichascended in steps, and a faint glimmer of a lamp here and there in thedistance, a lamp small and greenish as the pale spark of a glow-worm. Asthey went up, treading carefully, forms white as spirits came down thestreet in heelless babouches that made no more noise than the wings of abat. These forms loomed vague in the shadow, then took shape as Arabmen, whose eyes gleamed under turbans or out from hoods.
Moving aside to let a cloaked figure go by, Stephen brushed against theblank wall of a house, which was cold, sweating dampness like anunderground vault. No sun, except a streak at midday, could everpenetrate this tunnel-street.
So they went on from one alley into another, as if lost in a catacomb,or the troubling mazes of a nightmare. Always the walls were blank, savefor a deep-set, nail-studded door, or a small window like a square darkhole. Yet in reality, Nevill Caird was not lost. He knew his way verywell in the Kasbah, which he never tired of exploring, though he hadspent eight winters in Algiers. By and by he guided his friend into astreet not so narrow as the others they had climbed, though it wasrather like the bed of a mountain torrent, underfoot. Because the mooncould pour down a silver flood it was not dark, but the lamps were sodull that the moonlight seemed to put them out.
Here the beating was as loud as a frightened heart. The walls resoundedwith it, and sent out an echo. More than one nailed door stood open,revealing a long straight passage, with painted walls faintly lightedfrom above, and a curtain like a shadow, hiding the end. In thesepassages hung the smoky perfume of incense; and from over tile-toppedwalls came the fragrance of roses and lemon blossoms, half choked withthe melancholy scent of things old, musty and decayed. Beautifulpillars, brought perhaps from ruined Carthage, were set deeply in thewhitewashed walls, looking sad and lumpy now that centuries ofchalk-coats had thickened their graceful contours. But to compensate forloss of shape, they were dazzling white, marvellous as columns of carvedpearl in the moonlight, they and their surrounding walls seeming to sendout an eerie, bleached light of their own which struck at the eye. Theuneven path ran floods of moonlight; and from tiny windows in theleaning snow-palaces--windows like little golden frames--looked out thefaces of women, as if painted on backgrounds of dull yellow,emerald-green, or rose-coloured light.
They were unveiled women, jewelled like idols, white and pink aswax-dolls, their brows drawn in black lines with herkous, their eyesglittering between bluish lines of kohl, their lips poppy-red with thetint of mesouak, their heads bound in sequined nets of silvered gauze,and crowned with tiaras of gold coins. The windows were so small thatthe women were hidden below their shoulders, but their hugehoop-earrings flashed, and their many necklaces sent out sparks as theynodded, smiling, at the passers; and one who seemed young and beautifulas a wicked fairy, against a purple light, threw a spray of orangeblossoms at Stephen's feet.
Then, out of that street of muffled music, open doors, and sequinedidols, the two men passed to another where, in small open-air cafes,bright with flaring torches or electric light squatting men smoked,listening to story-tellers; and where, further on, Moorish baths belchedout steam mingled with smells of perfume and heated humanity. So, backagain to black tunnels, where the blind walls heard secrets they wouldnever tell. The houses had no eyes, and the street doors drew back intoshadow.
"Do you wonder now," Nevill asked, "that it's difficult to find out whatgoes on in an Arab's household?"
"No," said Stephen. "I feel half stifled. It's wonderful, but somehowterrible. Let's get out of this 'Arabian Nights' dream, into light andair, or something will happen to us, some such things as befell theSeven Calendars. We must have been here an hour. It's time to inquirefor Miss Ray again. She's sure to have come in by now."
Back they walked into the Twentieth Century. Some of the lights in thehotel had been put out. There was nobody in the hall but the porter, whohad smoked his last cigarette, and as no one had given him another, hewas trying to sleep in a chair by the door.
Mademoiselle might have come in. He did not know. Yes, he could ask, ifthere were any one to ask, but the woman who looked after the bedroomshad an evening out. There was only one _femme de chambre_, but whatwould you? The high season was over. As for the key of Mademoiselle,very few of the clients ever left their keys in the bureau when theypromenaded themselves. It was too much trouble. But certainly, he couldknock at the door of Mademoiselle, if the gentlemen insisted, though itwas now on the way to eleven o'clock, and it would be a pity to wake theyoung lady if she were sleeping.
"Knock softly. If she's awake, she'll hear you," Stephen directed. "Ifshe's asleep, she won't."
The porter went lazily upstairs, appearing again in a few minutes toannounce that he had obeyed instructions and the lady had not answered."But," he added, "one would say that an all little light came throughthe keyhole."
"Brute, to look!" mumbled Stephen. There was, however, nothing more tobe done. It was late, and they must take it for granted that Miss Rayhad come home and gone to bed.