A little knot of low-voiced men had approached with an inquiry. Saint Hubert went to the open doorway to speak to Yusef, who stood with them under the awning. Usually at night the vicinity of the sheik's tent was avoided by all the tribesmen. Even the sentry on guard was posted at a little distance. Kopec, curled up outside the doorway, kept ample watch, but tonight the open space swarmed with men.
"They are restless," the vicomte explained. "Their devotion is very strong. Ahmed is a god to them. Their anxiety takes them in a variety of ways. Yusef has even turned to religion for the first time in his life; he goes to say his prayers with the pious Abdul. He thinks that Allah is more likely to listen if his petitions go heavenward in company with the holy man's."
After a moment, Saint Hubert put his hand on my shoulder. "You are torturing yourself unnecessarily. You can do no good to yourself by staying here. You must try and get some sleep. We cannot know anything for quite some time anyway. Henri and I will watch over Ahmed and Gaston. I will call you if there is any change—my word of honor."
I shook my head without looking up. "I can't go. I couldn't possibly sleep."
"Very well," he said quietly, "but if you are going to stay, you must take off your riding boots and put on something more comfortable."
I realized the sense of what he said and obeyed. Zilah was there to tend me and did so silently with sad eyes. After bathing my aching head and throat and substituting a thin, silk wrap for the torn, stained riding suit, I felt a miraculous sense of relief.
When I returned, Henri was pouring out coffee, but the ordinary ritual seemed suddenly peculiar to me. Saint Hubert came to me with a cup in his outstretched hand. "Please take it. It will do you good." His reassuring smile was not reflected in his anxious eyes.
Other than sips of water, I had not had anything to eat or drink in almost two days. I swallowed it hastily. The heat was soothing to my throat. I set the cup down on the table and went back to the divan, returning to my same position on the rug. Ahmed was still lying exactly as I had left him. After only a few minutes I became suddenly so drowsy I could hardly hold my eyes open. Although I had sworn to remain by Ahmed's side, my head grew so heavy that it fell forward onto the cushions. After that, I was weightlessly gathered into the vicomte's arms.
***
The lamp was already lit when I opened my heavy eyes. A bitter taste haunted my mouth. I turned my head toward the clock beside me. The tiny chime sounded seven times. More than twelve hours had passed since I had drunk the drugged coffee. Twelve hours! I knew why he had done it and tried to be grateful, but the thought of what might have happened while I had lain like a log was horrible. I dressed with feverish haste, thankful that everything was laid out in readiness for my waking, though the Arab girl herself was not visible.
When I entered the outer room, it was filled with Arabs, many of whom I did not recognize, yet I knew they must belong to the reinforcements that Ahmed had sent for. Two, who appeared to be minor chiefs, were talking in low tones to Saint Hubert, who looked worn and tired. The rest were grouped silently about the divan, gaping at the still-unconscious sheik. Nearest to him stood Yusef in an attitude of deepest dejection, with eyes that looked like a whipped dog. I stood in the background until the tent gradually emptied.
Taking notice of me at last, the vicomte guided me to a chair. "Sit down," he said almost gruffly. "You look like a ghost."
"Because you drugged that coffee," I reproached. "If he had died today while I was asleep, I don't think I could ever have forgiven you."
"My dear child," he said gravely, "you don't know how near you were to collapse. If I had not made you sleep, I should have had three patients on my hands instead of two."
"I'm sorry. I am very ungrateful," I replied with a tremulous smile.
Saint Hubert brought a chair for himself and dropped into it wearily. By appearances the strain of the past twenty-four hours had been tremendous, but I still worried that his care and skill might prove unequal to save his friend's life.
Henri came in, and I roused myself to ask after Gaston. His reply was still noncommittal. We relapsed into silent watchfulness again until Saint Hubert rose and bent over the sheik with his fingers on his wrist. When he laid the lifeless hand down again, I covered it with my own.
"His hand is so big for an Arab's," I spoke my thoughts unconsciously aloud.
"He is not an Arab," replied Saint Hubert with sudden, impatient vehemence. "He is English."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"English?" I repeated in utter bewilderment. "How can that be? He doesn't even look English."
"Quand-meme, he is the son of one of your English peers. His father is the Earl of Glencaryll."
"But I know him!" I said. "He was a friend of my father. I saw him only a few months ago when Aubrey and I passed through Paris. He is such a magnificent-looking old man, so fierce and sad." My hand came over my mouth with an exclamation. "Oh! Now I know why that awful scowl of Ahmed's has always seemed so familiar. Lord Glencaryll has the identical expression. It is the famous Caryll scowl."
I looked from Saint Hubert to the unconscious man on the divan and back to Saint Hubert. "But I still don't understand. If he is English, why is he here?"
"Has he never told you anything about himself?"
"No." I shook my head in embarrassment.
Saint Hubert looked equally uncomfortable. I did not move or meet his gaze but sat with one hand clasped over the sheik's and the other shading my eyes. I did not wish to show my eagerness but waited and hoped he would share more about this enigmatic man who had taken possession of me body and soul.
"Ahmed does not look English because his mother was a Spanish lady, many of whom have Moorish blood in their veins. The characteristics can crop up even after centuries, as is so with Ahmed, and his life in the desert has accentuated this. Ahmed's history is quite a complex and curious one," the vicomte went on.
"What do you mean?"
"For it to make any sense to you, I suppose I must tell you the whole story from the beginning." He dropped back into his chair and propped up his feet. "I warn you that it is a long one."
"I do not mind." I tried not to sound overly eager, but I was already hanging on every word. "Please tell it to me."
"As you wish, mademoiselle." He inclined his head to me and then lit a cigarette. "Thirty-six years ago, after my mother passed, my father came to this place in his desire to get away from all that reminded him of her. He had first met the former Sheik Ahmed Ben Hassan through the purchase of some horses, but over time their relationship ripened into an intimate friendship.
“It was during my father's visit that a party of the sheik's men arrived with a woman they had found wandering in the desert. When questioned, the woman could give no account of herself, as the effects of the sun or other causes had put her temporarily out of her senses. Not knowing what to do with her, they brought her to their chief. This sheik was a wonderful man, very enlightened and much wrapped up in his tribe. She was treated tenderly by him, as Arabs are very gentle with anyone who is mad—'Allah has touched them!' For days it was doubtful she would recover, as her condition was aggravated by the fact that she was shortly to become a mother.
“After a time, she regained her senses, but nothing could make her say anything about herself. She was quite young, and her accent hinted at Spanish origins, but she would admit nothing, not even her nationality. Questions only resulted in terrible fits of hysteria. In due course of time, the child was born—a boy." Saint Hubert nodded toward the sheik. "There was an element of mystery that clung to her that took hold of the superstitious Arabs. The baby came to be looked upon as something more than human and was adored by all the tribe.
"The woman nearly died in childbirth and never fully recovered, yet she made no complaint and seemed content as long as the child was with her. She was a child herself in a great number of ways. The sheik sent her to the tent of one of the headmen, whose wife looked after her with devotion, but eve
ntually, she was even given a tent and servants of her own. It never occurred to her that there was anything odd in her continued residence in the sheik's camp.
"The sheik himself, who had never looked twice at a woman, became passionately attached to her. My father says he has never seen a man so madly in love. He repeatedly implored her to marry him, but she would never consent, though she gave no reason for her refusal. Her refusal made no difference with the sheik. His devotion to her was wonderful.
"It was only on her deathbed that she finally revealed her pitiful history. The only daughter of one of the oldest noble houses in Spain, she was given in marriage at the tender age of seventeen to Lord Glencaryll, who had seen her with her parents in Nice. It was an arranged marriage, and though she grew to love her husband, she was always afraid of him. He had a terrible temper that was easily roused, especially while in drink, when he behaved more like a devil than a man. Making no allowance for her youth and inexperience, her life was one long torture.
"Glencaryll had brought her to Algiers, wishing to make a trip into the desert. Even though her child was soon to be born, she made no objection for fear of upsetting him, but one night something happened that sent her fleeing into the desert, mad with fear. She would never say what happened, or even who she was, lest she be sent back to her husband.
"The birth of the child only made her more determined to preserve her secret and spare her son the suffering she had endured. On her deathbed, she made my father and the sheik swear that Lord Glencaryll would not be told of his son's existence until after he was grown. She then wrote a letter for her husband, which she gave into my father's keeping, together with her inscribed wedding ring, and a miniature of Glencaryll that she had kept hidden.
"In the last few days that she lived, the sheik's devotion awakened an answering tenderness in her heart. She was happiest when he was with her, and she died in his arms with his kisses on her lips. She had begged his forgiveness for the sorrow she had caused him and for keeping from him the fact that she was not free. She also left her boy in his keeping. Upon her death, all the passionate love the sheik had for the mother was transferred to the son.
“Ahmed Ben Hassan adopted him formally and made him his heir, giving him his own name—the hereditary name that the sheik of the tribe has borne for generations. His word was law amongst his people, and there was no thought of opposition to his wishes. On the contrary, his choice of successor was received with unanimous delight. He idolized the boy, and Ahmed grew up believing the sheik was his own father."
I listened to this story with incredulity but knew it was all true. I wondered what sort of man Ahmed would have been if the little dark-eyed mother had lived to sway him with her gentleness. Poor little mother, helpless and fragile—yet strong enough to save her boy from the danger that she feared for him. She had paid with her life but died content that her child was safe.
"When did you come to know him, Monsieur le Vicomte?"
He looked both hurt and surprised at my formal address. "Please, Mademoiselle Mayo, given our extraordinary circumstances, can we dispense with such formality?" He smiled. "If you would grant me the privilege, I would have you call me Raoul."
His sincerity warmed me. "Very well, Raoul. You must also let me be Diana."
"If you will honor me with your friendship, Diana, my life is at your service."
He raised my fingers to his lips with a touch of old-world chivalry. I guessed the kiss was meant to seal our pact of friendship. It was a moment longer before he answered my question.
"When did I come to know Ahmed?" He drew on his cigarette and paused to exhale a wispy stream of smoke. "I must have been eighteen when I first saw him. He was a boy of fifteen and had come to Paris to be educated. He was such a handsome, high-spirited lad and seemed in many ways a great deal older than I, in spite of my seniority. But in other ways he was a perfect child. He had a fiendish temper and resented any check on his lawless inclinations. He loathed any restrictions put upon him and hated town life. He'd been accustomed to having his own way in nearly everything and was not prepared to give anybody else the obedience that he had given the sheik so willingly."
I smiled inwardly, for I had been much the same. Aubrey’s word was my only law, and I couldn't wait until the day I could cast off that despised yoke.
"There were some very stormy times," he continued, "I never admired my father so much as in his handling of that young savage. Even then, the only threat that reduced Ahmed to order was that of sending him home to the sheik in disgrace, but in spite of his temper and his diableries, he was very lovable and everybody liked him. After a year in Paris, my father sent him for two years to my old tutor in England. He was an exceptional man, used to dealing with exceptional boys, and Ahmed did very well with him. I don't mean that he did much work—he evaded that skillfully to spend most of his time hunting and shooting. The only thing that he studied at all seriously was veterinary surgery, which he knew would be useful to him with his horses.
"With plenty of means to amuse himself in any way that he wished, Ahmed quickly developed into a polished man of the world—'Le bel Arabe' he was called. He was courted and feted in a way that would have turned most people's heads, but Ahmed was perfectly indifferent to the flattery and the attention that his money and his good looks brought him. The sheik was very rich and very generous, keeping him lavishly supplied, but always fearing the call of civilization would take away his adopted son. But Ahmed was bored to extinction and always secretly longing to go back to the desert. It was the desert, not civilization, that called loudest to him. He loved this life and adored the sheik. To be the son and heir of Ahmed Ben Hassan seemed to him the highest pinnacle that any man's ambition could reach. So, at the end of his nineteenth year, he shook the dust of Paris off his feet and came home.
"I came with him. It was the first time I had experienced Ahmed en prince. I had never seen him in anything but European clothes and got quite a shock the morning we arrived at Oran. I came up on deck and found an Arab of the Arabs waiting for me. Not only the robes, mind you, he was completely altered in deportment and expression. I hardly recognized him. Some of his men were waiting for him on the quay, and their excitement was extraordinary. It was also then that I noted the deference the French officials paid to Ahmed and understood the position that the old sheik had made for himself and the high esteem in which he was held.
"We spent the night in a villa on the outskirts of the town belonging to an old Arab who entertained us lavishly and impressed on Ahmed the necessity of acquiring a wife or two and settling down for the good of the tribe. This was during intervals of coffee-drinking, listening to monotonous native music, and watching dancing girls, one of whom the old man tried to induce Ahmed to buy. Ahmed made a show of bargaining for her—merely to see the effect it would have on me, but I refused to be drawn in and escaped to bed.
"We started early the next morning and were joined a few miles out of the town by a big detachment of followers. I can hardly describe my feelings in the midst of that yelling horde of men, galloping wildly around us and firing their rifles, but it was Ahmed's attitude that impressed me most. He took it all quietly as his due, until he had had enough and then stopped it all with a peremptory authority that was instantly obeyed. He then apologized to me for the exuberant behavior of his children. This was a new Ahmed to me, a young man whose extraordinary self-possession made me feel very young. In France, I had assumed the role of elder brother, but here the roles were suddenly reversed.
"Our arrival at the sheik's camp was lavish. Though I had heard tales of it from my father and Ahmed, I was not quite prepared for the splendiferous mix of Eastern and European luxury with which the sheik surrounded himself. The meeting between the sheik and Ahmed was most touching. Ahmed became immediately absorbed in his life and was happier than I had ever seen him in Paris. The charm of the desert had also taken hold of me, and I left with regret to return to my medical studies.
"He wa
s nineteen then, and when he was twenty-one, my father had the unpleasant task of carrying out Lady Glencaryll's dying wishes. He wrote to Lord Glencaryll asking him to come to Paris on business connected with his late wife. A painful interview followed, during which he put forth the whole facts before the earl. With the letter, the wedding ring, and the locket, along with a sketch my father had made of her, the proof was conclusive.
"Glencaryll broke down completely, sparing himself nothing. He admitted that his wife had every justification for leaving him. He had never known himself what had happened that terrible night, but the tragedy of his wife's disappearance had cured him of his curse. He had made every effort to find her. It was many years before he gave up all hope. It was impossible not to pity him.
"The knowledge that he had a son almost overwhelmed him. The fact that his title and family name would die with him had been a constant source of grief. His happiness in the knowledge of Ahmed's existence was pathetic, but nothing had yet been said to Ahmed in case his father rejected the claim. With his ready acceptance and eagerness to see his son, my father sent for Ahmed.
"The old sheik sent Ahmed to Paris with no explanation, leaving to my father the difficult task of breaking the news. It was decided that Ahmed should be told first and then father and son should meet. I shall never forget that day. We went to my father's study where he recounted the whole story as gently as he could. Ahmed was standing by the window. He never said a word the whole time my father was speaking. When he finished, Ahmed's color was ashen. He stood perfectly still with his eyes fixed on my father's—and then his fiendish temper broke out. It was a terrible scene. He cursed his father in a steady stream of mingled Arabic and French blasphemy that made one's blood run cold. He then cursed all English people impartially.
"He cursed my father because he had dared to send him to England. He cursed me because I had been a party to the affair. The only person he spared was the sheik. He refused to see his father, refused to recognize that he was his father, left the house that afternoon and Paris that very night. He returned straight back to the desert, taking Gaston, who had arranged previously to enter his service as soon as his time in the Cavalry was up. Lord Glencaryll wrote to him, addressed to Viscount Caryll—which is, of course, his courtesy title—begging for at least an interview, but it was returned unopened.
The Sheik Retold Page 16
