RHODA FAIR: The Classic Novel of a Woman at the Crossroads

by Clarence Budingtion Kelland

  "I confess," said Paul, "that I know very little of human beings."

  "I should know much. I have seen them enough—but always I am knocked flat. Actually. You think you know it all about them, and then, bingo!—some vermin makes you turn the flip-flop by a heroism. . . . If there is a Paradise, then I think everybody has what he can buy a ticket with, and on the other hand everybody has what will send him to hell in a hand basket. So how do you separate? How do you know which is which?"

  "I infer humanity is a complicated study." But his mind was not upon it. He was thinking, Does this policeman know who Rhoda is?

  Suddenly Hana Effendi got to his feet. "I cannot sit," he said. "I wish whatever is going to happen would get itself over with." Then, after pacing to the window and back, "I told Miss Fair to stay in the house at night. I don't know why, but she must. Unless someone is with her. . . . But she is one to kick over the traces. I'm dam' uneasy. Besides, I promised to take her some papers. Will you walk?"

  Side by side they traversed the narrow streets of the bazaar, treading the stones with circumspection to avoid the unpleasantness which might be congregated underfoot. It was such a night as one may see in Nazareth in the beginning of the month Ramadan, clear, with the chill of winds from snow-covered peaks in the air, and wondrously starry. Few householders were abroad, Christian or Mohammedan, and candle-lights glowed with flickering yellow through screened upper windows where followers of the Prophet took thankfully the food which during that month must not pass their lips between sunrise and sunset. Occasionally came a startling explosion of gunpowder as some firearm or other noise-making device was loosed, as seems to be the nighttime custom of that Oriental Lent. The two men were silent; Paul drew his light coat about throat and shivered. Whitewashed walls erected themselves on all sides, seeming in the star-glow not solid masonry, but mountain mist. The blue of arched doorways glowed mysteriously. . . . It was lovely, a night and a walk to stir the imagination, to arouse to life perceptions of beauty and sentiments poetic. . . .

  They turned, twisted, climbed, descended, and so came at last to the door in the wooden fence which led into the courtyard of Josef the carpenter, and there Hana Effendi rapped. It was Josef himself who responded, his feet in huge, ill-fitting slippers slip-slopping over the stones, his emaciated body in a nightgown of knee-length, which, since his illness, he affected day and night. His sallow, sunken face lighted in welcome.

  "Mesakum bil-kheir—good evening," he greeted.

  "God vouchsafe you a good evening," responded Hana Effendi in ceremonial Arabic, and then the inevitable questions and answers as to health, repeated as good manners dictate a number of times.

  "Tfaddalu," said Josef, with eager hospitality.

  "We are come," said Hana Effendi, "only to ask if all is well with thy guest?"

  "All is well. She has become as a daughter to my wife. But she walks, after the custom of her country. It is an hour since she has gone."

  "I might have known it," said Hana Effendi, ruefully. "She's abroad in the town, Mr. Dare."

  "Then we must find her. Where did she go? Does the man know?"

  No, Josef did not know, but the young lady would be safe, for was not the town quiet!

  "She would go into the open," said Hana Effendi; then, ruefully, "Tomorrow night I shall station a man at her door—to keep her prisoner. . . . Josef, here is a bundle of newspapers for Miss Fair."

  But Rhoda had not been headstrong, as Hana Effendi supposed, nor had she left the house willingly. It is true she was not timid and that the prospect of wandering through the dark streets of the little city would have caused her to hesitate, but since her encounter with Abdullah she had not wanted to go out. It was not a reasonable aversion; it was without cause so far as she could determine, yet she was content to remain indoors, to nibble at Arabic under Fatima Kaleel's hesitating instruction, to watch the curious housewifery of her hostess. In the afternoon she drank more coffee flavored with cinnamon than was good for her sleep, and she never tired of wondering at the magic of the tiny kitchen and of how Fatima Kaleel prepared meals for her family with no stove other than two earthen cooking pots, clay braziers with inadequate charcoal fire. . . . In some way her mewing of herself up in the house was connected with Jaunty Bailey. It was not a fear of seeing him, for she was not afraid of him in the least; it was rather a sense of foreboding, a dread of his purposes and a sense of the imminence of disastrous events in which he would be concerned.

  Yet she had gone out. It was just after nightfall that she had stood beside the window in the parlor of the house—a high, whitewashed room furnished on three sides with a bench which ran along the walls, on the other by a hideous oak commode on which stood a cheap and garish kerosene lamp—looking idly down upon the narrow street. A man, concealed by the shadows, became visible, apparently staring at the house, watching it. She waited until he moved into the light and was not pleased to recognize him as Abdullah. It was evident that he had seen her, for he crossed the ten feet of street to stand beneath the window and, with significant gesture, to exhibit a folded paper which he tossed up to her. It was in Jaunty Bailey's handwriting, terse, not explanatory, imperative.

  "Come with the man. He will show you where I am." That was all.

  Something within her, the spirit of adventure, the urge of recklessness, compelled her to obey; and there was attraction. Jaunty Bailey drew her, his fascinating, glamorous personality called to some desire in herself. To see him was dangerous to her peace of mind, yet she found she wanted to see him, was willing to take the risk of seeing him. . . So she prepared for the street and presently found Abdullah by her side—an unpleasant, unsavory little man, who showed his teeth in a catlike grin.

  "I walk ahead—you follow," he said, stealthily, though there was no need of stealth. She waited for him to proceed, glad that the necessity was not for her to walk by his side. It was not that he was criminal to which she objected; it was rather the sort of criminal he was, not the type she knew, not, as had been most of the friends of her mother, just ordinary men who had chosen an extraordinary trade. He was a slinking sort, capable of unthinkable actions, a lurker cruel—and she objected to his drowsy eyes, which seemed to take inventory of her so that she felt her cheeks burn and indignation flame in her heart. Despicable she believed him, but she did not know how dangerous he was besides. . . . She resented his association with Jaunty with a thought which was akin to the old saying about evil communications corrupting. A not unhumorous thing when one comes to think of it.

  Their way led back into the Hâret er-Rûm and to the door of a house which gave directly off the pavement.

  "He is in here," said Abdullah. "Go in."

  "No," said Rhoda. "If he is there, tell him to come to the door."

  The man smiled, half in compliment to her caution, and disappeared. Presently Jaunty's voice spoke from the shadows. "It's all right, Rhoda. I'm here."

  She entered unhesitatingly. "What are you doing in Nazareth?" she asked.

  "And you can ask that?" He laughed softly. "You—nothing but you, and the very devil of a job I had getting here. This way, my dear. I'm doing with no more light than necessary—in deference to your policeman friend. These are days when I want to be inconspicuous."

  "Jaunty," she repeated, "what are you doing in Nazareth?"

  "Persistent young person," he said. "Doesn't your vanity tell you you are enough to bring any man any place?"

  "No."

  "Well then, if you must have my secondary reason, for I'm sticking to my story that you are the chief one, I came to see how many beans your highly educated friend has spilled."

  "Mr. Dare? What do you mean?"

  "He crashed right into the reserved seats without a ticket yesterday." He smiled ruefully. "And then he crashed right out again when we were about to invite him to stay. . . . There's more to your professor lad than a first glance discloses." He laughed a bit dryly. "That's why I show a bit lopsided."

  "You fought?"


  "Not exactly. We hadn't arrived at the fighting stage—by the fraction of a second—when he beat us to it. Either he's a quick thinker or there's a special Providence looks after professors. Ran me down with his donkey and then bumped my head against my car and I ceased to be present. . . . But that's a trifle and is to be taken up with him later. What I've got to find out is how loud and how long he talked."

  "Not at all, I believe," said Rhoda.

  Jaunty was astonished genuinely. "Old Dry Bones didn't brag. . . . Huh. . . . Are you sure—sure he hasn't poured his little story into that Greek policeman's ear?"

  "I'm sure I would know it if he had."

  "Now wouldn't that—nonplus you?" Jaunty's opinion of Paul Dare was lifting to a higher notch, but the motive for silence was invisible to him. It worried him.

  "What are you planning?" She peered through the gloom into his face. "What are you doing with that vermin?"

  "Meaning Abdullah?" He chuckled. "But speak softly; he has his pride. Why, the scheme started with him. He had the idea, but not the nerve. I had the nerve, but not the lingo nor knowledge of the country."

  "What are you planning?"

  "Something gorgeous." His voice rang with the sincere enthusiasm of the artist. "It's a perfect thing and it'll set the world by the ears for nine days. I'll tell you all about it if—"

  "If what, Jaunty?"

  "There is just one woman I'll trust, Rhoda, and that is my wife. And I want you, my dear. That's what I came here to say—dodging Arab policemen on horses all over the scenery. They're buzzing like a bumblebee's nest. . . . But nobody knows I'm in this part of the country—nobody but that professor fellow, and he thinks I've gone to Jerusalem."

  "Mr. Dare? How does he know?"

  "I saw him yesterday, back in the country. We had quite a talk. . . . No, we hardly mentioned you, but I guess you were on both our minds. . . . But listen, my dear. I want to tell you again that I love you—how I love you. Haven't you made up your mind yet? It's got to come, you know. I'll be good, to you, Rhoda. I'll give you a square deal—and God knows I'll worship you."

  His face was very close to hers; she could feel his breath warm upon her cheeks, and, though his outstretched hands did not touch her, she knew they trembled with the depth and sincerity of his feeling. He loved her. Of that she had not the least doubt, nor that he would continue to love her to the end. She was moved, shaken; her head swam and she could feel herself swaying toward him, fascinated, overpowered, gripped by the masculinity of him, by the charm and grace of him, by the desire which held him in its grip. . . . He was desirable—a figure of romance—one to sweep a girl from her feet, and Rhoda found that her footing was not secure. She wondered if this thing which swept over her was love. Did she so love this man that she would go to him, give her life to him, with open eyes, knowing what that gift would mean, careless of what it meant so long as it gave him to her forever? For a blind moment she fancied she did. . . . He stood silent, tense, waiting, hoping, letting her fight his battle for him. Had he seized her then in his arms, roughly, masterfully, had he bruised her lips with kisses, crushed her body to his, swept her away in a torrent of his love, it might have been his moment. He might have won her then and there. . . . But Jaunty Bailey, for all his profession, for all his debonair recklessness, for all of that ruthlessness which sometimes made itself apparent, nevertheless possessed a gentleness, an understanding, a decency of soul which would not permit. He must stand and wait. If she came to him she must come of herself, deliberately, in love as great as his own. . . .

  Her eyes were closed, her fingers clenched tightly into fists. She did not so much struggle against him as wait to see what the next instant would bring forth—if it would throw her into his arms, if this emotion which surged within her would indicate its will. . . . She swayed toward him, and still he waited. But she did not come. The wave subsided; she could think, reason, comprehend. There remained the great question to answer—did she love him, and that answer was not yet in the affirmative. She was attracted to him more than to any other man she had ever known—but not attracted enough. He was not indispensable.

  "No," she said, faintly, "not yet, Jaunty. I don't know. You must let me find out."

  He bent his head and was silent for a moment. "I thought—I hoped this was the time," he said. Then, his voice kindling, "Such a wedding trip as we would have, Rhoda! . . . I'm going to make my getaway by camel—cross to Bagdad, down to the Gulf. We would see India, Ceylon—all the Orient. And the thing itself—it's an adventure, Rhoda. Don't you long for the thrill of it, the excitement of it? I tell you you are made for it just as I am made for it. We can't escape it; it is written on our foreheads, as the Arabs say. . . . You need me as I need you. . . ."

  "No. . . . No. . . . I've got to think it all out, Jaunty. I've got to know. I've got to reason about life and about myself. I've got to know about wrong and right—and if there's a God. I've got to know. Give me time—it will do no harm. You don't want me now, as I feel now. To come to you would be dreadful if I were to find it all a mistake, all a dreadful thing I had done! You wouldn't want that."

  "It's in your blood, Rhoda, and in your heart."

  "I don't know what is in my blood or my heart."

  "You can't go back."

  "That was you, Jaunty, and it was unfair. . . . You tried to force me. I cannot be forced."

  "I don't understand you."

  "Nor do I understand myself. That's what I must do."

  "Do you want to be a commonplace household drudge, living from day to day with nothing more exciting than getting three meals?"

  "Possibly even that."

  "Not you. You're made for something different, I know. There's something that sings in your blood just as it sings in mine. It can't be smothered in a kitchen."

  "Jaunty," she said, "what's the world for?"

  "Eh?"

  "Why is this world? Why are there people in it? Why am I?"

  "The world," he said, "is to play in, to be happy in. It's a big place full of wonderful things to see and to do. I don't know why other people are here and I don't care, but you're here, Rhoda, to set me mad, to make me burst with love, to—Oh, what's the use?"

  "Is that what you think, really? Is this world nothing but a playground, a field of excitement and adventures to you? That can't be all. There must be something else, something wonderful or something dreadful. Did you ever sit still, very quietly, and think about yourself, just about yourself? I don't suppose you did. It frightens one. You wonder who you are and if you are? Is there such a person as I? Since I have been here I've sat out there on the hills and thought until it seemed I did not exist, but was just a shadow, a thing of imagination and unreal. . . . But I am real, Jaunty!" Her voice was pleading. "There is a me, isn't there?"

  "There is," he said, seriously, wondering at her, a little frightened by this view into her soul, for it seemed a mystery to him, beyond him, unreachable by him.

  "Now I must go," she said.

  "Not yet. Just a moment; give me only a little more of you.

  After tonight I shan't see you again until it's over—and I could use you, my dear. You'd come in as handy as a Yankee tool kit."

  He hesitated. "Will you do this for me? If a message comes to you in the night will you keep your policeman friend out of the way for a day?"

  She considered. "I must know what you are going to do first."

  "I can't tell you that—not as things are. . . . But it's a little thing to ask."

  "I can't promise," she said.

  "And I can't have my diamonds?" he asked, with a whimsical, half-rueful smile. "Lordy, I need 'em. You ought to see my payroll."

  She shook her head.

  "But you won't hold it against me if I get them?"

  "No," she said, frankly. "Good-by, and I hope no harm comes to you. Be careful, Jaunty. . . . I'm afraid. I've a feeling —"

  "Then wish me good luck and success."

  She lifted her ey
es to his and considered the request; then she shook her head. "I can't even do that," she said, "but I do wish you safety. . . . Good-by."

  He lifted her hand to his lips and let her go.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HANA EFFENDI'S anxiety drew him to the one spot in Nazareth where danger might reside—the house occupied by the man Abdullah. With Paul Dare he walked down that street which from the heart of the Moslem quarter, commencing not far from the old Kaimmakam, or residence of the Turkish governor, passes through the city of the Greeks until it becomes the road to Acre. This portion of the town is a section shaped like a flat iron, its base being the street down which the men walked, its apex a corner of the Mohammedan burial-ground and that cluster of boys' school buildings which lie adjacent to the house of the Orthodox Greek bishop. Hana hoped Rhoda's footsteps had not bent thither, because there lurked in the back of his semi-Oriental mind a thought, a possibility which he did not wish to verify. . . . But it was to receive verification. As they rounded the jog at the lower corner of the flat iron he seized Paul's arm and drew him back, for a dim light suddenly had glowed ahead as a door was opened, and a woman's figure emerged from a house. Hana Effendi knew that house.

  "It is she," he said, "and she must not see us—here."

  "What? Not see us? What do you mean?"

  "Be still. She comes."

  In a moment she passed them, walking rapidly, but the police inspector kept firm fingers upon Paul's arm until she was lost in the darkness. "Now," he said, "we can follow."