Rosa Mundi by Ethel May Dell (e books free to read .TXT) 📖

ago--just before he went. It was my first proposal. I was very young, not eighteen. And--and it frightened me. I really don't know why. And so I refused. He said he would ask me again when I was older, when I had come out. I remember being rather relieved when he went away. It wasn't till afterwards, when I came to see the world and people, that I realized that he was more to me than any one else. He--he was wonderfully fascinating, don't you think? So strong, so eager, so full of life! I have never seen any one quite like him." She leaned her hands suddenly against a projecting stone buttress and bowed her head upon them. "And I--refused him!" she said.
The low voice went out in a faint sob, and the man's hands clenched. The next instant he had crossed the space that divided him from the slender figure in its white draperies that drooped against the wall.
He bent down to her.
"Betty, Betty," he said, "you're crying for the moon, child. Don't!"
She turned, and with a slight, confiding movement slid out a trembling hand.
"I have never told anyone but you," she said.
He clasped the quivering fingers very closely.
"I would sell my soul to see you happy," he said. "But, my dear Betty, happiness doesn't lie in that direction. You are sacrificing substance to shadow. Won't you see it before it's too late, before the lean years come?" He paused a moment, seeming to restrain himself. Then, "I've never told you before," he said, his voice very low, deeply tender. "I hardly dare to tell you now, lest you should think I'm trading on your friendship, but I, too, am one of those unlucky beggars that want to marry you. You needn't trouble to refuse me, dear. I'll take it all for granted. Only, when the lean years do come to you, as they will, as they must, will you remember that I'm still wanting you, and give me the chance of making you happy?"
"Oh, don't!" sobbed Betty. "Don't! You hurt me so!"
"Hurt you, Betty! I!"
She turned impulsively and leaned her head against him.
"Major Herne, you--you are awfully good to me, do you know? I shall never forget it. And if--if I were not quite sure in my heart that Bobby is still alive and wanting me, I would come to you, if you really cared to have me. But--but--"
"Do you mean that, Betty?" he said. His arm was round her, but he did not seek to draw her nearer, did not so much as try to see her face.
But she showed it to him instantly, lifting clear eyes, in which the tears still shone, to his.
"Oh, yes, I mean it. But, Major Herne, but----"
He met her look, faintly smiling.
"Yes," he said. "It's a pretty big 'but,' I know, but I'm going to tackle it. I'm going to find out if the boy is alive or dead. If he lives, you shall see him again; if he is dead--and this is the more probable, for it is no country for white men--I shall claim you for myself, Betty. You won't refuse me then?"
"Only find out for certain," she said.
"I will do that," he promised.
"But how? How? You won't go there yourself?"
"Why not?" he said.
Something like panic showed in the girl's eyes. She laid her hands on his shoulders.
"Monty, I don't want you to go."
"You would rather I stayed?" he said. He was looking closely into her eyes.
She endured the look for a little, then suddenly the tears welled up again.
"I can't bear you to go," she whispered. "I mean--I mean--I couldn't bear it if--if----"
He took her hands gently, and held them.
"I shall come back to you, Betty," he said.
"Oh, you will!" she said very earnestly. "You will!"
"I shall," said Montague Herne; and he said it as a man whose resolution no power on earth might turn.


III

No country for white men indeed! Herne grimly puffed a cloud of smoke into a whirl of flies, and rose from the packing-case off which he had dined.
Near by were the multitudinous sounds of the camp, the voices of Arabs, the grunting of camels, the occasional squeal of a mule. Beyond lay the wilderness, mysterious, silent, immense, the home of the unknown.
He had reached the outermost edge of civilization, and he was waiting for the return of an Arab spy, a man he trusted, who had pushed on into the interior. The country beyond him was a dense tract of bush almost impenetrable; so far as he knew, waterless.
In the days of the British expedition this had been an almost insuperable obstacle, but Herne was in no mood to turn back. Behind him lay desert, wide and barren under the fierce African sun. He had traversed it with a dogged patience, regardless of hardship, and, whatever lay ahead of him, he meant to go on. Hidden deep below the man's calm aspect there throbbed a fierce impatience. It tortured him by night, depriving him of rest.
Very curiously, the conviction had begun to take root in his soul also that Bobby Duncannon still lived. In England he had scouted the notion, but here in the heart of the desert everything seemed possible. He felt as if a voice were calling to him out of the mystery towards which he had set his face, a voice that was never silent, continually urging him on.
Wandering that night on the edge of the bush, with the camp-fires behind him, he told himself that until he knew the truth he would never turn back.
He lay down at last, though his restlessness was strong upon him, compelling his body at least to be passive, while hour after hour crawled by and the wondrous procession of stars wheeled overhead.
In the early morning there came a stir in the camp, and he rose, to find that his messenger had returned. The man was waiting for him outside his tent. The orange and gold of sunrise was turning the desert into a wonderland of marvellous colour, but Herne's eyes took no note thereof. He saw only his Arab guide bending before him in humble salutation, while in his heart he heard a girl's voice, low and piteous, "Bobby is still alive and wanting me."
"Well, Hassan?" he questioned. "Any news?"
The man's eyes gleamed with a certain triumph.
"There is news, _effendi_. The man the _effendi_ seeks is no longer chief of the Zambas. They have been swallowed up by the Wandis."
Herne groaned. It was only what he had expected, but the memory of the boy's face with its eager eyes was upon him. The pity of it! The vast, irretrievable waste!
"Then he is dead?" he said.
The Arab spread out his hands.
"Allah knows. But the Wandis do not always slay their prisoners, _effendi_. The old and the useless ones they burn, but the strong ones they save alive. It may be that he lives."
"As a slave!" Herne said.
"It is possible, _effendi_." The Arab considered a moment. Then, "The road to the country of the Wandis is no journey for _effendis_," he said. "The path is hard to find, and there is no water. Also, the bush is thick, and there are many savages. But beyond all are the mountains where the Wandis dwell. It is possible that the chief of the Zambas has been carried to their City of Stones. It is a wonderful place, _effendi_. But the way thither, especially now, even for an Arab----"
"I am going myself," Herne said.
"The _effendi_ will die!"
Herne shrugged his shoulders.
"Be it so! I am going!"
"But not alone, _effendi_." A speculative gleam shone in the Arab's wary eyes. He was the only available guide, and he knew it. The Englishman was mad, of course, but he was willing to humour him--for a consideration.
Herne saw the gleam, and his grim face relaxed.
"Name your price, Hassan!" he said. "If it doesn't suit me--I go alone."
Hassan smiled widely. Certainly the Englishman was mad, but he had a sporting fancy for mad Englishmen, a fancy that kept his pouch well filled. He had not the smallest intention of letting this one out of his sight.
"We will go together, _effendi_," he said. "The price shall not be named between us until we return in peace. But the _effendi_ will need a disguise. The Wandis have no love for the English."
"Then I will go as your brother," said Herne.
The Arab bowed low.
"As traders in spice," he said, "we might, by the goodness of Allah, pass through to the Great Desert. But we could not go with a large caravan, _effendi_, and we should take our lives in our hands."
"Even so," said the Englishman imperturbably. "Let us waste no time!"
It had been his attitude throughout, and it had had its effect upon the men who had travelled with him. They had come to look upon him with reverence, this mad Englishman, who was thus calmly preparing to risk his life for a man whose bones had probably whitened in the desert years before. By sheer, indomitable strength of purpose Herne was accomplishing inch by inch the task that he had set himself.
A few days more found him traversing the wide, scrub-grown plateau that stretched to the mountains where the Wandis had their dwelling-place. The journey was a bitter one, the heat intense, the difficulties of the way sometimes wellnigh insurmountable. They carried water with them, but the need for economy was great, and Herne was continually possessed by a consuming thirst that he never dared to satisfy.
The party consisted of himself, Hassan, an Arab lad, and five natives. The rest of his following he had left on the edge of civilization, encamped in the last oasis between the desert and the scrub, with orders to await his return. If, as the Arab had suggested, he succeeded in pushing through to the farther desert, he would return by a more southerly route, giving Wanda as wide a berth as possible.
Thus ran his plans as, day after day, he pressed farther into the heart of the unknown country that the British had abandoned in despair over three years before. They found it deserted, in some parts almost impenetrable, so dense was the growth of bush in all directions. And yet there were times when it seemed to Herne that the sense of emptiness was but a superficial impression, as if unseen eyes watched them on that journey of endless monotony, as if the very camels knew of a lurking espionage, and sneered at their riders' ignorance.
This feeling came to him generally at night, when he had partially assuaged the torment of thirst that gave him no peace by day, and his mind was more at leisure for speculation. At such times, lying apart from his companions, wrapt in the immense silence of the African night, the conviction would rise up within him that every inch of their progress through that land of mystery was marked by a close observation, that even as he lay he was under _surveillance_, that the dense obscurity of the bush all about him was peopled by stealthy watchers whose vigilance was never relaxed.
He mentioned his suspicion once to Hassan; but the Arab only smiled.
"The desert never sleeps, _effendi_. The very grass of the _savannah_ has ears."
It was not a very satisfactory explanation, but Herne accepted it. He put down his uneasiness to the restlessness of nerves that were ever on the alert, and determined to ignore it. But it pursued him, none the less; and coupled with it was the voice that called to him perpetually, like the crying of a lost