CHAPTER XXVII
The good priest of Amara, strolling by chance at the dinner-hour ofthe following day towards the camp of the hospitable strangers, wassurprised and saddened to find only the sand-hill strewn with debris.The tents, the camels, the mules, the horses--all were gone. No servantsgreeted him. No cook was busy. No kind hostess bade him come in and stayto dine. Forlornly he glanced around and made inquiry. An Arab told himthat in the morning the camp had been struck and ere noon was far onits way towards the north. The priest had been on horseback to anneighbouring oasis, so had heard nothing of this flitting. He asked itsexplanation, and was told a hundred lies. The one most often repeatedwas to the effect that Monsieur, the husband of Madame, was overcome bythe heat, and that for this reason the travellers were making their waytowards the cooler climate that lay beyond the desert.
As he heard this a sensation of loneliness came to the priest. Hisusually cheerful countenance was overcast with gloom. For a momenthe loathed his fate in the sands and sighed for the fleshpots ofcivilisation. With his white umbrella spread above his helmet he stoodstill and gazed towards the north across the vast spaces that werelemon-yellow in the sunset. He fancied that on the horizon he sawfaintly a cloud of sand grains whirling, and imagined it stirred up bythe strangers' caravan. Then he thought of the rich lands of the Tell,of the olive groves of Tunis, of the blue Mediterranean, of France, hiscountry which he had not seen for many years. He sighed profoundly.
"Happy people," he thought to himself. "Rich, free, able to do as theylike, to go where they will! Why was I born to live in the sand and tobe alone?"
He was moved by envy. But then he remembered his intercourse withAndrovsky on the previous day.
"After all," he thought more comfortably, "he did not look a happy man!"And he took himself to task for his sin of envy, and strolled to the innby the fountain where he paid his pension.
The same day, in the house of the marabout of Beni-Hassan, Count Anteonireceived a letter brought from Amara by an Arab. It was as follows:
"AMARA.
"MY DEAR FRIEND: Good-bye. We are just leaving. I had expected to behere longer, but we must go. We are returning to the north and shallnot penetrate farther into the desert. I shall think of you, and of yourjourney on among the people of your faith. You said to me, when we satin the tent door, that now you could pray in the desert. Pray in thedesert for us. And one thing more. If you never return to Beni-Mora, andyour garden is to pass into other hands, don't let it go into the handsof a stranger. I could not bear that. Let it come to me. At any priceyou name. Forgive me for writing thus. Perhaps you will return, orperhaps, even if you do not, you will keep your garden.--Your Friend,DOMINI."
In a postscript was an address which would always find her.
Count Anteoni read this letter two or three times carefully, with agrave face.
"Why did she not put Domini Androvsky?" he said to himself. He lockedthe letter in a drawer. All that night he was haunted by thoughts ofthe garden. Again and again it seemed to him that he stood with Dominibeside the white wall and saw, in the burning distance of the desert, atthe call of the Mueddin, the Arabs bowing themselves in prayer, andthe man--the man to whom now she had bound herself by the most holytie--fleeing from prayer as if in horror.
"But it was written," he murmured to himself. "It was written in thesand and in fire: 'The fate of every man have we bound about his neck.'"
In the dawn when, turning towards the rising sun, he prayed, heremembered Domini and her words: "Pray in the desert for us." And in theGarden of Allah he prayed to Allah for her, and for Androvsky.
Meanwhile the camp had been struck, and the first stage of the journeynorthward, the journey back, had been accomplished. Domini had given theorder of departure, but she had first spoken with Androvsky.
After his narrative, and her words that followed it, he did not comeinto the tent. She did not ask him to. She did not see him in themoonlight beyond the tent, or when the moonlight waned before the comingof the dawn. She was upon her knees, her face hidden in her hands,striving as surely few human beings have ever had to strive in thedifficult paths of life. At first she had felt almost calm. When she hadspoken to Androvsky there had even been a strange sensation that was notunlike triumph in her heart. In this triumph she had felt disembodied,as if she were a spirit standing there, removed from earthly suffering,but able to contemplate, to understand, to pity it, removed from earthlysin, but able to commit an action that might help to purge it.
When she said to Androvsky, "Now you can pray," she had passed into aregion where self had no existence. Her whole soul was intent upon thisman to whom she had given all the treasures of her heart and whom sheknew to be writhing as souls writhe in Purgatory. He had spoken at last,he had laid bare his misery, his crime, he had laid bare the agony ofone who had insulted God, but who repented his insult, who had wanderedfar away from God, but who could never be happy in his wandering, whocould never be at peace even in a mighty human love unless that love wasconsecrated by God's contentment with it. As she stood there Domini hadhad an instant of absolutely clear sight into the depths of another'sheart, another's nature. She had seen the monk in Androvsky, notslain by his act of rejection, but alive, sorrow-stricken, quivering,scourged. And she had been able to tell this monk--as God seemed to betelling her, making of her his messenger--that now at last he might prayto a God who again would hear him, as He had heard him in the garden ofEl-Largani, in his cell, in the chapel, in the fields. She had been ableto do this. Then she had turned away, gone into the tent and fallen uponher knees.
But with that personal action her sense of triumph passed away. As herbody sank down her soul seemed to sink down with it into bottomlessdepths of blackness where no light had ever been, into an underworld,airless, peopled with invisible violence. And it seemed to her as ifit was her previous flight upward which had caused this descent into aplace which had surely never before been visited by a human soul. Allthe selflessness suddenly vanished from her, and was replaced by aburning sense of her own personality, of what was due to it, of what hadbeen done to it, of what it now was. She saw it like a cloth that hadbeen white and that now was stained with indelible filth. And anger cameupon her, a bitter fury, in which she was inclined to cry out, not onlyagainst man, but against God. The strength of her nature was driven intoa wild bitterness, the sweet waters became acrid with salt. She had beenable a moment before to say to Androvsky, almost with tenderness, "Nowat last you can pray." Now she was on her knees hating him, hating--yes,surely hating--God. It was a frightful sensation.
Soul and body felt defiled. She saw Androvsky coming into her cleanlife, seizing her like a prey, rolling her in filth that could never becleansed. And who had allowed him to do her this deadly wrong? God. Andshe was on her knees to this God who had permitted this! She was in theattitude of worship. Her whole being rebelled against prayer. It seemedto her as if she made a furious physical effort to rise from her knees,but as if her body was paralysed and could not obey her will. Sheremained kneeling, therefore, like a woman tied down, like a blasphemerbound by cords in the attitude of prayer, whose soul was shriekinginsults against heaven.
Presently she remembered that outside Androvsky was praying, that shehad meant to join with him in prayer. She had contemplated, then, afurther, deeper union with him. Was she a madwoman? Was she a slave?Was she as one of those women of history who, seized in a rape, resignedthemselves to love and obey their captors? She began to hate herself.And still she knelt. Anyone coming in at the tent door would have seen awoman apparently entranced in an ecstasy of worship.
This great love of hers, to what had it brought her? This awakening ofher soul, what was its meaning? God had sent a man to rouse herfrom sleep that she might look down into hell. Again and again, withceaseless reiteration, she recalled the incidents of her passion in thedesert. She thought of the night at Arba when Androvsky blew out thelamp. That night had been to her a night of consecration. Nothing inher soul had rise
n up to warn her. No instinct, no woman's instinct, hadstayed her from unwitting sin. The sand-diviner had been wiser than she;Count Anteoni more far-seeing; the priest of Beni-Mora more guided byholiness, by the inner flame that flickers before the wind that blowsout of the caverns of evil. God had blinded her in order that she mightfall, had brought Androvsky to her in order that her religion, herCatholic faith, might be made hideous to her for ever. She trembled allover as she knelt. Her life had been sad, even tormented. And she hadset out upon a pilgrimage to find peace. She had been led to Beni-Mora.She remembered her arrival in Africa, its spell descending upon her,her sensation of being far off, of having left her former life with itssorrows for ever. She remembered the entrancing quiet of Count Anteoni'sgarden, how as she entered it she seemed to be entering an earthlyParadise, a place prepared by God for one who was weary as she wasweary, for one who longed to be renewed as she longed to be renewed.And in that Paradise, in the inmost recess of it, she had put her handsagainst Androvsky's temples and given her life, her fate, her heart intohis keeping. That was why the garden was there, that she might be led tocommit this frightful action in it. Her soul felt physically sick. Asto her body--but just then she scarcely thought of the body. For she wasthinking of her soul as of a body, as if it were the core of the bodyblackened, sullied, destroyed for ever. She was hot with shame, she washot with a fiery indignation. Always, since she was a child, if shewere suddenly touched by anyone whom she did not love, she had had aninclination to strike a blow on the one who touched her. Now it was asif an unclean hand had been laid on her soul. And the soul quivered withlonging to strike back.
Again she thought of Beni-Mora, of all that had taken place there. Sherealised that during her stay there a crescendo of calm had taken placewithin her, calm of the spirit, a crescendo of strength, spiritualstrength, a crescendo of faith and of hope. The religion which hadalmost seemed to be slipping from her she had grasped firmly again. Hersoul had arrived in Beni-Mora an invalid and had become a convalescent.
It had been reclining wearily, fretfully. In Beni-Mora it had stood up,walked, sung as the morning stars sang together. But then--why? If thiswas to be the end--why--why?
And at this question she paused, as before a great portal that was shut.She went back. She thought again of this beautiful crescendo, of thisgradual approach to the God from whom she had been if not entirelyseparated at any rate set a little apart. Could it have been only inorder that her catastrophe might be the more complete, her downfall themore absolute?
And then, she knew not why, she seemed to see in the hands that werepressed against her face words written in fire, and to read them slowlyas a child spelling out a great lesson, with an intense attention, witha labour whose result would be eternal recollection:
"Love watcheth, and sleeping, slumbereth not. When weary it is nottired; when straitened it is not constrained; when frightened it isnot disturbed; but like a vivid flame and a burning torch it mountethupwards and securely passeth through all. Whosover loveth knoweth thecry of this voice."
The cry of this voice! At that moment, in the vast silence of thedesert, she seemed to hear it. And it was the cry of her own voice. Itwas the cry of the voice of her own soul. Startled, she lifted her facefrom her hands and listened. She did not look out at the tent door, butshe saw the moonlight falling upon the matting that was spread uponthe sand within the tent, and she repeated, "Love watcheth--Lovewatcheth--Love watcheth," moving her lips like the child who reads withdifficulty. Then came the thought, "I am watching."
The passion of personal anger had died away as suddenly as it had come.She felt numb and yet excited. She leaned forward and once more laid herface in her hands.
"Love watcheth--I am watching." Then a moment--then--"God is watchingme."
She whispered the words over again and again. And the numbness beganto pass away. And the anger was dead. Always she had felt as if she hadbeen led to Africa for some definite end. Did not the freed negroes, farout in the Desert, sing their song of the deeper mysteries--"No one butGod and I knows what is in my heart"? And had not she heard it again andagain, and each time with a sense of awe? She had always thought thatthe words were wonderful and beautiful. But she had thought that perhapsthey were not true. She had said to Androvsky that he knew what was inher heart. And now, in this night, in its intense stillness, close tothe man who for so long had not dared to pray but who now was praying,again she thought that they were not quite true. It seemed to her thatshe did not know what was in her heart, and that she was waiting therefor God to come and tell her. Would He come? She waited. Patienceentered into her.
The silence was long. Night was travelling, turning her thoughts toa distant world. The moon waned, and a faint breath of wind that wasalmost cold stole over the sands, among the graves in the cemetery, tothe man and the woman who were keeping vigil upon their knees. The winddied away almost ere it had risen, and the rigid silence that precedesthe dawn held the desert in its grasp. And God came to Domini in thesilence, Allah through Allah's garden that was shrouded still in theshadows of night. Once, as she journeyed through the roaring of thestorm, she had listened for the voice of the desert. And as the deserttook her its voice had spoken to her in a sudden and magical silence, ina falling of the wind. Now, in a more magical silence, the voice of Godspoke to her. And the voice of the desert and of God were as one. As sheknelt she heard God telling her what was in her heart. It was a strangeand passionate revelation. She trembled as she heard. And sometimesshe was inclined to say, "It is not so." And sometimes she was afraid,afraid of what this--all this that was in her heart--would lead her todo. For God told her of a strength which she had not known her heartpossessed, which--so it seemed to her--she did not wish it to possess,of a strength from which something within her shrank, against whichsomething within her protested. But God would not be denied. He toldher she had this strength. He told her that she must use it. He toldher that she would use it. And she began to understand something ofthe mystery of the purposes of God in relation to herself, and tounderstand, with it, how closely companioned even those who strive aftereffacement of self are by selfishness--how closely companioned she hadbeen on her African pilgrimage. Everything that had happened in Africashe had quietly taken to herself, as a gift made to her for herself.
The peace that had descended upon her was balm for her soul, and wassent merely for that, to stop the pain she suffered from old woundsthat she might be comfortably at rest. The crescendo--the beautifulcrescendo--of calm, of strength, of faith, of hope which she had, as itwere, heard like a noble music within her spirit had been the David sentto play upon the harp to her Saul, that from her Saul the black demonof unrest, of despair, might depart. That was what she had believed. Shehad believed that she had come to Africa for herself, and now God, inthe silence, was telling her that this was not so, that He had broughther to Africa to sacrifice herself in the redemption of another. And asshe listened--listened, with bowed head, and eyes in which tears weregathering, from which tears were falling upon her clasped hands--sheknew that it was true, she knew that God meant her to put away herselfishness, to rise above it. Those eagle's wings of which she hadthought--she must spread them. She must soar towards the place of theangels, whither good women soar in the great moments of theirlove, borne up by the winds of God. On the minaret of the mosque ofSidi-Zerzour, while Androvsky remained in the dark shadow with a curse,she had mounted, with prayer, surely a little way towards God. And nowGod said to her, "Mount higher, come nearer to me, bring another withyou. That was my purpose in leading you to Beni-Mora, in leading you farout into the desert, in leading you into the heart of the desert."
She had been led to Africa for a definite end, and now she knew whatthat end was. On the mosque of the minaret of Sidi-Zerzour she hadsurely seen prayer travelling, the soul of prayer travelling. Andshe had asked herself--"Whither?" She had asked herself where was thehalting-place, with at last the pitched tent, the camp fires, and thelong, the long repose? And when she cam
e down into the court of themosque and found Androvsky watching the old Arab who struck against themosque and cursed, she had wished that Androvsky had mounted with her alittle way towards God.
He should mount with her. Always she had longed to see him above her.Could she leave him below? She knew she could not. She understood thatGod did not mean her to. She understood perfectly. And tears streamedfrom her eyes. For now there came upon her a full comprehension of herlove for Androvsky. His revelation had not killed it, as, for a moment,in her passionate personal anger, she had been inclined to think. Indeedit seemed to her now that, till this hour of silence, she had neverreally loved him, never known how to love. Even in the tent at Arba shehad not fully loved him, perfectly loved him. For the thought of self,the desires of self, the passion of self, had entered into and beenmingled with her love. But now she loved him perfectly, because sheloved as God intended her to love. She loved him as God's envoy sent tohim.
She was still weeping, but she began to feel calm, as if the stillnessof this hour before the dawn entered into her soul. She thought ofherself now only as a vessel into which God was pouring His purpose andHis love.
Just as dawn was breaking, as the first streak of light stole into theeast and threw a frail spear of gold upon the sands, she was consciousagain of a thrill of life within her, of the movement of her unbornchild. Then she lifted her head from her hand, looking towards the east,and whispered:
"Give me strength for one more thing--give me strength to be silent!"
She waited as if for an answer. Then she rose from her knees, bathed herface and went out to the tent door to Androvsky.
"Boris!" she said.
He rose from his knees and looked at her, holding the little woodencrucifix in his hand.
"Domini?" he said in an uncertain voice.
"Put it back into your breast. Keep it for ever, Boris."
As if mechanically, and not removing his eyes from her, he put thecrucifix into his breast. After a moment she spoke again, quietly.
"Boris, you never wished to stay here. You meant to stay here for me.Let us go away from Amara. Let us go to-day, now, in the dawn."
"Us!" he said.
There was a profound amazement in his voice.
"Yes," she answered.
"Away from Amara--you and I--together?"
"Yes, Boris, together."
"Where--where can we go?"
The amazement seemed to deepen in his voice. His eyes were watching herwith an almost fierce intentness. In a flash of insight she realisedthat, just then, he was wondering about her as he had never wonderedbefore, wondering whether she was really the good woman at whose feethis sin-stricken soul had worshipped. Yes, he was asking himself thatquestion.
"Boris," she said, "will you leave yourself in my hands? We have talkedof our future life. We have wondered what we should do. Will you let medo as I will, let the future be as I choose?"
In her heart she said "as God chooses."
"Yes, Domini," he answered. "I am in your hands, utterly in your hands."
"No," she said.
Neither of them spoke after that till the sunlight lay above the towersand minarets of Amara. Then Domini said:
"We will go to-day--now."
And that morning the camp was struck, and the new journey began--thejourney back.