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The Shadow of the East

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Remained only the letter to his wife--a letter that seemed curiously
hard to begin. Pushing the writing materials from him he leant back
further in his chair, and searching in his pockets found and filled a
pipe with slow almost meticulous deliberation. Another search failed to
produce the match he required, and rising with a prolonged stretch he
bent over the table and lit his pipe at the lamp. Crossing the tent he
stood for a few moments in the doorway, but movements did not seem to
produce inspiration, and with an impatient shrug he returned to his
seat and sat staring gloomily at the blank sheet of paper before him.
The flaring light of the lamp illuminated his deeply tanned face and
lean muscular figure. In perfect physical condition and bronzed with
the African sun, he looked younger than when he had left England. At
that moment death and Barry Craven seemed very widely separated--and
yet in a few hours, he reflected with a curiosity that was oddly
impersonal, the vultures might be congregating round the body that was
now so strong and virile. "Handsome Barry Craven." He had heard a woman
say it in Lagos with a feeling of contemptuous amusement--a cynical
smile crossed his face as the remark recurred to him and he pictured
the loathing that would succeed admiration in the same woman's eyes if
she could see what would remain of him after the scavengers of the
desert had done their work. The thought gave him personally no feeling
of disgust. He had lived always too near to Nature to shrink from
contemplation of her merciless laws.

He filled another pipe and strove to collect his wandering thoughts,
but the power of definite expression seemed beyond him as there rose in
him with almost overwhelming force the terrible longing that never left
him--the craving to see her, to hear her voice. Of his own free will he
was putting away all that life could mean or hold for him, and in the
flood of natural reaction that set in he called himself a fool and
revolted at his self-imposed sentence. The old struggle recommenced,
the old temptation gripped him in all its bitterness, and never so
bitterly as to-night. In the revulsion of feeling that beset him it was
not death he shrank from but the thought of eternity--alone. Neither in
this world nor in the life everlasting would she be his, and in an
agony of longing his soul cried out in anguished loneliness. The
yearning for her grew intolerable, a burning physical ache that was
torture; but stronger far rose the finer nobler desire for the perfect
spiritual companionship that he would never know. By his own act it
would be denied him. By his own act he had made this hell in which he
lived, of his own making would be the hell of the hereafter. Always he
had recognised the justice of it, he did not attempt to deny the
justice of it now. But if it had been otherwise--if he had been free to
woo her, free to win her to his arms! It was not the least of his
punishment that, deep down in his heart, he had the firm conviction
that despite her assertions to the contrary, love was lying dormant in
her. And that love might have been his, would have been his, for the
strength and tenderness of his own passion would have compelled it. She
must have turned to him at last and in his love found happiness. And to
him her love would have been the crown of life--a life of exquisite joy
and beauty, a union of perfect and undivided sympathy. Together they
might have made the Towers a paradise on earth; together they might
have broken the curse of Craven; together they might have brought
happiness into the lives of many. And in the dream of what might have
been there came to him for the first time the longing for parenthood,
the desire for a child born of the woman he adored, a child who joining
in his tiny personality the essentials of each would be a tangible
proof of their mutual love, a child who would perpetuate the race he
sprang from. Craven's breath came fast with a new and tremendous
emotion. Then with terrible suddenness came a lightning flash of
recollection, a stabbing remembrance that laid his dream in pieces at
his feet. He heard again the low soft sobbing voice, "Are you not
glad?" He saw again O Hara San's pleading tear-filled eyes, felt again
her slender sorrow-shaken body trembling in his arms, and he bowed his
head on his hands in shuddering horror....

Numbed with the pain of memory and self-loathing he was unaware of the
renewal of noisy demonstration in the camp that to Yoshio's attentive
and interested ears pointed to the arrival of yet another adherent of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, an adherent of some special standing, judging from
the warmth of his reception. Moved by curiosity the Jap rose
noiselessly and passing unnoticed by his master vanished silently into
the night.

Some little while later the sound of a clear tenor voice calling to him
loudly by name sent Craven stumbling to his feet. He turned quickly
with outstretched hands to meet the tall young Arab, who burst
unceremoniously into the tent and flung himself upon him in boisterous
greeting. Gripped by a pair of muscular arms Craven submitted with an
Englishman's diffidence to the fervid oriental embrace that was
succeeded to his greater liking by a hearty and prolonged English
handshake and a storm of welcoming excited and almost incoherent
speech. "_C'est bien toi, mon vieux_! You are more welcome than you have
ever been--though I could wish you a thousand miles away, _mon ami_, but
of that, more, later. _Dame_, but I have ridden! As though the hosts of
Eblis were behind me. I was on leave when the messenger came for me--he
seems to have been peremptory in his demands, that same Selim.
Telegrams despatched to every likely place--one caught me fortunately
at Marseilles. Yes, I had been in Paris. I hastened to headquarters and
asked for long and indefinite leave on urgent private affairs, all the
lies I thought _mon colonel_ would swallow, but no word of war, _bien
entendu_! Praise be to _Allah_ they put no obstacle in my way and I left
at once. Since then I have ridden almost without stopping, night and
day. Two horses I have killed, the last lies dead of a broken heart
before my father's tent--you remember her?--my little Mimi, a chestnut
with a white star on her forehead, dear to me as the core of my heart.
For none but Omar would I have driven so, for I loved her, look you,
_mon ami_, as I could never love a woman. A woman! Bah! No woman in the
world was worth a toss of my Mimi's head. And I killed her, Craven.
Killed her who loved and trusted me, who never failed me. My little
Mimi! For the love of _Allah_ give me a whisky." And laughing and crying
together he collapsed with a groan on to Craven's bed but sat up again
immediately to gulp down the prohibited drink that was almost the last
in a nearly depleted flask.

"The Prophet never tasted whisky or he would not have forbidden it to
the true believer," he said with a boyish grin, as he handed back the
empty cup.

"Which you are not," commented Craven with a faint smile. "In the sense
you mean, no," replied Saïd, swinging his heels to the ground and
searching in the folds of his burnous for a cigarette, which he lit and
smoked for a few minutes thoughtfully. Then with all trace of his
former excitement gone he began to discuss soberly the exigency of the
moment, revealing a sound judgment and levelness of mind that appeared
incompatible with his seemingly careless and easy-going disposition.
It was a deeper studiously hidden side of his character that Craven had
guessed very early in their acquaintance.

He talked now with unconcealed seriousness of the gravity of the
situation. In the short time he had been with his father before seeking
his friend he had mastered the particulars of the projected expedition
and, with his European knowledge, had suggested and even--with a force
of personality he had never before displayed in the old Sheik's
presence--insisted on certain alterations which he detailed now for
Craven's benefit, who concurred heartily, for they were identical with
suggestions put forward by himself which had been rejected as
impossible innovations by the conservative headmen, and conscious of
his position as guest he had not pressed them. Then with a sudden
change of tone the young Arab turned to Craven in frowning inquiry.

"But you, mon cher, what are you doing in this affair? It was that I
meant when I said I wished you a thousand miles away. You are my
friend, the friend of all of us, but friendship does not demand that
you ride with us to-night. That you would offer--yes--it was only to be
expected. But that we should accept your offer--no! a hundred times no!
you are an Englishman, a big man in your own country, what have you to
do with the tribal warfare of minor Arab Chiefs--voyez vous, I have my
moments of modesty! If anything should happen--as happen it very likely
will--what will your paternal British Government say? It will only add
to my father's difficulties with our own over-lords." There was a laugh
in his eyes though his voice was serious. Craven brushed his objection
aside with an indifferent hand.

"The British Government will not distress itself about me," he said
dryly. "I am not of sufficient importance."

For a few moments the Arab sat silent, smoking rapidly, then he raised
his dark eyes tentatively to Craven's face.

"In Paris they told me you were married," he said slowly, and the
remark was in itself ample indication of his European tendencies.

Craven turned away with an abrupt movement and bent over the lamp to
light his pipe. "They told you the truth," he said, with a certain
reluctance, his face hidden by a cloud of smoke. "_Pourtant_, I ride with
you to-night." There was a note of brusque finality in his voice that
Saïd recognised, and he shrugged acquiescence as he lit another
cigarette. "It is almost certain death," he said, with nonchalant
oriental calm. But Craven did not answer and Saïd relapsed into a
silence that was protracted. From the midst of the blue haze
surrounding him, his earnest scrutiny hidden by the thick lashes that
curved downwards to his swarthy cheek, he gazed intently through
half-closed eyes at the friend whose presence he found for the first
time embarrassing. Fatalist though he was in all things that concerned
himself, western influence had bitten deep enough to make him realise
that the same doctrine did not extend to Craven. He recognised that
self-determination came more largely into the Englishman's creed than
into his own. Whether he himself lived or died was a matter of no great
moment. But with Craven it was otherwise and he had no liking for the
thought that should the morrow's venture go against them his friend's
blood would, virtually, be upon his hands! So far had his Francophile
tendencies taken him. And the more he dwelt upon the uncomfortable fact
the less he liked it. He turned his attention more directly upon the
man himself and he noted changes that surprised and disturbed him.
The stern weary looking face was not the careless smiling one he
remembered. The man he had known had been vividly alive, care-free
and animated; one who had jested alike at life and death with an
indifferent laugh, but one who though careless of danger even to the
extent of foolhardiness had never given any indication of a desire to
quit a life that was obviously easy and attractive. But this man was
different, grave and abrupt of speech, with an air of tired suffering,
and a grim purposefulness in his determination to ignore his friend's
warning that conveyed an impression of underlying sinister intent that
set the Arab wondering what sting had poisoned his life even to the
desire to sacrifice it. For the look on Craven's face was not new to
him, he had seen it before--on the face of a French officer in Algiers
who had subsequently taken his own life, and again this very evening
on the face of his brother Omar. The personalities of the three men
were widely different, but the expression of each was identical.
The deduction was simple and yet to him wholly inexplicable. A
woman--without doubt a woman! In the first two cases it was certainly
so, he seemed to know instinctively that here, too, he was not mistaken
in his supposition. A puzzled look crept into his fine dark eyes and a
cynical smile hovered round his mouth as he viewed these three dissimilar
men from the height of his own contemptuous indifference towards any and
every woman. It was a weakness he did not understand, a phase of life
that held no meaning for him at all. He had never bestowed a second
glance on any woman of his own race, the attentions of European women
in Paris and Algiers had been met with cold scorn that he masked with
racial gravity of demeanour or frank insolence according to
circumstances. For him women did not exist; he lived for his horses,
for his regiment and for sport. To his strangely cold nature the
influence that women exercised over other men was a thing
inconceivable--the houris of the paradise of his fathers' creed were to
him no incentive to enter the realms of the blessed. A character apart,
incomprehensible alike to the warm-blooded Frenchmen with whom he
associated and to his own passionate countrymen, he maintained his
peculiarity tranquilly, undisturbed by the banter of his friends and
the admonitions of his father, who in view of his heir's childlessness
regarded his younger son's temperament with growing uneasiness as the
years advanced.

The action of the French officer in Algiers had provoked in Saïd only
intolerant contempt but, as he realised tonight, contempt was not
possible in the cases of Craven and his brother. He pondered it with a
curious feeling of irritation. What was it after all, this emotion of
which he was ignorant--this compelling impulse that entered into a man
driving him beyond the power of endurance? It was past his
comprehension. And he wondered suddenly for the first time why he had
been made so different to the generality of men. But introspection was
foreign to him, he had not been in the habit of dissecting his own
personality and his thoughts turned quickly with greater interest to
the man who sat near him plunged like himself into silent reverie. And
as he looked he scowled with angry irritation. The Frenchman in Algiers
had not mattered, but Omar and Craven mattered very much. He resented
the suffering he did not understand--the termination of a friendship he
valued, for it was almost inevitable should Craven persist in his
decision and the loss of a brother who was dearer to him than he would
admit and whose death would mean a greater change in his own life than
he cared to contemplate. That through a woman this should be possible!
With hearty thoroughness and picturesque attention to detail he
silently cursed all women in general and two women in particular. For
the seriousness of the venture lay, at the moment, heavily upon him. He
was tired and his enthusiasm temporarily damped by the unexpected and
incomprehensible attitude of the two men by whom alone he permitted
himself to be influenced. But gradually his natural buoyancy reasserted
itself, and abandoning as insoluble the perplexing problem, he spoke
again eagerly of the impending meeting with his hereditary foes. For
half an hour they talked earnestly and then Saïd rose, announcing his
intention of getting a few hours sleep before the early start. But he
deferred his going, making one pretext after another for remaining,
walking about the little tent in undecided hesitation, plainly
embarrassed. Finally he swung toward Craven with a characteristic
gesture of his long arms.

"Can I say nothing to deter you from this expedition?"

"Nothing," replied Craven; "you always promised me a fight some day--do
you want to do me out of it now, you selfish devil?" he added with a
laugh, to which Saïd did not respond. With an inarticulate grunt he
moved toward the door, pausing as he went out to fling over his
shoulder: "I'll send you a burnous and the rest of the kit."

"A burnous--what for?"

"What for?" echoed Saïd, coming back into the tent, his eyes wide with
astonishment. "_Allah_! to wear, of course, _mon cher_. You can't go as
you are."

"Why not?"

The Arab rolled his eyes heavenward and waved his hands in protest as
he burst out vehemently: "Because they will take you for a Frenchman, a
spy, an agent of the Government, and they will finish you off even
before they turn their attention to us. They hate us, by the Koran! but
they hate a Frenchman worse. You wouldn't have the shadow of a chance."

Craven looked at him curiously for a few moments, and then he smiled.
"You're a good fellow, Saïd," he said quietly, taking the cigarette the
other offered, "but I'll go as I am, all the same. I'm not used to your
picturesque togs, they would only hamper me."

For a little while longer Saïd remained arguing and entreating by turns
and then went away suddenly in the middle of a sentence, and for a few
minutes Craven stood in the door of the tent watching his retreating
figure by the light of the newly risen moon with a smile that softened
his face incredibly.

Then he turned back into the tent and once more drew toward him the
writing materials.

The difficulty he had before felt had passed away. It seemed suddenly
quite easy to write and he wondered why it had appeared so impossible
earlier in the evening. Words, phrases, leaped to his mind, sentences
seemed to form themselves, and, with rapidly moving pen, he wrote
without faltering for the best part of an hour--all he had never dared
to say, more almost than he had ever dared to think. He did not spare
himself. The tragic history of O Hara San he gave in all its
pitifulness without attempting to extenuate or shield himself in any
way; he sketched frankly the girl's loneliness and childish ignorance,
his own casual and selfish acceptance of the sacrifice she made and the
terrible catastrophe that had brought him to abrupt and horrible
conviction of himself, and his subsequent determination to end the life
he had marred and wasted. He wrote of the coming of John Locke's letter
at the moment of his deepest abasement, and of the chance it had seemed
to offer; of her own entry into his life and the love for her that
almost from the first moment had sprung up within him.

In its entirety he laid bare the burning hopeless passion that consumed
him, the torturing longing that possessed him, and the knowledge of his
own unworthiness that had driven him from her that she might be free
with a freedom that would be at last absolute. But even in this letter
which tore down so completely the barrier between them he did not admit
to her the true reason of his marriage, he preferred to leave it
obscure as it had always been, even should the motive she might
attribute to him be the wrong one. He must chance that and the
impression it might leave with her. Her future life he alluded to very
briefly not caring to dwell on business that was already cut and dried,
but referring her to Peters who was fully instructed and on whose
advice and help she could count. He expressed no wish with regard to
Craven Towers and his other properties, leaving her free to dispose of
or retain them as she pleased. He shrank from suggesting in any way
that she benefited by his death.

He saw her before him as he wrote. It seemed almost as if the ardent
passionate wards were spoken to present listening ears, and as with
Peters' letter he did not reread the many closely written sheets. What
use? He did not wish to alter or amend anything he had said. He had
done, and a deeper peace came to him than he had known since those far
away days in Japan.

He called to Yoshio. Almost before the words had left his lips the man
was beside him. And as the Jap listened to the minute instructions
given him the light that had sprung to his eyes died out of them and
his face became if possible more than usually stolid and inscrutable.

"You quite understand?" said Craven in conclusion. "You will wait here
until it becomes evident that further waiting is useless. Then you are
to go straight back to England and give those letters into Mrs.
Craven's own hand."

With marked reluctance Yoshio slowly took up the two heavy packets and
fingered them for a time silently. Then with a sudden exclamation in
his own language he shook his head and pushed them back across the
table. "Going with master," he announced phlegmatically, and raised his
eyes with a glance that was at once provocative and stubborn. Craven
met his direct stare with a feeling of surprise. Only once before had
the docile Japanese asserted himself definitely and the memory of it
made anger now impossible. He pointed to the letters lying on the table
between them. "You have your orders," he said quietly, and cut short
further protests with a quick gesture of authority. "Do as you're told,
you obstinate little devil," he added, with a short laugh. And like a
chidden child Yoshio pocketed the letters sullenly. Stifling a yawn
Craven kicked off his boots and moved over to the bed with a glance at
his watch. He flung himself down, dressed as he was.

"Two hours, Yoshio--not a minute longer," he murmured drowsily, and
slept almost before his head touched the pillow.

For an hour or more, squatting motionless on his heels in the middle of
the tent, Yoshio watched him, his mask-like face expressionless, his
eyes fixed in an unwavering stare. Then he rose cautiously and glided
from the tent.

During the last two years Craven had become accustomed to snatching a
few hours of sleep when and how he could. He slept now deeply and
dreamlessly. And when the two hours were passed and Yoshio woke him he
sprang up, wide awake on the instant, refreshed by the short rest. In
silence that was no longer sullen the valet indicated a complete Arab
outfit he had brought back with him to the tent, but Craven waved it
aside with a smile at the thought of Saïd's pertinacity and finished
his dressing quickly. As he concluded his hasty preparations he found
time to wonder at his own frame of mind. He had an odd feeling of
aloofness that precluded even excitement. It was as if his spirit,
already freed, looked down from some immeasurable height with scant
interest upon the doings of a being who wore the earthly semblance of
himself but who mattered not at all. He seemed to be above and beyond
actualities. He heard himself repeating the instructions he had given
earlier to Yoshio, he found himself taking leave of the faithful little
Jap and wondering slightly at the man's apparent unconcern. But outside
the little tent the strange feeling left him suddenly as it had come.
The cool wind that an hour later would usher in the dawn blew about his
face dispelling the visionary sensation that had taken hold of him. He
drew a deep breath looking eagerly at the beauty of the moon-lit night,
feeling himself once more keenly alive, keenly excited at the prospect
of the coming venture.

Excitement was rife also in the camp and he made his way with
difficulty through the jostling throng of men and horses towards the
rallying point before the old Sheik's tent. The noise was deafening,
and trampling screaming horses wheeled and backed among the crowd
pressing around them. With shouts of acclamation a way was made for the
Englishman and he passed through the dense ranks to the open space
where Mukair Ibn Zarrarah with his two sons and a little group of
headmen were standing. They welcomed him with characteristic gravity
and Saïd proffered the inevitable cigarette with a reproachful glance
at his khaki clothing. For a few moments they conversed and then the
Sheik stepped forward with uplifted hand. The clamour of the people
gave way to a deep silence. In a short impassioned speech the old man
bade his tribe go forward in the name of the one God, Merciful and
Beneficent. And as his arm dropped to his side again a mighty shout
broke from the assembled multitude. _Allah! Allah!_ the fierce exultant
cry rose in a swelling volume of sound as the fighting men leaped to
their maddened horses dragging them back into orderly ranks from among
the press of onlookers and tossing their long guns in the air in
frenzied excitement. A magnificent black stallion was led up to Craven,
and the Sheik soothed the beautiful quivering creature, caressing his
shapely head with trembling nervy fingers. "He is my favourite, he will
carry you well," he murmured with a proud smile as he watched Craven
handling the spirited animal. Mounted Craven bent down and wrung Mukair
Ibn Zarrarah's hand and in another moment he found himself riding
between Omar and Saïd at the head of the troop as it moved off followed
by the ringing shouts of those who were left behind. He had a last
momentary glimpse of the old Sheik, a solitary upright figure of
pathetic dignity, standing before his tent, and then the camp seemed to
slide away behind them as the pace increased and they reached the edge
of the oasis and emerged on to the open desert. A few minutes more and
the fretting horses settled down into a steady gallop. The dense ranks
of tribesmen were silent at last, and only the rythmical thud of hoofs
sounded with a muffled beat against the soft shifting sand.

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