Part 31 (2/2)

”Thou makest poetical speeches, Si Maeddine.”

”It is no poetry to speak of thy white angel. We believe that each one of us has a white angel at his right hand, recording his good actions.

But ordinary mortals have also their black angels, keeping to the left, writing down wicked thoughts and deeds. Hast thou not seen men spitting to the left, to show despite of their black angels? But because thy soul is never soiled by sinful thoughts, there was no need for a black angel, and whilst thou wert still a child, Allah discharged him of his mission.”

”And thou, Si Maeddine, dost thou think, truly, that a black angel walks ever at thy left side?”

”I fear so.” Maeddine glanced to the left, as if he could see a dark figure writing on a slate. Things concerning Victoria must have been written on that slate, plans he had made, of which neither his white angel nor hers would approve. But, he told himself, if they had to be carried out, she would be to blame, for driving him to extremes. ”Whilst thou art near me,” he said aloud, ”my black angel lags behind, and if thou wert to be with me forever, I----”

”Since that cannot be, thou must find a better way to keep him in the background,” Victoria broke in lightly. But Si Maeddine's compliments were oppressive. She wished it were not the Arab way to pay so many. He had been different at first; and feeling the change in him with a faint stirring of uneasiness, she hurried her steps to join M'Barka.

The invalid reclined on a rug of golden jackal skins, and rested a thin elbow on cus.h.i.+ons of dyed leather, braided in intricate strips by Touareg women. Victoria sat beside her, Maeddine opposite, and Fafann waited upon them as they ate.

After supper, while the Bedouin woman saw that everything was ready for her mistress and the Roumia, in their tent, M'Barka spread out her precious sand from Mecca and the dunes round her own Touggourt. She had it tied up in green silk, such as is used for the turbans of men who have visited Mecca, lined with a very old Arab brocade, purple and gold, like the banners that drape the tombs of marabouts. She opened the bag carefully, until it lay flat on the ground in front of her knees, the sand piled in the middle, as much perhaps as could have been heaped on a soup plate.

For a moment she sat gazing at the sand, her lips moving. She looked wan as old ivory in the dying firelight, and in the hollows of her immense eyes seemed to dream the mysteries of all ages. ”Take a handful of sand,” she said to Victoria. ”Hold it over thine heart. Now, wish with the whole force of thy soul.”

Victoria wished to find Saidee safe, and to be able to help her, if she needed help.

”Put back the sand, sprinkling it over the rest.”

The girl, though not superst.i.tious, could not help being interested, even fascinated. It seemed to her that the sand had a magical sparkle.

M'Barka's eyes became introspective, as if she waited for a message, or saw a vision. She was as strange, as remote from modern womanhood as a Ca.s.sandra. Presently she started, and began trailing her brown fingers lightly over the sand, pressing them down suddenly now and then, until she had made three long, wavy lines, the lower ones rather like telegraphic dots and dashes.

”Lay the forefinger of thy left hand on any figure in these lines,” she commanded. ”Now on another--yet again, for the third time. That is all thou hast to do. The rest is for me.”

She took from some hiding-place in her breast a little old note-book, bound in dark leather, glossy from constant use. With it came a perfume of sandalwood. Turning the yellow leaves of the book, covered with fine Arab lettering, she read in a murmuring, indistinct voice, that sounded to Victoria like one of those desert voices of which Maeddine had spoken. Also she measured s.p.a.ces between the figures the girl had touched, and counted monotonously.

”Thy wish lies a long way from thee,” she said at last. ”A long way!

Thou couldst never reach it of thyself--never, not till the end of the world. I see thee--alone, very helpless. Thou prayest. Allah sends thee a man--a strong man, whose brain and heart and arm are at thy service.

Allah is great!”

”Tell her what the man is like, cousin,” Maeddine prompted, eagerly.

”He is dark, and young. He is not of thy country, oh Rose of the West, but trust him, rely upon him, or thou art undone. In thy future, just where thou hast ceased to look for them, I see troubles and disappointments, even dangers. That is the time, above all others, to let thyself be guided by the man Allah has sent to be thy prop. He has ready wit and courage. His love for thee is great. It grows and grows.

He tells thee of it; and thou--thou seest between him and thee a barrier, high and fearful as a wall with sharp knives on top. For thine eyes it is impa.s.sable. Thine heart is sad; and thy words to him will pierce his soul with despair. But think again. Be true to thyself and to thy star. Speak another word, and throw down that high barrier, as the wall of Jericho was thrown down. Thou canst do it. All will depend on the decision of a moment--thy whole future, the future of the man, and of a woman whose face I cannot see.”

M'Barka smoothed away the tracings in the sand.

”What--is there no more?” asked Maeddine.

”No, it is dark before my eyes now. The light has gone from the sand. I can still tell her a few little things, perhaps. Such things as the luckiest colours to wear, the best days to choose for journeys. But she is different from most girls. I do not think she would care for such hints.”

”All colours are lucky. All days are good,” said Victoria. ”I thank thee for what thou hast told me, Lella M'Barka.”

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