A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT ' ■ i A BRIDE FROM ^ THE DESERT BY GRANT ALI^EN AUTHOR OF "tHB WOMAN WHO DID" NEW YORK R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 113 FIFTH AVANU9 ^^^l 26157G Copyright, 1896 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY A Bride from the Desert CONTENTS. m Chapter Page I. Off Cape Guardarui . . . . i II. Landing at Matafu . 20 111. Away to Aden ! . > ■ 35 IV. A Primitive Expedition • • 47 V. Up Country to Daro . » . 66 VI. An Africian Revolution • • 74 VII. From Sand to vSea • . 88 VIII. Boat Ahoy, there ! 100 Dr. Greatrex's Engagement » . 113 The Backslider • . . , I 1 151 [vj A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. CHAPTER I. OFF CAPE GUARDAFUI. It was the quarter-deck of the steamer Lord Mayo, from Bombay to Southampton, and they were passing Cape Guardafui, the easternmost point of Africa, near the entrance to the Red Sea, and the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. Mona Wallace, in a light wrap, was sitting there with her friend and chaperon, Mrs. D'Arcy, wife of the Deputy Collector of the Moozuffernugger district. I apologize for the name, I admit — Moozuffernugger is such a terrible mouthful — but the people of India, not I, are responsible for that atrocity. The evening was fine and soft, but still tolerably cool, at least as one counts coolness off the east coast of Africa. The men were strolling up and down the quar- [7] 8 A BRIDK FROM THE DESERT, ter-drck after dinner, enjoying their cigarettes and the fresh breeze from eastward. The ladies were lounging at ease in long wicker chairs, and watching the stars come out one by one in the pale sky above them. " Beautiful evening !" said the women, look- ing up at the countless host of heaven. " Beautiful evening !" echoed the men, strik- ing a fresh wax vesta, and looking down at their boots, as they puffed away vigorously at the cigarettes they were lighting. For it's the way of women to look up on their path through life ; while it's the way of men to look down, or, at the very best, to look round about them. " To-morrow morning." Mona Wallace ob- served at last, wreathing her loose, white woolen shawl lightly about her hatless head, " we shall get to Aden." " If nothing happens to us meanwhile," the croaky old gentleman in the pith helmet inter- posed, with a very wise nod. " Most dangerous coast, this — most dangerous — most dangerous. And if once you run ashore — click, click ; click, click. Nothing but this to expect from those wretched Somanlis." And the croaky old gen- tleman drew his open hand across his throat with a gently gurgling noise, intended to repre- sent with dramatic force the probable action of OFF CAPE GUARDAFUI. 9 a knife in the hands of some wild Somanli tribesman. . . ** Don't take anv notice of him, dear !" Mrs. D'Arcy murmured to Mona, half under her breath. " He's a born pessimist in his way, that funny old doctor. He's never so happy as when he's predicting the very worst that can possibly happen to one, which is a very good plan, after all, when one comes to think of it ; for it saves one a great many serious disappointments. . . . But why are you always so anxious to know when we get to Aden, I wonder ? Is there any- body there, by any chance, you're particularly anxious should come down to meet you ?" Mrs. D'Arcy spoke archly, for, though only thirty-five, she was an old hand at the arts and - crafts of India. And there was something in the ingenuous eagerness of Mona Wallace's tone whenever she spoke of their arrival at Aden that made her friend and chaperon suspect at least a flirtation, if not even a more serious and full- fledged love affair. As for Mona, being just nineteen, she was still too innocent, poor girl, to conceal her feelings. So she blushed crimson to her finger-tips at the point-blank question — so crimson, indeed, that Mrs. D'Arcy could distinguish the change of color clearly even in the pale grey light of even- ing. " No ; nobody in particular," she stam- 10 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. merea out, half betraying herself as she spoke. " At least . . . that is to say. . . . Well, Wilfrid Moyle's there, don't you know. You remember, of course, about Wilfrid Moyle ? I'm sure you must have heard Geraldine speak of him often." Geraldine was Mona's married sister at Moozuffernuggfer, to whom she had been paying a long visit in what is politely known in India as "the cool season." The younger bachelors on board, indeed, somewhat rudely described their pretty fellow-passenger as a " returned empty," which is the vulgar and reprehensible Anglo- India name for any marriageable girl who runs out to Calcutta or Bombay on a visit, and then goes back unmarried ; for so conceited is that noble specimen of our race and culture, the covenanted civil servant in up-country stations, that he fancies every woman who comes within fifty miles of his distinguished presence must be devoured with the insane and incomprehensible ambition of winning him for her husband. It was strange, however, that anybody, even a Deputy Collector — that perfect embodiment of the purest cynicism — could look at Mona Wallace's frank young face, and yet credit her for a moment with such a fatuous endeavor. Just turned nineteen, and as fresh as an English primrose, Mona possessed that crowing charm OFF CAPE GUARD AFUI. 11 of utter feminine unconsciousness, which puts the last finishing touch of perfection on a pretty girl's prettiness. So Mrs. D'Arcy thought, as she gazed admiringly at her blushing charge, with that tell-tale crimson spot starring the very centre of her soft round cheek. *' Oho," she said quietly, in a low, still voice, " so that's how the wind blows, is it, Mona ? But, my dear, if I understood Geraldine right, this Mr. Moyle is nothing but a common soldier." *' He's our rector's son at Whittingham," Mona answered, bridling up with very pretty indigna- tion. *' And he's a Rugby boy, and an Oxford man, and a perfect gentleman." *' But he ran away from home and enlisted, didn't he ?" Mrs. D'Arcy persisted, drawing her on, of malice prepense, and tapping one pretty little foot half impatiently on the quarter- deck. As a conscientious chaperon, the Deputy Collector's wife desired to find out how far things had gone already between Mona Wallace and this very undesirable and ineligible young man, before deciding whether or not she'd allow her to see him at Aden. Mona spoke up bravely, like a solider's daughter and sister that she was, in defense of her friend. " His father and he had differ- ences," she said, still bridling, " about his expenses at Oxford. I believe Mr. Moyle's a 12 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. very strict man — clergymen sometimes are with their sons, you know — and Wilfrid was high- spirited and full of energy, and couldn't bear to be kept down. So at last, when he'd taken his degree, he didn't like to be ordained, as his father wished, because he felt he had no special call for the Church ; and there I think he was quite right, you know, though his uncle Fred would have given him a fat family living. But Wilfrid said no man ought to go into the Church just for the sake of the loaves and fishes ; he wouldn't take orders as a mere means of liveli- hood — nor at all — unless he was really convinced he had a vocation that way, instead of which, as it happened, he'd always had a burning desire for entering the army. And as he was too old to get a commission in the regular course, why, he did what he could, and enlisted as a private. And now he means to work his way up till he's promoted from the ranks ; and he will do it, too, of that I'm certain, for he has plenty of pluck, and perseverance, and energy. " I see," Mrs. D'Arcy said blandly, smiling the wise little smile of the comely British matron, as Mona ceased abruptly, quite flushed with her enthusiasm. " And now, dear, how long has this been going on between you and Wilfrid ?" Mona looked up at her astonished. " How long has what been going on ?" she OFF CAPE GUARDAFUI. 13 asked, in a little tremor of surprise. For how on earth could Mrs. D'Arcy have discovered her secret ? " Why, this nice little correspondence," Mrs. D'Arcy answered, nodding" her sapient, small head with a very conscious smile. *' This pleas- ing interchange of opinions and ideas with Wilfrid on the suject of Wilfrid's career, and Wilfrid's probable prospects." "There's been no correspondence," Mona answered sincerely, like one who means it. " I've never written a line to him, and he's never written a line to me. He told us all this in a letter to Geraldine." " Oh, indeed," Mrs. D'Arcy echoed, more amused than before, "in a letter to Geraldine, was it ? And Geraldine went and showed the letter to you ! That was very unwise of her. A romantic girl like you, with her head stuffed as full as it can hold of nonsense. I should have ex- pected a little more common sense from Geral- dine." She paused for a moment, and tapped her tiny foot on the quarter-deck once more. Then she added, still more archly, " And was Wilfrid, as you call him, often in the habit of writing to Geraldine ?" " Not very," Mona replied, feeling still on the defensive. "That is to say — not oftener than once every four or five weeks or so." 14 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. " And you speak of him as Wilfrid ?" Mrs. D'Arcy mused softly. *' He's a very old friend," Mona answered with an evasive air. " We've all called him Wil- frid ever since we were children at Whittingham together." "Not so very long since, either !" Mrs. D'Arcy remarked, smiling. " Well, and he went and en- listed in the South Gloucestershire regiment, did he ? And he's quartered now at Aden. And you'll be there to-morrow. How oddly things turn out to be sure. What a curious coinci- dence !" But before Mrs. D'Arcy had time to moralize any further on this strange disposition of mun- dane events, one of the bachelor civilians, his cigarette now finished, strolled up casually to their sides, and bending low to the acknowl- edged belle of the ship, said with a self-satisfied smirk, " Will you take a few turns up and down the deck before you go below for the night, Miss Wallace ?" Mona rose hastily to accept his offered arm, well pleased at the diversion, for she didn't quite like to hear Mrs. D'Arcy talk so lightly as that of her poor friend Wilfrid. Not that they were engaged^ of course ; oh, dear no, not engaged. But still, Mona admit- ted, half-shamefacedly to herself, she was really O^F CAfE GUARD AFUI. 15 very fond indeed of Wilfrid. She would never accept any other man till Wilfrid was at least in a position to ask her. And he would be, some day. She felt sure of that. Wilfrid would rise ; he would conquer all difficulties. He was a good fellow at heart, common soldier or not, and she believed he loved her. Though he'd never said so, to be sure ; he'd never quite said so ; but looks mean often far more than words, and Mona believed Wilfrid Moyle's looks. She was certain he would come home some day to claim her. They lingered long on deck that evening, pacing up and down, the bachelor civilian and Mona Wallace, for it was a tempting night, and nobody was in any hurry to go below from that soft, fresh air to the stuffy confinement of a stateroom in the Indian Ocean. It can be pretty hot, I can tell you, between decks when it tries, off the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. As they walked up and down they caught from time to time vague murmurs of a conversation going briskly on upon the bridge, between the captain of the ship and the second officer. It was a nautical conversation, of no general interest. It seemed to have something to do with the course the Lord Mayo was taking. " What land's that ahead ?" the Captain asked sharply, looking out past the bows into the dim, IC A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. starlit night — for there was no moon as yet. "Oughtn't to be any land so high, surely, any- where hereabouts, Talbot." " No, sir," the second officer answered, staring ahead in his turn, and shading his eyes carefully from the glare of the starboard light. " I can't make it out at all. Looks precious unfamiliar. The coast seems to have gone wrong on our port bow somehow. Isn't that an island, too, on our weather side ? No island over there. No right to be an island. But perhaps it's only clouds. We shall make it all out better when the moon rises." The captain tramped up and down the bridge in evident doubt. " Very queer," he said slowly, taking a glance at his compass as he passed, with a puzzled and screwed-up face. " Left the Guard- afui light behind more than a knot and a half. We're making about fourteen knots an hour now. Shouldn't be any land in front at all. Never heard of anything so odd in my born days. Nothing wrong with the compass. We're steer- ing the straight course right enough for Aden." " Must be clouds, sir," the second officer sug- gested, scrutinizing the binnacle in turn, and scanning the horizon hard. Then he shouted aloud to the look-out man in the forecastle, " Do you make that out dust-storm or only fog-bank to starboard, Jenkins ?" OFF CAPE GUARDAFtri. 17 *' Neither, sir,'* the man answered, suddenly, with a somewhat tremulous voice, " Breakers on the port bow — high land on starboard. . . . Hold'hard ! . . . What's this ? . . . We're out of our course, sir ! Look out ! Breakers ahead ! Breakers ahead on all sides of us !" The captain gave a start. His face turned white as a sheet. *' I tell you what it is, Tal- bot," he cried, seizing the officer's arm and grip- ping it hard, " that wasn't the Guardafui light we passed a while ago at all. We've been shamefully taken in. These Somanlis have been tricking us. It must have been a false light on a point a good bit south by west of Guardafui. Those are mountains in front. We're in for a pretty mess." His hand touched the electric bell with a quick signal to the en- gine-room. He rang twice ; then three times. ♦'Easy ! Stop her ! Back her !" It wasn't a moment too soon. Even Mona Wallace, pausing all unconcerned on the civil- ian's arm, saw a white line of breakers just abreast of their bow, lighted up by a dim beam from the green and red lamps of the steamer's signals. In another second, with marvellous speed, the engines had slowed — stopped dead short — reversed. Mrs. D'Arcy ran up with a face like a ghost's. " Where are we ?" she cried, terrified. •' Oh, Mona — Mr. Walters — what does 18 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. all this mean ? — what's happening ? — what's hap- pened ?" The civilian tried to assume a very calm air of superior masculine wisdom. *' We've got out of our course somehow," he answered, with an easy wave of the hand. " There were breakers ahead. But we're reversing now. In another half- minute we shall be well in the open again." The words were hardly out of his mouth when — crash — b'r'r — unspeakable — a shock jarred and vibrated with a roll like thunder through the Lord Mayo's hull. It was resonant, deafen- ing. Mona clung wildly to the civilian's arm. Mrs. D'Arcy clung wildly to Mona's woollen shawl. There was a moment's pause ; then a cry of sharp alarm went up as if by concert from a dozen lips at once : '' We've struck on a rock ! She's parting amidships !" In a second all was hurry, confusion, turmoil, excitement. Mona felt her heart come up into her mouth as, time after time, the great waves lifted the Lord Mayo aloft on their curling crests, and then pounded her down again remorselessly upon the huge reef that produced them. On the bridge the Captain still stood erect and un- moved, commanding, in the midst of it all, with the calm bravery of tried and trusted seaman- ship. " Man the boats ! Lower them ! Three OFF CAPE GUARDAFUI. 19 more in number two ! Stop there ! No one else ! Now go ! Steady, boys, steady !" His voice was as free from any quiver of fear, as if he were engaged in entering a friendly port. But on the shore just beyond, gazing blankly through the gloom, Mona dimly descried a ter- rible sight that made her full heart first quail and then stand still with terror within her — a sight a thousand times worse than the sea or the breakers. For on the beach, right in front, she could make out with her sharp eyes row upon row of dusky faces, girt round with white hoods, and draped below in long, Arab robes, just visible in grey line against the darker background. Here and there among the groups flitted still duskier, and almost unclad figures ; in the rear, many bare heads of negro warriors made themselves vaguely felt more by motion and turmoil than by any visible color. All alike were gazing eagerly in front of them, at the sinking ship. Not a hand was stretched to save ; not a voice was raised to cheer them. Low murmurs and hoarse curses rose faintly, at times above the roar and crash of the curling waves. But that was all. With a shudder of horror Mona recognized what it all meant. They had fallen into the cruel and remorseless hands of Arab and African wreckers. 20 A BHIDE FROM THE DESEST. CHAPTER II LANDING AT MATAFU. On shore meanwhile, that night, there were fierce joy and hushed suspense, in a certain So- manli village among the fanatic band of Mah- dist and Wahabee warriors. A strange intoxi- cation of religious frenzy had broken like a flood over the whole east coast of Africa. For those were the days just after the fall of Khartoum ; and dervishes from the Mahdi's camp — wild preachers of a Holy War — scattered east and west north and south to spread the tidings of his victory, had stirred up the savage tribesmen with their fiery words to an extraordinary pitch of bigotry and enthusiasm. Incredible rumors spread like wildfire through the bazaars. The day of revenge had come. The infidels were to be extirpated. Allah in his mercy had been pleased to begin the regeneration of Islam. The Mahdi, his prophet, had slain Gordon Pasha, the great leader of the Nazarenes — the viper of mankind — and cut off five hundred thousand of the enemy's army. The Feringhees, the Eng- LANDING AT MATAFU. 21 lish, the despised and hated Franks, had been delivered into his hands to slay and spare not. Elsewhere, men said in those days, the Mussul- man faith was equally active. Another great mutiny had broken out in the Land of Hind. The Faithful of Agra and Delhi, it was whis- pered abroad, had risen in their might, like a strong man refreshed, and flung the generals of the unbelievers, as in 1857, into the wells and ditches. No tale was too wild or too fantastic for these naked devotees to swallow whole. They were drunk with Moslem zeal ; they were maddened and stung by unearthly visions. On this particular evening, then, when the Lord Mayo hove in sight upon the gray horizon, at first a mere long, black line of trailing smoke, then a great hull dimly descried amid the dark waves to eastward — Hadji Daood of Nejd, one of the fiercest and wildest of the Mahdi's emis- saries, was haranguing a villageful of Somanli warriors in battle a^ray, under a spreading bao- bab. *' There is no God but Allah," he cried, with his black locks streaming free in the evening breeze, and his tawny breast bare, like an as- cetic that he was. " No God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. And as Mohammed was in days gone by, so is now in the ends of the earth his sue- 22 ▲ KUIKE FROM THE DESERT. cesser, the Mahdi. Who would earn the joys of Paradise, who would enter into his rest, who would sup with the houris in the bowers of bliss — that man must cast in his lot with the Mahdi to-day in the great and terrible fight for Islam. This is a Jehad, a Holy War, a war of extermin- ation. No infidel on earth must be left alive. Slay, slay, and spare not. Slay man, woman and child. Slay every Frank, every Nazarene on whom you can lay your hand. This is Allah's command. It is Allah who has willed it. Now is his chosen time. Now is his day of vengeance. Death, death to the Giaour — man, woman and child — and let the Faithful of Islam inherit the kingdom !" Even as he shrieked out these fiery words, writhing his body, and foaming fiercely at the mouth, he drew his gleaming knife, and gashed his own bare flesh with the blade till the blood flowed from the wound freely. " So must we shed our blood," he cried, clapping his hand to the gash, and holding it up before their eyes all red and dripping. " So must we pour forth our blood, if we would be true to Islam and inherit Paradise." At the word one of his followers stretched his hand towards the horizon. '* It is well !" he cried. See, see ! A ship ! LANDING AT MATAFTT. 23 They are coming. Allah sends them to our shore ! One of the steamers of the infidel !" The dervish turned round and stared hard at it with eyes starting wildly from his head. " Good, good," he murmured, half to himself. ''He speaks true indeed. This is the finger of Allah. ... I know that ship well. I know who sail upon her. ... She comes from the land of India. Those are fugitives from Bombay, from Delhi, from Hyderabad. The Moslems of Sind and the Moslems of Hind have rallied to the Prophet and to the Mahdi his messenger. They have cut every throat of the Nazarenes in Calcutta. A miserable rem- nant alone has escaped from the massacre. They sail on that ship. And even those our Allah has sent hither for us to plunder." At the sound of that fierce hint, which prom- ised them not only Paradise, but present and temporal booty, the Somanlis with one accord shouted, " How, how, O Dervish ?" Hadji Daood of Nejd paused for one oratorical moment to survey, with a quiet smile, the fierce mass of eager eyes and mouths and upturned faces before him. Then he continued, with slow emphasis, *' A light. A false light. A revolving light. I 24: A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. Let it lead them astray. Let them take it for Cape Guardafui." At the suggestion, a wild shout of joy went careering through all that tumultuous crowd. ** Hadji Daood speaks well I" they cried. " He speaks well, by Allah. Quick, quick ! A false light ! Raise it high on the headland. To the glory of Allah ! To the safety of Islam !" In a minute or two the whole surging mob had rushed headlong to the top of the jutting cliff,and reared up on a low whitewashed and flat-roofed house a tall frame of big timbers, tied loosely together. Then, with a few square mirrors, col- lected hastily from the women's quarters, and a great ball of pitched tow, steeped through and through in petroleum, they manufactured in an incredibly short space of time a very tolerable imitation of the Guardafui lighthouse. Hadji Daood was the proud possessor of a European watch — looted some weeks before from the dead body of an English officer at Khartoum. By its aid the savage wreckers shifted the mirrors at intervals of three minutes, so as to mimic the revolving light on the one recognized headland of the ocean highway. It was an ingenious enough imitation to deceive the captain of the Lord Mayo himself ; all the more so as lights are few and far between indeed on that desert stretch of wild African coastland, LANDING AT MATAFTI. 25 As the vessel, attracted by the false glare, be- gan to alter her course and steam ahead towards the sunken rocks, the savage joy of the Soman- lis knew no bounds or limits. Drunk and mad with frenzy, they shouted and danced in their delight ; they hugged and embraced one another in perfect transports of exultation. The doomed steamer moved rapidly along the coast to northward. The Somanlis, following hard on their Arab leaders, bounded barefoot over the dry rocks at the top of their mad speed and pressed after her frantically, round steep capes and short headlands. Just as she struck the reef, in front of their own village, they reached the shore beside her : panting and breathless. But with deep sighs of savage re- lief those hot and eager barbarians stood still and watched her. Not a word was spoken aloud for awhile, lest the infidels should hear and escape their clutches ; but between their clenched teeth the Somanlis muttered to themselves, in the double delight of the wrecker and the religious fanatic, " Allah be praised ! The infidels are doomed. This night they shall all stand at the judgment-seat of Allah !" One by one the boats put off from the ship and approached the shore cautiously. Not a few of the passengers, in the hurry and con- fusion of the moment, flung themselves in their 26 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. terror from the deck upon the tender mercies of the water. As for these, the great waves caught them up like so many toys, and dashed them resistlessly on the reef with tremendous force, pounding all semblance of life out of them in a very few seconds. But the others in the first- manned boat, mounting the wave as it swept in, reached the beach in safety — before they perceived the dark line of grim and silent So- manlis ranged in a row to receive them. In an instant a dozen black hands clutched at the gunwale at once ; with a loud cry of triumph the negroes seized her and hauled her ashore, and raised her far above the reach of the in- coming breakers. Then several of them sprang fiercely upon her like a tiger upon its prey, while others, thirsting for still more blood, rushed headlong into the water, at the immi- nent risk of their lives, to seize the second boat as she came in the self-same way, and drag her helplessly forward to the slaughter-house of the landing-place. In the second boat were Mrs. D'Arcy and Mona Wallace. As they rose on the crest of the wave, the sailors with one accord hanging hard upon their oars, a horrible sight met their eyes through the thick gloom of evening. Mona was the first to perceive it, and to interpret its meaning LANDING AT MATAFU. 27 aright. With a quick shudder of horror she clutched with her hand the nearest sailor's arm. " Look, look !" she cried, spasmodically, point- ing forward with one finger. *' We can't land here ! Just see what the natives are doing ! See their guns and their knives ! They're mas- sacring them ! They're killing them !" From the stern, through the grey dusk, the officer in charge, looking ahead as she spoke, caught a glimpse of the savages bearing down with wild cries upon the occupants of the first boat that had reached the shore, and hacking them to pieces in cold blood with clubs and dag- gers and cutlasses. It was a ghastly scene. Blood flowed like water. As he looked, the officer's heart stood still with horror. He took it all in at a glance — treachery, murder, indis- criminate massacre. Three or four dozen half- naked, black barbarians, with uplifted weapons and white teeth grinning, were beating out the brains or cutting the throats of those defenceless Europeans in a mad orgie of fanaticism, lust of blood and ferocity. As fast as they killed them they flung the dead bodies out, like so many car- casses, on the sand of the beach. Even in that uncertain light, the officer could make out there great pools of clotted gore ; above the roar of the breakers, he could hear the loud cries and panic-stricken groans of the unhappy victims. 28 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. " Back water !" he cried to the sailors, waving his hand behind him. ** For your lives, men, back water ! These brutes here will murder us !" But it was all too late. They stood poised on the crest of the wave now, and no human force could avail to save them. With all their might and main, straining hard their practised muscles against the fierce flow of the in-rolling water, the sailors tried their best to stem the deadly flood and hold her back from the beach. But the breakers were too much for them. Steadily and resistlessly the great moving mass carried them in on its summit, and with a thundering thud dug their bow into the foreshore. At once a dozen black hands were stretched out, as if by magic, to clutch at the gunwale ; a dozen black arms hauled them eagerly up to the same blood- stained berth on the high bank of shingle. Mrs. D'Arcy shrieked aloud. Mona hid her face and trembled. But the officer in charge, like a true- born Englishman, thought first of his duty, even in that supreme hour of death and danger. Rising up in his place as the boat poised herself for one second on the crest of the wave, just before the negroes caught her, he shouted at the very top of his voice, as only a seaman can shout, to the handful of men still left on the deck ; LANDING AT MATAFtT. 29 *' For Heaven's sake, land no more boats ! The Somanlis are killing us. Take care of your own lives. Put out to sea for Aden, and send troops to avenge us !" It was all he had time to say. Scarcely were the words well out of his mouth when those blood-begrimed black hands seized the gunwale by the bows ; and the occupants of the boat felt themselves drawn hastily up by twenty strong black arms to the high ridge of shingle. Then in the glare of the torches began once more a ghastly carnival of slaughter. Mona cowered close to Mrs. D'Arcy and shut her eyes tight with terror, bending her head to await the fatal blow she felt sure was coming. Mrs. D'Arcy held her little friend's hand clasped in hers, and with her lips closed hard, sat bolt upright in her place, prepared to die like a true-hearted Eng- lish woman. For a minute or two they sat still there, and felt as if the bitterness of death were surely past. Then a horrible noise fell on Mona's ear ; she knew perfectly what it was ; some savage had cleft their officer's skull in two, and that sound was the swish of the short sword crashing through it. Something hot and thick spattered on her cheek at the selfsame moment ; that was the officer's blood spurting fresh from the wound, and sprinkled all around him. Mona cowered and shrank, and drew her breath even 30 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. deeper and slower than before. Would her turn come next ? . . . Would her turn never come ? . . . How long" did the savages mean to continue this unspeakable torture ? One by one, the Somanlis fell fiercely on the men in the boat and killed them. They mangled them in their rage ; they hacked the lifeless bodies with strange curses into a thousand pieces. Only the women now remained, and one or two of those too the savages hewed down with remorseless weapons. At last there came a lull, they paused for a moment and spoke hast- ily with one another. Mona and Mrs. D'Arcy could not hear or understand the words they said, but even in the vague terror of that awful hour they were dimly aware from the varying tones of expostulation and rage that the Soman, lis were discussing or quarreling among them- selves. One loud voice in particular gave com- mand above the rest. It was a guttural Arab voice, very clear and imperative — it belonged, in point of fact, to Hadji Daood of Nejd, the Mahdi's dervish. " Kill all ! Kill all !" it said in strident Ara- bic. " This is a Holy War ! Kill every man, woman, or child of the infidels ?" Mona shuddered as she heard. Though she understood not a single word of that hateful tongue, she felt sure from the very tone and LANDING AT MATAFtT. 31 manner of his speech that the person in com- mand was exhorting his followers to go on and murder them. But still, for some unknown reason, the So- manlis hesitated. Their first wild thirst for blood was partially satisfied now ; their very arms were tired ; and their cupidity and love of plunder were beginning to assert themselves. " The women are good marketable, personable bodies," one naked wretch said, eyeing them askance, as they crouched there in speechless terror. " Very sound young women ! They'd fetch a good price. Why waste and destroy such good, useful cattle ?" For to your African a woman is as much a pifece of goods as a cow or a camel. But Hadji Daood of Nejd was not a man to be gainsaid or to stick at trifles. " Allah has willed it," he cried aloud, step- ping forward himself, and lifting his own curved sword to strike the deadly blow. " This is a Holy War. Death, death to the infidels !" He swung it round with a loud swish, ready to bring it down with terrible effect on Mona's defenceless head. But even before he could do so, half-a-dozen black Somanlis, now eager for gain, interposed their strong arms to prevent such culpable waste of good saleworthy slave stuff. '^ No, no," one naked warrior cried, push- 32 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. ing back the Hadji by main force from his ex- pected prey. " She's ours. We captured her. You shall not hurt one hair of our women's heads. Allah has drunk enough infidel blood for one day already. These are booty, booty ! We want them to sell. We'll take them up country to the Imam of Daro. The Imam buys fair. He'll pay us a good price, we know, for two handsome women from the land of the infidels !" For a minute or two after that there was tumult on the shore — much noise of dispute — much loud babble of voices. What exactly it all meant Mona had no idea ; but she knew, at least, the black men and the brown were disput- ing hotly over their heads, and that the black, in the end, seemed to get the best of it. vSud- denly, as they disputed and waxed hot in their quarrel, something fresh seemed to break in upon the discussion and upset their plans. The two white women, all spattered with blood and trembling with emotion, were left alone for sev- eral seconds on the high shingle bank by a gen- eral rush backwards. Apparently, the men had bethought themselves of the wreck once more. The v^oice of the Hadji was again raised in loud tones above the dull roar of the breakers. " Man the boat !" he cried aloud in very sonor- ous Arabic. " These other infidels are escap- LANDING AT MATAFU. 33 ing- ; we must cut off their retreat ! If once they get away alive and safe to Aden, they'll rouse all the bad powers of the Franks against us!" What it meant Mona, of course, didn't at all understand. But she saw that at his word of command the Somanlis, rushing forward, began to haul down the first of the Lord Mayo's boats that had come ashore, and to take their places on the thwarts, and fix the oars in the rowlocks. There was a second's pause : then the Hadji, stepping in, took his place at- the tiller, and gave in one loud word, the order, " Forward !" It sounded almost like Italian, she thought, avaiiti^ or something of that sort. At the sound a dozen black arms pushed the boat to sea stoutly on the favoring undertow of a refluent wave. Many of the negroes, indeed, ran in far by the side, push- ing hard as they ran ; the next wave caught them up, and pitched them landward again, shrieking. ^Meanwhile the Somanlis in the boat, plying their oars by the shore with the dexterous skill of practised surfmen, ran her out fast over the flats, taking advantage of each back current to carry them on across the shallows. There was a pause of suspense. In a minute they were out of sight, and all around was still again. Then Mona knew where and why they had 34 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. gone. They had started in hot pursuit of the last boat from the Lord Mayo. And she and Mrs. D'Arcy sat huddled to- gether in a heap upon the blood-stained beach, alone with a dozen or so of half-naked black Africans, beside the hacked and bleeding and mutilated corpses of their murdered fellow- countrymen. It was a ghastly sight. They hid their faces in their hands, and refused to behold it. AWAY TO Aden! 35 CHAPTER III. AWAY TO Aden! The third and lar^jest boat that put off from the wreck, was the only one of the lot that car- ried firearms. It was armed to the teeth, in fact. The captain, last of the officers, as usual, to quit the deck of the sinking steamer, had taken the precaution of slipping his revolver into his pocket before he left the ship ; and sev- eral of the sailors had provided themselves hast- ily in the hurry of the moment with knives or short cutlasses. In the first alarm of the ground- ing, indeed, the one thought of the authorities had been to get the women and children and the elder passengers into the boats with safety ; the immediate danger from the sea was too fierce and too pressing to allow time for reflection on the remoter danger of hostilities from those wild and savage African tribesmen. But as soon as the passengers had all been safely housed, and the boats had been lowered in due course from the davits, the captain bethought him on a sudden, of the less obvious risk. 86 A BRTDE FROM THE DESKUT. ''Take your arms, men," he cried. "Jones, get out the revolvers. These brutes may attack us and prevent us from landing. We must be prepared for the worst. We may have to fight for the women and children." Before they left the deck, however, a warning voice from the crest of the wave had reached them where they stood — the voice of the first officer standing up in his place and shouting above the roar of these deafening breakers, as only a sailor can shout : " Land no more boats. The Somanlis' are killing us. Take care of your own lives. Put out to sea to Aden, and send troops to avenge us!" Thus warned the captain looked ahead, and peering deep through the gloom, saw aghast with his own eyes, the horrible tragedy that was being enacted then and there on the high beach before him. It was useless to interpose ; so much, he saw at a glance. Most, if not all of his passengers were already massacred in cold blood by those infuriated savages ; the mere handful of men he had left with him on the ship, if they tried to land at all in the face of such an armed mob could only share the fate of their unhappy countrymen. The disproportion in numbers was simply overwhelming. There re- mained but one chance now, as the first officer AWAY TO Aden! 37 said, to make strai UP COUNTRY TO DAKO. 61) not, as most people falsely picture it, a vast plain of sand, but a district of absolutely bare and rock-built mountains. Behind lay the ravine through which they had already wound their toilsome way ; in front, the ravine through which they were still to wind it. The stillness of the night grew painfully op- pressive. Not a sound could be heard for the most part save the padded footfall of the camels on the bare ground beneath their feet. Here and there, where the valleys opened out a little wider, lay great beds of sand, which the wind whirled round at intervals into columns in the shape of waterspouts. As Mona looked at them gliding from place to place like so many dark spectres, her heart misgave her. They looked like angry fiends. She wrapped her Arab dress round her face in her terror, and cried to herself silently. About midnight they halted for a while in a big hollow basin, ringed round by black hills, and strewn with volcanic boulders. The soil was .gravelly, very rough and arid. But the sheikh gave the word : " The wells of Belad- yssa !" In a moment the caravan stood still through all its length, and the camels stretching their necks awaited their first drink since the day before yesterday. The Somanlis began to scrape away the sand 70 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. in some shallow depressions in front of the halt, and soon came to an oozy bed of very dirty and half-brackish water. Of this, the camels drank first, and when their thirst was quenched, the Ai '^s and natives helped themselves in turn. Laot of all, they handed up a cup or two of the noisome liquid to Wilfrid, and then to Mona and her companion. It was bitter and nauseous, but still, one must drink ; after five hours of desert dust it refreshed them slightly. And so ceaselessly till morning they threaded on and on those intricate defiles, without sight of a human home or a green plant on any side. As they marched along through the desert, the camels lifting leisurely feet all the while over the stones and boulders that strewed the uncer- tain trail, Wilfrid Moyle had plenty of time to recall to himself in his awe all the facts or rumors he had heard in the guard-room at Aden about the Imam of Daro, that wild Arab ma- rauder, towards whose rude court they were now making their slow way through the mountains. Thirty years before, he remembered to have heard a fierce adventurer from Nejd on the opposite mainland, professing the faith of the fanatical Wahabi sect of Mahommedans, had crossed over to Africa, and by a series of bloody crimes had made himself Sultan of the oasis of Daro and the half-heathen Somanlis, But only UP COUNTEr TO DARO. 71 ten years before the time when Wilfrid and Mona were taken prisoners at Matafu, the nephew of this fillibustering chief, a sort of Arab Richard III., had succeeded to his uncle's throne among the desert hills by the simple pro- cess of assassinating his predecessor, and all other possible claimants to the Imamship of Daro. Wilfrid recollected to have heard that the present Imam had murdered in cold blood with his own hand his two brothers and his nephew, besides strangling in prison by the hands of his servants sixteen alternative rivals. And now he ruled undisputed in the inland town of Daro, a half African, half Arab city of mosques and mud walls, girt round by an oasis of waving palms where his word was law, and his cruelties were im bounded. As the night wore on, and the camels stepped wearier over the burning stones, Wilfrid's heart began to sink ever lower and lower at the fate in store for his spotless Mona. His con- science smote him now that he hadn't had the courage to kill her innocently while he could. Such a chance as that mightn't occur again. And the alternative was really too terrible to face. At each step across the desert, Wilfrid bethought him afresh of some further and more hideous story he had heard at Aden of the Imam's atrocities. The man was a monster of 72 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. crime, kept in his place by fanaticism ; a de- bauched, worn-out, inhuman tyrant, a ruler who outraged every feeling even of his savage sub- jects, but made up for his excesses by his relig- ious intolerance. And Mona as a Christian would be all the more exposed to the twofold dangers of the man's evil passions. Wilfrid reproached himself bitterly for having let slip last night a chance that perhaps might never come back again. At last dawn began to crimson the bare hill- tops to eastward. Slowly the sun rose, and as the first rays of his light struck the crest of the mountains, the caravan stopped and all the Moslems of the escort fell prone on their knees and engaged in their devotions. The very beasts stood still, with their heads bent low ; and the Somanlis and Arabs, ail ranged on the sand in a line, with their faces towards Mecca, lifted up their voices together in one long wail- ing cry of '' Allah Ekber, Allah Ekber !" When they started on their way again, the desert sun shone mercilessly on their heads ; but still the camels plodded on — plodded on unwearied. About eight o'clock, the heat became unendur- able. By that time, however, they had reached a point which was clearly a familiar stopping place for the worst part of the day. A huge pinn^clQ of sandstone cast a shade in whose shel- TIP COUNTRY TO DARO. 73 ter the Somanlis raised a rough tent of skins. They dismounted and lay down. It was " the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land." In spite of all the dangers and difficulties ahead, Wilfrid and his companions were too weary with their long ride not to fall asleep at once on the open desert. Mona was breathing peacefully almost as soon as she laid her head on the rough pillow of her saddle. Wilfrid Moyle took a little longer to escape his own thoughts. But before half an hour was over, he was sleeping like a child with his head propped on bare stone and his bed the desert. The Somanlis slept, too ; but with a rifle by their side. If Wilfrid had attempted for one moment to move, they would have shot him down ruthlesslv. 74 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. CHAPTER VI. AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. They slept all day. The sun burnt fiercely. It was evening when they awoke ; and even then Wilfrid was roused from a very deep slum- ber by the vague noise of preparation for a fresh march towards Daro. He jumped up with a start. The Somanlis all round were getting the camels ready, and the white-robed sheikh, on his little square of prayer mat, was swearing strange oaths at his slaves and directing opera- tions. Big negroes rubbed down the tired beasts with dirty, dust-laden cloths, and strapped the saddles with tight girths on their galled and jaded backs, while the patient creatures them- selves stood still and unmoved, chewing the cud of yesterday's meal in their habitual hunger. Outside, two Arab cooks squatted low on the ground mixing an uninviting pillau with meat and millet, or pouring brackish water from the midnight well into rude cups of earthenware. Wilfrid drew a deep breath. He shrank from the idea that Mona had still three more AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 75 nights like this one to expect before reaching Daro. And yet, when Daro itself was reached, things would be even worse than ever. For what were the mere discomforts of desert trav- elling compared with the unspeakable, unthink- able future in store for her henceforth in the Imam's harem ? Before the breakfast or supper — which you will — was ready, however, a loud sound in front roused Wilfrid's attention by its unexpected tur- moil. It was the noise of a great event — of that he felt sure. He sat in the tent still guarded by an armed Somanli, while Mona and Mrs. D'Arcy were shielded a little on one side behind a rude camel's hair curtain. But even so, he could hear a voice crying aloud in wild tones to the leader of the caravan, " In Allah's name and the Prophet's, halt hard ! Whence come you?" " From Matafu," the sheikh made answer without altering his demeanor one jot or tittle ; " from Matafu, which the infidels have fired and destroyed ; and we alone have escaped to tell the tale in Daro. But we take up a prisoner of war, a Frank whom we captured, and brides for the Imam, the servant of Allah." " Then you can go back again to Matafu," the voice retorted grimly. " You are not wanted up here. For the followers of our Mahdi have fallen upon Daro, and slain your Imam, who was no 76 A BRIDE FEOM THE DESERT, servant of Allah, but an ally of the infidel. And Daro town is in the hands of the dervishes ; and our Mahdi has sent his own brother with an armed force to bear rule in the oasis." What happened next, Wilfrid never knew. He was only aware of great noise and turmoil. Hastily the Somanlis and Arabs ate their even- ing meal and with many loud cries got their camels ready. But Wilfrid himself was thrust all at once into the inner chamber with Mona and Mrs. D'Arcy, where he could see or hear nothing, and could hardly tell what was going on outside the tent he was imprisoned in. By and bye, the noise without began to sub- side slowly. The sounds died away. Quiet came over the camp. It was clear the main body had moved on somewhere else. Wilfrid began to suspect they were left alone with their guards, two half-clad Somanlis, armed with Egyptian rifles. If only he were sure of it, he might make an effort to escape ! But he couldn't be sure. Per- haps the other tents might still harbor armed men. ** I wish, Mona," he ventured to begin : but before he could utter another word, the So- manlis by his side had raised his rifle and pointed it full at him. •' The sheikh told us to fire," he said to his companion in Arabic, " if they ven- tured to speak. Keep a good look out upoa AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 77 them, Mahmoud. Not a sound ! Not a move- ment ! The sheikh holds us responsible for not letting them go. He will come back to fetch them. It is as Allah wills it." Wilfrid leant back, and took no further notice of his companions for the moment. Not a muscle of his face betrayed to the men the fact that he heard and understood them. An hour or two passed and the night grew very dark. The weird silence of the desert seemed to brood over the scene. Bit by bit their guardians dozed and nodded, and woke again with a start, and looked hard at the prisoners. It was plain they were bored. One of them gazed across lan- guidly at the other and yawned a weary yawn. " This is slow work," he said again in Arabic. " Allah is great ; but it will be a long toil wait- ing for them here four days and nights all alone in the desert. They should have given us more men. I wish they had left some others beside you and me here to watch these three infidels. If we two have to do it alone, we shall soon be pretty sick of it." Wilfrid could hardly resist drawing a deep sigh of relief. Then they were alone after all with the two armed Somanlis ! It was some- thing at least to know that much*. He leant back silently, and let his eye catch Mona's. Neither uttered a word, but a mute look full of 78 A BlUDE FUOM THE DESERT. meaning passed rapidly between them. Mona asked with her eyes : " Are there more than these two ?" And Wilfrid answered her promptly in the same dumb language. ** No, none but just these. Keep awake and watch them." More long hours went by. Presently the Somanlis dozed off again, with their hands still nervously grasping their rifles. Their heads dropped on their breasts, and they breathed deep and slow like a pair of tired children. The moment for action had surely come. . . . Whisht ! Whisht ! Not a sound now ! . . . Cautiously and stealthily, Wilfrid raised himself on his elbows from the ground till he sat, half erect, looking across towards Mona. Without uttering a word, without making an unnecessary movement, he held out one palm very straight in front of him. Then, with the forefinger of the other hand, he began to trace on it slowly in dumb show various letters of the alphabet — W, H, E, N, I, S, E, and so forth. With breath- less attention, Mona and Mrs. D'Arcy leant eagerly forward and followed his hand while he proceeded to trace capital after capital. As they read feach letter, they nodded a noiseless assent ; at the end of each word, which Wilfrid emphasized by closing his palm in silence for a AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 79 moment and then opening it once more, they signified acquiescence by a lowering of their eyebrows. But the message itself as it grew plain made them quiver with nervousness — it was so much to ask of two poor weak women. For these were the words that in fear and trembling they spelt slowly out : " When I seize this one's rifle, wrench the other man's from him and point and fire. I'll give the signal with a nod. Don't hesitate instantly to snatch it and shoot him. Mona drew back all aghast in unspeakable horror. Even for dear life's sake, she felt she couldn't, she daren't take a fellow creature's life. But Mrs. D'Arcy, as became her years, was bolder. After a second's hesitation, she nodded and gave an answering wave of the hand. There was a moment's deep pause. Their hearts stood still within them. Then Wilfrid raised one hand to bespeak attention. With a sudden resolve he gave the fatal nod. It was neck or nothing now ; either death or freedom. Without one instant's faltering, he leant hastily forward ; wrenched the rifle with a jerk from the dozing Somanli's grasp ; and before the fel- low was well aware what was really happening, had raised it and covered him with the mouth of the barrel. Quick as lightning, the Somanli saw what was taking place, and drawing his 80 A BlllDE FROM THE DESERT. short, native dagger, sprang forward upon the white man. There was a short hand to hand struggle. It was a life and death fight. Releas- ing himself with an effort, Wilfrid fired full at him. The ball entered the negro's chest and passed through him like wildfire. The Somanli staggered and fell, still lunging out with his knife. A look of unutterable hatred played round the fellow's clenched teeth. It was ghastly to look at in its concentrated malignity. Wilfrid leapt upon his neck. The man shrieked and died heavily. At the very same moment, as Wilfrid seized the nearer rifle, Mrs. D'Arcy, with feminine quickness, had caught the other man's gun, and, in an access of wild courage, snatched it rapidly from him. The negro awakened at once by the movement, jumped up and confronted her. " Here, hold it with me, Mona !" the brave woman cried out, jumping back and firing at him like a tigress. But Mona clapped her hands to her ears and drew aside all thunderstruck. The Somanli seized the rifle and tried to wrench it from her grasp, but Mrs. D'Arcy holding tight, stuck to it gallantly. In the scufHe, one barrel went off and hit the Somanli's foot. The man gave a howl of pain, and drawing his dagger leapt upon her like a wild beast, frenzied and maddened by AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 81 resistance. But even before he could strike home, Wilfrid, now freed from his own personal antagonist, had raised the rifle again, and taking deliberate aim, shot the negro through the tem- ple. Mona shrieked once more at the sight. With a leap and a groan the great, black body rolled senseless upon the ground in a little pool of blood and then lay still and silent. Wilfrid's breath came and went. He could hardly believe it. It was all over now. " Thank heaven," he cried aloud in good Eng- lish at last, ** we're free ! we're free ! We can make for the sea immediately." **How!" Mona asked in a burst of tears, clinging to him in her terror. *' Must we go back by night alone through all that terrible desert ?" " Yes, dearest," Wilfrid answered, laying his hand on her shoulder, and turning her gaze away gently from the hideous sight on the ground by her side. " Come out into the open. There may be camels there still. If not, we must turn and tramp on foot across the desert." They emerged all tremulous on to the silent night. It was terrible to look about. The loneliness was appalling. All round, two or three empty tents flapped free on the desert breeze. But thank heaven for one thing. On the bare sand of the foreground, four or five 82 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. camels were kneeling still and patient, as usual awaiting their riders. In a minute Wilfrid had lifted Mona and Mrs. D'Arcy into their seats, and mounting his own beast in front, led the way into the desert. It was a terrible ride that impremeditated march from nowhere to nowhere. Not a sound broke the stillness of those unpeopled solitudes. From time to time they spoke to one another — a few words of encouragement, but their own voices seemed to affright them in the universal stillness. There was no regular path, no marked track of any sort. The padded feet of camels leave not a trace on the bare rock ; and even if they did the whirl- ing sandstones of the desert would cover it up and obliterate it from journey to journey. All that Wilfrid knew was the general direction in which they had travelled the night before ; for the rest, he was fain to trust to the instinct of the animals. Nor was that their only misfortune. They had no food to eat, except a few coarsely dried dates which they found in the saddle bags ; and for water they were confined to the brackish wells they had passed about midnight the pre- vious evening. But if only they could once reach the sea, Wilfrid felt all might yet be well. AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 83 It was this expanse of pathless desert that ap- palled and terrified him. After about four hours hard riding through the rocky ravines they had made a considerable way, and began to breathe freely again. The camels relieved from the press of Somanlis and their burden of heavy tents, trotted along at a better pace seaward than before ; they always travel faster, Wilfrid knew, indeed, down coun- try than upward. At last, just as they reached a point where two long ravines ran together under the uncertain starlight, Mona drew up in alarm and gave a little cry of terror. " Hush ! What's that ?" she murmured low, holding her hand to her listening ear. " Noise ahead I Who can it be ? Oh, Wilfrid, Wilfrid, somebody's coming !" i Wilfrid pulled up his beast short with a sud- den jerk of the head, and listened long in his turn. His heart misgave him. There was in- deed a noise in front. No mistake about that. A caravan from seaward ! They were discov- ered — overtaken — no doubt betrayed. Perhaps the newcomers would maltreat and kill them ! His first impulse at this alarm was to turn round again where they stood and flee once more at the top of the camels' speed towards Daro. But a second's consideration showed him how mistaken and foolish such a course would 84 X BRIDE rROM THE DESERT. be. Come what might, they must stand by their guns now and see it out fairly. Perhaps, after all, this upward bound caravan might let them pass as good friends without attempting to in- terfere with them. There is honor among thieves — above all, in the desert. He started his beast on its round trot once more, and advanced to meet them. The two other camels stalked after him as before, with their stately tread, making straight for the sea by the accustomed trackway. In a minute or two they came abreast of the coming caravan. Wilfrid Moyle was a brave man, and not given to vain fears ; but there, in the silent night and amid the pathless desert, his heart gave a strange jump at the ghastly sight that met his eyes. Great Heavens, what was this ? The foremost beast was bestridden — by a laden cofifin ! He rubbed his eyes and looked. Yes, yes ; not a doubt of it. There was no rider, no leader, no human soul by its side ; nothing on earth but a camel bearing on either flank a heavy coffin ! He looked once more. Why ! what on earth could this mean ? There was a whole great string, a long and straggling cara- van of th^m. Camel after camel in long line stalked slowly by, each with no living rider to guide his step? but bearing on his back two full and noisome coffins. There were corpses in AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 85 them, too. Indeed, the stench was horrible. But the camels passed on, without heeding him in any way ; it was with difficulty in the dim starlight that Wilfrid, standing off as far to windward as possible, made out the true nature of their ghastly burden. At the end of the long procession, but after a considerable interval, so as to avoid all near contact with the pestilential air, two Arabs in white robes rode slowly be- hind, bringing up the rear guard, and watching the beasts move forward. " Bismillah," they cried as they passed, a little way on one side, to the three strangers. *' In Allah's name, a good journey to you, brother !" " In Allah's name, the same to you," Wilfrid answered in Arabic, as the safest course open to him. Then his natural curiosity compelled him to add in an easier voice. " But what cara- van is this, and where do you come last from 1" *' Have you no nose on your face that you haven't found that out already ?" the man an- swered laughing. " I should hav^e thought you might have guessed it. This is the Caravan of the Dead, and we take them up in their coffins to Daro for burial. But perhaps you are from the Soudan, new comers to these parts, and know not the ways of the coast-wise people. It is our custom here, then, when sheikhs or holy imams or great robbers die, to send their bodies up for 86 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. burial to the threshold of the seers, that they may sleep in holy ground, beside the tomb of Sidi Okbah, the companion of the Prophet who lies enshrined under the dome of the high mosque at Daro. For that purpose, we carry them up from all the Somanli coast. We have been ten days on the way already as you may per- ceive for yourselves. And you, strangers, in turn, whither bound ? Where go you ?" *' To Matafu," Wilfrid answered boldly. *' We come from Daro itself, and we take down im- portant letters to the coast from the Imam to the dervishes. But we have missed our path. Which is the road to Matafu ?" " Down the ravine to the left," the man an- swered pointing vaguely with his hand. " But friend, you are full late ; you may spare your- self the trouble. For two days since, so we hear, the infidels attacked Matafu and burned it to the ground, nor is there any living soul of the Faithful of Islam now left within it." " Thanks, brother," Wilfrid answered touch- ing his beard in salute, and setting his camel in motion again. " But I will proceed for all that. For my business is pressing, and with Allah's help I fear not the infidels. The commands of the Imam must needs be obeyed, whether the miserable Franks have burned Matafu or left it AN AFRICAN REVOLUTION. 8? Standing. Yet I thank you for your courtesy. Bismillah !" " Bismillah !" And the two men moved on slowly in charge of their ghastly load, leaving those three once more by themselves in the wide loneliness of the desert. 88 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. CHAPTER Vir. FROM SAND TO SEA. From the wells of Belad-yssa to the bowers of the Indian Ocean, the camels made good time for their distracted riders. It's the way of camels indeed to quicken their slow and steady pace in proportion as the}^ approach the neigh- borhood of the sea ; some vague instinct of locality, perhaps even some faint odor of salt brine in the air, seems to act upon their nerves as the road homeward acts upon a tired horse in England. At any rate, they stepped out far more briskly on their seaward journey than on the way up country towards the oasis of Daro. And the fugitives let them pick their own path as they would among the barren ravines. It was wonderful to see how cleverly those born denizens of the desert seemed to follow of them- selves that well-known route. Winding tortu- ously in and out, bending here to the right and there to the left, avoiding now a great rock, and now again a steep descent, the sagacious beasts plodded patiently on, at a long, swinging, jog- FROM SAND TO SEA. 89 trot, very wearying to their riders' limbs, of course, but satisfactory from the point of view of rapid transit. One by one the stars set, and Venus began to rise in the pale grey of morning. But still those tireless brutes lifted one leg after another in their unwearying amble ; and still the travelers looked out eagerly, but in vain, all in vain, for a glimpse of blue sea on the horizon in front of them. At last, the sun rose, and the air grew hot at once with the astonishing rapidly of arid tropical regions. "Must we go right on through the heat ?" Mona asked in despair, jolted to death with the long ride, and hardly able any longer to keep her seat on her camel. And Wilfrid answered with a sigh, " I'm afraid we must, Mona. Indeed, I don't suppose we could get the camels themselves to stop for us now. They're obstinate beasts to deal with, and once they've made up their minds to make straight for a given point, straight for it they'll make, whether you wish them or check them. They've settled in their own wise heads that they're going seaward now, and they'll never stop, either for you or for me, till they've pulled us up short at their accustomed station. Besides, even if we were to dismount, what good would that possibly do us ? We've no tent or shelter, and it's better to be moving briskly through the 90 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. air like this than to sit in the eye of the sun on the basking hot desert." " I'm dying with thirst," Mrs. D'Arcy said huskily, clearing her throat. " I can hardly even speak. But if we're to die here, ve shall at least die free. I'm glad I could help you, Mr. Moyle, in getting us clear away from those dis- gusting wretches." They rode on for an hour more without speak- ing a word across the dreary upland. At last, about eight o'clock, they reached a black and gloomy pass or neck over a ridge of grey rock, whence they looked down abruptly on a great desert valley. At its end, a narrow gap opened out like a fan, with — oh, joy ! — yes, it was — a blue gleam in the centre. Wilfrid, leading the way, reached the summit first. With an effort, he moistened his mouth, and found words to cry aloud. *' The sea ! The sea !" he exclaimed in his delight. And the two women burst at once into floods of hot tears at that welcome dis- covery. Yet even so, it was a long and weary ride down that dry, desert ravine, and through those endless mazes to the dim shore in front of them. Every now and again the camels craned their heads and sniffed the air suspiciously. Perhaps they scented the salt breeze ; perhaps, on the other hand, they missed the accustomed odor of FROM SAND TO SEA. \)l the village of Matafu ; perhaps their keen nos- trils even detected afar off the signs of recent burning by their wonted station. But at any rate, they grew uneasy and seemed to doubt their right way. Once or twice they stopped short, and sniffed time and again in distinct un- certainty. Then the sight of some familiar rock or some sharp bend in the gorge seemed to re- assure their vague minds, and they stepped for- ward once more with accelerated eagerness. At last, all of a sudden, a little twist in the path brought them out with a rush upon the open coast. Before them lay the sea, tossing blue and illimitable ; in front stood the still smoking and smouldering ruins of what three days before had been the village of Matafu. And now, a new terror began to seize upon Wilfrid's soul. The camels pulled up short, and gazed with a certain blank surprise at the unexpected scene. After a moment's pause they knelt down on the sands in a kind of mute despair. Wilfrid helped the two women to de- scend from their seats. They were shaken and sore and almost faint from riding. But their worst enemy now was a parching demon of thirst ; they had drunk nothing for two days save the brackish water at the wells of Belad- yssa. "The question is," Wilfrid mused, **can we 92 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. get anything here to eat or to drink. And then next, can we get a boat to put away to sea in?" Mrs. D'Arcy was nothmg if not a practical English matron with an eye to housekeeping. ** Not a scrap to eat," she said with an effort, in a very choked voice. " That's all burnt, of course. We must live on our own fat. But water, yes. How could they do without it ? Wherever there's been a village, there must naturally be wells, or springs, or tanks, or some- thing." That was as clear as wind. The British ma- tron was certainly right. Wilfred seated Mona on a rock, in the scanty shade of a palm tree, for they had now returned to some scrubby vegeta- tion, and went off by himself in search of the water supply. He was gone for several minutes, during which the two women sat alone by them- selves in that unspeakable desolation of the ruined village. Corpses rotted in the sun in every direction. At the end of that time he returned with a firmer tread ; and their hearts leapt up within them to see to their joy that he was carrying in his hands a bucket half full of water. Oh, how they fell upon it and drank, scooping it up in both hands ! Oh, how delicious it tasted, that pure, fresh, spring water ! The camels rose FROM SAND TO SEA. 93 slowly, and begged in mute language for their share in the draught. Wilfrid motioned them on, and the weary beasts followed him to the edge of the well. There, he drew for them abundantly, and let them drink their fill, which amounted to a quantity that might well have astonished anyone less used to their ways than the young soldier had been at Aden. And now to get away, since food was out of the question. It was a hopeless lookout ; yet miracles had answered their turn so well hitherto that he was almost disposed once more to trust for a means of escape to some inscrutable inter- position of providence. In an aimless fashion, if only to avoid the foul air, they made their way down to the beach, over the high bank of shingle. There might be mus- sels there, or periwinkles, or some other shell- fish. At any rate, one's chance of food is always best on the sea shore, especially in these out-of- the-way unpeopled countries, where even oysters and fish are often to be found in plenty in the tide-swept rock pools. For there was no con- cealing the fact that free or enslaved, they were certainly weak and faint with hunger. At the top of the shingle ledge, a welcome sight burst unexpectedly on their startled eyes. For there, full in front of them, beached high on the shore, lay an English built boat, with her 04: A BRIDE FROM TFIE DESERT. oars by her side, and on her stern were painted the familiar words, " Lord Mayo, Southampton." It was the second of the three boats that had put off from the wreck on the night of the mas- sacre. One had gone away with news of the dis- aster to Aden. One had been seized by the wreckers under Hadji Daood of Nejd, and finally towed in to port by the victorious captain. But one, the second to land, had been left there, high and dry on the beach by the natives, and was overlooked by the gunboat, which put her men ashore on a less exposed spot at the opposite end of the village. It seemed as though Provi- dence had designed it on purpose for their use. And there, in the stern, best luck of all — as they looked — was a barrel of fresh water, still full and undrawn from. " We'd better lose no time," Wilfrid cried, in a burst of delight. " We don't know how soon some other Somanlis may come up from neigh- boring parts to rebuild the village. To be caught here would be death. There's nothing about to eat. It's clear the gunboat destroyed everything — standing crops and fruit trees. We must put to sea just as we are, and trust to the bare chance of making Aden, or attracting the attention of some ship going up the Straits for Suez. And indeed, in that narrower channel, on the FROM SAND TO SEA. 95 highway of commerce between India and Eng- land by the great canal, the possibility of such a rescue seemed by no means a remote one. And yet, to those who go down to the sea in ships, and know its dangers well, the bare idea of put- ting out in an open boat without a morsel of food, on such a frail hope of speaking a passing vessel, might indeed appear a desperate one. But drowning men will cling to a straw ; and at the very worst, Wilfrid thought, if they had to die at all, he would die with Mona by his side, after rescuing her from a life far more terrible than death. Far better starvation on the free blue sea than the tender mercies of an Imam of Daro. They hauled the boat down to the water's edge with what strength they had left, and took their seats in it. Then Wilfrid shoved it off with a good hearty push. Thank Heaven ! They were afloat again, and free at last from the hateful soil of darkest Africa ! A gentle wind was blowing faintly from the south east. That would take them more or less in the direction of Aden, or at any rate into the centre of the main stream of traffic. Wilfrid was unfortunately no navigator, so he dared not trust himself to set the full sails lest she should become unmanageable or capsize. But he hoisted the mast, with Mrs. D'Arcy's aid, and stretched 96 A BRIDK FROM THE DESERT. from it the main canvas, fastened square like a sheet to go ahead before the wind, which was as much as his knowledge of seamanship would al- low him to venture upon. The rudder must do the rest. And, indeed, they were too tired, too sleepy, and too hungry, to attempt much more than sitting still or lying back wearily. As for Mona, she fell asleep on her seat in the stern. Mrs. D'Arcy kept awake. And Wil- frid held the tiller, making straight out to sea, with the sun and the hour alone to guide him. Fortunately, he had wound up his watch even in the manifold dangers of those awful days. He was glad of that now, for it was his only com- pass. All day long, they sailed slowly, slowly, over that basking hot sea. How easy it is to say ; how long, how terribly long it takes to pass through ! All day long, too, no food ; but they took it out in drinking ; and indeed, after the desert, such abundance of pure water seemed in itself a luxury. Hour after hour went by, and still they drifted on, under that copper sky, and with that red-hot sun beating mercilessly down upon them. All day long they drifted on, to- wards the Straits of Bab-el-Mandeb. Surely, sooner or later, they must sight a passing brig ; surely they must run up against some.P. and O. steamer ! FEOM SAND TO SEA. 97 But all day long, not a sail, not a hull hove in sight. All day long, not a line of black smoke flecked the dim blue horizon. Hour after hour passed wearily away, and still Wilfrid Moyle hoped on against hope. At last, the sun set red in the dark sea westward, and the water grew black, and all was dim around them. " We ought to have had a light," Wilfrid said, with a sigh, " to attract the attention of any passing vessel." He began to realize now, after some hours' sail, how slender was that hope ; but, such as it was, it was all they had left to depend upon. " There's a lamp at the bow," Mona put in, looking up at him suddenly. ** I noticed it just now, and perhaps there may be oil in it. Most likely there is. For sailors always keep every- thing ready for use at once, in apple-pie order." She stepped forward lightly, and seized the lamp, and shook it. " Yes, two of them," she exclaimed, " and both ready trimmed. They're as full as they can hold. If only we'd a match, now, we might have managed a light. It's so dreadful to be in the dark, all alone upon the water." " If a match is all you want," Wilfrid said, brightening up, " I think I can help you. Shows the use of smoking after all, you see, Mona. 98 A BRIDE FROM THE DESERT. You remember you used always to be preach- ing to me against it." He drew out his box. *' By Jove," he murmured, opening it, with a very blank face, "this is rather serious. I've only one left. If that misses fire, or goes out, we'll be as ill off as ever." *' Let w- central boyish figure in Holman Hunt's rpictUci^. of the Doctors in the Temple. And yet Pauf Owen had a healthy color in his cheek and m 158 THE BACKSLIDER. general vSturdiness of limb and muscle which showed that he was none of your nervous, blood- less, sickly idealists, but a wholesome, English peasant boy of native refinement and delicate sensibilities. He moved forward with some natural hesitation before the eyes of so many people — ay, and what was more terrible, of the entire Church upon earth ; but he was not awk- ward and constrained in his action like his father. One could see that he was sustained in the prominent part he took that morning by the consciousness of a duty he had to perform and a mission laid upon him which he must not reject. " Are yotc willing, my son Paul," asked the Apostle, gravely, *' to take upon yourself the task that the Church proposes ?" " I am willing," answered the boy in a low voice, " grace preventing me." " Does all the Church unanimously approve the election of our brother Paul to this office ?*' the Apostle asked formally ; for it was a rule with the Gideonities that nothing should be done except by the unanimous and spontaneous action of the whole body, acting under direct and immediate inspiration ; and all important matters were accordingly arranged beforehand by the Apostle in private interviews with every member of the Church individually, so that THE BACKSLIDER. 159 everything that took place in public assembly had the appearance of being wholly unques- tioned. They took counsel first with one another, and consulted the Scripture together ; and when all private doubts were satisfied, they met as a Church to ratify in solemn conclave their separ- ate conclusions. It was not often that the Apostle did not have his own way. Not only had he the most marked personality and the strongest will, but he alone also had Greek and Hebrew enough to appeal always to the original Word ; and that mysterious amount of learning, slight as it really was, sufficed almost invariably to settle the scruples of his wholly ignorant and pliant disciples. Reverence for the literal Scripture in its primitive language was the corner-stone of the Gideonite Church ; and for all practical purposes, its one depository and exponent for them was the Apostle himself. Even the Rev. Albert Barnes's Commentary was held to possess an inferior authority. *' The Church approves," was the unanimous answer. **Then, Episcops, Presbyters, and brethren," said the Apostle, taking up a roll of names, ** I have to ask that you will each mark down on this paper opposite your own names how much a year 5''ou can spare of your substance for six years to come as a guarantee fund for this great IGO THE UACKSLIDER. work. You must remember that the ministry of this Church has cost you nothing ; freely I have received and freely given ; do you now bear your part in equipping a new aspirant for the succession to the Apostolate." The two senior Episcops took two rolls from his hand, and went round the benches \yith a stylographic pen (so strangely do the ages mingle — Apostles and stylographs) silently ask- ing each to put down his voluntary subscription. Meanwhile the Apostle read slowly and rever- ently a few appropriate sentences of Scripture. Some of the richer members — well-to-do small tradesmen of Peckham — put down a pound or even two pounds apiece ; the poorer brethren wrote themselves down for ten shillings or even five. In the end the guarantee list amounted to ;^i95 a year. The Apostle reckoned it up rapidly to himself, and then announced the result to the assembly, with a gentle smile relaxing his austere countenance. He was well pleased, for the sum was quite sufficient to keep. Paul Owen two years at school in London and then send him comfortably if not splendidly to Oxford. The boy had already had a fair education in Latin and some Greek, at the Birkbeck Schools; and with two years' further study he might even ^ain a scholarship (for he was a bright lad), ajbich„wpuld materially lessen the expense to THE BACKSLIDER. 161 the young Church. Unlike many prophets and enthusiasts, the Apostle was a good man of business ; and he had taken pains to learn all about these favorable chances before embarking his people on so very doubtful a speculation. The Assembly was just about to close, when one of the Presbyters rose unexpectedly to put a question which, contrary to the usual practice, had not already been submitted for approbation to the Apostle. He was a hard-headed, thick-set, vulgar-looking man, a greengrocer at Denmark Hill, and the Apostle always looked upon him as a thorn in his side, promoted by inscrutable wis- dom to the Presbytery for the special purpose of keeping down the Apostle's spiritual pride. " One more pint, Apostle," he said abruptly, "afore we close. It seems to me that even in the Church's work we'd ought to be business- like. Now, it ain't bushiess-like to let this young man, Brother Paul, get his eddication out of us, if I may so speak afore the Church, on spec. It's all very well our sayin* he's to be eddicated and take on the Apostleship, but how do we know but what when he's had his eddication he may fall away and become a backslider, like Demas, and like others among ourselves that we could mention ? He may go to Oxford among a lot of Midianites, and them of the great an* mighty of the earth too, and how do we know 162 THE BACKSLIDER. but what he may round upon the Church, and go back upon us after we've paid for his eddica- tion ? So what I want to ask is just this, can't we bind him down in a bond that if he don't take the Apostleship with the consent of the Church when it falls vacant he'll pay us back our money, so as we can eddicate up another as'U be more worthy ?" The Apostle moved uneasily in his chair ; but before he could speak, Paul Owen's indig- nation found voice, and he said out his say boldly before the whole assembly, blushing crim- son with mingled shame and excitement as he did so. " If Brother Grimshaw and all the brethren think so ill of me that they cannot trust my honesty and honor," he said, *' they need not be at the pains of educating me. I will sign no bond and entfer into no compact. But if you suppose that I will be a backslider, you do not know me, and I will confer no more wil:h you upon the subject." " My son Paul is right," the Apostle said flushing up in turn at the boy's audacity ; •* we will not make the affairs of the Spirit a matter for bonds and earthly arrangements. If the Church thinks as 1 do, you will all ri§e up." All rose except Presbyter Grimshaw. For a moment there was some hesitation, for the rule of the Church in favor of unanimity was abso- THE BACKSLIDER. 1(53 lute ; but the Apostle fixed his piercing eyes on Job Grimshaw, and after a minute or so Job Grimshaw too rose slowly, like'one compelled by an unseen power, and cast in his vote grudg- ingly with the rest. There was nothing more said about signing an agreement. 164 THE BA.CKSLIDEK. ir. Meenie Bolton had counted a great deal upon her visit to Oxford, and she found it quite as de- lightful as she had anticipated. Her brother knew such a nice set of men, especially Mr. Owen, of Christchurch. Meenie had never been so near falling in love with anybody in her life as she was with Paul Owen. He was so hand- some and so clever, and then there was some- thing so romantic about this strange Church they said he belonged to. Meenie's father was a country parson, and the way in which Paul shrank from talking about the Rector, as if his office were something wicked or uncanny, piqued and amused her. There was an heretical tinge about him which made him doubly interesting to the Rector's daughter. The afternoon water party that eventful Thursday, down to Nune- ham, she looked forward to with the deepest in- terest. For her aunt, the Professor's wife, who was to take charge of them, was certainly the most delightful and most sensible of chaperons. " Is it really true, Mr. Owen," she said, as they sat together for ten minutes alone after their THE BACKSLIDER. 165 picnic luncheon, by the side of the weir under the shadow of the Nuneham beeches — " is it really true that this Church of yours doesn't al- low people to marry ?" Paul colored up to his eyes as he answered, *' Well, Miss Bolton, I don't know that you should identify me too absolutely with my Church. I was very young" when they selected me to go to Oxford, and my opinions have de- cidedly wavered a good deal lately. But the Church certainly does forbid marriage. I have always been brought up to look upon it as sinful." Meenie laughed aloud ; and Paul, to whom the question was no laughing matter, but a serious point of conscientious scruple, could hardly help laughing with her, so infectious was that pleasant ripple. He checked himself with an effort, and tried to look serious. " Do you know," he said, " when I first came to Christchurch, I doubted even whether I ought to make your brother's acquaintance, because he was a clergyman's son. I was taught to describe clergymen always as priests of Midian." He never talked about his Church to anybody at Oxford, and it was a sort of relief to him to speak on the subject to Meenie, in spite of her laughing eyes and undisguised amusement. The other men would have laughed at him too, 166 THE BACKSLIDER. but their laughter would have been less sympa- thetic. " And do you think them priests of Midian still ?" asked Meenie. " Miss Bolton," said Paul suddenly, as one who relieves his overburdened mind by a great effort, " I am almost moved to make a confidante of you." " There is nothing I love better than confi- dences," Meenie answered ; and she might truthfully have added, " particularly from you." ** Well, I have been passing lately through a great many doubts and difficulties. I was brought up by my Church to become its next Apostle, and I have been educated at their ex- pense both in London and here. You know," Paul added, with his innate love of telling out the whole truth, '' I am not a gentleman ; I am the son of poor working people in London." " Tom told me who your parents were," Meenie answered simply ; " but he told me, too, you were none the less a true gentleman born for that ; and I see myself he told me right." Paul flushed again — he had a most unmanly trick of flushing up — and bowed a little timid bow. " Thank you," he said, quietly. " Well, while I was in London I lived entirely among my own people, and never heard anything talked about THE BACKSLIDER. 167 except our own doctrines. I thought our Apostle the most learned, the wisest and the greatest of men. I had not a doubt about the absolute infallibility of our own opinions. But ever since I came to Oxford I have slowly begun to hesi- tate and to falter. When I came up first, the men laughed at me a good deal in a good- humored way, because I wouldn't do as they did. Then I thought myself persecuted for the truth's sake, and was glad. But the men were really very kind and forbearing to me ; they never argued with me or bullied me ; they re- spected my scruples, and said nothing more about it as soon as they found out what they really were. That was my first stumbling- block. If they had fought me and debated with me, I might have stuck to my own opinions by force of opposition. But they turned me in upon myself completely by their silence, and mastered me by their kindly forbearance. Point by point I began to give in, till now I hardly know where I am standing." " You wouldn't join the cricket club at first, Tom says." " No, I wouldn't. I thought it wrong to walk in the ways of Midian. But gradually I began to argue myself out of my scruples, and now I positively pull six in the boat, and wear a Christ- church ribbon on my hat. I have given up pro- 168 THE BACKSLIDER. testing against having my letters addressed to me as Esquire (though I have really no right to the title), and I nearly went the other day to have some cards engraved with my name as *Mr. Paul Owen.' I am afraid I'm backsliding terribly." Meenie laughed again. *' If that is all you" have to burden your conscience with," she said, ** I don't think you need spend many sleepless nights." ** Quite so," Paul answered, smiling ; " I think so myself. But that is not all. I have begun to have serious doubts about the Apostle himself and the whole Church altogether. I have been three years at Oxford now ; and while 1 was reading for Mods, I don't think I was so unset- tled in my mind. But since I have begun read- ing philosophy for my Greats, I have had to go into all sorts of deep books — Mill, and Spencer, and Bain, and all kinds of fellows who really think about things, you know, down to the very bottom — and an awful truth begins to dawn upon me, that our Apostle is after all only a very third-rate type of a thinker. Now that, you know, is really terrible." " I don't see why," Meenie answered de- murely. She was beginning to get genuinely interested. " That is because you have never had to call THE BACKSLIDER. 169 in question a cherished and almost ingrown faith. You have never realized any similar cir- cumstances. Here am I, brought up by these good, honest, earnest people, with their own hard-earned money, as a pillar of their belief. I have been taught to look upon myself as the chosen advocate of their creed, and on the Apostle as an almost divinely inspired man. My whole life has been bound up in it ; I have worked and read night and day in order to pass high and do honor to the Church ; and now what do I begin to find the Church really is ? A petty group of poor, devoted, enthusiastic, ignorant people, led blindly by a decently in- structed but narrow-minded teacher, who has mixed up his own headstrong self-conceit and self-importance with his own peculiar ideas of abstract religion." Paul paused, half surprised at himself, for, though he had doubted before, he had never ventured till that day to formulate his doubts, even to himself, in such plain and straightforward language. ** I see," said Meenie, gravely ; *' you have come into a wider world ; you have mixed with wider ideas ; and the wider world has con- verted you, instead of your converting the world- Well, that is only natural. Others beside you have had to change their opinions." 170 THE BACKSLIDER. " Yes, yes ; but for me it is harder — oh ! so much harder." " Because you have looked forward to beings an Apostle ?" ** Miss Bolton, you do me injustice — not in what you say, but in the tone you say it in. No, it is not the giving up of the Apostleship that troubles me, though I did hope that I might help in my way to make the world a new earth ; but it is the shock and downfall of their hopes to all those good, earnest people, and especially — oh ! especially. Miss Bolton, to my own dear father and mother." His eyes filled with tears as he spoke. ** I can understand," said Meenie, sympathetic- ally, her eyes dimming a little in response. " They have set their hearts all their lives long on your accomplishing this work, and it will be to them the disappointment of a cherished romance." They looked at one another a few minutes in silence. ** How long have you begun to have your doubts ?" Meenie asked after a pause. " A long time, but most of all since I saw you. It has made me — it has made me hesitate more about the fundamental article of our faith. Even now, I am not sure whether it is not wrong THE BACKSLIDER. 171 of me to be talking so with you about such mat- ters." *' I see," said Meenie, a little more archly, " it comes perilously near " and she broke off, for she felt she had gone a step too far. ** Perilously near falling in love," Paul con- tinued boldly, turning his big eyes full upon her. "Yes, perilously near." Their eyes met ; Meenie's fell, and they said no more. But they both felt they understood one another. Just at that moment the Profes- sor's wife came up to interrupt the tete-h-tete ; "for that young Owen," she said to herself, "is really getting quite too confidential with dear Meenie." That same evening Paul paced up and down his rooms in Peckwater with all his soul strangely upheaved within him, and tossed and racked by a dozen conflicting doubts and pas- sions. Had he gone too far ? Had he yielded like Adam to the woman who beguiled him ? Had he given way like Samson to the snares of Delilah ? For the old Scripture phraseology and imagery, so long burned into his very na- ture, clung to him still in spite of all his falter- ing changes of opinion. Had he said more than he thought and felt about the Apostle ? Even if he was going to revise his views, was it right, was it candid, was it loyal to the truth that he 172 THE BACKSLIDER. should revise them under the biassing influence of Meenie's eyes ? If only he could have separ- ated the two questions — the Apostle's mission, and the something which he felt growing up within him ! But he could not — and, as he sus- pected, for a most excellent reason, because the two were intimately bound up in the very warp and woof of his existence. Nature was asserting herself against the religious asceticism of the Apostle ; it could not be so wrong for him to feel those feelings that had thrilled every heart in all his ancestors for innumerable genera- tions. He was in love with Meenie ; he knew that clearly now. And this love was after all not such a wicked and terrible feeling ; on the con- trary, he felt all the better and the purer for it already. But then that might merely be the horrible seductiveness of the thing. Was it not always typified by the cup of Circe, by the song of the Sirens, by all that was alluring and beau- tiful and hollow ? He paced up and down for half an hour, and then (he had sported his oak long ago) he lit his little reading lamp and sat down in the big chair by the bay window. Run- ning his eyes over his bookshelf, he took out, half by chance, Spencer's ** Sociology." Then from sheer weariness he read on for awhile, hardly heeding what he read. At last he got THE BAClCaLIDER. 173 interested, and finished a chapter. When he had finished it, he put the book down and felt that the struggle was over. Strange that side by side in the same world, in the same London, there should exist two such utterly different types of man as Herbert Spencer and the Gid- eonite Apostle. The last seemed to belong to the sixteenth century, the first to some new and hitherto uncreated social world. In an age which produced thinkers like that, how could he ever have mistaken the poor, bigoted, narrow, half-instructed Apostle for a divinely inspired teacher ? So far as Paul Owen was concerned, the Gideonite Church and all that belonged to it had melted utterly into thin air. Three days later, after the Eights in the early evening, Paul found an opportunity of speaking again alone with Meenie. He had taken their party on to the Christchurch barge to see the race, and he was strolling with them afterwards round the meadow walk by the bank of the Cherwell. Paul managed to get a little in front with Meenie, and entered at once upon the sub- ject of his late embarrassments. " I have thought it all over since, Miss Bol- ton," he said — he half hesitated whether he should say "Meenie" or not, and she was half disappointed that he didn't, for they were both very young, and very young people fall in love 174 THE BACKSLIDER. SO unaffectedly — " I have thought it all over, and I have come to the conclusion that there is no help for it ; I must break openly with the Church." " Of course," said Meenie, simply. ** That I understood." He smiled at her ingenuousness. vSuch a very forward young person ? And yet he liked it. •* Well, the next thing is, what to do about it. You see, I have really been obtaining my educa- tion, so to speak, under false pretences. I can't continue taking these good people's money after I have ceased to believe in their doctrines. I ought to have faced the question sooner. It was wrong of me to wait until — until it was forced upon me by other considerations." This time it was Meenie who blushed. " But you don't mean to leave Oxford without taking your degree ?" she asked quickly. *' No, I think it will be better not. To stop here and try for a fellowship is my best chance of repaying these poor people the money which I have taken from them for no purpose." " I never thought of that," said Meenie. " You are bound in honor to pay them back, of course." Paul liked the instantaneous honesty of that "of course." It marked the naturally honorable character ; for " of cour.se," too, they must wait THE BACKSLIDER. 175 to marry (young people jump so) till all that money was paid off. '* Fortunately," he said, " I have lived economically, and have not spent nearly as much as they guaranteed. I got scholarships up to a hundred a year of my own, and I only took a hundred a year of theirs. They offered me two hundred. But there's five years at a hundred, that makes five hundred pounds — a big debt to begin life with." ** Never mind," said Meenie. *' You will get a fellowship, and in a few years you can pay it off." '* Yes," said Paul, *' I can pay it off. But I can never pay off the hopes and aspirations I have blighted. I must become a schoolmaster, or a barrister, or something of that sort, and never repay them for their self-sacrifice and devotion in making me whatever I shall become. They may get back their money, but they will have lost their cherished Apostle forever." " Mr. Owen," Meenie answered solemnly, " the seal of the Apostolate lies far deeper than that. It was born in you, and no act of yours can shake it off." ** Meenie," he said, looking at her gently, with a changed expression — " Meenie, we shall have to wait many year a." " Never mind, Paul," she replied, as naturally as if he had been Paul to her all her life long 176 THE BACKSLIDER. " I can wait if you can. Rut what will you do for the immediate present ?'' " I have my scholarship," he said ; *' I can get on partly upon that ; and then I can take pupils ; and I have only one year more of it." So before they parted that night it was all well understood between them that Paul was to declare his defection from the Church at the earliest opportunity ; that he was to live as best he might till he could take his degree ; that he was then to pay off all the back debt ; and that after all these things he and Meenie might get comfortably married whenever they v/ere able. As to the Rector and his wife, or any other pa- rental authorities, they both left them out in the cold as wholly as young people always do leave their elders out on all similar occasions. " Maria's a born fool !" said the Rector to his wife a week after Meenie's return ; " I always knew she was a fool, but I never knew she was quite such a fool as to permit a thing like this. So far as I can get it out of Edie, and so far as Edie can get it out of Meenie, I understand that she has allowed Meenie to go and get herself engaged to some Dissenter fellow, a Shaker, era Mormon, or a Communist, or something of the sort, who is the son of a common laborer, and has been sent up to Oxford, Tom tells me, by his own sect, to be made into a gentleman, so as to THE BACKSLIDER. 177 give some sort or color of respectability to their absurd doctrines. I shall send the girl to town at once to Emily's, and she shall stop there all next season, to see if she can't manage to get engaged to some young man in decent society at any rate." 178 THE BACKSLIDER. III. When Paul Owen returned to Peckham for the long vacation, it was with a heavy heart that he ventured back slowly to his father's cottage. Margaret Owen had put everything straight and neat in the little living room, as she always did, to welcome home her son who had grown into a gentleman ; and honest John stood at the threshold beaming with pleasure to wring Paul's hand in his firm grip, just back unwashed from his day's labor. After the first kissings and greetings were over, John Owen said rather solemnly, '' I have bad news for you, Paul. The Apostle is sick, even unto death." When Paul heard that, he was sorely tempted to put off the disclosure for the present ; but he felt he must not. So that same night, as they sat together in the dusk near the window where the geraniums stood, he began to unburden his whole mind, gently and tentatively, so as to spare their feelings as much as possible, to his father and mother. He told them how, since he went to Oxford, he had learned to think some- what differently about many things ; how his THE BACKSLIDER. 170 ideas had gradually deepened and broadened ; how he had begun to inquire into fundamentals for himself ; how he had feared that the Gide- onites took too much for granted, and reposed too implicitly on the supposed critical learning of their Apostle. As he spoke his mother listened in tearful silence ; but his father murmured from time to time, *' I was afeard of this already, Paul ; I seen it coming, now and again, long ago." There was pity and regret in his tone, but not a shade of reproachfulness. At last, however, Paul came to speak, timidly and reservedly, of Meenie. Then his father's eye began to flash a little, and his breath came deeper and harder. When Paul told him briefly that he was engaged to her, the strong man could stand it no longer. He rose up in right- eous wrath, and thrust his son at arm's length from him. " What !" he cried fiercely, ** yen don't mean to tell me you have fallen into sin and looked upon the daughters of Midian ! It was no Scriptural doubts that druv you on, then, but the desire of the flesh and the lust of the eyes that has lost you ! You dare to stand up there, Paul, Owen, and tell me that you throw over the Church and the Apostle for the sake of a gill, like a poor, niserable Samson ! You are no son of mine, and I have nothin' more to say to you." 180 THE BACKSLIDER. But Margaret Owen put her hand on his shoulder and said softly, " John, let us hear him out." And John, recalled by that gentle touch, listened once more. Then Paul pleaded his case powerfully again. He quoted Scripture to them ; he argued with them, after their own fashion, and down to their own comprehension, text by text ; he pitted his own critical and exegetical faculty against the Apostle's. Last of all, he turned to his mother, who, tearful still and heartbroken with disappointment, yet looked admiringly upon her learned, eloquent boy, and said to her tenderly, " Remember, mother, you yourself were once in love. You yourself once stood, night after night, leaning on the gate, waiting with your heart beating for a footstep that you knew so well. You yourself once counted the days and the hours and the minutes till the next meeting came." And Margaret Owen, touched to the heart by that simple appeal, kissed him fevently a dozen times over, the hot tears dropping on his cheek meanwhile ; and then, contrary to all the rules of their austere Church, she flung her arms round her husband too, and kissed him passion- ately the first time for twenty years, with all the fervor of a floodgate loosed. Paul Owen s apostolate had surely borne its first fruit. The father stood for a moment in doubt and THE BACKSLIDER. 181 terror, like one stunned or dazed, and then, in a moment of sudden remembrance, stepped for- ward and returned the kiss. The spell was broken, and the Apostle's power was no more. What else passed in the cottage that night, when John Owen fell upon his kness and wrestled in spirit, was too wholly internal to the man's own soul for telling here. Next day John and Mar- garet Owen felt the dream of their lives was gone ; but the mother in her heart rejoiced to think her boy might know the depths of love, and might bring home a real lady for his wife. On Sunday it was rumored that the Apos- tle's ailment was very serious ; but young Brother Paul Owen would address the Churcn. He did so, though not exactly in the way the Church expected. He told them simply and plainly how he had changed his views about cer- tain matters ; how he thanked them from his heart for the loan of their money (he was careful to emphasize the word loan)^ which had helped him to carry on his education at Oxford ; and how he would repay them the principal and in- terest, though he could never repay them the kindness, at the earliest possible opportunity. He was so grave, so earnest, so transparently true, that, in spite of the downfall of their dear- est hopes, he carried the whole meeting with him, all save one man. That man was Job 182 THE BACKSLIDER. Grimshaw. Job rose from his place with a look of undisguised triumph, as soon as Paul had fin- ished, and, mounting the platform quietly, said his say. " I knew, Episcops, Presbyters, and Brethren," he began, " how this 'ere young man would finish. I saw it the day he was appinted. He's flush- ing up now the same as he flushed up then when 1 spoke to him ; and it ain't sperritual, it's worldly pride and headstrongness, that's what it is. He's had our money and he's had his eddi- cation, and now he's going to round on us, just as I said he would. It's all very well talking about paying us back ; how's a young man like him to get five hundred pounds, I should like to know. And if he did even, what sort o' repay- ment would that be to many of the brethren, who've saved and scraped ,for five year to let him live like a gentleman among the great and the mighty o' Midian ? He's got his eddication out of us, and he can keep that whatever hap- pens, and make a living out of it, too ; and now he's going back on us same as I said he would, and, having got all he can out of the Church, he's going to chuck it away like a sucked orange. I detest such backsliding and such ungrateful- ness." Paul's cup of humiliation was full, but he bit THE BACKSLIDER. 183 his lip till the blood almost came, and made no answer. " He boasted in his own strength," Job went on mercilessly, *' that he wasn't going to be a backslider, and he wasn't going to sign no bond, and he wasn't going to confer with us, but we must trust his honor and honesty, and such like. I've got his very words written down in my notebook 'ere ; for I made a note of 'em fore- seeing this. If we'd 'a' bound him down, as I proposed, he wouldn't 'a' dared to go backsliding and rounding on us, and making up to the daughters of Midian, as I don't doubt but what he's been doing." Paul's tell-tale face showed him at once that he had struck by accident on the right chord. But if he ever goes bringing a daughter of Midian here to Peckham," Job con- tinued, *' we'll show her these very notes, and ask her what she thinks of such dishonorable conduct. The Apostle's dying, that's clear ; and before he dies I warrant he shall know this treachery." Paul could not stand that last threat. Though he had lost faith in the Apostle as an Apostle, he could never forget the allegiance he had once borne him as a father, or the spell which his powerful individuality had once thrown around him as a teacher. To have embittered that man's dying bed with the shadow of a ter- rible disappointment would be to Paul a life- 184 THE BACKSLIDER. long sr'' iect of deep remorse. " I did not intend to open .ny mouth in answer to you, Mr. Grim- shaw," he said (for the first time breaking through the customary address of Brother), *' but I pray you, I entreat you, I beseech you, not to harass the Apostle in his last moments with such a subject." " Oh, yes, I suppose so," Job Grimshaw an- swered maliciously, all the ingrained coarseness of the man breaking out in the wrinkles of his face. " No wonder you don't want him enlight- ened about your goings on with the daughters of Midian, when you must know as well as I do that his life ain't worth a day's purchase, and that he's a man of independent means, and has left you every penny he's got in his will, because he believes you're a fit successor to the Aposto- late. I know it, for I signed as a witness, and I read it through, being a short one, while the other witness was signing. And you must know it as well as I do. I suppose you don't think he'll make another will now ; but there's time enough to burn that one anyhow." Paul Owen stood aghast at the vulgar base- ness of which this lewd fellow supposed him capable. He had never thought of it before ; and yet it flashed across his mind in a moment how obvious it was now. Of course the Apostle would leave him his money. He was being THE BACKSLIDER. 185 educated for the Apostolate, and the Apostolate could not be carried on without the sinews of war. But that Job Grimshaw should think him guilty of angling for the Apostle's money, and then throwing the Church overboard — the bare notion of it was so horrible to him that he could not even hold up his head to answer the taunt. He sat down and buried his crimson face in his hands ; and Job Grimshaw, taking up his hat sturdily., with the air of a man who has to per- form an unpleasant duty, left the meeting- room abruptly without another word. There was a gloomy Sunday dinner that morning in the mason's cottage, and nobody seemed much inclined to speak in any way. But as they were in the midst of their solemn meal, a neighbor who was also a Gideonite came in hurriedly. It's all over," he said, breathless — " all over with us and with the Church. The Apostle is dead. He died this morning." Margaret Owen found voice to ask, '* Before Job Grimshaw saw him ?" The neighbor nodded, *' Yes." *' Thank heaven for that ?" cried Paul. '' Then he did not die misunderstanding me !" *' And you'll get his money," added the neigh- bor, " for I was the other witness." Paul drew a long breath. " I wish Meenie W^as here," he said, " I must see her about this," 186 THE BACKSLIDBB. IV. A FEW days later the Apostle was buried, and his will was read over before the assembled Church. By earnest persuasion of his father, Paul consented to be present, though he feared another humiliation from Job Grimshaw. But two days before he had taken the law into his own hands, by writing to Meenie, at her aunt's in Eaton Place ; and that very indiscreet young lady, in response, had actually consented to meet him in Kensington Gardens alone the next afternoon. There he sat with her on one of the benches by the Serpentine, and talked the whole matter over with her to his heart's content. " If the money is really left to me," he said, " I must in honor refuse it. It was left to me to carry on the Apostolate, and I can't take it on any other ground. But what ought I to do with it ? I can't give it over to the Church, for in three days there will be no Church left to give ' it to. What shall I do with it ?" " Why," said Meenie, thoughtfully, " if I were you I should do this. First, pay back everybody who contributed towards your support in full, THE BACKSLIDER. 187 principal and interest ; then borrow from the remainder as much as you require to complete your Oxford course ; and finally pay back all that and the other money to the fund when you are able, and hand it over for the purpose of doing some good work in Peckham itself, where your Church was originally founded. If the ideal can't be fulfilled, let the money do some- thing good for the actual." *' You are quite right, Meenie," said Paul, " except in one particular. I will not borrow from the fund for my own support. I will not touch a penny of it, temporarily or permanently, for myself in any way. If it comes to me, I shall make it over to trustees at once for some good object, as you suggest, and shall borrow from them five hundred pounds to repay my own poor people, giving the trustees my bond to repay the fund hereafter. I shall fight my own battle henceforth unaided." " You will do as you ought to do, Paul, and I am proud of it." So next morning, when the meeting took place, Paul felt somewhat happier in his own mind as to the course he should pursue with reference to Job Grimshaw. The Senior Episcop opened and read the last will and testament of Arthur Murgess, attorney- at-law. It provided in a few words that all his 188 THE BACK8LIDKR. estate, real and personal, should pass unreserv- edly to his friend, Paul Owen, of Christchurch, Oxford. It was whispered about that, besides the house and grounds, the personality might be sworn at ^^8,000, a vast sum to those simple people. When the reading was finished, Paul rose and addressed the assembly. He told them briefly the plan he had formed, and insisted on his de- termination that not a penny of the money should be put to his own uses. He would face the world for himself, and thanks to their kindness he could face it easily enough. He would still earn and pay back all that he owed them. He would use the fund, first for the good of those who had been members of the Church, and afterwards for the good of the people of Peck- ham generally. And he thanked them from the bottom of his heart for the kindness they had shown him. Even Job Grimshaw could only mutter to himself that this was not sperritual grace but mere worldly pride and stubbornness, lest the lad should betray his evil designs, which had thus availed him nothing. " He has lost his own soul and wrecked the Church for the sake of the money," Job said, " and now he dassn't touch a farden of it." ^ Next John Owen rose and said slowly, THtt BACltSLTDER. 189 *• Friends, it seems to me we may as well all confess that this Church has gone to pieces. I can't stop in it myself any longer, for I see it's clear agin nature, and what's agin nature can't be true." And though the assembly said nothing, it was plain that there were many waverers in the little body whom the affairs of the last week had shaken sadly in their simple faith. Indeed, as a matter of fact, before the end of the month the Gideonite Church had melted away, member by member, till nobody at all was left of the whole assembly but Job Grimshaw. " My dear," said the rector to his wife a few weeks, later, laying down his Illustrated^ " this is really a very curious thing. That young fellow, Owen, of Christchurch, that Meenie fancied her- self engaged to, has just come into a little landed property and eight or nine thousand pounds on his own account. He must be better connected than Tom imagines. Perhaps we might make inquiries about him after all. The Rector did make inquiries in the course of the week, and with such results that he turned to the rectory in blank amazement. " That fel- low's mad, Amelia," he said, " stark mad, if ever anybody was. The leader of his Little Bethel, or Ebenezer, or whatever it may be, has left him all his property absolutely, without conditions j 190 THE BA^OKSLIDER. and the idiot of a bo)' declares he won't touch a penny of it, because he's ceased to believe in their particular shibboleth, and he thinks the leader wanted him to succeed him. Very right and proper of him, of course, to leave the sect if he can't reconcile it with his conscience, but per- fectly Quixotic of him to give up the money and beggar himself outright. Even if his connection was otherwise desirable (which it is far from being), it would be absurd to think of letting Meenie marry such a ridiculous hair-brained fellow." Paul and Meenie, however, went their own way, as young people often will, in spite of the Rector. Paul returned next term to Oxford, penniless, but full of resolution, and by dint of taking pupils managed to eke out his scholorship for the next year. At the end of that time he took his first in Greats, and shortly after gained a fellowship. From the very first day he began saving money to pay off that dead weight of five hundred pounds. The kindly ex-Gideonites had mostly protested against his repaying them at all, but in vain ; Paul would not make his entry into life, he said, under false pretences. It was a hard pull, but he did it. He took pupils, he lectured, he wrote well and vigorously for the press, he worked late and early with volcanic energy ; and by the end of three years he had THE BACKSLIDER. 191 not only saved the whole of the sum advanced by the Gideonites, but had also begun to put away a little nest-egg against his marriage with Meenie. And when the editor of a great morn- ing paper in London offered him a permanent place upon the staff, at a large salary, he actually went down to Worcestershire, saw the formid- able Rector himself in his own parish, and demanded Meenie outright in marriage. And the Rector observed to his wife that this young Owen seemed a well-behaved and amiable young man ; that after all. one needn't know anything about his relations if one didn't like ; and that as Meenie had quite made up her mind, and was as headstrong as a mule, there was no use try- ing to oppose her any longer. Down in Peckham, where Paul Owen lives, and is loved by half the poor of the district, no one has forgotten who was the real founder of the Murgess Institute, which does so much good in encouraging thrift, and is so admirably man- aged by the founder and his wife. He would take a house nowhere but at Peckham, he said. To the Peckham people he owed his education, and for the Peckham people he would watch the working of his little Institute. There is no bet- ter work being done anywhere in that great squalid desert, the east and southeast of Lon- don ; there is no influence more magnetic than 192f THE BACKSLIDEK. the founder s. John and Margaret Owen have recovered their hopes for their boy, only they run now in another and more feasible direction ; and those who witness the good that is being done by the Institute among the poor of Peck- ham, or who have read that remarkable and brilliant economical work lately published on " The Future of Co-operation in the East End, by P. O.," venture to believe that Meenie was right after all, and that even the great social world itself has not yet heard the last of young Paul Owen's lay apostolate. THE END.