"Perhaps they do. Yes; I can imagine that Father Roubier of Beni-Mora might, though he is a good man and leads a saintly life."
"Those are sometimes the most cruel. They do not understand."
"Perhaps not. It may be so. But this priest--he"s not like that."
She thought of his genial, bearded face, his expression when he said, "We are ruffians of the sun," including himself with the desert men, his boisterous laugh.
"His fault might be the other way."
"Which way?"
"Too great a tolerance."
"Can a man be too tolerant towards his fellow-man?" said Androvsky.
There was a strange sound of emotion in his deep voice which moved her.
It seemed to her--why, she did not know--to steal out of the depth of something their mutual love had created.
"The greatest of all tolerance is G.o.d"s," she said. "I"m sure--quite sure--of that."
Androvsky came in out of the shadow of the tent, took her in his arms with pa.s.sion, laid his lips on hers with pa.s.sion, hot, burning force and fire, and a hard tenderness that was hard because it was intense.
"G.o.d will bless you," he said. "G.o.d will bless you. Whatever life brings you at the end you must--you must be blessed by Him."
"But He has blessed me," she whispered, through tears that rushed from her eyes, stirred from their well-springs by his sudden outburst of love for her. "He has blessed me. He has given me you, your love, your truth."
Androvsky released her as abruptly as he had taken her in his arms, turned, and went out into the desert.
CHAPTER XXIV
True to his promise, on the following day the priest called to inquire after Androvsky"s health. He happened to come just before _dejeuner_ was ready, and met Androvsky on the sand before the tent door.
"It"s not fever then, Monsieur," he said, after they had shaken hands.
"No, no," Androvsky replied. "I am quite well this morning."
The priest looked at him closely with an unembarra.s.sed scrutiny.
"Have you been long in the desert, Monsieur?" he asked.
"Some weeks."
"The heat has tired you. I know the look--"
"I a.s.sure you, Monsieur, that I am accustomed to heat. I have lived in North Africa all my life."
"Indeed. And yet by your appearance I should certainly suppose that you needed a change from the desert. The air of the Sahara is magnificent, but there are people--"
"I am not one of them," Androvsky said abruptly. "I have never felt so strong physically as since I have lived in the sand."
The priest still looked at him closely, but said nothing further on the subject of health. Indeed, almost immediately his attention was distracted by the apparition of Ouardi bearing dishes from the cook"s tent.
"I am afraid I have called at a very unorthodox time," he remarked, looking at his watch; "but the fact is that here in Amara we--"
"I hope you will stay to _dejeuner_," Androvsky said.
"It is very good of you. If you are certain that I shall not put you out."
"Please stay."
"I will, then, with pleasure."
He moved his lips expectantly, as if only a sense of politeness prevented him from smacking them. Androvsky went towards the sleeping-tent, where Domini, who had been into the city, was washing her hands.
"The priest has called," he said. "I have asked him to _dejeuner_."
She looked at him with frank astonishment in her dark eyes.
"You--Boris!"
"Yes, I. Why not?"
"I don"t know. But generally you hate people."
"He seems a good sort of man."
She still looked at him with some surprise, even with curiosity.
"Have you taken a fancy to a priest?" she asked, smiling.
"Why not? This man is very different from Father Roubier, more human."
"Father Beret is very human, I think," she answered.
She was still smiling. It had just occurred to her that the priest had timed his visit with some forethought.
"I am coming," she added.
A sudden cheerfulness had taken possession of her. All the morning she had been feeling grave, even almost apprehensive, after a bad night.
When her husband had abruptly left her and gone away into the darkness she had been overtaken by a sudden wave of acute depression. She had felt, more painfully than ever before, the mental separation which existed between them despite their deep love, and a pa.s.sionate but almost hopeless longing had filled her heart that in all things they might be one, not only in love of each other, but in love of G.o.d. When Androvsky had taken his arms from her she had seemed to feel herself released by a great despair, and this certainty--for as he vanished into the darkness she was no more in doubt that his love for her left room within his heart for such an agony--had for a moment brought her soul to the dust. She had been overwhelmed by a sensation that instead of being close together they were far apart, almost strangers, and a great bitterness had entered into her. It was accompanied by a desire for action. She longed to follow Androvsky, to lay her hand on his arm, to stop him in the sand and force him to confide in her. For the first time the idea that he was keeping something from her, a sorrow, almost maddened her, even made her feel jealous. The fact that she divined what that sorrow was, or believed she divined it, did not help her just then.
She waited a long while, but Androvsky did not return, and at last she prayed and went to bed. But her prayers were feeble, disjointed, and sleep did not come to her, for her mind was travelling with this man who loved her and who yet was out there alone in the night, who was deliberately separating himself from her. Towards dawn, when he stole into the tent, she was still awake, but she did not speak or give any sign of consciousness, although she was hot with the fierce desire to spring up, to throw her arms round him, to draw his head down upon her heart, and say, "I have given myself, body, heart and soul, to you. Give yourself to me; give me the thing you are keeping back--your sorrow.
Till I have that I have not all of you. And till I have all of you I am in h.e.l.l."
It was a mad impulse. She resisted it and lay quite still. And when he lay down and was quiet she slept at length.
Now, as she heard him speak in the sunshine and knew that he had offered hospitality to the comfortable priest her heart suddenly felt lighter, she scarcely knew why. It seemed to her that she had been a little morbid, and that the cloud which had settled about her was lifted, revealing the blue.