A Son of the Sahara Part 26

"It's a woman's privilege to change her mind."

Pansy grasped at the old adage; but to her a promise was a promise, not lightly given or lightly s.n.a.t.c.hed away. So she did not derive much comfort from dwelling on the old saw.

She was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees and frowning in dire perplexity when her maid came in with the early morning tea. And the frown was there when the woman came to say her bath was ready.

A thoughtful mood enveloped her during her dressing. And out of her musing this note was born:--

"My Dearest Raoul,

I can call you that because you are dearer to me than any one on this earth, dearest beyond all things except my liberty. Do not be horrid and cross when I say I cannot marry you, in spite of all I promised last night. Not for ten years at least. And even then I cannot bind myself in any way, for I might be still hankering after freedom. I do love you really, more than anything in the whole wide world except my independence.

You must not be too hard on me, Raoul. I am not quite the same as other women. It is not every girl of twenty who is her own mistress, with 60,000 a year to do what she likes with. It has made life seem so vast, matrimony such a cramped, everyday affair. And I do not want to handicap myself in any way.

This letter sounds awfully selfish, I know. I am not selfish really.

Only I love my liberty. It is the one thing that is dearer to me than you.

Always your loving PANSY."

When the letter was written, Pansy suddenly remembered she did not know his address.

Once satisfied that he was disinterested, she had bothered about nothing else. And after that one day spent among the red roses he had become something quite apart from the rest of the world, not to be gossiped about to mere people.

However, she knew that twenty pesetas given to the hall-porter would ensure the note reaching its destination. The hotel staff would know where he was staying, even if she did not.

Because the note was to Le Breton, Pansy took it down herself and gave it to the hall-porter. When this was done she wandered as far as the spot where she had made her fleeting vows, to see how it looked by daylight.

She lingered there for some minutes, and then returned to her suite.

In the interval a message had come from Le Breton.

It stood on one of the little tables of her sitting-room--a huge gilded wicker basket full of half-blown, red roses. In the midst of the flowers a packet reposed, tied with red ribbon.

Pansy opened the package.

Inside was the gold casket she had once refused. It was filled with purple pansies, still wet with dew. On them a ring reposed, with one huge sapphire, deeply blue as her own eyes.

There was a note in with the flowers, written in a strong masculine hand.

With a flutter about her heart, Pansy picked it out and read it:--

"Heart's Ease, My Own Dear Little Girl,

This little gift comes to you with all my love, my heart, my soul, my very life indeed, given forever into your keeping.

A week ago, if anyone had told me I should write such words to a woman, I should have laughed at them. Until meeting you I did not know what love was. I had no idea one woman could be so satisfying. In you I have found the heaven I have been searching for all my life. My one houri, and she all-sufficing--my little English flower, so sweet and winsome, so kind and wayward, so teasing and yet so tender, who has brought a new fragrance into my life, a peace my soul has never known till now, a love and grat.i.tude into my heart that will keep me hers for ever.

Your devoted lover now and through all eternity.

RAOUL LE BRETON."

As Pansy read the note her lips trembled.

She wished she had never tasted of the sweets of liberty and independence; that the grand-G.o.dfather had not left her his millions.

She wished she was Pansy Barclay again, a mere girl, not one with enormous riches luring her towards all sorts of goals where love was not. Just Pansy Barclay, who could have met his love with kisses and not a cruel counter note.

CHAPTER XV

Considering it was nearly two in the morning before Le Breton would let Pansy out of his arms, he did not expect her to be out and about at six o'clock for her usual ride. Nevertheless, he looked in at the hotel at that hour and then rode on, indulging in blissful daydreams.

He knew Pansy had no idea who he really was. He was prepared to marry her according to her creed, for her sake to put aside the fierce profligate religion the late Sultan Casim Ammeh had instilled into him.

And he was prepared to do very much more than this.

In spite of his colossal pride in his sultanship and his desert kingdom, he knew that if Pansy got an inkling of that side of his life his case would be hopeless. His one idea was to keep all knowledge of the supposed Arab strain in him from her. The sultanship could go, his kingdom be but a source of income. He would buy a house in Paris.

They would settle down there, and he would become wholly the European she imagined him to be.

Full of a future that held nothing but the English girl to whom; he was betrothed, and a desire to keep from her all knowledge of his dark, savage heritage, at least until it would be too late for her to draw back, Le Breton rode on, rejoicing in the early morning freshness that reminded him of the girl he loved.

On returning to the villa he interviewed the head gardener. Then he went to the library to write a note and tie up the package he was sending to Pansy; and from there down to breakfast, a solitary meal with no companion save a few purple pansies smiling at him from a crystal vase.

As he sat at his light repast one of his Arab servants entered with a note on a beaten-gold salver.

Le Breton took it.

On the envelope was just his name, written in a pretty, girlish hand.

Although he had never seen Pansy's writing before, he guessed it was hers. A tender smile hovered about his hard mouth as he opened it.

What had she to say to him, this slim, winsome girl, who held his fierce heart in her small white hands? Some fond reply, no doubt, in return for his gifts and flowers. Thanks and words of love that she could not keep until he went round to see her.

There were many things Le Breton expected of Pansy, but certainly not the news the note contained.

He read it through, unable to believe what he saw written before him.

And as he read his face lost all its tender, caressing look and took on, instead, a savage, incredulous expression.

Women had always come to him easily, as easily as Pansy herself had come. But they had not withdrawn themselves again: he had done the withdrawing.

For some moments he just stared at the note.

He, flouted and scorned and played with by a girl! He, to whom all women were but toys! He, the Sultan of El-Ammeh!

Le Breton was like one plunged suddenly into an icy cold bath.