A Son of the Sahara Part 32

There was very little George Barclay ever refused his daughter. On this occasion, he did make some sort of stand.

"Gambia is no place for you, my darling. There's nothing there to amuse and interest a young girl."

"Perhaps not," Pansy said as she took off her hat and gloves, watching him with a rather set smile. "But I don't care where I go so long as I can be with you and get away from myself."

Her words made Barclay look at her sharply.

To want to get away from one's self was a feeling he could understand and sympathise with, only too well. But to hear such a sentiment on his daughter's lips surprised and hurt him.

"My little girl, what has happened?" he asked gently.

Pansy laughed again, but there was a sharp catch of pain in her mirth.

"I think my heart is broken, that's all," she said with a would-be casual air.

Barclay did not wait to hear any more at that moment. He drew her down on to a couch and sat there with his arm about her.

"My poor little girl," he whispered. "Tell me all about it."

Pansy laid her head on his shoulder, and smiled at him with lips that trembled woefully.

"It's n.o.body's fault but my own, Daddy," she said. "I brought it on myself with my silly, impetuous ways. And it serves me right for hankering after strange men, and not being content with my old father."

For all her light talk Barclay knew something serious had happened. To him his daughter was but a new edition of a well-read book; the girl was her mother over again.

There was a brief pause as Sir George sat watching his child, stroking her curls with a thin, affectionate hand, wondering what tragedy had come into this bright, young life.

"Hearts are silly things, aren't they?" Pansy said suddenly. "Soft, flabby, squashy sort of things that get hurt easily if you don't keep a sharp eye on them. And I'd so many things to keep an eye on that I forgot all about mine. Hearts ought not to be left without protection.

They should have iron rails put round them to keep all trespa.s.sers off, like the rails we put round the trees in the park to keep the cattle from hurting them."

There was a further pause, and a little sniff. Then Pansy said:

"Father, lend me your handkerchief, I know it's a nice big one. I believe I'm going to cry. For the first time since it happened. It must be seeing you again. And I shall cry a lot on your coat, and perhaps spoil it. But, since it's me, I know you won't mind."

Sir George drew out a handkerchief.

"I was walking along in heaven with my head up and my nose in the air,"

the sweet, hurt voice explained, "blissfully happy because he was there. There was a hole in the floor of heaven and I never saw it.

And I fell right through, crash, bang, right down to earth again. A rotten old earth with all the fun gone out of it. And I'm awfully sore and bruised, and the shock has injured my heart. It has never been the same since and will never be the same again, because ... because, I did love him, awfully."

As she talked Sir George watched her with affection and concern, his heart aching for this slim, beautiful daughter of his, to whom love had come as a tragedy.

"Oh, Daddy," she said, tears choking her voice, "why is life so hard?"

Then the storm broke.

Sir George listened to her sobs, as with a gentle hand he stroked the golden curls. All the time he wondered who was responsible for her tears, who had broken the heart of his cherished daughter.

He went over the mult.i.tude of men she knew. But he never gave one thought to the savage boy who, sixteen years before, had scarred his face--the Sultan Casim Ammeh.

CHAPTER XXI

In a fashionable London hotel a little party of three sat at dinner.

The dining-room was a large place, full of well-dressed people. It was bright with electric light, and under a cover of greenery a band played not too loudly.

Among the crowd of diners none seemed better known than the girl with the short, golden curls who sat with the thin, studious-looking man and the fresh-faced, fair-haired boy. Very often lorgnettes were turned in her direction; for, when in town, no girl was more sought after than Pansy Langham.

As Pansy sat with her father and Captain Cameron a man who had been sitting at the far end of the room came to their table, greeting all three with the air of an old acquaintance.

Afterwards he turned to Cameron.

"Well, and how's tennis? Are you still champion in your own little way?" he asked.

"To tell you the truth, Dennis," Cameron answered, "in Grand Canary one man gave me a thorough licking. And he was a rank outsider too!"

"How pleased you must have felt. Who was your executioner?"

"A man of the name of Le Breton. A French millionaire."

Dennis laughed in a disparaging manner.

"French he calls himself, does he? That's like his cheek. I met him once in Paris, a haughty sort of customer who thinks the whole world is run for him. He's a half-breed really, for all his money and his high-handed ways."

The conversation had taken a turn that held a fearsome interest for Pansy. But to hear Raoul Le Breton described as a half-breed was a shock and surprise to her.

"Mr. Le Breton a half-caste!" she exclaimed.

Dennis glanced at her.

"Where did you drop across him?" he asked sharply.

"In Grand Canary also."

"Well, the less you have to do with 'sich' the better," he said in a brotherly way. "He's a hot lot. The very devil. No sort of a pal for a girl like you."

"I thought he was French," Pansy said in a strained voice.

"He poses as such, but he isn't. He's a n.i.g.g.e.r cross, French-Arab.

And what's more he's a Mohammedan."

"You're a trifle sweeping, Dennis," Sir George interposed. "If you'd dealt with coloured people as much as I have, you'd know there was a great difference between a n.i.g.g.e.r and an Arab. An Arab in his own way is a gentleman. And his religion has a great resemblance to our own.

He is not a naked devil-worshipper like the negro."

Pansy welcomed her father's intervention. At that moment her world was crashing into even greater ruins around her.