A Son of the Sahara Part 62

"Did you give that note of mine to my father?" she asked.

A trifle askance, he glanced at her.

"No, I didn't," he confessed.

Pansy was past being angry with him; she was just sorely wounded in soul and mind at his doings.

This must have showed on her face, for he went on quickly:

"You can send another and I promise it'll be delivered. Not only that, but that your father and friends will be well treated. Among other things, Pansy, you've taken the edge off my vengeance."

He paused, leaning over her he said:

"I'm granting you all these favours, but what are you going to do for me?"

Pansy wanted nothing now but to get away from him, right away, beyond his reach, but not because she hated him.

"Just for a moment, my little English flower, will you rest upon my heart?" he asked in a soft, caressing voice. "There's no savagery left in me when you're there of your own accord."

He held out his arms, waiting to complete the bargain. But she moved away quickly.

"Oh, no," she said, alarm in her voice.

He laughed.

"You've never been afraid of me before, why are you now, Pansy? Are you afraid you might love me?"

"How could I love anyone so depraved?" she asked.

But her voice was quavering, not scornful as she intended it to be.

"Depraved! So that's what I am now, is it? Well, it's all point of view, I suppose. And it's one degree better than saying you hate me."

He turned towards the desk, and drew out paper and envelopes.

"Write your letter, my little girl," he finished.

Pansy sat down.

As she wrote to her father, in her heart was a wish that she had been left undisturbed in her fool's paradise, that she had married Raoul Le Breton at the end of a month, knowing nothing about him except that she loved him.

Once he was her husband, if she had learnt the truth, she would not have had to fight against herself and him. There would have been only one course left open to her--to do her utmost to make a better man of him. And circ.u.mstances had shown her that in her hands the task would have been an easy one.

CHAPTER XXV

When Sir George Barclay returned to prison, he was a broken man. His officers were surprised to see him back alive, and anxious to hear what had occurred. But a day or two pa.s.sed before he was able to talk about what had happened. And always before him was the b.e.s.t.i.a.l figure of the miser feather merchant, into whose hands he imagined his daughter had fallen.

When he told the story of her sale a strained silence fell on his officers. A silence that Cameron broke.

"The d.a.m.ned brute," he said in a wild, heart-broken way, "and he knew her in Grand Canary."

The fact of Pansy's acquaintance with the Sultan Casim Ammeh, Barclay had learnt from Cameron in the early days of their capture. The younger man immediately had recognised the Sultan as the Raoul Le Breton, who when out of Africa posed as a French millionaire.

"He's worse than a savage," one of the other officers put in, "since he knows better."

Sir George had nothing to say, once the story was told. Pansy's fate was always before him; an agony that chased him into dreams, compared with which his own death would have been as nothing.

One morning about ten days after the sale of slaves, one of the Arab guards brought him a letter.

To his amazement, he saw his daughter's writing on the envelope.

With trembling fingers he opened it, wondering how she had managed to get a message through to him, with a prayer in his heart that by some miracle she might have escaped her horrible fate.

"No one knows better than I how you must have suffered on my account.

I tried to get a letter through to you before, but I have just heard it never reached you, so I am sending another.

I was not sold that day in the slave-market. The Sultan never intended to sell me. He only sent me there and made a pretence of selling me in order to hurt you.

I am in the palace here, and no one could be better treated than I am.

I asked the Sultan to let you all go back to Gambia, but he will not consent to that. But he has promised that you all will be well treated.

You must not worry because of me. It is not as if the Sultan and I were strangers. I met him in Grand Canary, but I did not know who he really was then--he was pa.s.sing under a French name.

It is very difficult to know what to say to cheer you up. I know you will worry whatever I say. I am quite safe here, and no harm will happen to me. I cannot bear to think of you worrying, and you must try not to do so for my sake.

Your loving daughter, PANSY."

As George Barclay read through the letter, it seemed to him that he knew what had happened. The girl had bartered herself in exchange for his life and the lives of her friends.

He tried to gather what cold comfort he could by keeping the picture of the Sultan before him as he had last seen him, big and handsome, in his khaki riding suit, looking thoroughly European. At least the man who had his daughter was a king, if a barbaric one, and civilised to a certain extent. She had not fallen into the clutches of that grimy, naked, foaming wretch, as he had imagined. And the knowledge eased his tortured spirit considerably.

CHAPTER XXVI

After that interview with her captor Pansy's life rapidly developed into one long struggle between inclination and upbringing.

She knew she loved the Sultan, but all her standards revolted against marrying him. She could not bear to think about the wild past that was his, but she equally could not bear to think that he might fall into sin again when hers was the power to prevent him.

What was more, she knew he had guessed her love for him, and was doing his best to make her succ.u.mb to his attractions.

After that one interview she was not allowed out of the sensual, scented precincts of the harem. She had no occupation, no amus.e.m.e.nts, no books even. Nothing to do all day except just think about her lover and fight her battle.