the garden of allah-第3章

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Rens　to　pervert　her　to　his　own　Atheism。　His　mind　had　been　so　warped　by
the　agony　of　his　heart　that　he　had　come　to　feel　as　if　by　tearing　his
only　child　from　the　religion　he　had　been　led　to　by　the　greatest　sinner
he　had　known；　he　would　be；　in　some　degree　at　least；　purifying　his　life
tarnished　by　his　wife's　conduct；　raising　again　a　little　way　the　pride
she　had　trampled　in　the　dust。

Her　uncle；　Father　Arlworth；　helped　Domini　by　his　support　and　counsel
in　this　critical　period　of　her　life；　and　Lord　Rens　in　time　ceased　from
the　endeavour　to　carry　his　child　with　him　as　companion　in　his　tragic
journey　from　love　and　belief　to　hatred　and　denial。　He　turned　to　the
violent　occupations　of　despair；　and　the　last　years　of　his　life　were
hideous　enough；　as　the　world　knew　and　Domini　sometimes　suspected。　But
though　Domini　had　resisted　him　she　was　not　unmoved　or　wholly
uninfluenced　by　her　mother's　desertion　and　its　effect　upon　her　father。
She　remained　a　Catholic；　but　she　gradually　ceased　from　being　a　devout
one。　Although　she　had　seemed　to　stand　firm　she　had　in　truth　been
shaken；　if　not　in　her　belief；　in　a　more　precious　thingher　love。　She
complied　with　the　ordinances；　but　felt　little　of　the　inner　beauty　of
her　faith。　The　effort　she　had　made　in　withstanding　her　father's
assault　upon　it　had　exhausted　her。　Though　she　had　had　the　strength　to
triumph；　at　the　moment；　a　partial　and　secret　collapse　was　the　price
she　had　afterwards　to　pay。　Father　Arlworth；　who　had　a　subtle
understanding　of　human　nature；　noticed　that　Domini　was　changed　and
slightly　hardened　by　the　tragedy　she　had　known；　and　was　not　surprised
or　shocked。　Nor　did　he　attempt　to　force　her　character　back　into　its
former　way　of　beauty。　He　knew　that　to　do　so　would　be　dangerous；　that
Domini's　nature　required　peace　in　which　to　become　absolutely　normal
once　again　after　the　shock　it　had　sustained。

When　Domini　was　twenty…one　he　died；　and　her　safest　guide；　the　one　who
understood　her　best；　went　from　her。　The　years　passed。　She　lived　with
her　embittered　father；　and　drifted　into　the　unthinking　worldliness　of
the　life　of　her　order。　Her　home　was　far　from　ideal。　Yet　she　would　not
marry。　The　wreck　of　her　parents'　domestic　life　had　rendered　her
mistrustful　of　human　relations。　She　had　seen　something　of　the　terror
of　love；　and　could　not；　like　other　women；　regard　it　as　safety　and　as
sweetness。　So　she　put　it　from　her；　and　strove　to　fill　her　life　with
all　those　lesser　things　which　men　and　women　grasp；　as　the　Chinese
grasp　the　opium　pipe；　those　things　which　lull　our　comprehension　of
realities　to　sleep。

When　Lord　Rens　died；　still　blaspheming；　and　without　any　of　the
consolations　of　religion；　Domini　felt　the　imperious　need　of　change。
She　did　not　grieve　actively　for　the　dead　man。　In　his　last　years　they
had　been　very　far　apart；　and　his　death　relieved　her　from　the　perpetual
contemplation　of　a　tragedy。　Lord　Rens　had　grown　to　regard　his　daughter
almost　with　enmity　in　his　enmity　against　her　mother's　religion；　which
was　hers。　She　had　come　to　think　of　him　rather　with　pity　than　with
love。　Yet　his　death　was　a　shock　to　her。　When　he　could　speak　no　more；
but　only　lie　still；　she　remembered　suddenly　just　what　he　had　been
before　her　mother's　flight。　The　succeeding　period；　long　though　it　had
been　and　ugly；　was　blotted　out。　She　wept　for　the　poor；　broken　life　now
ended；　and　was　afraid　for　his　future　in　the　other　world。　His　departure
into　the　unknown　roused　her　abruptly　to　a　clear　conception　of　how　his
action　and　her　mother's　had　affected　her　own　character。　As　she　stood
by　his　bed　she　wondered　what　she　might　have　been　if　her　mother　had
been　true；　her　father　happy；　to　the　end。　Then　she　felt　afraid　of
herself；　recognising　partially；　and　for　the　first　time；　how　all　these
years　had　seen　her　long　indifference。　She　felt　self…conscious　too；
ignorant　of　the　real　meaning　of　life；　and　as　if　she　had　always　been；
and　still　remained；　rather　a　complicated　piece　of　mechanism　than　a
woman。　A　desolate　enervation　of　spirit　descended　upon　her；　a　sort　of
bitter；　and　yet　dull；　perplexity。　She　began　to　wonder　what　she　was；
capable　of　what；　of　how　much　good　or　evil；　and　to　feel　sure　that　she
did　not　know；　had　never　known　or　tried　to　find　out。　Once；　in　this
state　of　mind；　she　went　to　confession。　She　came　away　feeling　that　she
had　just　joined　with　the　priest　in　a　farce。　How　can　a　woman　who　knows
nothing　about　herself　make　anything　but　a　worthless　confession？　she
thought。　To　say　what　you　have　done　is　not　always　to　say　what　you　are。
And　only　what　you　are　matters　eternally。

Presently；　still　in　this　perplexity　of　spirit；　she　left　England　with
only　her　maid　as　companion。　After　a　short　tour　in　the　south　of　Europe；
with　which　she　was　too　familiar；　she　crossed　the　sea　to　Africa；　which
she　had　never　seen。　Her　destination　was　Beni…Mora。　She　had　chosen　it
because　she　liked　its　name；　because　she　saw　on　the　map　that　it　was　an
oasis　in　the　Sahara　Desert；　because　she　knew　it　was　small；　quiet；　yet
face　to　face　with　an　immensity　of　which　she　had　often　dreamed。　Idly
she　fancied　that　perhaps　in　the　sunny　solitude　of　Beni…Mora；　far　from
all　the　friends　and　reminiscences　of　her　old　life；　she　might　learn　to
understand　herself。　How？　She　did　not　know。　She　did　not　seek　to　know。
Here　was　a　vague　pilgrimage；　as　many　pilgrimages　are　in　this　world
the　journey　of　the　searcher　who　knew　not　what　she　sought。　And　so　now
she　lay　in　the　dark；　and　heard　the　rustle　of　the　warm　African　rain；
and　smelt　the　perfumes　rising　from　the　ground；　and　felt　that　the
unknown　was　very　near　herthe　unknown　with　all　its　blessed
possibilities　of　change。



CHAPTER　II

Long　before　dawn　the　Italian　waiter　rolled　off　his　little　bed；　put　a
cap　on　his　head；　and　knocked　at　Domini's　and　at　Suzanne　Charpot's
doors。

It　was　still　dark；　and　still　raining；　when　the　two　women　came　out　to
get　into　the　carriage　that　was　to　take　them　to　the　station。　The　place
de　la　Marine　was　a　sea　of　mud；　brown　and　sticky　as　nougat。　Wet　palms
dripped　by　the　railing　near　a　desolate　kiosk　painted　green　and　blue。
The　sky　was　grey　and　low。　Curtains　of　tarpaulin　were　let　down　on　each
side　of　the　carriage；　and　the　coachman；　who　looked　like　a　Maltese；　and
wore　a　round　cap　edged　with　pale　yellow　fur；　was　muffled　up　to　the
ears。　Suzanne's　round；　white　face　was　puffy　with　fatigue；　and　her　dark
eyes；　generally　good…natured　and　hopeful；　were　dreary；　and　squinted
slightly；　as　she　tipped　the　Italian　waiter；　and　handed　her　mistress's
dressing…bag　and　rug　into　the　carriage。　The　waiter　stood　an　the
discoloured　step；　yawning　from　ear　to　ear。　Even　the　tip　could　not
excite　him。　Before　the　carriage　started　he　had　gone　into　the　hotel　and
banged　the　door。　The　horses　trotted　quickly　through　the　mud；
descending　the　hill。　One　of　the　tarpaulin　curtains　had　been　left
unbuttoned　by　the　coachman。　It　flapped　to　and　fro；　and　when　its
movement　was　outward　Domini　could　catch　short　glimpses　of　mud；　of
glistening　palm…leaves　with　yellow　stems；　of　gas…lamps；　and　of
something　that　was　like　an　extended　grey　nothingness。　This　was　the
sea。　Twice　she　saw　Arabs　trudging　along；　holding　their　skirts　up　in　a
bunch　sideways；　and　showing　legs　bare　beyond　the　knees。　Hoods　hid
their　faces。　They　appeared　to　be　agitated　by　the　weather；　and　to　be
continually　trying　to　plant　their　naked　feet　in　dry　places。　Suzanne；
who　sat　opposite　to　Domini；　had　her　eyes　shut。　If　she　had　not　from
time　to　time　passed　her　tongue　quickly　over　her　full；　pale　lips　she
would　have　looked　like　a　dead　thing。　The　coquettish　angle　at　which　her
little　black　hat　was　set　on　her　head　seemed　absurdly　inappropriate　to
the　occasion　and　her　mood。　It　suggested　a　hat　being　worn　at　some
festival。　Her　black；　gloved　hands　were　tightly　twisted　together　in　her
lap；　and　she　allowed　her　plump　body　to　wag　quite　loosely　with　the
motion　of　the　carriage；　making　no　attempt　at　resistance。　She　had
really　the　appearance　of　a　corpse　sitting　up。　The　tarpaulin　flapped
monotonously。　The　coachman　cried　out　in　the　dimness　to　his　horses　like
a　bird；　prolonging　his　call　drearily；　and　then　violently　cracking　his
whip。　Domini　kept　her　eyes　fixed　on　the　loose　tarpaulin；　so　that　she
might　not　miss　one　of　the　wet　visions　it　discovered　by　its　rei