The Garden of Allah | Page 6

shrouded figures of Arabs who met them on the way.
The red brick floor was heaving gently, Domini thought. She found
herself wondering how the cane chair by the small wardrobe kept its
footing, and why the cracked china basin in the iron washstand, painted
bright yellow, did not stir and rattle. Her dressing-bag was open. She
could see the silver backs and tops of the brushes and bottles in it
gleaming. They made her think suddenly of England. She had no idea
why. But it was too warm for England. There, in the autumn time, an

open window would let in a cold air, probably a biting blast. The
wooden shutter would be shaking. There would be, perhaps, a sound of
rain. And Domini found herself vaguely pitying England and the
people mewed up in it for the winter. Yet how many winters she had
spent there, dreaming of liberty and doing dreary things--things without
savour, without meaning, without salvation for brain or soul. Her mind
was still dulled to a certain extent by the narcotic she had taken. She
was a strong and active woman, with long limbs and well- knit muscles,
a clever fencer, a tireless swimmer, a fine horsewoman. But to-night
she felt almost neurotic, like one of the weak or dissipated sisterhood
for whom "rest cures" are invented, and by whom bland doctors live.
That heaving red floor continually emphasised for her her present
feebleness. She hated feebleness. So she blew out the candle and, with
misplaced energy, strove resolutely to sleep. Possibly her resolution
defeated its object. She continued in a condition of dull and heavy
wakefulness till the darkness became intolerable to her. In it she saw
perpetually the long procession of the pale recruits winding up the hill
of Addouna with their bags and bundles, like spectres on a way of
dreams. Finally she resolved to accept a sleepless night. She lit her
candle again and saw that the brick floor was no longer heaving. Two
of the books that she called her "bed-books" lay within easy reach of
her hand. One was Newman's /Dream of Gerontius/, the other a volume
of the Badminton Library. She chose the former and began to read.
Towards two o'clock she heard a long-continued rustling. At first she
supposed that her tired brain was still playing her tricks. But the
rustling continued and grew louder. It sounded like a noise coming
from something very wide, and spread out as a veil over an immense
surface. She got up, walked across the floor to the open window and
unfastened the /persiennes/. Heavy rain was falling. The night was very
black, and smelt rich and damp, as if it held in its arms strange
offerings--a merchandise altogether foreign, tropical and alluring. As
she stood there, face to face with a wonder that she could not see,
Domini forgot Newman. She felt the brave companionship of mystery.
In it she divined the beating pulses, the hot, surging blood of freedom.
She wanted freedom, a wide horizon, the great winds, the great sun, the

terrible spaces, the glowing, shimmering radiance, the hot, entrancing
moons and bloomy, purple nights of Africa. She wanted the nomad's
fires and the acid voices of the Kabyle dogs. She wanted the roar of the
tom-toms, the dash of the cymbals, the rattle of the negroes' castanets,
the fluttering, painted figures of the dancers. She wanted--more than
she could express, more than she knew. It was there, want, aching in
her heart, as she drew into her nostrils this strange and wealthy
atmosphere.
When Domini returned to her bed she found it impossible to read any
more Newman. The rain and the scents coming up out of the hidden
earth of Africa had carried her mind away, as if on a magic carpet. She
was content now to lie awake in the dark.
Domini was thirty-two, unmarried, and in a singularly independent--
some might have thought a singularly lonely--situation. Her father,
Lord Rens, had recently died, leaving Domini, who was his only child,
a large fortune. His life had been a curious and a tragic one. Lady Rens,
Domini's mother, had been a great beauty of the gipsy type, the
daughter of a Hungarian mother and of Sir Henry Arlworth, one of the
most prominent and ardent English Catholics of his day. A son of his
became a priest, and a famous preacher and writer on religious subjects.
Another child, a daughter, took the veil. Lady Rens, who was not clever,
although she was at one time almost universally considered to have the
face of a muse, shared in the family ardour for the Church, but was far
too fond of the world to leave it. While she was very young she met
Lord Rens, a Lifeguardsman of