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Updated: May 21, 2025
The silence between them was long. In it she presently heard a reiterated noise that sounded like struggle and pain made audible. It was Androvsky's breathing. In the soft and exquisite air of the desert he was gasping like a man shut up in a cellar. She looked again towards him, startled. As she did so he turned his horse sideways and rode away a few paces. Then he pulled up his horse.
He did not speak, and his silence made her consciously demand his acquiescence in her admiration. "Did you ever see anything more beautiful and more characteristic of Africa?" she asked. "Madame," he said in a slow, stern voice, "I did not look at her." Domini felt piqued. "Why not?" she retorted. Androvsky's face was cloudy and almost cruel. "These native women do not interest me," he said.
She put her arm through Androvsky's and made his eyes follow hers across the vast spaces made magical by the sinking sun to that darkness of distant palms which, to her, would be a sacred place for ever. And as they looked in silence all that Beni-Mora meant to her came upon her. She saw again the garden hushed in the heat of noon. She saw Androvsky at her feet on the sand.
It held hers closely, warmly, and sent his strength to her, and presently, for an instant, taking her mind from the desert, she lost herself in the mystery and the wonder of human companionship. She realised that the touch of Androvsky's hand on hers altered for her herself, and the whole universe as it was presented to her, as she observed and felt it.
"I see nothing attractive in them." Domini knew that he was telling her a lie. Had she not seen him watching the dancing girls in Tahar's cafe? Anger rose in her. She said to herself then that it was anger at man's hypocrisy. Afterwards she knew that it was anger at Androvsky's telling a lie to her. "I can scarcely believe that," she answered bluntly. They looked at each other.
She almost held her breath as she and Androvsky came down the path and the fierce sunrays reached out to light up their faces. Count Anteoni stepped forward to greet them. "Monsieur Androvsky Count Anteoni," she said. The hands of the two men met. She saw that Androvsky's was lifted reluctantly. "Welcome to my garden," Count Anteoni said with his invariable easy courtesy.
He stepped slowly into the tent and held out his hand in silence to the priest. As he did so the lamplight fell full upon him. "Boris, are you ill?" Domini exclaimed. The priest had taken Androvsky's hand, but with a doubtful air. His cheerful and confident manner had died away, and his eyes, fixed upon his host, shone with an astonishment which was mingled with a sort of boyish glumness.
Those words and the state of feeling that was linked with them were and had always been to him as mighty protecting arms that uplifted him above the beating waves of the sea of life. The Wedding March sounded when the priest bade good-bye to the husband and wife whom he had made one. He was able to do it tranquilly. He even pressed Androvsky's hand. "Be good to her," he said.
Again Domini thought of the approach to London, and of the dominion of great cities, those octopus monsters created by men, whose tentacles are strong to seize and stronger still to keep. She was infected by Androvsky's dread of a changed life, and through her excitement, that pulsed with interest and curiosity, she felt a faint thrill of something that was like fear.
Father Roubier's unconscious serenity in the midst of a luxury to which he was quite unaccustomed emphasised Androvsky's secret agitation, which was no secret to Domini, and which she knew must be obvious to Count Anteoni. She began to wish ardently that she had let Androvsky follow his impulse to go when he heard of Father Roubier's presence. They sat down.
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