She shut up
the diary in which she wrote each night, and opening one of the wall
cupboards near her divan, she put it away on a shelf, where there were
many other small volumes, a dozen perhaps. They contained the history of
her life during the last nine years, since unhappiness had isolated her,
and made it necessary to her peace of mind, almost to her sanity, to
have a confidant. She closed the inlaid doors of the cupboard, and
locked them with a key which hung from a ribbon inside her dress.
Such a precaution was hardly needed, since the writing was all in
English, and she had recorded the events of the last few weeks
cautiously and cryptically. Not a soul in the marabout's house could
read English, except the marabout himself; and it was seldom he honoured
her with a visit. Nevertheless, it had become a habit to lock up the
books, and she found a secretive pleasure in it.
She had only time to slip the ribbon back into her breast, and sit down
stiffly on the divan, when the door was opened again by Noura.
"O Lella Saida, I have brought the Roumia," the negress announced.
A slim figure in Arab dress came into the room, unfastening a white veil
with fingers that trembled with impatience. The door shut softly. Noura
had obeyed instructions.
XXXVI
For ten years Victoria had been waiting for this moment, dreaming of it
at night, picturing it by day. Now it had come.
There was Saidee standing before her, found at last.
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