Burning Sands

“Women used to be mad about him,” Lady Smith-Evered went on presently, still speaking in husky asides, “but I don’t think he was unfaithful to me, except, perhaps, when he was in India.” She munched her lobster-salad in silence for a few moments. “One can’t blame him for that, poor dear,” she mused at length. “Men will be men – especially in that climate…!”

Muriel turned away in shame, and at once caught the eye of Lord Barthampton, who was one of the party. He was staring at her from the opposite side of the table.

“Lady Muriel,” he said, raising his glass to her, “Your very good health. Cheerio!”

Muriel thanked him, and busied herself in prodding at the food upon her plate which was a full arm’s length away from her.

“Do let me feed you,” said the good-looking youth who was sitting beside her, and who had managed to ram himself closer to the table.

He picked up her plate, and, screwing himself round on his chair, presented a morsel on the end of the fork to her lips. The intimate operation delighted him, and as he repeated it, Muriel observed the excitement in his face. It is a most dangerous thing to feed a woman: it arouses the dormant instincts of the Pliocene Age.

Lady Smith-Evered patted her hand archly. “You mustn’t let him do that,” she whispered. “That’s the way doves begin. And look at Charles Barthampton: he’s madly jealous.”

“Jealous? – Why?” asked Muriel, glancing at Lord Barthampton, who was scowling at her across the table.

“My dear, haven’t you eyes? Can’t you see that he is making a dead set at you?”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Muriel, a little crossly. “I’ve only met him once or twice, and this evening I’ve had half a dance with him.”

Lady Smith-Evered smiled knowingly. “He’s a very eligible young man,” she purred.

“He drinks,” Muriel remarked, shortly.

“Oh, but he has turned over a new leaf,” her hostess replied. “Didn’t you notice he drank your health in soda-water just now? He’s a very good sort. What a difference there is between him and that extraordinary cousin of his!”

“There is, indeed,” Muriel answered, with feeling.

The youth beside her had abandoned his attempts to feed her, and was excitedly filling his own mouth with good things, women and food being associated ideas in his pristine young mind.

“Did you notice how he apologized to me?” Lady Smith-Evered remarked.

“Who?” asked Muriel. Her thoughts were wandering.

“Mr. Lane,” she answered. “It was a great triumph.”

“Who for? You, or Mr. Lane?” Muriel’s heart beat as she asked the question, for it was meant to be a blow in defence of the man she was beginning to regard as her good friend.

Lady Smith-Evered was too befogged to divine her meaning. “It was a triumph for me,” she declared. “People generally find it better to be in my good books.” She made a menacing gesture to the company at large; and three or four young officers, not quite catching her words, but judging by her expression that she was demanding their approbation, nodded their heads wisely. “But of course he’s not quite right in his head,” she went on. “He has lived alone in the desert too much. Why, my dear, do you know what I saw him doing yesterday in the street?”

“What?” asked Muriel, at once alert.

“It was just outside the Residency,” she said. “I was talking to him, when a donkey, left alone in a native vegetable cart, got its leg over the shaft and started kicking. Well!.. He lifted the creature clean off the ground, got its leg back between the shafts, and then took hold of its ear and whispered into it: ‘Oh, you absurd ridiculous ass!’ It sounded quite uncanny.”

Lord Barthampton got up ponderously from his seat and came round the table to Muriel. “The music’s started again,” he said. “It’s our dance, isn’t it? Are you ready?”

Muriel rose, somewhat relieved to take her departure from the supper-table. As she did so her hostess again nudged her heavily.

“Just look at the General!” she whispered.

Kate Bindane turned round, and, catching Muriel’s eye, burst out laughing; while the General, finding his wife’s gaze fixed upon him, put his hand playfully over his face.

“What’s the joke?” Muriel asked.

“Sir Henry is telling risky stories,” replied Kate.

“It’s all right, my dear,” said the General, waving his hand to his wife. “It’s only the one about the little boy and the Sunday school teacher.”

Lady Smith-Evered laughed huskily. “I’m glad it’s no worse,” she declared. “Henry, you must behave yourself.”

“She’s egging me on,” he replied, slapping his thigh.

“Now then, now then!” exclaimed Kate, “none o’ your sauce.”

Muriel put her hand on Lord Barthampton’s arm, and turned away. She was feeling an indefinable sense of disgust; and she was glad to merge once more into the revolving mass of dancers, and to allow the brazen music to beat the thoughts out of her brain. Her partner did not speak. He was turning over in his mind the possibilities of future happiness, and the effort absorbed his attention, so that his dancing, never of a high standard, became atrocious.

The only solution of his perplexing problem was for him to marry a rich wife: then, if Daniel were to reveal the secret of his birth, he would not suffer a knock-out blow. He would lose his title and the fortune which went with it, but he would have refeathered his nest, and all would be well. And the partner with whom he was now dancing was an heiress, and a jolly fine girl into the bargain.

He was making praiseworthy efforts to check the downward course of his career, and ever since his interview with his cousin, he had been on the water-waggon; but, even though his reform were complete, was Daniel to be trusted not to dispossess him? He doubted it: the temptation would be too great. What a dirty trick his father had played him! But he wasn’t so easily floored: he would obtain another fortune by marriage, and then he could tell Cousin Daniel to go to hell.

“You’re looking very glum,” said Muriel, as they wandered out, presently, into the garden.

Lord Barthampton braced himself. “Yes, I am a bit down in the mouth, little woman,” he murmured. “You know, even we soldier fellows get the hump sometimes – sort of lonely.”

Muriel glanced at him apprehensively. She saw at once that the moonlight and the lanterns had had an instant effect upon him, and she presumed that he would now become sentimental. Self-pity is the token of a fool, and her feminine intuition told her that, since he was worse than a fool, he would probably picture himself as a stern, silent Englishman of heroic mould bravely battling against a deep and poetic loneliness.

She sighed sweetly, for there was always something of the rogue in her. “Yes, I understand,” she whispered, and she pressed her fingers sympathetically upon his arm.

His line of attack seemed to be justified, and he developed it with ardour. “Sometimes a chap comes to the end of his tether,” he went on, but paused again and squared his shoulders. “However, one’s got to keep a stiff upper lip, eh? We’re out here, far from home, just to do our duty, so we mustn’t grouse. We have to keep the old flag flying.”

“The dear old flag,” said Muriel fervently, feeling rather a beast thus to play up to him, but excusing herself on the grounds of curiosity as to what he would say next.

“Sometimes it’s hard, though,” he confessed, “and I’m afraid I’ve been reduced more than once to the whisky bottle and baccarat and bad company. Ah! I know that sounds weak,” he exclaimed, as she uttered a little squeak of distress, “but you don’t know the temptations of a lonely man, with nothing to do, cursed with wealth…”

“O, but I can guess,” she replied, intoning her words as though she were speaking Shakespearian lines. “Sunday afternoons, leaning over the parapet, with nothing to do but spit in the river – why shouldn’t you join in a game of chance, instead of going to church? I can quite understand it.”

He looked at her in astonishment, wondering if she were pulling his leg; but in the moonlight he saw only a sympathetic girl, gazing into the distance with an expression of saintly purity.

“It’s worse than that,” he sighed. “A man has temptations that you couldn’t understand, little woman. What he wants is the pure friendship of a girl.”

“An English girl,” she murmured, with fervour.

He bent forward and looked into her eyes. “Lady Muriel,” he said, “will you be a friend to me? Will you be my little English rose?”

“Lord Barthampton …” she began, wondering how she could terminate a jest of which she was already tiring.

He checked her. “Please call me ‘Charles,’” he begged.

The music began again in the ballroom, and Muriel rose with alacrity. “Come,” she said, dramatically. “Let us go back to the gay and frivolous world.”

“Right-o!” he exclaimed, brightly, inadvertently changing his tone now that the desired impression seemed to have been made.

As they entered the house they encountered Lord Blair, who had looked in at the dance for the purpose of demonstrating the perfect agreement between the diplomatic and the military services, for it so happened that his own policy and that of the General disagreed on every occasion and on every essential point. He was standing in the hall, having just made a parade of the ballroom with his hostess, and the latter was now talking to him, calling him “George” for the benefit of the guests who happened to be within earshot.

As the girl and her partner approached, Lady Smith-Evered whispered that Lord Barthampton seemed very attracted to Muriel; and she repeated her assertion that he was a very eligible young man.

At this, however, a frown gathered upon Lord Blair’s forehead, and he made a deprecating gesture with his thin hand. He had other plans for his daughter which, if not yet mature, were already in train; and, it must be confessed, he wished Barthampton an early and comfortable demise.

Muriel presently wandered off with her chaperone, Lady Smith-Evered; and Lord Blair thereupon suggested that her late partner should come with him into the smoking-room for a quiet cigar. The heavy-jowled young man was inwardly astonished at the mark of consideration, and the thought entered his slow-working mind that Lady Muriel’s father was taking an anticipatory interest in him.

The smoking-room not being open to the ordinary guests, the two men found themselves alone in it; and Lord Blair at once took up his stand, as was his wont, upon the hearthrug, and made his customary pretence of warming a certain part of his anatomy before the empty grate. Lord Barthampton, meanwhile, seated himself upon the arm of a neighbouring chair, and lit the cigar which had been proffered to him.

“I’m afraid I shall never persuade your cousin Daniel to come to these sort of functions,” the elder man remarked, after a few casual references had been made to the evening’s entertainment.

“No, he’s a queer fellow,” the other responded, shortly.

“I have the greatest admiration for him,” Lord Blair declared. “Tell me, is he not your heir presumptive?” His words indicated only a polite interest.

“Yes,” said Barthampton, puffing heavily at his cigar, and shifting his legs. “But, of course, I shall marry soon – when I find the right girl…”

“Of course, of course,” Lord Blair replied. “Very right, very proper. But …” he paused, “there is no hurry, is there?”

“I’d like to have a son and heir,” the other responded. “You see there’s a good deal of property involved. Luckily, I need not marry for money: I’ve got plenty.” He was anxious to announce his eligibility.

“Well,” said Lord Blair, speaking out of the blacker depths of his scheming mind, “take my advice, my dear fellow, and don’t marry yet awhile. ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure,’ you know – a very true adage. You have a long life before you … plenty of time, plenty, to make your choice with care.”

“Yes, I’m pretty healthy,” he answered; and Lord Blair looked at him critically, hoping that he was mistaken.

“Does the climate agree with you out here?” he asked, hopefully.

“Well, I can’t say I exactly enjoyed the summer,” Lord Barthampton laughed. “A heavy fellow like me feels the heat.”

Lord Blair’s spirits rose. “A little tightness, perhaps, at the back of the head, eh?” His thoughts were running on the possibilities of apoplexy.

“No,” he answered, “but I’m always in such a devil of a sweat.”

“Yes, yes, very natural, I’m sure,” Lord Blair murmured. “And a little short of breath sometimes, I dare say?”

The younger man stared at him warily. He was wondering whether the questions were those of a prospective father-in-law; and he decided that it was his policy to show as clean a bill of health as possible.

“Oh, I’m as sound as a bell,” he laughed.

Lord Blair’s face fell. If apoplexy were unlikely to carry him off, perhaps there was some hope of kidney-trouble: there were ominous pouches under the young man’s eyes.

“Some people,” he said, “find that they suffer out here from pains in the small of the back – stabbing pains, you know, with a sensation of burning…”

“Do they, now?” the other replied, quite interested. “No, I can’t say I ever felt ’em.”

Again Lord Blair’s hopes were dashed to the ground. He knew, however, that Barthampton was a heavy drinker, and he introduced the subject with manifest interest, and with a disregard of principle which sorely troubled him.

“Doctors sometimes advise abstemiousness out here,” he said, “but personally I think a little stimulant is a good thing.”

Lord Barthampton warmed to him. “So do I,” he replied heartily. “Still, for the present I’m absolutely on the water-waggon.”

“Dear, dear!” muttered Lord Blair, fidgetting openly. “Dear me! – dear me! That’s a little drastic, isn’t it? – a little unnecessary?”

“I don’t suppose I’ll keep it up for long,” was the reply.

“No, why should you?” Lord Blair commented, and the younger man thought him very broad-minded.

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the General, in search of a quiet corner for a smoke, and Lord Blair, much dispirited, presently made his way back to the ballroom, and thence home to bed. His daughter, however, remained till past three o’clock in the morning, and at last was one of the little group of enthusiasts which kept up the revels to the accompaniment of amateur efforts on the piano, after the weary band had dispersed.

She traversed the short distance back to the Residency under the protection of Lord Barthampton; who had managed by sheer obstinacy to obtain this office for himself; and as she said “good-night,” to him upon the doorstep, he held her hand in his somewhat longer than was necessary.

“I shall always remember tonight,” he said, “as the first time I have really got to know you.”

“Will you?” she replied, feebly, not finding any appropriate comment.

“Yes,” he answered. “Good-night, little woman. Think kindly of your lonely friend.” He came closer to her. “If ever you hear anything against me from Cousin Daniel, take it with a pinch of salt.”

“Oh, I always rely on my own judgment,” she answered; and with that she passed into the house.

CHAPTER XVI – AT CHRISTMASTIDE

During the ensuing two or three weeks Daniel was absorbed in the organization of his work, and it was not until the festivities of Christmas interrupted his routine, that he was able to look about him and take his bearings. He had found the work extremely interesting, and already he could see some indications that his point of view was being adopted in the general policy of the Residency, while in specific cases Lord Blair accepted his advice with very little hesitation.

In this atmosphere of confidence Daniel thrived and his labours prospered. He was amused by his new insight into the Egyptian mind; and he enjoyed his frequent rambles through those quarters of the city which are unknown to the European visitor. Already he had native friends in all parts of Cairo – from scavengers to Pashas; and in many of the bazaars he was now greeted as a guest by the hospitable merchants. He did not find any great difficulty in avoiding the more tedious of the social functions at the Residency: and the early mornings and the evenings were spent in tranquillity at his camp or in the surrounding desert.

Sometimes, returning from his duties soon after luncheon, he would fill his pockets with biscuits and his water-bottle with cold tea, and, mounting his camel, would ride for two hours or more into the desert, until as the last light of day faded from the sky he would reach some sheltered drift of sand or bed of shingle amongst the rocks; and here he would refresh himself and take his rest, mental and physical, in the vast solitude, until the blackness of the night enveloped him. Then, under the glistening heavens, he would ride slowly home again, guiding himself by the stars, and dreaming his way through the witchery of the darkness, until the distant lights of his camp, with the promise of supper and bed, brought him down from the dim regions of everlasting quiescence to the pleasant things of the body, so that he would press forward in a final rush through the night, the sharp air of the Egyptian winter beating in his face, the planets swinging above him, and the obscure jackal-track slipping like a trail of vapour beneath the soft pads of his camel.

He slept by night upon the top of the spur of rock above his tents; and here on his camp bed, under the warm blankets, he would lie absorbed in the splendour of the stars until sleep carried him outside the range of astronomy. As the first shafts of the morning sun struck upon him from above the eastern horizon, he would cast the blankets from him, and, full of the joy of vigorous life, would clamber down to his camp, there to bathe and dress himself in the keen air of the morning, and to devour his breakfast in the brilliant sunshine at the door of his tent.

Here in his beloved desert any anxieties which the day might bring were wholly banished from his brain; and each morning he took up his duties with a mind purged and washed clean of the dust of yesterday, enlivened by healthy sleep and vigorous exercise, and, above all, renewed in its unity with the everlasting Wisdom. It was as though his mighty hands were clasped in the mightier hands of that Spirit which dwells in the world’s open spaces; and, if he strayed during his work into tangled paths of disquietude, he stepped back, as it were, with the descending sun into the grasp of the unfailing Friend.

In one particular there was especial need of this refreshment and renewal; for his thoughts were often disturbed in regard to his friendship with Lady Muriel. He was sufficiently frank with himself to realize that as the days passed he was growing more interested in her, and at the same time he was well aware that any such interest was likely to lead to discordance and unrest; for her method of life so greatly differed from his own.

Muriel was having what she called “a good time”; and the argument “eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” was ever ready upon her lips. There was a sort of defiance in her attitude to Daniel, and sometimes as she set out upon some new chase of amusement she seemed to be daring him to stop her.

On a certain evening in Christmas-week this challenge had been particularly evident. He had stayed on at the Residency until past seven o’clock, for there had been an attempted assassination of one of the native ministers, and Daniel had at once set himself to get to the bottom of the trouble; and when at last he was crossing the hall on his way out, he had come upon Muriel descending the staircase, dressed for a dinner-party and dance which was being given at Mena House that evening. Her luxurious automobile was standing at the door, and she had, of course, offered to give him a lift.

Sitting by her side under the electric light in the car, he had been more than ever conscious of the dissimilarity of their views of life. It was not that he disapproved of her enjoyments, but rather that he regretted the absence of all attempt on her part to get below the surface of things. She was satisfied by her pursuit of the pleasures of what is called Society; and the trouble was that she had caused him to be dissatisfied with his own more profound search after happiness.

In his rough clothes he had seemed to be so far removed from this exquisite dainty girl beside him, around whose white throat the pearls glistened, and from whose gold-tasseled cloak of blue velvet there came the faint scent of the lotus; and the disturbing fact had been this – that he had been intoxicated by the fragrance of her, and the touch of her arm against his. He had wanted to command her to abandon her friends and to follow him into the desert; and suddenly he had been aware that the expression in her eyes was one of disdain for the hardihood that he loved.

As they had driven up to the gates of the hotel he had called her attention to his camel which awaited him at the roadside, in charge of a silent native, who now raised his hand to his dazzled eyes as the headlights of the car fell upon him.

“Now confess,” she had said, “that you would rather be coming with me into the comfort of the hotel than bumping off on that great beast into the cold bleak desert.”

“I confess I would rather be with you tonight than alone,” he answered, “but not in the hotel. I don’t like noise and clatter and stuffiness.”

She had looked at him with a smile as the door of the car was opened by a liveried servant. “I wonder,” she mused, “why you play at being a hermit. You are not a hermit at heart.” She made a gesture with her arms which was full of enticement. “Don’t you ever hear the world calling you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he answered, gravely, “I hear it calling now; and I am shutting my ears, because I know that it has nothing worth having to offer me.”

“If you happen to be here at midnight,” she said, “I dare say I shall be wanting a breath of air.”

The words had thrilled in his ears, and as she disappeared into the lighted hall of the hotel he had stood for a moment irresolute. If he were to ride down from the desert at midnight, she would stroll with him for a few moments amongst the palms, and who could say what advancement in their relationship would take place? But in so doing would he not be but offering her material for new amusement?

He had ridden, then, in silence to his camp; and at his usual hour he had gone to his bed beneath the stars; and though he was awake at midnight he had not stirred from beneath his blankets.

That was three days ago; and now Christmas was passed, with its church-service which he had attended together with the whole diplomatic staff, and its heavy luncheon thereafter, at which he had been one of twenty guests. Already, today, he had resumed the routine of his work; but the short interruption had given him time to look about him, and his bearings troubled him with their threat of dangers ahead.

Muriel, on her part, had felt herself snubbed that night when he failed to take advantage of the midnight hour. She had slipped out on to the veranda of the hotel and had waited for him, thereby missing a dance and inconveniencing at least one partner. She had suggested the meeting experimentally, to see what might be his attitude towards her; for she could not decide whether he were fond of her or merely interested in her as a case of needing reformation. And when he failed to turn up at the trysting-hour, her foot tapped angrily upon the tiles of the veranda; and at length she had gone indoors again with her head in the air but her heart in the depths.

She was undoubtedly attracted to him, but she was also very decidedly afraid of him. Sometimes it was as though he were suggesting to her that she should abandon the luxuries and the little frivolities which she so much enjoyed, and should trail after him into the desert, the Lord knows where, and cook his food for him, and dress in a sheepskin, and sleep on the hard sand with a rock for a pillow.

One of the most serious aspects of the matter was that her father was very obviously attempting to throw her and Daniel Lane together. At first she had supposed that Lord Blair desired her to come under his influence for its philosophical value; but during the last few days certain things that had been said led her to the amazing conclusion that her father regarded him in the light of a possible son-in-law.