Read Ebook: Burning Sands by Weigall Arthur E P Brome Arthur Edward Pearse Brome

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Ebook has 2340 lines and 101824 words, and 47 pages

Lady Muriel Blair, to all appearances the only cool young person in the throng, led her perspiring partner towards a group of elderly women who sat fanning themselves near an open window, beyond which the palms could be seen redundant in the light of the moon. An enormous-bosomed matron, wearing a diamond tiara upon her dyed brown hair, and a rope of pearls about her naked pink shoulders, turned to her as she approached, and smiled upon her in a patronizing manner. She was the wife of Sir Henry Smith-Evered, Commander-in-chief of the British Forces in Egypt; and her smile was highly valued in Cairo society.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself, my dear," she said, taking hold of the girl's hand. "But you mustn't get overtired in this heat. Wait another month, until the weather is cool, and then you can dance all night."

"Oh, but I don't feel it at all," Lady Muriel replied, looking with mild disdain at her partner's somewhat limp collar. "Father warned me that October in Cairo would be an ordeal, but so far I've simply loved it."

Her voice had that very slight suggestion of husky tiredness in it which has a certain fascination. With her it was habitual.

"You've only been in Egypt twenty-four hours," Lady Smith-Evered reminded her. "You must be careful."

"Careful!" the girl muttered, with laughing scorn. "I hate the word."

Her good-looking little partner, Rupert Helsingham, ran his finger around the inside of his collar, and adjusted his eyeglass. "Let's go and sit on the veranda," he suggested.

Lady Muriel turned an eye of mocking enquiry upon the General's lady, who was her official chaperone ; for, in a strange country and in a diplomatic atmosphere, it was as well, she thought, to ascertain the proprieties. Lady Smith-Evered, aware of dear little Rupert's strict regard on all occasions for his own reputation, nodded acquiescence; and therewith the young couple sauntered out of the room.

"A charming girl!" remarked the stout chaperone, turning her heavily powdered face to her companions.

"She is beautiful," said Madam Pappadoulopolos, an expansive, black-eyed, black-haired, black-moustached, black-robed figure, wife of the Greek Consul-General.

"She has the sort of monkey-beauty of all the Blairs," declared Mrs. Froscombe, the gaunt but romantic wife of the British Adviser to the Ministry of Irrigation. She spoke authoritatively. She had recently purchased a richly illustrated volume dealing with the history of that eminent family.

"It is a great responsibility for Lord Blair," said Lady Smith-Evered. "Now that poor Lady Blair has been dead for over a year, he felt that he ought not to leave his only daughter, his only child, with her relations in England any longer; and, of course, it is very right that she should take her place as mistress here at the Residency, though I could really have acted as hostess for him perfectly well."

"Indeed yes," Madam Pappadoulopolos assented, warmly.

"Thank you, Gladys dear," said Lady Smith-Evered, smiling coldly at her friend's averted face.

Muriel Blair's type of beauty was in a way monkey-like, if so ludicrous a term can be employed in a laudatory sense to describe a face of great charm. She was of about the average height; her head was gracefully set upon her excellent neck and shoulders; and there was a sort of airy dignity in her carriage and step. Her enemies called her sullen at times, and named her Moody Muriel; her friends, on the contrary, described her as a personification of the spirit of Youth; while her feminine intimates said that, except for her dislike of the cold, she might have earned her living as a sculptor's model.

She possessed a much to be envied mane of rather coarse brown hair which she wore coiled high upon her head; and her skin was that of a brunette, though there was some nice colour in her cheeks. Her eyes were good, and she had the habit of staring at her friends, sometimes, in a manner which seemed to indicate a fortuitous mimicry of childlike and incredulous questioning.

It was perhaps the tilt of her small nose and an occasional setting of her jaw which caused her undoubted beauty to be called monkey-like; or possibly it was the occasional defiance of her brown eyes, or the puckering of her eyebrows, or sometimes the sudden and whimsical grimace which she made when she was displeased.

As she seated herself now in the moonlight and leant back in the basket chair, Rupert Helsingham looked at her with admiration; and in the depths of his worldly little twenty-five-year-old mind he anticipated with pleasurably audacious hopes a season tinctured with romance. He held the position of Oriental Secretary at the Residency, and was considered to be a rising young man, something of an Arabic scholar, and an expert on points of native etiquette. She was his chief's daughter, and heiress to the Blair estates. Every day they would meet; and probably, since she was rather adorable, he would fall in love with her, and perhaps she with him. It was a charming prospect.

His father had recently been created Baron Helsingham of Singleton. The old gentleman was the first of an ancient race of village squires who had ever performed any public service or received any royal recognition; and now he, the son and heir, might very possibly make the first notable matrimonial alliance of his line.

"I wonder what's happened to my father," said Muriel, breaking the silence engendered by Rupert's reflections. "I haven't seen him since the how-d'you-doing business."

His whereabouts was only of casual interest to her, for she regarded him with no particular love, nor, indeed, did she know him at all intimately. His duties had taken him abroad a great deal during her childhood, while her education had kept her in England; and for the last three or four years he had passed almost entirely out of her scheme of things.

"He's working in his study," her companion replied, pointing to the wing of the house which went to form the angle wherein they were sitting. "He always dictates his telegrams at this time: he says he feels more benevolent after dinner. He'll come into the ballroom presently, and say the correct thing to the correct people. He's a paragon of tact, and, I can tell you, tact is needed here in Cairo! There's such a mixture of nationalities to deal with. What languages do you speak?"

"Only French," she replied.

"Good!" he laughed. "Speak French to everybody: especially to those who are not French. It makes them think that you think them cosmopolitan. Everybody wants to be thought cosmopolitan in a little place like this: it indicates that they have had the money to travel."

"I shall look to you for guidance," said Muriel, opening her mouth to yawn, and shutting it again as though remembering her manners.

Muriel smiled. She had a really fascinating smile, and her teeth were worthy of the great care she gave to them. "And how must I treat an Egyptian--I mean an Egyptian gentleman?" she enquired.

"There isn't such a thing," he laughed, having very insular ideas as to the meaning of the word.

"Well, a Prince or a Pasha or whatever they're called?"

"O, that's simple enough. If his colour is anything lighter than black coffee, ask him if he's a Frenchman. He will protest vehemently, and cry 'Mais non!--je suis Egyptien.' But he'll love you for ever all the same."

Muriel gazed before her into the mystery of the garden. For a brief moment she had the feeling that their conversation was at variance with their surroundings, that the sweet night and the moon and the stately trees were bidding them be silent. But the thought was gone almost before it was recorded.

From where she sat she looked across one side of the short circular entrance-drive, and behind the acacias and slender palms, which grew close up to the veranda, she could see the high white wall of the garden, whereon the purple bougainvillea clustered. Through the ornate bars of the great front gates she watched the regular passage to and fro of the kilted sentry, the moonlight gleaming upon the bayonet fixed to his rifle. Beyond, there was an open lamp-lit square, in the middle of which a jet of sparkling water shot up from a marble fountain.

Roses grew in profusion at the edges of the drive, and the gentle night-wind brought their fragrance to her nostrils; while to her ears came the rustling of the trees, the ringing tramp of the sentry's heavy boots, and the subdued chatter of the resting dancers to whom this part of the veranda was forbidden. In the clear Egyptian atmosphere so strong was the moonlight that every detail of the scene was almost as apparent as it would have been at high noon; and, between the houses on the opposite side of the square, her vision travelled out over the ranges of white buildings which gradually rose towards the towering Citadel and the hills of the desert beyond. Here and there a minaret pierced the sky, so slender that its stability seemed a marvel of balance; and countless domes and cupolas gleamed like great pearls in the silvery light.

She was about to ask a further languid question of her partner in regard to the ways of Cairene society when her attention was attracted by the appearance of a man wearing a slouch hat, who came suddenly into view beyond the bars of the gates and was at once accosted by the Scotch sentry. He looked something of a ruffian, and the sentry seemed to be acting correctly in barring the way with his rifle held in both hands across his bare knees.

A rapid argument followed, the exact words of which she could not quite catch; but it was evident that the Scotchman was not going to admit any suspicious character or possible anarchist on to the premises until he had consulted with the native policeman who was to be seen hurrying across the square. On the other hand the intruder appeared to be in a hurry, and his voice had clearly to be controlled as he explained to the zealous guardian of the gate that he had business at the Residency. But the sentry was obdurately silent, and the voice of the speaker, in consequence, increased in volume.

"Now don't be silly," Muriel heard him say, "or I'll take your gun away from you."

At this she laughed outright, and, turning to her companion, suggested that he should go and find out what was the trouble; but he shook his head.

"No," he said. "We can't be seen here behind these flower-pots: let's watch what happens."

The newcomer made a sudden forward movement; the sentry assumed an attitude as though about to bayonet him, or to pretend to do so; there was a rapid scuffle; and a moment later the rifle was twisted out of its owner's brawny hands.

The soldier uttered an oath, stepped back a pace, and like a lion, leapt upon his assailant. There was a confused movement; the rifle dropped with a clatter upon the pavement; and the Scotchman seized about the middle in a grip such as he was unlikely ever to have experienced before, turned an amazingly unexpected somersault, landing, like a clown at the circus, in a sitting position in which he appeared to be staring open-mouthed at the beauties of a thousand dazzling stars.

Thereupon the ruffian quietly picked up the rifle, opened the gate, shut it behind him, and walked up the drive; while the Egyptian policeman ran to the soldier's assistance, blowing the while upon his whistle with all the wind God had given him.

The dazed sentry scrambled to his feet, and, with a curious crouching gait, suggestive of the ring, followed the intruder into the drive.

"Gi' me ma rifle," he said, hoarsely. It was evident that he was trying to collect his wits; and his attitude was that of a wrestler looking for an opening.

The ruffian stood still, and in voluble Arabic ordered the policeman to stop his noise, at which the bewildered native, as though impressed by the peremptory words, obediently took the whistle out of his mouth and stood irresolute.

"Gi' me ma rifle," repeated the Scot, in injured tones, warily circling around his cool opponent.

Rupert Helsingham suddenly got up from his chair. "Why," he exclaimed, "it's Daniel Lane! Excuse me a moment."

He hurried down the steps of the veranda; and, with breathless interest, Muriel watched the two men shake hands, the one a small dapper ballroom figure, the other a large, muscular brigand, a mighty man from the wilds. He wore a battered, broad-brimmed felt hat, an old jacket of thin tweed, and grey flannel trousers which sagged at the knees and were rolled up above a pair of heavy brown boots, covered with dust.

With an air of complete unconcern he gave the rifle back to the abashed sentry; and, putting his hand on Helsingham's shoulder, strolled towards the veranda.

"I've ridden in at top speed," he said, and Muriel noticed that his voice was deep and quiet, and that there was a trace of an American accent. "A hundred and fifty miles in under three days. Pretty good going, considering how bad the tracks are up there." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the western desert.

"The Great Man will be very pleased," the other replied. 'The Great Man' was the designation generally used by the diplomatic staff in speaking of Lord Blair.

As they ascended the steps Daniel Lane cast a pair of searching blue eyes upon the resplendent figure of the girl in the chair. In the sheen of the moon her dress, of flimsy material, seemed to array her as it were in a mist; and the diamonds about her throat and in her hair--for she was wearing family jewels--gleamed like magic points of light.

"Got a party on?" he asked, with somewhat disconcerting directness.

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