A COMMUNITY OF INTERESTS.
About noon the next day Dick North left his uncle’s house with the
intention of going to his club. It was a rough windy morning, with
occasional scuds of rain, and when one of these overtook Dick as he
was crossing the street, he found to his disgust that from the force
of habit he had come out without an umbrella. Taking refuge in a
doorway, for the shower proved to be a sharp one, he discovered that
his asylum was already in the possession of a lady, in whom he quickly
recognised Miss Keeling. She was looking very smart in a business-like
ulster and a neat little felt hat, from the brim of which the
rain-drops were falling on her wind-blown hair, for the umbrella she
held in her hand--a mere mass of metal spikes and shreds of
silk--could only be called an umbrella by courtesy, and had evidently
given way before the force of the gale.
“Any port in a storm!” she said, merrily, as she shook hands with
Dick.
“I am sorry I can’t offer to lend you an umbrella,” he remarked, “for
I am worse off than yourself.”
“No, I think you are more sensible,” she replied, “for an umbrella is
sure to be turned inside out in this wind. You see I am prepared for
rain, and I have no fear of getting wet, but I do dislike it when the
rain-drops trickle down my neck.”
“Pray allow me to run across and get you an umbrella from one of those
shops over there,” he said stiffly, annoyed to find his resentment
against her melting under the influence of her friendly manner.
“Oh no, thank you, I couldn’t think of it,” she replied, surveying him
carefully, and taking due note of his curly-brimmed hat, his long
coat, the huge carnation in his buttonhole, and the immaculate spats
protecting his equally spotless boots. “You are not quite dressed for
running anywhere, are you?”
The resentment returned promptly in full force.
“I am sorry my appearance is displeasing to you,” he said, in a tone
which he tried vainly to make a light and sportive one.
“Oh, but it isn’t at all. It is most correct--unimpeachably correct.”
“Then what is the matter with it, if I may ask?”
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“Thank you, I think my feelings are proof against injury.”
“It is only that I was thinking it was a pity to expose such a
complete get-up to the dangers of a muddy walk. A hansom would have
taken you straight from General North’s door to your destination. I
could imagine you a walking advertisement of the Army and Navy Club,
and why aren’t you gracing one of the windows there, as a sort of
sample, you know, to show the kind of goods within?”
“Bother the girl! She sees I don’t like her, and she is taking it out
of me,” was his mental comment, as he glanced at her composed face and
caught a twinkle of fun in her eyes. Aloud he said, rather lamely,
“You don’t know what a luxury it is to be able to array oneself in the
garments of civilisation once more, after spending years, as one might
say, in uniform. But I see the rain has stopped. May I call you a cab,
or walk with you?”
“Oh no, thanks; I am only going to one of those shops.”
“But you will allow me to see you across the street?”
This time his escort was not refused, and he left her at the entrance
of the shop to which she was bound, and in which, as he noticed with a
shudder, the wares displayed were chiefly surgical instruments. As he
lifted his hat and turned away, he found his state of mind not at all
in accordance with the serene calm of his destination. Everything Miss
Keeling had said seemed to be rankling in his breast, and he
anathematised her mentally as he walked. What business had the girl to
say such things? Nay, rather, what did it signify if she did say them?
Why in the world should it affect him? And yet, here he was wasting
his time and spoiling his short leave at home by thinking about her.
It was bad enough that they were doomed to be fellow-travellers all
the way to Kubbet-ul-Haj, but at least he would dismiss her from his
mind while he was in England; and by way of making a beginning he
would burn that photograph which he had cherished so long.
The consciousness of this heroic resolution upheld him during the day,
and when he returned home to dress for dinner his first action was to
take the photograph out of the drawer of his desk in which it had been
wont to repose ever since he had stolen it out of Mabel’s album. He
held it in his hand with mingled feelings, remembering the time when
he had lifted it out and looked at it reverentially every night,
although of late years it had remained altogether undisturbed. Georgia
appeared in it with short hair, which made her look like a very nice
boy. Dick remembered that Mabel had come home from school one day in
tears because, in the ardour of preparing for the London
Matriculation, Georgia had had all her hair cut off. He remembered
also how he had begged, as urgently as he dared, for one of the
severed locks, and how Georgia had refused it with disdain. In those
days he was under the impression that it was rather pleasant than
otherwise to be called “silly boy!” by Miss Keeling’s lips. What a
young idiot he must have been! And what a senseless fool he was now,
to be recalling the absurdities of those past years in this way! After
all, he would not burn the photograph, lest he should forget what an
ass he had once succeeded in making of himself. It should occupy its
old place still, not for Miss Keeling’s sake, but for auld lang syne,
and as a memento and a warning.
“Are you nearly ready, Dick?” said Mabel’s voice at his door. “The
carriage has come round.”
Hastily thrusting the photograph back into the desk, Dick made his
toilet at lightning speed and hurried down-stairs. Mabel was waiting
in the drawing-room with an aggressive expression of resignation, and
General North, whose gout kept him at home, was fretting and fuming
over the tardiness of his nephew’s appearance.
“This is the way in which you young fellows make ducks and drakes of
all your chances!” he remarked, irascibly. “Here you are appointed to
this Mission, which is a piece of luck for which most men would give
their ears, and you are late the first time you have to meet your
chief. In my young days such behaviour would have lost you your post,
but there’s nothing that can be called discipline now.”
“And how much happier the world is!” said Mabel, flippantly, stooping
to arrange General North’s footstool more comfortably. “Now take care
of yourself, uncle, and don’t think of waiting up for us. Come, Dick,
we must really go.”
“I say,” said Dick, as he followed her into the carriage, “I wish you
would just cram me up a bit about this affair to-night. I know that we
are to dine with the Egertons, and that the Kubbet-ul-Haj people will
be there, but who the Egertons are, or why they should be mixed up
with the Mission, I haven’t an idea.”
“Dick, if I had such a bad memory as you, I would--study somebody’s
system of mnemonics, I think. I have mentioned the Egertons in my
letters again and again. Don’t you remember that I pointed out Mrs
Egerton to you at the hospital yesterday--a pretty, rather
worn-looking woman, with a black lace dress and pink roses in her
bonnet?”
“I apologise humbly for my forgetfulness. Forgive me, and instruct
me.”
“Well, don’t you remember that just after you first went out, I told
you that Cecil Anstruther, one of our girls at the South Central, had
taken high honours in the London B.A., and we were all so proud of
her? She went out to Baghdad as governess to the Pasha’s little boy,
when Sir Dugald Haigh was Resident there. The Haighs were very kind to
her, and she became engaged to Lady Haigh’s cousin, who was surgeon at
the Residency. He got into trouble in some way with the Turkish
Government, and had to be sent home, and I believe they were separated
for a long time. But they were married at last, and came home and
settled down. Dr Egerton has a large property in Homeshire, and sits
in Parliament for the eastern division.”
“What, the member for Adullam?” cried Dick.
“Yes, that’s what they call him, because he is said to be always in a
minority of one. You know how the name was fixed upon him? Of course
he was often called by it in private conversation, but one day Sir
James Morrell, who is rather absent-minded, had to answer one of his
questions in the absence of the Secretary for India, and in his flurry
he alluded to ‘the honourable member for the Adullam division of
Homeshire.’ The next week ‘Punch’ improved it into ‘the member for the
Cave division of Adullamshire,’ and since then it has stuck. What do
you know about Dr Egerton, Dick?”
“Merely that he is one of the faddists who pose as authorities on
India and the East generally.”
“Ah, you should hear Sir Dugald Haigh on that point. His sneer is
positively terrific. He can only comfort himself by remembering that
here, as in other cases, the critics of the East are the men who have
failed in the East.”
“Better that than never to have been there at all,” said Dick. “It has
struck me more than once that there is a good deal of sense in some of
Egerton’s crotchets, but he destroys the effect by his way of forcing
them upon people. The things he says would put any one’s back up.”
“Yes, poor Cecil’s life is spent in explaining away his blunders and
apologising for them. He could do nothing without her, for she is such
a favourite that she can often manage to put things right when he has
muddled them. Every one wonders that she doesn’t coach him beforehand,
and teach him to avoid these dreadful _faux pas_; but I know that she
does, and that he forgets all her advice as soon as he gets excited in
debate.”
“But how is it that these people are mixed up with the Kubbet-ul-Haj
affair?”
“They are great friends of the Haighs, of course, and besides, Cecil’s
brother is going out as the junior member of the Mission. He is a most
absurd boy--always going wild about something or other--and just now
he is deeply in love with Rosaline Hervey, the beautiful girl in the
picture hat who was with Mrs Egerton yesterday. She is to be there
to-night, and her sister, and old Mr and Mrs Anstruther, Mrs Egerton’s
parents, who are anxious to see what Sir Dugald is like before
confiding their boy to his care. Then there is Mr Stratford, a cousin
of Dr Egerton’s and second in command of the Mission.”
“Yes, I know Stratford. We met in Kashmir one year, when he was taking
his leave in India, and I saw him the other day at the Foreign Office.
He is a good sort of chap.”
“You come next in rank, I suppose, and then there is the doctor.”
“Ladies first, please--or what doctor do you mean?”
“Dr Headlam, of course, the surgeon of the Mission.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I was afraid you meant Miss Keeling.”
“Oh no,” said Mabel, but her face wore a peculiar smile as she
gathered her cloak around her preparatory to leaving the carriage. The
reason for her unusual taciturnity became evident to Dick a little
later, when he found that he was expected to take Miss Keeling in to
dinner.
“You are old friends, I think,” said Mrs Egerton, pleasantly, and Dick
perceived by her tone that she imagined she had done him a kindness in
arranging her guests in this way. It was clear that she remembered the
old days, even if Miss Keeling had forgotten them. But no, doubtless
Mabel had given her the hint.
If Dick had only known it, Georgia was in a much softer mood to-night,
for all day long her conscience had been pricking her for her share in
the conversation of the morning. She was indignant with herself for
the things she had said, and it did not render them more excusable in
her estimation that pique at Dick’s attitude towards her was not by
any means the sole motive that had actuated her in uttering them. What
in the world did it signify to her if the hero of the Khemistan
Frontier chose to make himself look absurd in clothes which the idlest
stay-at-home of a club-lounger could wear with far more pleasure to
the beholder and satisfaction to himself? If the poor man thought that
he looked well in them, why not leave him to enjoy his delusion,
instead of rudely shattering his dream, and letting him know that his
appearance, in the opinion of one person who knew him, verged on the
ridiculous? Miss Keeling felt uncomfortably conscious that, after all,
pique had had something to do with, at any rate, the terms of her
remonstrance. She had even been led into vying with her opponent in
cool rudeness, and for this she could not forgive herself. It was no
excuse for her that she found most men so easy to get on with, when
once they had laid aside the mock deference or the real antipathy with
which they were wont to greet the lady doctor on their first
introduction to her. She could not help knowing, for admiring female
friends kept her informed of the fact, that it was the mingled
graciousness and dignity of her manner which converted these
adversaries and scoffers into firm allies and champions, and yet she
had so far forgotten herself and her sense of what was becoming as to
chaff Major North on his appearance, just as any ordinary fast girl
might have done, and the fact humiliated her. A younger or less
experienced woman, feeling as she did, would have precipitated matters
by an apology, but Georgia was too wise to introduce any further
complication into her difficulties. There could be no advantage in
putting herself into North’s power in such a way, when it was
undeniable that he had invited a snubbing by his perplexing conduct
the day before. No, if he was to be won back to friendliness it must
be by letting bygones be bygones, and accepting the situation as it
presented itself.
Dinner was considerably delayed, owing to the fact that the Miss
Herveys were late, and Georgia had some time in which to try her skill
upon Dick. Her task was more difficult than she had anticipated, for
he manifested an abiding resentment which irritated her as being quite
out of proportion to the circumstances which had called it forth, and
he answered her only in frigid monosyllables. Georgia talked on
bravely, resolved not to appear to notice his lack of responsiveness,
although she could not but feel slightly aggrieved by her failure to
soften him. When Sir Dugald Haigh crossed the room to speak to Dick,
and, with an apology to Georgia, carried him off to be introduced to
Lady Haigh, she heaved a little sigh.
“He was such a nice boy!” she said to herself, “and I think he would
be nice now, if he would only let his better side show. I like his
face so much.” She glanced across the room at him, and marked
appreciatively the thin brown face, on which the fair moustache looked
almost white, the firm chin, the keen grey eyes, and the brow set in
the habitual frown produced by the constant watching of distant
objects under a burning sun. “He looks like a ‘man and a leader of
men,’” she went on slowly, “but why should he behave in this way? It
is so small, so petty, to keep up a grudge for so many years, and how
could I have done anything but refuse him? It would have been absurd
to do anything else, even if I had cared for him, and he was such a
boy. He must be at least two years older than I am, but I always felt
then that he was years younger. At any rate, he ought to be grateful
to me, instead of sulking like this.”
At this moment a diversion was created by the entrance of the
beautiful Miss Hervey, a vision of loveliness in rose-coloured silk;
while behind her came her sister, a smaller, plainer, and, so to speak
more shadowy, edition of herself. Mabel gave Georgia a look which
implied that the young lady was by no means averse to making herself
the observed of all observers in this fashion, but if such was the
case, her triumph was short, for every one resented the delay which
had been caused by her non-appearance. The host marched up Dr Headlam
and presented him to Miss Hervey, to the intense disgust of Fitz
Anstruther, Mrs Egerton’s brother, who found himself put off with the
younger sister instead of the lady he adored, and a move was made into
the dining-room.
Dick North’s temper seemed to have improved in some measure since his
conversation with Lady Haigh, and Georgia smiled inwardly over the
change, gathering that a few kind things said by his chief’s wife
would go far to soothe the ruffled susceptibilities of even so
sensitive an individual, but she was not long in discovering that he
had by no means forgiven herself. True, he was willing to talk, but
with great persistence and considerable skill he kept the conversation
directed to the ordinary trifles which form the staple subjects at
most London dinner-tables. He might never have been further from Pall
Mall than to Paris in his life, thought Georgia, with increasing
irritation, while he was favouring her with his views on the Eton and
Harrow match, and the iniquity of the vestries in taking up the
principal thoroughfares in the height of the season. To add to her
resentment, she saw, or believed she saw, that he was perfectly well
aware of her eagerness to hear about his life in India and Khemistan,
and that he was rejoicing in her unavailing disgust. Miss Hervey, his
left-hand neighbour, claimed his attention at last, and Georgia found
an attraction of greater power in the talk of Sir Dugald Haigh, a
small, neutral-tinted man, with grey hair, grey eyes, grey moustache,
and a greyish-brown skin, who was telling Mrs Egerton of various
changes which had taken place in Baghdad, whence he had lately
returned, since the days of her residence there.
“I was not sorry to wash my hands of the place,” he said. “Very likely
I belong to an old, worn-out school, and my ways are too rough and
ready for the kid-glove methods of to-day. Our rule was always to ask
only for what we meant to have, but never to recede from a demand once
made. ‘Hold on like grim death,’ was our motto, and we followed it
out. The method had this advantage, that every one knew we meant what
we said. It’s a great thing not to be afraid of bringing on war if
it’s necessary, but you are too squeamish for that nowadays.”
“Why, Sir Dugald,” said Mrs Egerton, laughing, “any one hearing you
would think you were a perfect firebrand, and ferociously
bloodthirsty, but I remember that when I was at Baghdad there was
nothing you dreaded so much as the slightest complication. I believe
you would have done anything, short of hauling down the flag, to avert
a disturbance.”
“Don’t believe her, Miss Keeling,” said Sir Dugald. “Behind my back
she will be telling you that I am a regular Jingo.”
“And besides,” said Mrs Egerton, “why you should talk as though you
were a failure, I don’t know. You are trying to make Miss Keeling
think that you have been ordered to Kubbet-ul-Haj as a punishment.”
“Not quite,” said Sir Dugald, his eyebrows twitching a little.
“No, indeed, when you know that you are looking forward confidently to
a K.C.B. or a peerage when you come home.”
“No, Mrs Egerton, I must draw the line there. I confidently expect
nothing but to be disowned by the Government and denounced by the
papers. We are told by a high authority that the inhabitants of these
islands are mostly fools, as you know. That is my consolation.”
“Sir Dugald considers all mankind fools, Georgie,” remarked Mrs
Egerton. “If they don’t agree with him, that stamps them at once,
naturally; and if they do adopt his views, he feels sure that they
must be fools to be so easily taken in.”
“You would not have ventured to say that in my presence at Baghdad,”
said Sir Dugald, mournfully. “Miss Keeling, let me warn you in time.
Don’t be tempted to presume upon my forbearance by the liberties this
lady takes in her own house. I assure you that at Kubbet-ul-Haj you
will find me a terrible martinet.”
“Oh, Sir Dugald, you are going to Ethiopia, aren’t you?” asked a new
voice, that of the younger Miss Hervey, who had tired at length of her
vain attempts to propitiate her sister’s sulky and disappointed lover.
“I believe so,” answered Sir Dugald, looking at his questioner in some
surprise.
“Oh yes,” with a little gasp. “I thought I had heard Mr Anstruther say
so, but he doesn’t seem to know very much about it. Where is Ethiopia,
please?”
“Opinions differ on that point,” returned Sir Dugald, not unconscious
of the listeners round the table, who were laughing inwardly at the
temerity of the girl who thought she could get the Chief to talk
“shop” to her. “Herodotus says it is in Africa, but Sir John
Mandeville declares that he heard of it in Asia. We are going to see
which is true.”
“Oh!” with a blank stare of surprise. “But why don’t you know?”
“I was not aware that I had said I did not know. The information is
within the reach of any one possessed of an ordinary school atlas.”
“Oh, Sir Dugald, you say such funny things! But why are you going?”
“Because I am sent,” returned Sir Dugald, shortly, for he wished to
return to his conversation with his hostess and Georgia. But the snub
failed of its effect.
“Oh yes, of course. But what are you going to do there?”
With a sigh Sir Dugald resigned himself to answer the demands of this
persistent young lady, and pushing his plate from him, arranged a plan
with dessert forks and spoons.
“This space represents Ethiopia,” he said, “and this biscuit will show
you roughly the position of Kubbet-ul-Haj, the capital. The country
has been touched by European commerce only on its borders, but it
contains vast grain-producing districts and enormous mineral wealth,
which only needs being worked. Hence it offers a wide field for the
employment of capital, as well as a practically untouched market for
manufactured goods. For these reasons, and also on account of its
situation, the great European powers all take a friendly interest in
it, more especially Scythia and Neustria. Neustrian influence
approaches it very closely on one side, and the Scythian sphere on
another, but its eastern boundary is conterminous with our Khemistan
Frontier, about which Major North or Miss Keeling could tell you a
good deal more than I can. Unauthorised, or, at any rate, unrecognised
and semi-private expeditions from all three countries have tried to
reach Kubbet-ul-Haj, but have failed, and the King has always refused
to receive a diplomatic mission, the object of which would be, of
course, to conclude a commercial treaty. We have always contended that
we had the best right to open up Ethiopia to European trade, and of
course our being actually on the frontier gives us a start in the
race. But just lately we gained a new advantage, for Rustam Khan, the
King’s eldest son, who had been sent to put down a rising among the
tribes near our frontier, fell in with one of our surveying parties,
and took a great fancy to the officers. The errand on which he had
been sent was a kind of honourable banishment, for it seems that he
and the Grand Vizier are always at daggers drawn, and that the King
sympathises with the Vizier, but when he was summoned back to Court he
must have managed to gain his father’s ear again, for friendly
overtures were made by the King to the Khemistan authorities for the
settlement of some trifling boundary dispute. Unofficial journeys were
made to Kubbet-ul-Haj by two or three of our frontier officers, and
the last brought back word that the King would be willing to receive a
mission and to enter into an alliance. Negotiations have since taken
place, and preliminaries been arranged, and our business now is to
conclude the treaty embodying the various provisions which have
practically been agreed to on both sides--in the rough, of course. And
I really must apologise,” said Sir Dugald in conclusion, “for the way
in which I have been boring every one, but it is Miss Hervey’s
commendable desire for information that is to blame.”
“I didn’t know that you were acquainted with the Khemistan Frontier,”
said Dick to Georgia, under cover of the buzz of conversation which
succeeded to the enforced silence.
“Although my father lived and died there?” asked Georgia, with a
little resentment in her tone.
“What a fool I am! To think that I should have forgotten, even for a
moment, that General Keeling was your father! Why, it was that which
originally drew me to the Warden of the Marches--I mean--er--” Dick
stumbled and hurried on--“well, I have worshipped him ever since I
first went out. He is our patron saint out there in Khemistan, you
know?”
“I know,” said Georgia. “I found it so when I was there.”
“But have you been in Khemistan? How is it that we never met?”
“It was the year you were on leave, when you went round the world with
your uncle and Mabel. I visited Khemistan to see whether there was any
chance of my being able to complete my father’s work.”
“How was that?”
“It was his great desire that missionaries should come and settle
among the people, but the Government thought it would be dangerous,
and forbade them to establish themselves permanently on the frontier.
My father and I always hoped that when I went out to keep house for
him, I might be able to do something, just in the way of making a
beginning--but as you know, he died before I left school.”
“I know that it was while I was still in India,” said Dick. “It was
reading the accounts of his life and work which first led me to make
interest to get myself transferred to the Khemistan Horse, so as to be
stationed on that frontier. But did you succeed in your mission?”
“No; I travelled with a missionary and his wife who were itinerating
through the country, but though the people were friendly, especially
when they heard who I was, they did not care to listen to us, and the
Government were still so hostile to the establishment of a station,
that the society to which I had offered myself would not take up the
work. Then I came home and studied medicine, hoping that I might
eventually do something in that way. I believe that a Zenana Mission
has just been set on foot in Bab-us-Sahel, on the coast, so that
perhaps I shall be able to join it when we return from Ethiopia. I
only accepted the post that the Government offered me in the
expedition in the hope that some good might result from the journey.”
“As regards Khemistan?” asked Dick.
“Yes. It was my father’s country, and it is mine.”
“And so it is mine!” said Dick, involuntarily.