/Within/ the ball-room the tide of gayety was rising to its height. It
may be a very trivial matter, yet it is certain that fancy dress gives
a peculiar charm, freedom, and brightness to festivities of the kind;
and men who in the ordinary mournful black evening-suit would be
taciturn of speech and conventional in bearing, throw off their
customary reserve when they find themselves in the brilliant and
becoming attire of some picturesque period when dress was an art as
well as a fashion; and not only do they look their best, but they
somehow manage to put on “manner” with costume, and to become
courteous, witty, and graceful to a degree that sometimes causes their
own relatives to wonder at them and speculate as to why they have
grown so suddenly interesting. Few have read _Sartor Resartus_ with
either comprehension or profit, and are therefore unaware, as
Teufelsdröckh was, that “Society is founded upon Cloth”--_i.e._ that
man does adapt his manners very much to suit his clothes; and that as
the costume of the days of Louis Quinze or Louis Seize inspired
graceful deportment and studied courtesy to women, so does the costume
of our nineteenth century inspire brusque demeanor and curt forms of
speech, which, however sincere, are not flattering to the fair sex.
More love-making goes on at a fancy-dress ball than at an ordinary
one; and numerous were the couples that strolled through the corridors
and along the terraces of the Gezireh Palace Hotel when, after the
first dozen dances were ended, it was discovered that one of the most
glorious of full moons had risen over the turrets and minarets of
Cairo, illumining every visible object with as clear a lustre as that
of day. Then it was that warriors and nobles of mediæval days were
seen strolling with mythological goddesses and out-of-date peasants of
Italy and Spain; then audacious “toreadors” were perceived whispering
in the ears of crowned queens, and clowns were caught lingering
amorously by the side of impossible flower-girls of all nations. Then
it was that Sir Chetwynd Lyle, with his paunch discreetly restrained
within the limits of a Windsor uniform which had been made for him
some two or three years since, paced up and down complacently in the
moonlight, watching his two “girls,” Muriel and Dolly, doing business
with certain “eligibles”; then it was that Lady Fulkeward, fearfully
and wonderfully got up as the “Duchess of Gainsborough” sidled to and
fro, flirted with this man, flouted that, giggled, shrugged her
shoulders, waved her fan, and comported herself altogether as if she
were a hoyden of seventeen just let loose from school for the
holidays. And then the worthy Dr. Maxwell Dean, somewhat exhausted by
vigorous capering in the “Lancers,” strolled forth to inhale the air,
fanning himself with his cap as he walked, and listening keenly to
every chance word or sentence he could hear, whether it concerned
himself or not. He had peculiar theories, and one of them was, as he
would tell you, that if you overheard a remark apparently not intended
for you, you were to make yourself quite easy, as it was “a point of
predestination” that you should at that particular moment, consciously
or unconsciously, play the eavesdropper. The reason of it would, he
always averred, be explained to you later on in your career. The
well-known saying “listeners never hear any good of themselves” was,
he declared, a most ridiculous aphorism. “You overhear persons talking
and you listen. Very well. It may chance that you hear yourself
abused. What then? Nothing can be so good for you as such abuse; the
instruction given is twofold; it warns you against foes whom you have
perhaps considered friends, and it tones down any overweening conceit
you may have had concerning your own importance or ability. Listen to
everything if you are wise--I always do. I am an old and practised
listener. And I have never listened in vain. All the information I
have gained through listening, though apparently at first disconnected
and unclassified, has fitted into my work like the stray pieces of a
puzzle, and has proved eminently useful. Wherever I am I always keep
my ears well open.”
With such views as he thus entertained, life was always enormously
interesting to Dr. Dean--he found nothing tiresome, not even the
conversation of the type known as Noodle. The Noodle was as curious a
specimen of nature to him as the emu or the crocodile. And as he
turned up his intellectual little physiognomy to the deep, warm
Egyptian sky and inhaled the air sniffingly, as though it were a
monster scent-bottle just uncorked for his special gratification, he
smiled as he observed Muriel Chetwynd Lyle standing entirely alone at
the end of the terrace, attired as a “Boulogne fish-wife,” and looking
daggers after the hastily-retreating figure of a “White Hussar,”--no
other than Ross Courtney.
“How extremely droll a ‘Boulogne fish-wife’ looks in Egypt,” commented
the Doctor to his inward self. “Re-markable! The incongruity is
peculiarly typical of the Chetwynd Lyles. The costume of the young
woman is like the knighthood of her father,--droll, droll, very
droll!” Aloud he said--“Why are you not dancing, Miss Muriel?”
“Oh, I don’t know--I’m tired,” she said, petulantly. “Besides, all the
men are after that Ziska woman,--they seem to have lost their heads
about her!”
“Ah!” and Dr. Dean rubbed his hands. “Yes--possibly! Well, she is
certainly very beautiful.”
“I cannot see it!” and Muriel Chetwynd Lyle flushed with the inward
rage which could not be spoken. “It’s the way she dresses more than
her looks. Nobody knows who she is--but they do not seem to care about
that. They are all raving like lunatics over her, and that man--that
artist who arrived here to-day, Armand Gervase,--seems the maddest of
the lot. Haven’t you noticed how often he has danced with her?”
“I couldn’t help noticing that,” said the Doctor, emphatically, “for I
have never seen anything more exquisite than the way they waltz
together. Physically, they seem made for one another.”
Muriel laughed disdainfully.
“You had better tell Mr. Denzil Murray that; he is in a bad enough
humor now, and that remark of yours wouldn’t improve it, I can tell
you!”
She broke off abruptly, as a slim, fair girl, dressed as a Greek
vestal in white, with a chaplet of silver myrtle-leaves round her
hair, suddenly approached and touched Dr. Dean on the arm.
“Can I speak to you a moment?” she asked.
“My dear Miss Murray! Of course!” and the Doctor turned to her at
once. “What is it?”
She paced with him a few steps in silence, while Muriel Chetwynd Lyle
moved languidly away from the terrace and re-entered the ball-room.
“What is it?” repeated Dr. Dean. “You seem distressed; come, tell me
all about it!”
Helen Murray lifted her eyes--the soft, violet-gray eyes that Lord
Fulkeward had said he admired--suffused with tears, and fixed them on
the old man’s face.
“I wish,” she said--“I wish we had never come to Egypt! I feel as if
some great misfortune were going to happen to us; I do, indeed! Oh,
Dr. Dean, have you watched my brother this evening?”
“I have,” he replied, and then was silent.
“And what do you think?” she asked anxiously. “How can you account for
his strangeness--his roughness--even to me?”
And the tears brimmed over and fell, despite her efforts to restrain
them. Dr. Dean stopped in his walk and took her two hands in his own.
“My dear Helen, it’s no use worrying yourself like this,” he said.
“Nothing can stop the progress of the Inevitable. I have watched
Denzil, I have watched the new arrival, Armand Gervase, I have watched
the mysterious Ziska, and I have watched you! Well, what is the
result? The Inevitable,--simply the unconquerable Inevitable. Denzil
is in love, Gervase is in love, everybody is in love, except me and
one other! It is a whole network of mischief, and I am the unhappy fly
that has unconsciously fallen into the very middle of it. But the
spider, my dear,--the spider who wove the web in the first
instance,--is the Princess Ziska, and she is _not_ in love! She is the
other one. She is not in love with anybody any more than I am. She’s
got something else on her mind--I don’t know what it is exactly, but
it isn’t love. Excluding her and myself, the whole hotel is in
love--_you_ are in love!”
Helen withdrew her hands from his grasp and a deep flush reddened her
fair face.
“I!” she stammered--“Dr. Dean, you are mistaken. …”
“Dr. Dean was never mistaken on love-matters in his life,” said that
self-satisfied sage complacently. “Now, my dear, don’t be offended. I
have known both you and your brother ever since you were left little
orphan children together; if I cannot speak plainly to you, who can?
You are in love, little Helen--and very unwisely, too--with the man
Gervase. I have heard of him often, but I never saw him before
to-night. And I don’t approve of him.”
Helen grew as pale as she had been rosy, and her face as the moonlight
fell upon it was very sorrowful.
“He stayed with us in Scotland two summers ago,” she said softly. “He
was very agreeable. …”
“Ha! No doubt! He made a sort of love to you then, I suppose. I can
imagine him doing it very well! There is a nice romantic glen near
your house--just where the river runs, and where I caught a
fifteen-pound salmon some five years ago. Ha! Catching salmon is
healthy work; much better than falling in love. No, no, Helen! Gervase
is not good enough for you; you want a far better man. Has he spoken
to you to-night?”
“Oh, yes! And he has danced with me.”
“Ha! How often?”
“Once.”
“And how many times with the Princess Ziska?”
Helen’s fair head drooped, and she answered nothing. All at once the
little Doctor’s hand closed on her arm with a soft yet firm grip.
“Look!” he whispered.
She raised her eyes and saw two figures step out on the terrace and
stand in the full moonlight,--the white Bedouin dress of the one and
the glittering golden robe of the other made them easily
recognizable,--they were Gervase and the Princess Ziska. Helen gave a
faint, quick sigh.
“Let us go in,” she said.
“Nonsense! Why should we go in? On the contrary, let us join them.”
“Oh, no!” and Helen shrank visibly at the very idea. “I cannot; do not
ask me! I have tried--you know I have tried--to like the Princess; but
something in her--I don’t know what it is--repels me. To speak
truthfully, I think I am afraid of her.”
“Afraid! Pooh! Why should you be afraid? It is true one doesn’t often
see a woman with the eyes of a vampire-bat; but there is nothing to be
frightened about. I have dissected the eyes of a vampire-bat--very
interesting work, very. The Princess has them--only, of course, hers
are larger and finer; but there is exactly the same expression in
them. I am fond of study, you know; I am studying her. What! Are you
determined to run away?”
“I am engaged for this dance to Mr. Courtney,” said Helen, nervously.
“Well, well! We’ll resume our conversation another time,” and Dr. Dean
took her hand and patted it pleasantly. “Don’t fret yourself about
Denzil; he’ll be all right. And take my advice: don’t marry a Bedouin
chief; marry an honest, straightforward, tender-hearted Englishman
who’ll take care of you, not a nondescript savage who’ll desert you!”
And with a humorous and kindly smile, Dr. Dean moved off to join the
two motionless and picturesque figures that stood side by side looking
at the moon, while Helen, like a frightened bird suddenly released,
fled precipitately back to the ball-room, where Ross Courtney was
already searching for her as his partner in the next waltz.
“Upon my word,” mused the Doctor, “this is a very pretty kettle of
fish! The Gezireh Palace Hotel is not a hotel at all, it seems to me;
it is a lunatic asylum. What with Lady Fulkeward getting herself up as
twenty at the age of sixty; and Muriel and Dolly Chetwynd Lyle
man-hunting with more ferocity than sportsmen hunt tigers; Helen in
love, Denzil in love, Gervase in love--dear me! dear me! What a list
of subjects for a student’s consideration! And the Princess Ziska …”
He broke off his meditations abruptly, vaguely impressed by the
strange solemnity of the night. An equal solemnity seemed to surround
the two figures to which he now drew nigh, and as the Princess Ziska
turned her eyes upon him as he came, he was, to his own vexation,
aware that something indefinable disturbed his usual equanimity and
gave him an unpleasant thrill.
“You are enjoying a moonlight stroll, Doctor?” she inquired.
Her veil was now cast aside in a careless fold of soft drapery over
her shoulders, and her face in its ethereal delicacy of feature and
brilliant coloring looked almost too beautiful to be human. Dr. Dean
did not reply for a moment; he was thinking what a singular
resemblance there was between Armand Gervase and one of the figures on
a certain Egyptian fresco in the British Museum.
“Enjoying--er--er--a what?--a moonlight stroll? Exactly--er--yes!
Pardon me, Princess, my mind often wanders, and I am afraid I am
getting a little deaf as well. Yes, I find the night singularly
conducive to meditation; one cannot be in a land like this under a sky
like this”--and he pointed to the shining heaven--“without recalling
the great histories of the past.”
“I daresay they were very much like the histories of the present,”
said Gervase smiling.
“I should doubt that. History is what man makes it; and the character
of man in the early days of civilization was, I think, more forceful,
more earnest, more strong of purpose, more bent on great
achievements.”
“The principal achievement and glory being to kill as many of one’s
fellow-creatures as possible!” laughed Gervase--“Like the famous
warrior, Araxes, of whom the Princess has just been telling me!”
“Araxes was great, but now Araxes is a forgotten hero,” said the
Princess slowly, each accent of her dulcet voice chiming on the ear
like the stroke of a small silver bell. “None of the modern
discoverers know anything about him yet. They have not even found his
tomb; but he was buried in the Pyramids with all the honors of a king.
No doubt your clever men will excavate him some day.”
“I think the Pyramids have been very thoroughly explored,” said Dr.
Dean. “Nothing of any importance remains in them now.”
The Princess arched her lovely eyebrows.
“No? Ah! I daresay you know them better than I do!” and she laughed, a
laugh which was not mirthful so much as scornful.
“I am very much interested in Araxes,” said Gervase then, “partly, I
suppose, because he is as yet in the happy condition of being an
interred mummy. Nobody has dug him up, unwound his cerements, or
photographed him, and his ornaments have not been stolen. And in the
second place I am interested in him because it appears he was in love
with the famous dancer of his day whom the Princess represents
to-night,--Charmazel. I wish I had heard the story before I came to
Cairo; I would have got myself up as Araxes in person to-night.”
“In order to play the lover of Charmazel?” queried the Doctor.
“Exactly!” replied Gervase with flashing eyes; “I daresay I could have
acted the part.”
“I should imagine you could act any part,” replied the Doctor,
blandly. “The rôle of love-making comes easily to most men.”
The Princess looked at him as he spoke and smiled. The jewelled
scarab, set as a brooch on her bosom, flashed luridly in the moon, and
in her black eyes there was a similar lurid gleam.
“Come and talk to me,” she said, laying her hand on his arm; “I am
tired, and the conversation of one’s ball-room partners is very
_banal_. Monsieur Gervase would like me to dance all night, I imagine;
but I am too lazy. I leave such energy to Lady Fulkeward and to all
the English misses and madams. I love indolence.”
“Most Russian women do, I think,” observed the Doctor.
She laughed.
“But I am not Russian!”
“I know. I never thought you were,” he returned composedly; “but
everyone in the hotel has come to the conclusion that you are!”
“They are all wrong! What can I do to put them right?” she inquired
with a fascinating little upward movement of her eyebrows.
“Nothing! Leave them in their ignorance. I shall not enlighten them,
though I know your nationality.”
“You do?” and a curious shadow darkened her features. “But perhaps you
are wrong also!”
“I think not,” said the Doctor, with gentle obstinacy. “You are an
Egyptian. Born in Egypt; born _of_ Egypt. Pure Eastern! There is
nothing Western about you. Is not it so?”
She looked at him enigmatically.
“You have made a near guess,” she replied; “but you are not absolutely
correct. Originally, I am of Egypt.”
Dr. Dean nodded pleasantly.
“Originally,--yes. That is precisely what I mean--originally! Let me
take you in to supper.”
He offered his arm, but Gervase made a hasty step forward.
“Princess,” he began--
She waved him off lightly.
“My dear Monsieur Gervase, we are not in the desert, where Bedouin
chiefs do just as they like. We are in a modern hotel in Cairo, and
all the good English mammas will be dreadfully shocked if I am seen
too much with you. I have danced with you five times, remember! And I
will dance with you once more before I leave. When our waltz begins,
come and find me in the supper-room.”
She moved away on Dr. Dean’s arm, and Gervase moodily drew back and
let her pass. When she had gone, he lit a cigarette and walked
impatiently up and down the terrace, a heavy frown wrinkling his
brows. The shadow of a man suddenly darkened the moonlight in front of
him, and Denzil Murray’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Gervase,” he said, huskily, “I must speak to you.”
Gervase glanced him up and down, taking note of his pale face and wild
eyes with a certain good-humored regret and compassion.
“Say on, my friend.”
Denzil looked straight at him, biting his lips hard and clenching his
hands in the effort to keep down some evidently violent emotion.
“The Princess Ziska,” he began,--
Gervase smiled, and flicked the ash off his cigarette.
“The Princess Ziska,” he echoed,--“Yes? What of her? She seems to be
the only person talked about in Cairo. Everybody in this hotel, at any
rate, begins conversation with precisely the same words as you
do,--‘the Princess Ziska!’ Upon my life, it is very amusing!”
“It is not amusing to me,” said Denzil, bitterly. “To me it is a
matter of life and death.” He paused, and Gervase looked at him
curiously. “We’ve always been such good friends, Gervase,” he
continued, “that I should be sorry if anything came between us now, so
I think it is better to make a clean breast of it and speak out
plainly.” Again he hesitated, his face growing still paler, then with
a sudden ardent light glowing in his eyes he said--“Gervase, I love
the Princess Ziska!”
Gervase threw away his cigarette and laughed aloud with a wild
hilarity.
“My good boy, I am very sorry for you! Sorry, too, for myself! I
deplore the position in which we are placed with all my heart and
soul. It is unfortunate, but it seems inevitable. You love the
Princess Ziska,--and by all the gods of Egypt and Christendom, so do
I!”