A GIRL IN THE BAZAARS
Billy slapped on his hat with a clap of violence. She might have
just _seen_ him! Then he got up and marched down the steps. There
was no more use in camping on that veranda. There was no more use in
guarding that entrance. When a girl went whirling off in a
limousine, "all dolled up" as his academic English put it, that girl
wasn't going to be back in five minutes. And anyway he'd be blessed
if he lay around in the way any longer like a doormat with "Welcome"
inscribed upon the surface.
So this spurt of masculine shame at his swift surrender to her, and
his masculine resentment at being ignored as she went by, sent him
hurrying down the street resolved not to return till dinner.
From habit his steps took him to the bazaars. But the zest of that
bright pageant was dulled for him. The color was gone even from the
red canopies, and the excitement had vanished from the din of
noises, the interest fled from the grave figures squatting in their
cubby holes of shops draped with silky rags or sewing upon scarlet
slippers. He listened apathetically to the warring shouts of the
donkey boys and the anathemas of a jostled water carrier stooping
under his distended goatskin, then dodged out of the way of a
goaded donkey and turned into one of the passages where the
four-footed could not penetrate.
For a few moments the bargaining over a silver bracelet between two
beturbaned and berobed Arabs caught the surface of his attention,
and as the wrangling became a bedlam of imprecations, and the
explosive gestures made physical violence a development apparently
of mere seconds, Billy's eyes brightened and he estimated chances.
But as he picked his favorite there was one final frenzy of fury,
and then--peace and joy, utter calm on the wild waters! One Arab
counted out the coins from a little leather bag about his neck and
the other passed over the bracelet, and with mutual salaams and
smiling speeches, behold! the affair was accomplished.
Disgustedly Billy turned away. Then on the other side of him he
heard a voice, a sweet and rather high voice, with a musical
intensity of inflection that was as English as the Union Jack.
"Yes, it's _sweetly_ pretty," the voice was saying irresolutely,
"but I don't think I _quite_ care to--not at _that_ price."
"I--I will buy it for you--yes?" said another voice. "It is made for
you--so 'sweetly pretty' as you say."
Billy turned. A slim, tall girl in a dark blue frock was standing
before a counter of Oriental jewelry, her head turned, with an air
of startled surprise, to the man on the other side of her who had
just spoken. He was a short, stout, blond man, heavily flushed,
showily dressed, with a fulsome beam in his light-blue eyes and an
ingratiating grin beneath his upturned straw-colored mustaches.
The girl turned her head away toward the shop-keeper and put back
the turquoise-studded buckle she held in her hand. "No, I do not
care for it," she said in a steady voice whose coldness was for the
intruder and turned away.
Billy had a glimpse of scarlet cheeks and dark lashed eyes before
the blond young man again took his attention.
"You do not like it--no?" he said, blocking her path, his face
thrust out to smile into hers. "But I buy you anything you wish--I
make you one present----"
The girl gave a quick look about. But she was in a pocket; for there
was no other exit to that line of shops but the path he was
blocking. All about her the dark-skinned venders and shoppers, the
bearded men, the veiled women, the impish urchins, were watching the
encounter with beady eyes of malicious interest.
Billy took a quick step forward and touched the man on the arm. "Let
this lady pass, please," he said.
The German confronted him with blood-shot blue eyes that ceased to
smile and clearly welcomed the belligerency.
"Gott! Who are you?" he derided. "Get out--get out the way."
"Get out yourself," said Billy, and stepping in front of the fellow
he extended a rigid arm, leaving a passage for the girl behind him.
"Oh, thank you," he heard her say, and as he half turned his head at
the grateful murmur he felt a sudden staggering blow on the side of
his face. He whirled about, on guard, and as the man struck again,
lunging heavily in his intoxication, Billy knocked up the fist as it
came.
"You silly fool!" he said impatiently, and as the man made a blind
rush upon him he caught him and by main force flung him off, but his
own foot struck something slippery and he lurched and went down,
with a wave of intense disgust, into the dirt of the bazaars. He
heard a chorus of cries and imprecations about him; he jumped up
instantly, looking for his assailant, but the German was clinging to
the front of the jewelry booth. "Meet you--satisfaction--honor," he
was saying stupidly.
A native policeman elbowed his way through the throng, urging some
Arabic question upon Billy, who caught its import and replied with
the few sentences of reassurance at his command, pointing to the
banana peel as the cause of all. A fat dragoman had suddenly
appeared from nowhere and was hurriedly attempting to lead away the
intoxicated one.
"You in charge of him? Take him to his hotel and throw him in the
tub," said Billy curtly, and the dragoman replied with profound
respect that he would do even as the heaven-born commanded.
Brushing off his clothes Billy shouldered his way out of the throng
and was met by two bright and grateful eyes and a slim, bare,
outstretched hand.
"Thank you _so_ much--I am _so_ sorry," said the musical voice.
"You shouldn't have waited," said Billy, with a prompt pressure of
the friendly little hand. "It might have been a real row."
"I couldn't run away," she said in serious protest at such
ingratitude. "I had to see what happened to you. And I am so sorry
about your clothes."
"Not hurt a particle--I chose a fortunate place to drop," he
returned lightly, but distinctly chagrined that he _had_ dropped.
"It was so fine of you," she answered, "just to parry him like
that--when he'd been drinking. I saw what you did." And then she
added, very matter-of-factly, "And I'm afraid your nose is bleeding,
too."
Billy put up a startled hand. In the general soreness he had not
noticed that warm trickle. His whole face turned as scarlet as the
shameless blood. Frantically he rummaged with the other hand.
The girl thrust a square of white linen upon him. "Please take
mine--it will ruin your clothes if it gets on them."
Her immense practicality refused to be embarrassed in the least.
Feeling immensely foolish Billy accepted hers, but then he
discovered his own handkerchief and stuffed hers away into his
pocket.
"You're a trump," he said heartily. "And it's all right now--all but
the swelling, I suppose." He sounded rueful. He had remembered his
engagement for the evening.
Her head a little aslant, the girl regarded him critically. "N-no,
it doesn't seem to be swelling," she observed. "Of course it's a
little red but that will pass."
They were walking side by side out of the narrow street and now, on
a crowded corner, they paused and looked around. "I left Miss
Falconer at the Maltese laces," she murmured, and to the laces they
turned their steps.
Miss Falconer was still bargaining. She was a middle aged lady,
Roman nosed and sandy-haired, and she brought to Billy in a rush the
realization that she was "sister" and the girl was Lady Claire
Montfort. The story of the encounter and Billy's hero part, related
by Lady Claire, appeared most disturbing to the chaperon.
"How awkward--how very awkward," she murmured, several times, and
Billy gathered from her covert glance upon him that part of the
awkwardness consisted in being saddled with his acquaintance. Then,
"Very nice of you, I'm sure," she added. "I hope the creature isn't
lingering about somewhere.... We'd better take a cab, Claire--I'm
sure we're late for tea."
"Let me find one," said Billy dutifully, and charging into the
medley of vehicles he brought forth a victoria with what appeared to
be the least villainous looking driver and handed in the ladies.
"Savoy Hotel, isn't it?" he added thoughtlessly, and both ladies'
countenances interrogated him with a varying _nuance_ of question.
"I remember noticing you," he hastily explained. "I'm not exactly a
private detective, you know,"--the assurance seemed to leave Miss
Falconer cold--"but I do remember people. And then I heard you
spoken of by Miss Beecher."
The name acted curiously upon them. They looked at each other. Then
they looked at Billy. Miss Falconer spoke.
"Perhaps we can drop you at your hotel," said she. "Won't you get
in?"
He got in, facing them a little ruefully with his damaged
countenance, and subtly aware that this accession of friendliness
was not a gush of airy impulse.
"You know Miss Beecher then?" said Miss Falconer with brisk
directness.
"Slightly," he said aloud. To himself he added, "So far."
"Ah--in America?"
"No, in Cairo."
Miss Falconer looked disappointed. "But perhaps you know her
family?"
"No," said Billy. He added humorously, "But I'll wager I could guess
them all right."
"Can you Americans do that for one another? That is more than we can
venture to do for you," said the lady, and Billy was aware of irony.
"We know so little about your life, you see," the girl softened it
for him, with a direct and friendly smile, and then gazed watchfully
at her chaperon. She was a nice girl, Billy decided emphatically.
"How would you construct her family?" was the elder lady's next
demand.
"Oh, big people in a small town," he hazarded carelessly. "The kind
of place where the life isn't wide enough for the girl after all her
'advantages' and she goes abroad in search of adventure."
"Adventure," repeated Miss Falconer thoughtfully. She seemed to
have an idea, but Billy was certain it was not his idea.
He hastened to clarify the light he had tried to cast upon his
upsetting little countrywoman. "All life, you know, is an adventure
to the American girl," he generalized. "She is a little bit more on
her own than I imagine your girls are," and for the fraction of a
second his eyes wandered to the listening countenance of Lady
Claire, "and that rather exhilarates her. And she doesn't want
things cut and dried--she wants them spontaneous and unexpected--and
people, just as people, interest her tremendously. I think that's
why she's so unintelligible on the Continent," he added
thoughtfully. "They don't understand there that girlish love of
experience as experience--enjoyment of romance apart from results."
"Romance apart from results," repeated Miss Falconer in a peculiar
voice.
"I don't believe you quite get me," said Billy hastily. He felt
foolish and he felt resentful. And if these English women couldn't
understand the bright, volatile stuff that Arlee was made of, he
certainly was not going to talk about it. But Miss Falconer had one
more question for him.
"When you say big people in a small town do you mean her father
would be a sort of country squire?"
"More probably a captain of industry," Billy smiled.
"A captain--Oh, that is one of your phrases!"
"One of our phrases," he laughed, and then parried, "I thought you
were acquainted with Miss Beecher?"
"Quite slightly," said Miss Falconer in an aloof tone. "My brother
came over on the same ship with her--he came to join us here."
Billy experienced a flood of mental light. The brother--at the hotel
he had discovered that his name was Robert Falconer--was coming to
join his elder sister and her young charge. He had come on the same
steamer as Miss Beecher. Ergo, he was staying at the hotel where
Miss Beecher was and not with his sister. Billy comprehended the
anxiety of the lady with the Roman nose. He looked at Lady Claire
with a certain sympathy.
He caught her own eyes reconnoitering, and they each looked hastily
away.
Again Miss Falconer returned to her attack. "Then you really know
nothing positive of Miss Beecher's family?"
"Nothing in the world," said Billy cheerfully. "But why not ask Miss
Beecher?"
The lady made no reply. "Miss Beecher is a beautiful girl," said
Lady Claire hastily. "She's _so_ beautiful that I suppose we are all
rather curious about her--of course people _will_ ask about a girl
like that!"
"Of course," said Billy, and Lady Claire, perceiving that he
resented this catechism about his young countrywoman, and Miss
Falconer perceiving that nothing was to be gotten out of him, the
conversation was promptly turned into other channels, the vague,
general channels of comment upon Cairo.
* * * * *
The Evershams dined alone. Alternately, from their table to the
doorway went Billy's eager eyes, but no vision with shining curls
and laughing eyes appeared. Evidently she had stayed to dine with
whatever people she had gone to see. Robert Falconer was watching
that table, too.... Perhaps she would not return till late; perhaps
he would have only a tiny time with her that evening.... And he had
not been able to buy out that man's berth upon the steamer....
Consommé and whitebait, _boeuf rôti_ and _haricots vert_ and
_crême de cérises_ succeeded one another in deepening gloom. The
whole dinner over, and she had not appeared!
He went out to the lounge and smoked with violence. Presently he saw
the Evershams in the doorway talking to Robert Falconer, and he
jumped up and hurried to join them. As he approached he heard the
word Alexandria spoken fretfully by Mrs. Eversham.
"Good evening, good evening," said Billy hurriedly to the ladies,
and being a young man of simple directness, undeterred by the
glacial tinge of the ladies' response--they had not forgotten his
defection of the evening before when they were entertaining him so
nicely--he put the question which had been tormenting him all
evening, "Where is Miss Beecher to-night?"
"Alexandria," said Mrs. Eversham again, and this time there was a
hint of malicious satisfaction in her voice.
"Alexandria?" Billy was incredulous. "Why I--I understood she was to
go up the Nile to-morrow morning."
"She was, but she has changed her mind. She had word from some
friends of hers while we were out this afternoon and she flew right
off to join them."
"You mean she isn't going up the Nile at all now?"
"I haven't an idea what she is going to do. She is not in our care
any longer. And I don't suppose the boat company will do anything
about her stateroom at this late date--certainly she can't expect us
to go to any trouble about it."
"She left us half her packing to do," Clara Eversham contributed,
addressing Falconer with plaintive mien, "and her hotel bill to pay.
She is the most unexpected creature!"
Two young men silently and heartily concurred.
"What was her hurry?" Billy demanded.
"Oh, she's going camping in the desert with them--that sort of thing
would fascinate her, you know. Her telegram wasn't very clear. She
just sent a wire from the station, I think, or from Cook's, with
some money for her bill by the boy. So careless, trusting him like
that!"
"I don't suppose he brought it all," Mrs. Eversham declared. "You
see, she didn't say how much she was sending--just said it was
enough for her bill."
Billy looked at Falconer. He admired the stolidity of that
sandy-haired young man's countenance. He envied the unrevealing
blankness of his eyes.
"May I ask where she is stopping in Alexandria?" he persisted.
Mrs. Eversham shook her head. "She didn't give any address--the best
hotel, I suppose, whatever that is."
"The Khedivial," Falconer supplied.
"She just said to send her things to Cook's and to write to her
there and she would write when she came back. She had been expecting
to meet those friends, the Maynards, later, but we had no idea that
she was going to run off with them like this. It's very upsetting."
"We shall miss her," said Clara Eversham suddenly, with a note of
sincerity that made Billy warm to her a trifle. So he bestirred
himself getting their after dinner coffee and remembered to send
Mohammed for the cream for her, and listened with a show of
attention to their interminable anecdotes and corrections. But his
mind was off on the way to Alexandria....
Not a word of farewell. Of course, they had not exactly arrived, in
those twenty-four hours, at a correspondence stage, but still she
had made a positive engagement for that evening--and she had known
he was trying to buy that berth. Only that morning she had listened
to his account of his endeavors with a mischievous light in her blue
eyes and a prankish smile edging her pink lips ... and she might,
after that, have left just a line to tell him to cancel his
arrangements.... But what could he expect from such a tricksy sprite
of a girl? Only twenty-seven hours before he had seen her,
flagrantly tardy, nonchalantly unrepentant, first mock and then
annihilate the worthy and earnest young Englishman who had
endeavored to correct her ways ... He had known then the volatile
stuff that she was made of--and had succumbed to it!
But he _had_ succumbed. On that point he was most disastrously
certain. The memory of the young girl possessed him. Her beauty
haunted him, that spring-like beauty with its enchanting youth and
gaiety. And the spirit that animated that beauty, that young,
blithe, innocently audacious spirit which looked out on the world
with such sunnily trustful eyes, drew him with a golden cord.
* * * * *
He smoked many a pipe over it that night, his feet on the open
window ledge, his eyes on the far-spreading flat roofs, the distant
domes and minarets darkly silhouetted against the sky of softest,
deepest blue. The stars were silver bright. They spangled the heaven
with the radiance they never give to northern skies; they gleamed
like bright, wild creatures on their unearthly revels.... It would
be glorious camping in the desert on a night like this ... Heaven be
praised, he had not bought that berth ... Alexandria ... the
Maynards ... the desert ...
He knocked out the ashes from his last pipe and rose briskly. His
decision was made, but its success was on the knees of the great god
Luck.