WINSTON BEY IS INDIGNANT.
In their rooms at the Savoy next morning Lord Roane and his son
quarreled violently. The day’s paper contained a full account of the
affair at the club, and while no names were mentioned, there was no
misunderstanding who the culprit was. “An English nobleman who had
lately arrived to fill an important position in the Ministry of Finance
was detected playing with marked cards and loaded dice by a well-known
Egyptian gentleman of wealth and high station, who promptly exposed the
fraud in the presence of several reputable club members. Fortunately,
the Englishman’s name had only been posted and he had not yet been
admitted to membership in the club, so that his trickery and consequent
disgrace in no way reflects upon that popular and admirably conducted
institution, etc.”
Lord Roane was vastly chagrined and indignant as he read the account.
“You low, miserable scoundrel!” he roared, facing his son; “how dare you
drag the name of your family in the mire, just as we are assuming an
indisputable position of respectability in Cairo? To be a gambler is
despicable enough, but to become a common cheat and swindler is utterly
unpardonable. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Nothing,” said Consinor, sullenly. “I am innocent. It was a plot to
ruin me.”
“Pah! a plot of yours to ruin others rather. Speak up, man! Have you
nothing to say to excuse or palliate your shame and dishonor?”
“What use?” asked the viscount, apathetically. “You will not believe
me.”
“Do you believe him, Aneth?” asked the old man, turning to gaze upon the
girl’s horrified face. “Do you believe that this cur, who is my son and
your father, is innocent?”
“No,” she answered, shrinking back as Consinor looked up curiously to
hear her reply. “He has deceived me cruelly. He promised me he would not
touch a card again, or play for money, and he has broken his word. I
cannot believe him now.”
“Of course not,” her father retorted, reddening for the first time. “My
precious family is so rotten throughout that even its youngest member
cannot give a Consinor credit for being honest or sincere.”
“See here, Roger; I will not have Aneth insulted, even by you. I’m not a
saint, I’ll admit; but I’ve never been guilty of petty swindling, and
your daughter is pure enough to shame us both. As for you, I’ve done
with you, and you must from this time work out your salvation in your
own way. You’ve dissipated any inheritance you might have had; but I’ll
give you a thousand pounds in cash if you’ll take your ugly face out of
Cairo and promise not to come near us again. I’ll take care of your
wife and daughter, neither of whom, I am positive, will miss you for a
single hour.”
“It’s a good offer,” said Consinor, quickly, “and I’ll accept it. Where
did you get the thousand pounds?”
“That,” declared my lord, stiffly, “is none of your accursed business!
Now go. Leave your resignation with the Minister of Finance and then
make yourself scarce. Here, I’ll write you a check now.”
Consinor took the paper.
“If it is good, and the bank will cash it,” he said, slowly, “I’ll do as
I have agreed, and not trouble you again. Good-by, Aneth. Look out for
that snakey Egyptian who is following you around. He alone is
responsible for this affair, and you cannot afford to trust him; and
give my fond farewell to your mother. She won’t mind if I do not appear
in person to irritate her nerves.”
“Where will you go?” asked Lord Roane.
“That, sir, to repeat your own words, is none of your accursed
business.”
With this filial response he left the room, and Aneth burst into a flood
of tears. Never had she felt so wretched and humiliated as at this
discovery of her father’s infamy, and although Roane tried to comfort
his granddaughter by pointing out the fact that Roger had long been a
gambler with a character not above suspicion, the girl had so fondly
hoped for her father’s regeneration that her disappointment was indeed
bitter.
“It won’t hurt us so very much, my child,” continued the old nobleman,
stroking her head soothingly. “The world will know we have repudiated
Roger, and will sympathise with our distress. In a few months the
scandal will be forgotten, and we may again hold up our heads. I’m
afraid I’ve lived a rather wicked life, my dear; but for your sake I
would like to retrieve my good name and die possessed of the honor and
respect of all my fellow-men. And this, I believe, I can accomplish.
Don’t worry, little one! Be brave, and the blow will not hurt half so
much.”
There were tears in his own eyes as he marked her distress, and he
continued to encourage her until the young girl had partly recovered her
self-control and the first shock of her sudden misfortune had been
blunted. Then he kissed her tenderly and went away to his office.
The account in the morning paper had likewise caused Gerald Winston
considerable amazement and dismay. His first thought was of Aneth and
the trouble that had come to her; his next a feeling of resentment
toward Kāra. After pacing the floor restlessly for an hour, he called
for his saddle-horse and rode down the Shubra road to interview the
Egyptian at his villa.
Kāra was at home and received his visitor with cold politeness, which
Winston passed unnoticed. He was not in a mood to be affected by
trifles.
“I understand that you accused Consinor of cheating at the club last
night,” he began, impetuously.
“Well?” said Kāra, lifting his brows inquiringly.
“Why did you do it?”
“Because it was true. He was robbing me.”
“You know what I mean, sir! You have been posing as a friend of Miss
Consinor. To expose her father to public shame was the act of a cowardly
enemy.”
“What would you have done in my place?” asked Kāra, calmly.
“I? I would have concealed the discovery and allowed the man to go,
refusing to play with him again,” declared Winston.
“And so have allowed him to rob others, perhaps?”
“If necessary, yes, that his daughter’s good name might be protected.
But a private warning would have induced him to abandon further
trickery.”
“He is an old offender, I believe,” said Kāra, leaning back in his chair
and regarding the other with an amused expression. “It might benefit you
to reflect that Miss Consinor’s good name has not been acquired on
account of her father’s respectability, any more than through the
reputation of her grandsire, who has grown old in iniquity. Therefore, I
cannot believe that I have injured her in any way.”
A tinge of passionate hatred in the man’s voice as he referred to Lord
Roane aroused Winston’s attention. Then, suddenly, a light broke upon
him.
“See here, Kāra,” he said, sternly, “are you persecuting these people
and plotting against them because of the old wrong that Roane did your
grandmother, Hatatcha?”
“I am neither persecuting nor plotting against them,” declared Kāra.
“Consinor has ruined himself unaided. As for his daughter, I have every
object in protecting her from scandal.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?”
“I intend to marry her.”
At this cool statement Winston stared aghast. Then he gave a bitter
laugh.
“That is absurd and impossible,” he said.
“Why so?”
“You are cousins.”
“She does not know that, and you will not tell her because you have so
much regard for her grandfather’s good name,” with a sneer.
“I see. It is your plot to ruin her; but it will fail, because she will
never consent to marry you,” he continued.
“How do you know that?” asked Kāra.
“It is improbable that she can love you.”
“In that, sir, I am inclined to differ with you. Even if Aneth
discovered our relationship, it would not matter. In olden days our
Egyptian kings married their sisters. And I suppose that Lord Roane
would emphatically deny the assertion that I am his grandson. I would
myself deny it, and you have no proof to back your statement of the
fact.”
“You told me the story with your own lips.”
“To be sure--and the story was true. I do not mind acknowledging it at
this moment, because there are no witnesses present; but if you repeat
the statement in public, I will deny it absolutely.”
For a moment Winston remained thoughtfully silent. Then he said:
“You are proposing a dreadful crime, Kāra, but it will avail you nothing
to defy morality in this way. There is another reason why Miss Consinor
will refuse to marry you, and it is entirely distinct from the subject
of your relationship.”
“To what do you refer?”
“To the woman you are keeping, even now, in your harem. It is a matter
of public scandal, and I am surprised that society has not already
ostracized you for your audacious defiance of propriety. You are neither
an Arab nor a Mohammedan. Doubtless the offense has not yet come to Miss
Consinor’s ears; but if it does, have you any idea she would place her
happiness in the hands of a man of your character?”
Kāra frowned. Here was a weapon against him that he had never before
recognized.
“I suppose you will take pains to inform Miss Consinor that I have a
slave-girl among my servants,” he said, mockingly.
“I shall ask Mrs. Everingham to tell her the truth concerning your
domestic relations,” returned Winston, decidedly.
The Egyptian arose.
“I think it will be as well to end this interview, Winston Bey,” he
said. “You are yourself a pretender for the hand of my future bride, and
it is useless to endeavor to fairly discuss matters wherein you are so
selfishly concerned.”
“Do you choose to defy my warnings?” asked Winston, angrily.
“By no means. I merely ignore your implied threats. They can in no way
interfere with my plans.”
“I believe,” said Winston, striving to control his indignation, “that
those plans are inspired by hatred rather than love. I shall do my best
to oppose them.”
“Naturally. It is your privilege, sir.”
Winston turned to go.
“I shall always regret,” he remarked, bitterly, as a parting shot, “that
I was so foolish as to bring a filthy native from out the natural
environment of his mud village.”
“The filthy native would have found other means of escape had you not
brought him; so you need not reproach yourself,” returned Kāra, with a
smile. “But the trifle you have mentioned should not be your deepest
regret, my stupid Englishman!”
“Did I do anything more foolish?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“You kicked me twice beneath the palms of Fedah.”
“Ah! I should not have restrained myself to two kicks.”
“Be content, sir. Twice was sufficient, since it is liable to cause you
much unhappiness. I had it in mind, had you kicked me again, to kill
you.”
Winston left the villa more thoughtful than he had been on his arrival.
The matter involved much more, it seemed, than the loss of Lord
Consinor’s reputation. Kāra’s confident tone had not failed to impress
his rival, and the Englishman was more uneasy than he cared to admit
even to himself. His love for Aneth was sincere and unselfish, and he
could imagine no greater calamity for the girl than to acquire a
fondness for the treacherous native whose presence he had just left.
Such a contingency had not occurred to him before, and for this reason
Kāra’s claims were as startling as they were revolting. He longed to go
to the girl at once and strive to comfort her in this, her hour of
sorrow; but a natural delicacy restrained him. She would like to be
alone, at first, until she had somewhat recovered from the humiliation
she would be sure to suffer at the public exposure of her father’s
misdeeds. Afterward he could assure her of his confidence and
friendship, and, when the proper time came, of his love. Meantime he
contented himself by sending Aneth a basket of the most beautiful roses
to be found in Cairo.
No such delicacy of feeling influenced Kāra. In the afternoon he went to
the Savoy and sent up his card.
Aneth was alone, Mrs. Everingham having just left her for a drive. The
girl received the Egyptian almost with eagerness.
“Can you forgive me, Prince?” she asked, by way of greeting, as she
stood before him with scarlet cheeks and downcast eyes.
“Forgive you for what, Miss Aneth?” he replied, gently.
“For--for the wrong my father did you,” she stammered.
Kāra smiled, and she glanced up shyly in time to catch his expression of
amusement.
“Let us sit down and talk it over,” he said, taking her hand and leading
her to a chair. “But it will be unnecessary, I am sure, for me to say
that I have nothing to forgive, since you have in no way offended.”
“But my father--” she began, timidly, again dropping her eyes in shame.
“Yes, I know, Miss Aneth,” said he. “Your father did a foolish thing,
for which people will justly condemn him. I am very sorry that it was
through me he was detected, but I assure you I was powerless to prevent
it. Others saw the marked cards and forced the accusation against him.
Believe me, I would have saved him if possible; but I could not.”
“I believe you, Prince Kāra,” she said. “It was all my father’s fault,
and his punishment is only such as he deserved.”
“I am deeply grieved for your sake,” continued Kāra, and indeed the
sight of her sweet face, convulsed with anguish, so appealed to him at
the moment that his speech was almost sincere. “I know what this
disgrace will mean to you, Aneth--the avoidance of your former
associates, and the jeers, perhaps, of those who have envied you. The
world is heartless always, and visits the sins of the fathers upon their
children; so that your innocence will not be considered save by your
truest friends.”
He paused, for she was crying now, softly but miserably, and the tears
moved him strangely.
“That is why I have come,” he continued, his voice trembling with
earnestness, “to assure you of my faith in you and of my steadfast
friendship. Nay, more; I offer to protect you against the sneers of all
the world, if you will grant me the right.”
The girl started, glancing nervously and almost affrightedly into his
face.
“I--I do not understand you, Prince Kāra,” she murmured.
“Then I must speak more plainly,” he quickly rejoined, springing up to
stand before her with sparkling eyes and outstretched hands.
“Aneth, my sweet one, I love you! To me you represent the joys of earth
and the delights of paradise. Only in your presence do I find happiness
and content. Be my wife, Aneth; give me yourself, and I will guard you
so well and place you so high that all the world will bow at your feet.”
The speech shocked her, for there was no mistaking the man’s
earnestness. Nor did she know how to reply, the proposal being as
unexpected as it was inopportune. Aneth may have had vague dreams of
love, as maidens will and should have; but she had been so happy in
Cairo that she had not thought the attentions of Kāra meant more than
the kindly good-fellowship of the other men she had met. Indeed, she had
not considered such a subject at all, and at this hour, when her heart
was wrung with grief, she found in it no response to her suitor’s fervid
appeals.
“I cannot reply to you just now, Prince Kāra,” she said, with
hesitation; “it is all new to me, and quite unexpected, and--and I do
not wish to marry anyone.”
His face hardened as he gazed upon her timid, shrinking form, but the
longing in his dark eyes remained. With all his lately acquired polish,
the native failed to comprehend that an English girl does not yield
herself to the demands of any man unless her heart and inclinations lead
her to acknowledge his authority. But he was wise enough to perceive
that the difficulties of the situation required tact if he wished to
succeed.
“Aneth,” said he, more quietly, “this is no time for evasions or
misunderstandings between us. I have told you that I love you, that my
earnest desire is to make you my wife. You need a protector at this
moment, and a delay is as foolish as it is dangerous to your interests.
If you love me at all, you can tell me so to-day as well as later.”
“Ah, that is it, Prince! I’m afraid that I do not love you in the way
that you wish,” answered the girl, aroused to a more dignified tone by
his persistence. “I am very grateful to you, Prince Kāra, and
appreciate the honor of your proposal; but I have nothing more to offer
you than my sincere friendship.”
“Then I will accept that as sufficient for the time being,” said he. “I
will marry your friendship, Aneth, and perhaps the love will some time
follow.”
“Oh, I cannot allow that!” she cried, distressed. “I am sorry to hurt
you when you are so kind to me; but can’t you see that I am unnerved and
unhappy to-day, and that if you force me to answer you, I can only say
‘no’?”
He grew thoughtful at this, studying her features carefully. After a
moment he replied:
“I will not press the question further now, but will give you two days
for consideration. Will you answer me at the end of that time?”
She hesitated, knowing already what the answer would be and that it was
best he understood her at once. Yet to her inexperienced mind it seemed
more easy to postpone the matter until she had time to collect her
thoughts and reply to Kāra more gently and effectively.
“Yes,” said she, answering him; “come to me in two days, please.”
To her surprise he bowed gravely and at once left the room; but the
relief she experienced made her glad that she had found this simple way
to evade her present difficulties. In two days she would know better
what to say to him.
Kāra was astonished at his own forbearance. Where he might have
threatened and compelled he had merely implored, and he could not in the
least understand the mood that had swayed his actions. But while in the
girl’s presence he seemed not to be himself, or even to know himself.
If only Aneth would love him, how gladly would he shield her from the
inheritance of his grandmother’s malignant vengeance! Even if she could
not love him, he was determined to win her for his wife, for the longing
of his heart was at this time too great to be denied.
In her tears and distress the girl had seemed more lovely than ever,
and, as he drove slowly homeward, he dwelt upon her with an ecstasy of
adoration that seemed entirely foreign to his cold and calculating
nature. At this moment perhaps he really loved Aneth; but the Eastern
lover is prone to sudden fits of intense passion that soon exhaust
themselves, and the reaction is apt to restore them to their native
apathy with surprising abruptness.
When Kāra arrived home he at once crossed the courtyard and entered the
quarters devoted to women. Ever since Winston had sneered at his
relations with Nephthys that morning, the thing had rankled in his mind,
and now, fresh from Aneth’s presence, he reproached himself for his
folly in bringing the stupid Nile girl to Cairo. For, in spite of his
efforts to amuse himself in her society, Nephthys had not only proved
unable to destroy his love for Aneth, but her quiescent indifference,
beautiful though she was, served rather to disgust him by its sharp
contrast with the English girl’s brightness and innocence.
Never doubting that he would shortly install Aneth in Nephthys’ place,
he suddenly resolved to have done with the Egyptian girl, who had been
so great a disappointment to him.
There was a dark scowl upon Kāra’s face as he pushed aside the draperies
and entered the apartment of Nephthys. He found the girl seated upon her
divan, with the dragoman comfortably established beside her. Both were
smoking cigarettes and Tadros was holding Nephthys with one arm loosely
clasped around her waist.
They did not notice the master’s presence for a moment; but when they
looked up, Kāra was standing before them with folded arms. The frown had
vanished, and his expression was one of positive content; for here was
his excuse.
“Tadros,” said he, in a soft voice, “be good enough to go into the
courtyard. You may wait there for me.”
The dragoman stood up and flicked the ash from his cigarette. He was
evidently much disturbed.
“If you think, Kāra--” he began, in a very loud, boisterous voice.
“Go into the courtyard, please,” interrupted the other, quietly.
Tadros hesitated and glanced at Nephthys. The girl was staring with
frightened eyes into her master’s face. Following her gaze, the
dragoman gave a shudder. Kāra’s countenance was as cold and inexpressive
as that of a statue. Tadros had learned to fear that expression. Softly
he tiptoed from the room, and the draperies fell behind him.
Clinging to the curtains of the arch leading to the next room, appeared
old Tilga, who was trembling violently. Had the master been an Arab, her
life was already forfeited. She was not sure what an Egyptian would do
under the circumstances.
Kāra beckoned her to approach. Then, pointing a finger at Nephthys, he
said:
“Remove those jewels and ornaments.”
As the old woman eagerly attempted to obey, Nephthys stood up and asked
in a low, horrified voice:
“What are you going to do?”
Kāra did not reply. He watched Tilga’s nervous fingers rapidly removing
the diadem, earrings, brooches and bracelets, which she cast in a heap
upon a table. Nephthys submitted quietly until the hag seized her string
of pearls; then she shrank away and clutched at her throat to save her
treasure, loving the pearls better than all else.
Kāra grasped her wrists firmly and drew her hands down to her side,
while Tilga unwound the triple row of priceless pearls from the girl’s
neck and added it to the heap upon the table. He continued to hold her
fast until the housekeeper had stripped from her fingers the rings of
diamond, ruby and emerald. Then he let her go, and Nephthys moaned and
covered her face with her hands.
“Take off her robes,” commanded Kāra, sternly.
Tilga rushed to do his bidding, and, when Nephthys resisted, the hag
struck her across the face with her open hand. She literally tore away
the exquisite gown, as well as the silken hose and satin slippers, until
the girl stood shorn of all her finery except the fleecy underclothing.
“Leave her that,” said Kāra. “And now, where is her black cotton dress?”
Tilga hurriedly fetched it from a closet in the robing chamber. She
brought the head-shawl and the coarse shoes also.
Nephthys was sobbing now as miserably as a child that has been robbed of
its toys.
“I won’t wear them! I won’t have them! Take them away!” she wailed, as
the old Fedah garments were produced.
But the woman shook her angrily and slapped her again, covering her with
the crude, soiled gown, and then pushing her back upon the divan while
she placed the flat shoes upon the girl’s bare feet. Tears were still
standing in Nephthys’ great eyes, but she submitted to the inevitable
with a resumption of her old obedient manner.
“Call Ebbek,” said the master; and Tilga displayed such activity that
she quickly returned, dragging the Arab after her.
“You will take this woman back to Fedah, whence you brought her, and
deliver her over to her mother again. There is a train at sundown, and
you will be able to catch it if you are prompt. Drive to the station in
a carriage.”
Ebbek bowed without betraying surprise at his master’s unexpected
command. Perhaps he had been observant, and knew the reason for the
girl’s dismissal.
“Must old Sĕra return your money?” he asked.
“No; tell her she may keep it. Here is gold for your expenses. Feed
Nephthys at the railway station, if you have time, and buy her some
cigarettes. Now hasten.”
Ebbek took the girl’s arm to lead her away. As she passed Kāra she
halted to say, with despairing intensity:
“I hate you! Some day I will kill you.”
Kāra laughed. He was in a pleased mood.
“Good-by, Nephthys,” he rejoined, complacently. “Tell Sĕra I present you
to her with my compliments.”
Then he left the room and found Tadros standing stiffly outside the
door.
“Follow me,” he said, and the dragoman obeyed.
He led the way to his own room and sat down facing the dragoman.
Tadros remained standing. He held in his hand the stump of a half-burned
cigarette, which he eyed critically and with an air of absorbing
interest.
Kāra, being amused, remained silent.
After a time the dragoman coughed to clear his throat.
“You see, Kāra,” he began, “I bought the girl first, and paid good money
for her when I was desperately poor--a fact that deserves some
consideration; yet you forced me to sell her.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, for an insignificant roll of papyrus. I don’t complain, having
accepted the bargain; but you mustn’t blame me for all that has
happened. By the beard of Osiris! is a man’s heart to be bought and sold
like a woman’s body? It is absurd.”
He paused, shifting from one foot to the other. Then he lifted his eyes,
and was pained to find Kāra staring at him fixedly.
“There should be no quarrel between us,” he continued, striving to speak
confidently. “I have been your jackal, and did your dirty work for a
fair amount of pay. What then? To ruin me will cause your own downfall.
You dare not do it. But I am honest with you, and a good servant. You
need not fear me in the future, for I will promise you on my word to
avoid your harem--the word of Tadros the dragoman!”
As he spoke, a shrill scream reached their ears. Tadros bounded to the
window, and through the lattice saw Ebbek pushing the unhappy Nephthys
into a carriage. He turned a frowning face toward his master.
“What are you doing to the girl?” he demanded, fiercely.
“Sending her back to Sĕra.”
The dragoman uttered a curse and made for the door.
“Come here!” cried Kāra, sternly.
Tadros stopped, hesitated, and then returned. He realized that he could
do nothing.
“Very well,” said he, sullenly. “She will be safer in Fedah than in
Cairo. But you have been cruel, Kāra. A man who is really a man would
not treat a beast as you have treated Nephthys. To teach her the
splendid luxury of a palace and then thrust her back into a mud hut on
the forsaken Nile bank is a positive crime! I suppose you have also
taken away her fine clothes and her pretty ornaments?”
“Yes.”
“Poor child! But there--one does not argue with a snake for fear of its
venom. I am likewise in your power,” said the dragoman, gloomily.
Kāra actually laughed at his rueful expression.
“You were born a fool, my Tadros,” said he, “and a fool you will die.
Look you! there is no excuse in all your chatter to me of your own
treachery--the crime that our customs declare merits death. You simply
accuse me of harshness in sending away a faithless woman. Tell me, then,
some plausible reason why I should not kill you.”
Tadros grew pale.
“There are two reasons,” he replied, seriously. “One is that murdering
me would cause you to get into trouble with the police. The other is
that you have need of me.”
“Very good. The first argument does not count, because you could be
killed secretly, with no personal danger to me; and that, without doubt,
is the manner in which I shall kill you some day. But your present
safety, my Tadros, lies in your second reason. I still need your
services, and will permit you to remain alive until I am quite sure to
have no further use for you.”
The dragoman drew a long breath.
“Let us forget it, Kāra,” said he. “I admit that I have been somewhat
indiscreet; but what then? All men are indiscreet at times, and you will
cease to blame me when you discover how faithful I am to your
interests.”
Kāra did not reply. The carriage had long since driven away. The
dragoman again shifted his position uneasily.
“May I go?” he asked.
“Yes.”
And Tadros withdrew, his heart filled with fear and hatred; but the
hatred remained long after the fear had subsided.