Undoubtedly the ancients were quite right in regarding youth as a kind
of fever, an intermittent sickness lasting from puberty to middle age.
In Egypt this particular illness is rampant: everybody who is not old
feels youthful, and the actually youthful have hours of violent
delirium.
As the weather, in the last days of October, became cooler and more
stimulating, Lady Muriel began to experience a series of startling
sensations. She felt excited, and her mind turned itself to a heated
study of the romantic possibilities of existence at the Residency. She
had always been told that a young woman's life was divided into two
distinct ages, the first being a period filled with romantic episodes
and terminated by marriage, and the second being a period crowded with
very serious love affairs and only curtailed by age or the divorce
court.
So far she could safely say that she had only been in love three times.
Once at Eastbourne, during her school-days, she had fallen into a divine
frenzy over a curate, who had been a rugger blue at Oxford, and who, in
a certain brief and desperate sofa-episode, had apparently mistaken her
for the football with which he was touching down a try, but who, a
moment later, had recovered his feet and had staggered out into the
night calling upon God for mercy upon a married man. She had nursed her
bruises and had sorrowed for him for many days, ardently desiring to
poison his wife and all her babies, but his sudden appointment to a
far-away living had closed the story.
A year later she fell in love with a Russian singer who, at the time,
was being heavily lionized in London; but, as luck would have it, she
met three of his mistresses in one day, and the fright sobered her.
The third episode had been much more prosaic. The man was merely a young
Member of Parliament who made his overtures in the most approved style,
and might have succeeded in capturing her, had it not been discovered on
the day the engagement was to be announced that he had borrowed money on
the strength of the coming alliance. In this case she had not grieved
for long: indeed, when she happened to see him a week later she had
already sufficiently recovered to observe that his eyes were set too
close together, his teeth were like a rabbit's, his hands too hairy, his
head not hairy enough, and his legs bandy.
That was a year ago, and since then she had been entirely heart-whole.
Now, however, the starry Egyptian nights, the sun-bathed days, the
multitude of officers, officials, and diplomats whose acquaintance she
was making, and the general court paid to her, both as a charming woman
and as the Great Man's daughter, were beginning to stimulate her senses.
One morning, at the beginning of November, as she sat up in her bed,
playing with her toes, the thought came strongly to her that her season
in Egypt ought to be graced by some exceptional romance. Here was the
setting for the play; here was the heroine; but where was the hero? It
was true that Rupert Helsingham, of whom she had grown quite fond, was
becoming daily more bold; but he had ever an eye on her father, on whom
depended his budding career. In her exposed position whatever romance
came to her would have to be conducted on very correct lines; and would
probably be expected to end in marriage; but she did not want to be
married. Indeed, the thought appalled her. She vastly preferred the idea
of a great sorrow, a heartbreaking parting under the stars, a life-long
devotion to a sad, sweet memory. But that a man should walk nightly into
her bedroom in his striped pyjamas was a horrible thought.
Pensively she gazed at her toes, upon which a shaft of the morning
sunlight was striking. They were pretty toes. A man's feet usually had
corns on them. No, she had little wish for a bare-footed romance: the
hero she pictured would make love in his boots, and tragedy should
descend before the hour came to take them off.
Everything pointed to a clandestine affair--something in a garden, with
the scent of roses in it; or in a boat floating down the Nile, very
placid and mysterious; or far away in the desert....
In the desert! The thought brought back to her mind the parting words of
Daniel Lane. "Why don't you break loose?" Several times she had wondered
what he had meant: whether he were suggesting a breaking away from the
routine of her life, or whether he were advising her to run amuck in a
moral sense. The latter, it seemed to her, was the more probable,
judging by his reputation; but this was not a form of entertainment that
appealed to her. She did not mind playing with fire, but she had no wish
at all to be burnt. Her education had trained her to think lightly of
the chastity of others, but so far it had not injured her own natural
continence.
Getting out of bed she stood for a few moments in the middle of the
room, staring through the open window at the distant line of the desert.
Yes, the desert would be a wonderful setting for a romance; and yet even
there she would not seem to be quite alone, quite unobserved. In her
mind the whole of those vast spaces belonged, somehow, to Daniel Lane.
She would feel his disturbing influence there: his head would rise from
behind a rock, and his quiet eyes would stare mockingly at her and her
lover, whoever he might be. He might even stroll forward, pick up the
wretched Romeo, with a yawn throw him over the cliffs, seat himself by
her side instead, and light his pipe. And if she protested he might
whistle up half a dozen cut-throat Bedouin and peg her to the ground for
the jackals to sniff at till he was ready to put her in his harim.
She laughed nervously to herself as she went to her bath; and her
thoughts turned again to the possibilities of the garden and the Nile,
and once more the difficulties of her position were manifest. Female
accomplices are required in romance: she had none. There was her maid,
Ada, a large Scotchwoman, who would play the part about as nimbly as a
hobbled cow. Lady Smith-Evered was not to be trusted with secrets, even
if she were able to be flattered into acquiescence. There was no other
woman in Cairo with whom she was at all well acquainted as yet, and none
that gave promise of the paradoxical but necessary combination of
self-effacement and presence of mind.
What she required was the friendship of a young married woman without
stain and without scruple. Then there would be some hope that the season
would not be entirely barren of romance, and, when she returned to
England in the spring, she would not be in the painful necessity of
having to invent confidences for the ears of her girl friends.
There is, however, an ancient and once very popular Egyptian god who
seems to have survived to the present day, if one may judge by the
strange events which take place in the land of the Pharaohs. By the
Greeks he was called Pan-Who-is-Within-Hearing; and he must certainly
have been sitting in the bathroom. For no sooner had Muriel dressed and
come downstairs than the accomplice walked straight into the house.
Muriel had just entered the drawing-room by one door when a footman
threw open the opposite door and announced "Mr. and Mrs. Benifett
Bindane."
A moment later a plump, square-shouldered young woman hurried into the
room and flung herself into Muriel's arms. "Muriel--you darling!" she
cried, and "Kate--my dear!" cried Muriel, as they kissed one another
affectionately.
Mrs. Bindane beckoned to the middle-aged man who had followed her into
the room. "This person is my husband," she said. "I think you saw him
when he was courting me."
He came forward and gave Muriel a limp hand. He was very tall, and
appeared to be invertebrate; he had watery blue eyes, thin yellow hair,
a long, white, clean-shaven face, and a wet mouth which was seldom, if
ever, shut.
"Benifett, my dear," said his capable, handsome wife, "say something
polite to the lady."
"How-de-do," he murmured, staring at her awkwardly.
"Yes, I think we did meet once, didn't we?" said Muriel.
Mrs. Bindane intervened. "Yes, don't you remember? At the pictures, when
we were keeping company. We got wed at our chapel ten days ago--such a
to-do as you never saw! And afterwards a real beano at the Fried Fish
Shop: beer by the barrel, and port too! And Pa gave me away, in his
evening dress, red handkerchief and all!"
Such was her peculiar and characteristic way of referring to the fact
that she had introduced Muriel to her fiance one night at Covent Garden,
and that she had been married to him at St. Margaret's, Westminster,
where she had been given away by her father, Lord Voycey, a reception
being later held at her paternal home in Berkeley Square.
"I didn't know you were coming out here," said Muriel. "It's splendid."
"We only decided on Egypt at the last minute," explained Mr. Bindane.
"Kate was so anxious to go up the Nile."
"It's a blinkin' fine river, I'm told," remarked his wife, at which he
smiled reprovingly.
Her friend's language was notorious, though actually she seldom
approached an oath except in mimicry. She was a woman of
five-and-twenty, and for seven years she had delighted London with her
pretended vulgarity. Her husband, on the other hand, was more or less
unknown to the metropolis, though, as the inheritor from his father of
an enormous fortune, his name had lately been heard in Mayfair, while in
the City it was well known. People said he was a fool; and everybody
supposed that the eccentric Kate had married him for his money. As a
matter of fact, she had married him for love.
"Where are you staying?" Muriel asked.
"We've got a little paddle-wheeled steamer on the river," he replied.
"We arrived last night."
"And of course we came round to see you at once," said Kate. "Benifett's
rather a snob, you know: loves lords and ladies. So do I. How's your
pa?"
"Oh, just the same as always," Muriel answered. "I don't seem to see
much of him."
"People say he's rather a success at running this 'ere country," the
other remarked. "Personally, I detest the man: I think he's neglected
you shamefully all your life."
"Oh, father's all right," said Muriel. "I'm very fond of him."
"Rot!" muttered her friend.
For some time they exchanged their news, and Muriel gave some account of
the quiet life she had spent since her arrival.
"Any decent men?" Mrs. Bindane asked. "What about little Rupert
Helsingham?"
"Oh, d'you know him?"
"Lord! yes. He stayed with us once when he and I were kiddies. I saw him
when he was on leave last summer: he's grown into a handsome little
fellow."
She asked if he were on the premises, and whether she might see him. In
reply, Muriel rang the bell, and sent a message to the office where
Rupert usually spent his mornings in interviewing native dignitaries.
"Here's a friend of yours," she said to him as he came into the room,
and there ensued a rapid exchange of merry greetings.
"This is what I've married," remarked Mrs. Bindane, taking her husband's
hand in hers and delivering it into Rupert's friendly grasp.
"How-de-do," said Mr. Bindane, looking down from his great height at the
dapper little man before him.
"Glad to meet you, sir," said Rupert, looking up at the limp figure,
which gave the appearance of being about to fall to pieces at any
moment.
"His father's a lord, dear," whispered Mrs. Bindane to her husband, in a
hoarse aside.
"You're just as impossible as ever, Kate," laughed Rupert.
"It's my common blood," said she. "One of my ancestors married his cook:
she was the woman who cooked that surfeit of lampreys King John died
of."
"Is Lord Blair in?" Mr. Bindane asked, very suddenly.
Mrs. Bindane turned sharply and stared at him. "Now _what_ has Lord
Blair to do with you, Benifett?" she asked in surprise. "I didn't know
you knew him."
Her husband flapped a loose hand. "I've met his Lordship," he said.
"_His Lordship_," mimicked the impossible Kate, giving a nod of
simulated awe. "Rupert, my lad, go and tell the boss he's wanted in the
shop."
"I'd like to see him," murmured Mr. Bindane, quite unmoved.
"Well, I never!" said his wife.
"I'll go and see if he's busy," Rupert volunteered.
"Thanks," droned Mr. Bindane, his mouth dropping more widely open than
usual.
[Illustration: _A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY--BURNING SANDS_]
"Well, you have got some nerve!" exclaimed his wife.
Rupert went out of the room, and sought the Great Man in his study.
"What is it, what is it?" Lord Blair muttered with some irritation,
looking up from a mass of disordered papers.
"Oh, sorry, sir," said Rupert. "I didn't know you were busy. There's
somebody here who wants to see you."
"I can't see anybody--no, nobody," Lord Blair expostulated. "What's he
want? Who is he?"
"A Mr. Bindane. He's in the drawing-room with Lady Muriel."
Lord Blair sat up briskly. "Benifett Bindane?" he asked, sharply.
Rupert nodded, and thereat the Great Man jumped to his feet.
"Where is he?" he exclaimed. "Show him in at once. Dear me, dear me! How
fortunate! I had no idea he was in Egypt. No, I'll come into the
drawing-room."
He hurried past Rupert, and hastened across the corridor.
"How d'you do, my dear sir, how d'you do," he exclaimed, as he tripped
into the room and wrung his visitor's feeble hand.
"My wife," said Mr. Bindane, bowing towards his startled spouse.
Lord Blair took her hand in both his own. "An old friend!" he cried.
"Capital, capital! We were reading about your marriage the other day.
Splendid!" And he beamed from one to the other. Then, turning again to
Mr. Bindane, "You've come to see for yourself, eh?" he exclaimed. "Very
wise, very wise indeed."
"It's a pleasure trip," the other replied; "our honeymoon, you know."
"Of course, yes," muttered Lord Blair. "Business and pleasure!"
"Business?" muttered Mrs. Bindane. "It's the first I've heard of it.
What a dark horse you are, Benifett." And she abused him roundly in that
absurd mimicry of the dialect of the slums which was habitual with her.
Muriel looked vacant. Her thoughts were racing ahead. Here was the
desired accomplice, married to a rich fool who was evidently on the best
of terms with her father. They had a private steamer on the Nile. Could
anything be better, more secluded, more romantic? All she had to do was
to find her Romeo.