Burning Sands

Kate Bindane, having returned from her drive, was standing at the drawing-room window as they approached the house.

“Great Scott!” she exclaimed, turning to her husband. “Come here, Benifett: just look at that!”

He arose from his chair, laying aside the Financial News which he had been reading; but he gave no more than a single glance through the open window. Then he returned to his newspaper, and looked at it with listless eyes and open mouth.

Two days later a telegram was received saying that Lord Blair would arrive from the south by special train on the following morning at ten A.M.

Soon after breakfast next day, therefore, Daniel presented himself at the Residency to take Muriel to the station. He was dressed in a suit of grey flannels; and as he crossed the hall, he was carrying his now famous old felt hat in one hand and his pipe in the other.

Here, to his dismay, he came upon Sir Frank Lestrange and John Dregge, both dressed as though they were about to attend a London wedding, and carrying their gloves and silk hats in their hands.

“Great Scott!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you rigged out like that for?”

“We’re going to the station,” replied Lestrange, somewhat stiffly. “Aren’t you coming too?”

“Sure,” said Daniel.

“I’m afraid you’ll be rather out of the picture,” remarked the punctilious Mr. Dregge, and he uttered a short laugh. “Two of the Princes, and most of the Ministers and Advisers will be there, not to mention the General in full war-paint.”

“Gee!” muttered Daniel. “In this hot weather, too! I guess I’ll look the only sane person on the platform.”

John Dregge glanced at his companion, and he at him, as Daniel, waving his hat to them, went towards the dining-room to find Muriel; but they were too startled even to exchange glances when, at the door of that room, the Great Man’s daughter made her appearance, and stood on tiptoe, holding up her face to be kissed by Daniel.

The scene at the railway-station, half an hour later, was very disconcerting to a man so recently come from the wilds; but Daniel either managed somehow to conceal his embarrassment or felt none at all. Upon the platform the inevitable piece of red carpet was spread, and under the draped British and Egyptian flags several frock-coated celebrities were standing, the Europeans wearing silk hats, the Egyptians the more becoming red tarboushes. A guard of honour of British and native troops was drawn up near the iron palings; and at intervals down the whole length of the platform stood brown-skinned policemen, their hands looking curiously farcical in white cotton gloves.

Muriel’s cool pink dress, her shady hat, and her parasol, gave by contrast a remarkable appearance of discomfort and heat to the assembled males; and Daniel appeared to be the only man present who could turn his head or swing his limbs with ease. Strange to say, his unceremonious clothes were inappropriate only in European eyes. The native mind regarded them as perfectly suitable to one who was already recognized as a kind of court philosopher: a Mohammedan holding a similar office would probably have been garbed in the coarse robe of a derwîsh. It was thus noteworthy that while the Westerners regarded him askance, the Orientals greeted him with particular respect, so that even John Dregge presently began to walk beside him and to converse with him – in marked contrast to his earlier attitude of distant disdain.

At length the white, dusty train panted into the station; and the black-faced engine-driver, by means of a desperate struggle with the breaks, managed to manœuvre the entrance of the saloon to a reasonable proximity to the red carpet.

“Now for the little surprise for Father,” said Muriel, and suddenly she linked her arm in Daniel’s, allowing her hand to rest upon his own.

Lord Blair, hat in hand, stepped on to the platform, and, at a sharp word of command, the guard of honour presented arms.

He did not seem to see the crowd of waiting dignitaries: he stared at Muriel and Daniel, a wide smile revealing the two even rows of his false teeth.

“Dear me, dear me!” he exclaimed, kissing his daughter’s cheek. “My dear Muriel! How are you, Daniel? This is capital, capital! You two, arm in arm…”

“Yes, Father,” Muriel laughed, “we’re going to be married, … please.”

“Aha!” chuckled Lord Blair. “I knew it, I knew it! A little bird told me. Well, well! – I’m delighted. A Lane and a Blair: capital, splendid!”

Frank Lestrange stepped forward anxiously glancing at the native Princes. “Their Highnesses, sir, …” he whispered.

“Ah, yes, to be sure,” said Lord Blair, turning to them, and holding out his hand. “I beg you to excuse me for speaking first to my daughter and my future son-in-law.”

THE END