Burning Sands

“French art?” he laughed. “Rather! I’ve got a collection of postcards – I’ve framed some of them; and I take La Vie Parisienne regularly.”

Muriel sighed. “No, I’m afraid that won’t help,” she said.

“Well, try him on English art,” he suggested. “Good stuff, you know – Landseer and Leighton and Alma-Tadema.”

“No,” said Muriel gravely, “he’s very modern.”

“Oh, modern, is he? Then what about Kirchner? Or Cecil Aldin? – but I don’t suppose he knows a fox from a hound.” He leaned forward and stared at the Prince. “Queer little devil, isn’t he, what? Doesn’t look much like a nigger.”

“Why should he?” Muriel asked. “The Royal house is Albanian – pure Turkish.”

“Oh, I lump them all together,” he answered, with a gesture of his red hand. “Quaint country, Egypt, isn’t it? What d’you think of it?”

“So far, I like it immensely,” she replied. “But I shouldn’t think it was an interesting place for a soldier. What do your men think of it?”

“I don’t know: I’ve never asked ’em,” he replied. “Not much, I shouldn’t think. There are not enough housemaids to go round, and the beer’s atrocious. I can’t think why we’re not kept in London; after all, we’re the Guards. They ought to leave the dirty work to the ordinary regiments of the line. I don’t see why we should be made to sweat out here. It’s these Radicals: they never can mind their own business.”

“Father and I are Radicals, you know,” she smiled. “And our forebears were Whigs before us.”

“Beg pardon,” he said, with a grunt. “I’d forgotten my history lessons. We Lanes were always Tories.”

Muriel glanced at him quickly. “Oh, I’d quite forgotten,” she said, with interest. “Of course, you’re a Lane. I wonder if you’re any relation to a certain Daniel Lane?”

Lord Barthampton’s face fell. “How d’you come to know Daniel Lane?” he asked, as he busied himself with his food.

“I met him the other day,” she answered. “He’s a friend of my father’s. Oh, yes, I remember now: he said he had a relation out here in the Guards.”

“Yes,” he replied, with his mouth full. “He’s a cousin; but I hardly know him. He’s spent much of his life in the States.”

“Tell me about him,” she said. She was all interest.

“I don’t know anything to tell you,” he answered, casually. “He’s a crank – lives with the niggers in the desert or something. Looks like a tramp.”

“He’s very clever, isn’t he? My father thinks the world of him.”

Lord Barthampton noisily threw down his knife and fork. “There’s not much love lost between him and me,” he said, and relapsed into silence; while Muriel, seeing that she had touched upon a sore subject, took the opportunity to resume her conversation with her partner.

Late that evening, after the guests had departed, Muriel, prompted by a sense of duty, found herself in the library, bidding a motherly good-night to her father, who was smoking a final cigar, and was standing before the empty fireplace, his hands under his coattails in unconscious retention of the habits of other days.

“By the way,” she said, “did you know that Lord Barthampton was Daniel Lane’s cousin?”

“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed. “Well, well! I had no idea.”

He opened a bookcase, and lifting out Burke’s Peerage, turned over its pages with evident interest. After a few moment’s study, he uttered a little ejaculation.

“Dear me, dear me!” he remarked. “Daniel is not only his cousin, but his heir presumptive.” He stroked his chin, and carried the bulky volume nearer to the light. “Hm! Well, well – to be sure!” he muttered.

He laid the book down, and clasping his hands behind his back, walked to and fro across the room, while Muriel turned to glance at the family record.

As she looked up once more, her father paused, his head on one side, his fingers stroking his jaw. “Now, if that lout were to die …” he mused.

“D’you mean Mr. Lane?” asked Muriel innocently.

“No, no! Tut, tut!” exclaimed her father, pinching the lobe of her ear, and then, as though afraid of giving offence, patting her cheek instead. “Daniel Lane is not a lout! I was referring to his cousin. If Daniel were to inherit – ”

“If he were to inherit,” Muriel put in, as he paused, “there’d be a panic in the House of Lords – peers hiding under benches, Lord Chancellor flung into gallery, Archbishop popped into waste-paper basket – ”

Lord Blair raised his delicate hand in protest: his thoughts were more serious. “You know,” he said, “that man is wasting himself in the desert. I wish I could persuade him to accept some official position in Cairo. I should like to push him into prominence – oblige him, force him, to take an active part in the government of this country.”

An expression almost of sadness came into his face. “I sometimes feel,” he went on, “that we diplomatists, products of the Foreign Office, are totally unfitted to rule a mediæval country such as this. Look at me, Muriel; am I the romantic figure to impress the native mind? Egypt does not want diplomacy; she wants physical strength combined with philosophy – she wants a man who is a mighty hunter before the Lord, a giant, a hero out of a legend.”

“Oh, father dear,” Muriel replied, “everybody says you are the ideal ruler.” She felt sorry for him: he seemed such an insignificant little figure, so fussy, so well-meaning, and just now so modest.

“No,” he continued, “I don’t understand the native mind; I must confess, I don’t understand it. And I sometimes think that I am not serving the best interests of England. I want my country to be respected, Muriel; I have such vast ambition for England. I want our manhood to be seen to the best advantage, so that the natives may say: ‘Since we are to be ruled, let us be glad that we are ruled by men.’”

Muriel put her hands upon his shoulders. For the first time she really liked him. “I think you’re splendid, father,” she said.

“Now, if Daniel Lane took his position in society,” he mused, “if, for instance, he were Lord Barthampton, there would be no difficulty. I could push him forward, and in a few years he would be old enough to succeed me here at the Residency. A little more care about his appearance, perhaps – ”

“And a little less rudeness,” said Muriel.

“No, he is not rude,” Lord Blair corrected her. “He is only unceremonious.”

There was a tap at the door, and Rupert entered. He was the only one of the Secretaries who lived on the premises.

“I’m just off to bed,” he said. “Is there anything you want me to do, sir?”

Lord Blair looked at him, as though waking from a dream. “Let me see, yes, there was something I was going to ask you to do. What was it, now? Dear, dear! How bad my memory is! Ah, yes, I have it! A letter: I want you to acknowledge it formally, the first thing in the morning. It’s on my study table. No, you could not find it in all that litter. I must really have a grand tidying-up, I must indeed. One moment: I’ll get it for you.”

He hurried from the room, in short, nervous steps, and, as he disappeared, Rupert turned to Muriel. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “You do look beautiful tonight. I could hardly take my eyes off you all the evening.”

Muriel smiled happily. “I’m glad you think so. I thought I looked a sight; and Prince What’s-his-name was evidently bored with me.”

“On the contrary,” he answered, “he told me he thought you were charming, and such a connoisseur.”

“Of what,” she asked brightly.

“Of the art of the Stone Age, he said. I don’t know what he meant.”

Muriel flushed. “The little beast!” she cried, angrily. “He was trying to be rude.”

“Rude, was he?” said Rupert, viciously. He assumed a fighting attitude, and, when Muriel had frankly explained the insinuation of the remark, he set his teeth and made a determined attempt to appear grim.

“He’ll get one in the jaw, if he doesn’t look out,” he muttered.

Lord Blair re-entered the room, carrying the letter (for some unknown reason) extended in his thumb and first finger as though it smelt. He paused on seeing Rupert’s simulation of pugilism, and looked at him critically, as it were measuring the young man’s capacities in that arena. Then he shook his head sadly, and handed him the letter.

When Rupert had left them, Lord Blair turned to his daughter. “Undersized,” he murmured, “sadly undersized.”