At last he said:
And may I not know the identity of the man who is marked out to be your husband?
No; that is a secret, Msieur Waldron, which even you must not know. It is my affair, and mine alone, she replied in a low tone.
Im naturally most curious, he declared, for if I can assist you to extricate yourself from this impasse I will.
I thank you most sincerely, was her quick response, as she looked up at him with her soft, big eyes. If at any time I require your assistance I will certainly count upon you. But, alas! I fear that no effort on your part could avail me. There are reasons reasons beyond my control which make it imperative that I should marry the man marked out for me.
Its a shame a downright sin! he cried fiercely. No, mademoiselle, and he grasped her small hand before she could withdraw it; I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself to your uncles whim.
She shook her head slowly, answering:
It is, alas! not within your power to prevent it! The matter has already been arranged.
Then you are actually betrothed?
Yes, she replied in a hoarse voice. To a man I hate.
Then you must let me act on your behalf. I must I will?
No. You can do nothing to help me. As I have already explained, my life in future can only be one of tragedy just as yours may be, I fear, she added in a slow, distinct voice.
I hardly follow you, he exclaimed, looking at her much puzzled.
She smiled sadly, turning her big eyes upon his.
Probably not, she said. But does not half Madrid know the tragedy of your love for the dancer, Beatriz Rojas de Ruata, the beautiful woman whose misfortune it is to have a husband in the person of a drunken cab-driver.
What! he gasped, starting and staring at her in amazement. Then you know Madrid?
Yes, I have been in Madrid, was her answer. And I have heard in the salons of your mad infatuation for the beautiful opera-dancer. It is common gossip, and most people sigh and sympathise with you, for it is known, too, that Hubert Waldron, of the British Embassy, is the soul of honour and that such love as his can only bring tragedy in its train.
You never told me that you had been in Madrid!
Because you have never asked me, was her calm reply. But I know much more concerning you, Msieur Waldron, than you believe, she said with a mysterious smile. Then, her eyes glowing, she added: I have heard you discussed in Madrid, in Barcelona, and in San Sebastian, and I know that your love for the beautiful Beatriz Rojas de Ruata is just as fraught with tragedy as the inexorable decree which may, ere long, bind me as wife to the one man whom I hate and detest most in all the world!
Chapter Five.
A Surprise
Egypt is the strangest land, the weirdest land, the saddest land in all the world.
It is a land of memories, of monuments, and of mysticism; a land of dreams that never come true, a land of mystery, a great cemetery stretching from ancient Ethiopia away to the sea, a great grave hundreds of miles long in which is buried perhaps as many millions of human beings as exist upon our earth to-day.
Against the low-lying shore of the great Nile valley have beaten many of the greatest waves of human history. It is the grave of a hundred dead Egypts, old and forgotten Egypts, that existed and possessed kings and priests and rules and creeds, and died and were succeeded by newer Egypts that now, too, are dead, that in their time believed they reared permanently above the ruins of the past.
The small white steamer lay moored in the evening light at the long stone quay before the sun-baked town of Wady Haifa, close to the modern European railway terminus of the long desert-line to Khartoum.
On board, dinner was in progress in the cramped little saloon, no larger than that of a good-sized yacht, and everyone was in high spirits, for the Second Cataract, a thousand miles from Cairo, had at last been reached.
Amid the cosmopolitan chatter in French, English, Italian and German, Boulos, arrayed in pale pink silk for the dragoman is ever a chameleon in the colour of his perfumed robes made his appearance and clapped his hands as signal for silence.
La-dees and genlemens, he cried in his long-drawn-out Arab intonation, we haf arrived now in Wady Haifa, ze frontier of Sudan. Wady Haifa in ze days of ze khalifa was built of Nile mud, and one of ze strongholds of ze Dervishes. Ze Engleesh Lord Kigner, he make Wady Haifa hees headquarter and make one railroad to Khartoum. After ze war zis place he be rebuilt by Engleesh engineer, as to-morrow you will see. After dinner ze Engleesh custom officer he come on board to search for arms or ammunition, for no sporting rifle be allowed in ze Sudan without ze licence, which he cost fifty poun sterling. To-morrow I go ashor wiz you la-dees and genlemens at ten oclock. We remain here, in Wady Haifa, till noon ze day after to-morrow to take back ze European mail from Khartoum. Monuments teeckets are not here wanted.
There was the usual laugh at the mention of monuments tickets, for every Nile traveller before leaving Cairo has to obtain a permit from the Department of Antiquities to allow him to visit the excavations. Hence every dragoman up and down the Nile is ever reminding the traveller of his monument ticket, and also that galloping donkeys are not allowed.
Monuments teeckets very much wanted; gallopin don-kees not al-lowed, is the parrot-like phrase with which each dragoman concludes his daily address to his charges before setting out upon an excursion.
Dinner over, many of the travellers landed to stroll through the small town, half native, half European, which has lately sprung up at the head of the Sudan railway.
As usual, Chester Dawson escorted Edna and went ashore laughing merrily. Time was, and not so very long ago, when Wady Haifa was an unsafe place for the European, even by day. But under the benign British influence and control it is to-day as safe as Brighton.
Hubert Waldron lit a cigar, and alone ascended the long flight of steps which led from the landing-stage to the quay. On the right lay the long, well-lit European railway station, beyond, a clump of high palms looming dark against the steely night sky. The white train, with its closed sun-shutters, stood ready to start on its long journey south, conveying the European mail over the desert with half a dozen passengers to the capital of the Sudan.
He strolled upon the platform, and watched the bustle and excitement among the natives as they entered the train accompanied by many huge and unwieldy bundles, and much gesticulation and shouting in Arabic. Attached to the end of the train was a long car, through the open door of which it could be seen that it contained living and sleeping apartment.
At the door stood a sturdy, sunburnt Englishman in shirt and trousers and wide-brimmed solar topee. With him Waldron began to chat.
Yes, the English engineer replied, I and my assistant are just off into the desert for three weeks. The train drops us off two hundred miles south, and there we shall remain at work. The track is always requiring repair, and I assure you we find the midday heat is sometimes simply terrible. The only sign of civilisation that we see is when the express passes up to Khartoum at daybreak, and down to Haifa at midnight.
Terribly monotonous, remarked the diplomat, used to the gay society of the capitals.
Oh, I dont know, replied the Englishman, with a rather sad smile. I gave up London five years ago I had certain reasons and I came out here to recommence life and forget. I dont expect I shall ever go back.
Ah! Then London holds some painful memory for you eh? remarked Waldron with sympathy.
Yes, he answered, with a hard, bitter look upon his face. But there, he added quickly, I suppose I shall get over it some day.
Why, of course you will, replied the diplomat cheerfully. We all of us have our private troubles. Some men are not so lucky as to be able to put everything behind them, and go into self-imposed exile.
It is best, I assure you, was the big, bronzed fellows reply. Then noticing the signals he shouted into the inner apartment: Were off, Clark. Want anything else?
No, came the reply; everything is right. Ive just checked it all.
We have to take food and water, the engineer explained to Waldron with a laugh. Good night.
Good night and good luck, shouted Hubert, as the train moved off, and a strong, bare arm waved him farewell.
Then after he had watched the red tail-light disappear over the sandy waste he turned, and wondering what skeleton of the past that exile held concealed in his cupboard, strode along the river-bank beneath the belt of palms.
How many Englishmen abroad are self-exiles? How full of bitterness is many a mans heart in our far-off Colonies? And how many good, sterling fellows are wearily dragging out their monotonous lives, just because of the woman? Does she remember? does she care? She probably still lives her own life in her own merry circle giddy and full of a modern craving for constant excitement. She has, in most cases, conveniently forgotten the man she wronged forgotten his existence, perhaps even his very name.
And how many men, too, have stood by and allowed their lives to be wrecked for the purpose of preserving a womans good name. But does the woman ever thank him? Alas! but seldom very seldom.
True, the follies of life are mostly the mans. But the woman does not always pay as some would have us believe.
Waldron, puffing thoughtfully at his cigar, his thoughts far away from the Nile for he was recalling a certain evening in Madrid when he had sat alone with Beatriz in her beautiful flat in the Calle de Alcalâ had passed through the darkness of the palms, and out upon the path which still led beside the wide river, towards the Second Cataract.
From the shadows of the opposite shore came the low beating of a tom-tom and the Arab boatmans chant that rather mournful chant one hears everywhere along the Nile from the Nyanza to the sea, and which ends in Al-lah-hey! Al-lah-hey! Allah! Always the call to Allah.
The sun the same sun god that was worshipped at Abu Simbel had gone long ago, tired Nubia slept in peace, and the stars that gazed down upon her fretted not the night with thoughts of the creeds of men.
Again Hubert Waldron reached another small clump of palms close to the waters edge, and as he passed noiselessly across the sand he suddenly became conscious that he was not alone.
Voices in French broke the silence, and he suddenly halted.
Then before him, silhouetted against the blue, clear light of the desert night, rose two figures Europeans, a man and a woman.
The woman, who wore a white dress, was clasped in the arms of the man, while he rained hot, passionate kisses upon her brow.
Waldron stood upon the soft sand, a silent witness of that exchange of passionate caresses. He feared to move lest he should attract their attention and be accused of eavesdropping.
From where he was, half concealed by the big trunk of a date-palm, he could distinctly hear the words uttered by the man.
I have been here for three days awaiting you, darling. I travelled by Port Sudan and Khartoum, and then on here to meet you.
And I, too, Henri, have been wondering if you would arrive here in time, was the girls response, as her head lay in sweet content upon her lovers shoulder. Imagine my delight when the Arab came on board and slipped your note into my hand.
Ah, Lola darling, how I have longed for this moment! longed to hold you in my arms once again, he cried.
Lola!
Hubert Waldron held his breath, scarce believing his own ears.
Yes, it was her voice the voice he knew so well. She had met her lover there in that out-of-the-way spot he having travelled by the Red Sea route to the Sudan in order to keep the tryst.
Waldron stood there listening, like a man in a dream.
It was all plain now. The man who had been marked out as Lolas husband she hated, because of her secret love for that young Frenchman in whose arms she now stood clasped.
He was telling her how he had left Brindisi three weeks before, and going down the Red Sea had landed at Port Sudan, afterwards taking sail to Khartoum and then post-haste across the desert to Haifa.
Had I not caught the coasting steamer I could not have reached here until you had left, he added.
Yes, Henri. But you must be most careful, she urged. My uncle must never suspect he must never dream the truth.
I know, darling. If I travel back to Cairo with you I will exercise the utmost discretion, never fear.
Neither by word nor by look must the truth ever be betrayed, she said. Remember, Henri, my whole future is in your hands.
Can I ever forget that, my darling? he cried, kissing her with all the frantically amorous passion of a Frenchman.
It is dangerous, she declared. Too dangerous, I fear. Gigleux is ubiquitous.
He always is. But leave it all to me, the man hastened to assure her, holding her ungloved hand and raising it fervently to his lips. I shall join your steamer as an ordinary passenger just before you sail.
But you must avoid me. Promise me to do that? she implored in a low, earnest tone.
I will promise you anything, my darling because I love you better than my life, was his low, earnest answer, as he tenderly stroked the soft hair from her brow. Do you recollect our last evening together in Rome, eh?
Shall I ever forget? was her reply. I risked everything that night to escape and come to you.
Then you really do love me, Lola truly? For answer she flung her long arms around his neck and kissed him fondly. And she then remained silent in his strong embrace.
Chapter Six.
More Concerning the Stranger
At their feet, winding its way for thousands of miles between limitless areas of sand, its banks lined for narrow distances with green fields and the habitations of men, flowed dark and wondrous the one thing that makes human life possible in all the lands of the Sudan and of Egypt flowed from sources that for ages were undiscovered, and which even in this day of boasted knowledge are yet incompletely known the Nile.
In the lazy indolence of that sun-baked land of silence, idleness and love, affection is quickly cultivated, as the fast-living set who go up there each winter know well. Hubert Waldron, man of the world that he was, had watched and knew. He stood there, however, dumbfounded, for there was now presented a very strange and curious state of affairs. Lola, the dark-eyed girl who had enchanted him and held him by the great mystery which surrounded her, was now revealed keeping tryst with a stranger a mysterious Frenchman who had come up from the blazing Sudan a man who had come from nowhere.
He strained his eyes in an endeavour to distinguish the strangers outline, but in vain. The man was standing in the deep shadow. Only the girls familiar form silhouetted against the starlit sky.
We must be very careful of my uncle, the girl urged. The slightest suspicion, and we shall assuredly be parted, and for ever.