The Collected Works of P. C. Wren: Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories. P. C. Wren
with Maudie--who, very wisely, would not get on a horse; and I rode with a party of fine courteous Arabs who were minor sheikhs, officers of the soldiery, councillors, friends and hangers-on of the Emir and the Vizier.
We rode through the oasis out into the desert.
I did not enjoy my ride, for, before very long, I lost sight of the two girls, and could only hope for the best while fearing the worst. . . . Women are so attracted by externals and so easily deceived by a courteous and gallant manner.
One comfort was that neither girl could speak a word of Arabic, so there was nothing to fear from plausible tongues.
Any love-making would have to be done in dumb-show, and I was beginning to feel that there was no likelihood of force majeure--both men giving me the impression of innate gentlemanliness and decency.
Still--Arabs are Arabs and this was the Sahara--and, as I noted that the Emir returned with Miss Vanbrugh and the Vizier with Maud, I wanted nothing so much as to get safely away with my women-folk and a signed treaty of alliance.
* * *
But this was just what I could not do.
Time after time, I sought audience with the Emir, only to find that he was engaged or sleeping or busy or absent from the Oasis.
Time after time, when his guest at meat, riding, or faddhling with him on the rug-strewn carpet before the pavilions, I tried to get him to discuss the object of my visit--but in vain.
Always it was, "We will talk of it to-morrow, Inshallah."
His eternal "Bokra! Bokra!" was as bad as the mañana of the Spaniards. And "to-morrow" never came. . . .
The return of Marbruk ben Hassan and his camel-squadron brought me news that depressed me to the depths and darkened my life for days. I was given understanding of the expression "a broken heart." . . .
Evidently my heroes had fought to their last cartridge and had then been overwhelmed. Beneath a great cairn of stones, Marbruk and his men had buried the tortured, defiled, mangled remains of Dufour, Achmet and Djikki.
It was plain to me that Suleiman had deserted, for the parts of only three corpses were found, and the track of a single camel fleeing south-eastward from the spot.
That he had not fought to the last, and then escaped or been captured alive by the Touareg, was shown by the fact that, where he had lain, there were but few empty cartridge-cases, compared with the number lying where my men had died; and by the fact of the track of the fleeing camel.
I retired to my tent, saying I wished to see no one for a day, and that I wanted no food.
It was a black and dreadful day for me, the man for whom those humble heroes had fought and died; and, for hours, I was hard put to it to contain myself.
I did see some one however--for Miss Vanbrugh entered silently, dressed my rapidly healing wound, and then stroked my hair and brow and cheek so kindly, so gently, and with such deep understanding sympathy that I broke down.
I could almost have taken her in my arms, but that I would not trade on my misery and her sympathy--and without a word spoken between us she went back to the anderun . . . the blessed, beautiful, glorious woman.
Did she understand at last? . . . Duty. . . . My duty to my General, my Service, and my Country.
* * *
That evening she was visited by the future Sheikh of the tribe that had first accepted the Emir, a charming and delightful little boy, dressed exactly like a grown man.
With him came his sister, a most lovely girl, the Sitt Leila Nakhla.
Her, the two girls found haughty, distant, disapproving, and I gathered that the visit was not a success--apart from the question of the language difficulty.
Bedouin women do not go veiled in their own villages and camps, and I saw this Arab "princess" at a feast given by her guardian, the white-bearded, delightful old gentleman, Sidi Dawad Fetata.
It was soon very clear to me that the Sitt Leila Nakhla worshipped the Emir; that the grandson of old Sidi Dawad Fetata worshipped the Sitt Leila Nakhla; and that the latter detested our Maudie, from whose face the Emir's eye roved but seldom.
The little London sparrow was the hated rival of a princess, for the hand of a powerful ruler! Oh, Songs of Araby and Tales of fair Kashmir! What a world it is!
But what troubled me more than hate was love--the love that I could see dawning in the eyes of the Sheikh el Habibka as he sat beside Miss Vanbrugh and plied her with tit-bits from the bowls.
I watched him like a lynx, and he me. How he hated me! . . .
Time after time I saw him open his lips to speak, sigh heavily, and say nothing. But if he said nothing he did a good deal--including frequent repetitions of the Roumi "shake-hands" custom, which he misinterpreted as a hold-hands habit.
He had learnt the words, and would say, "Shakand, Mees," from time to time, in what he thought was English.
And Mary? She was infinitely amused. Amused beyond all cause that I could see; and I was really angry when she glanced from me to the Sheikh el Habibka--he holding her hand warmly clasped in both of his--and quietly hummed, in a conversational sort of voice:
"Said the Bul-bul, 'Young man, is your life then so dull That you're anxious to end your career? For Infidel, know--that you've trod on the toe Of Abdul, the Bul-bul Emir!' The Bul-bul then drew out his trusty chibouque, And shouting out 'Allah Akbar!' Being also intent on slaughter, he went For Ivan Petruski Skivah!" . . .
This interested the Sitt Leila Nakhla not at all. She watched Maudie, while young Yussuf Latif Fetata watched Leila. To me this girl was most charming, but became a little troublesome in her demands that I should translate every remark that Maudie made. I believe the Sitt's position in the Tribe was unique, owing to her relationship to the future Sheikh, and the kind indulgence of the Emir, who treated her as a child.
The chief result of this feast was to increase my anxiety and to add to my determination to bring my business to an issue and depart.
Chapter XIII.
"Choose"
But now, alas! the attitude of the Emir, and of his all-important and powerful Vizier toward me began to change. They grew less friendly and my position less that of guest than prisoner-guest, if not prisoner.
The most foolish proverb of the most foolish nation in the world is, "When you get near women you get near trouble," but in this instance it seemed to apply.
Mary and Maudie were the trouble; for the Emir was undoubtedly falling in love with Maudie, and the Vizier with Mary.
I wondered what would have happened if they had both fallen in love with the same girl. I suppose one of them would have died suddenly, in spite of the fact that they appeared to be more like brothers than master and servant.
And there was no hope in me for Maudie. Maudie blossomed and Maudie bloomed. If ever I saw a wildly-quietly, composedly-distractedly, madly-sanely happy woman, it was our Maudie.
She grew almost lovely. How many of us have an incredibly impossible beautiful dream--and find it come impossibly true? Maudie had dreamed of attar-scented, silk-clad, compelling but courtly Sheikhs, ever since she had read some idiotic trash; and now an attar-scented, silk-clad, compelling but courtly Sheikh was (in Maudie's words) "after" Maudie!
And Miss Vanbrugh? She, too, seemed happy as the day was long, albeit capricious; and though she did not apparently encourage the Sheikh el Habibka, nor "flirt" exactly, she undoubtedly enjoyed his society, as well as that of the Emir, and