CHAPTER XXXI

"_Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in vain;

And sweet is death who puts an end to pain_."

TENNYSON.

Hugh Carden Ali, quite still and strangely unwelcoming, stood just

inside his tent; as Ben Kelham flung himself off his horse; neither did

he put out his hand to take the outstretched one of his old

school-fellow.

Pretending not to notice the seeming lapse in courtesy, Kelham turned

to hitch his horse, only to find that that product of the bazaar had

cleared for the horizon.

It were wise when out in the desert, if your horse is not

desert-trained, to hang on to the bridle until you have hobbled or

hitched your steed, lest peradventure the vultures, at a discreet

distance, should assemble about you later, as you lie raving upon the

sands, only waiting until your ravings cease altogether, to approach

quite near to you.

That the omission was intentional never crossed his mind. He

remembered his friend's religion and the strictness with which he

adhered to its tenets, and thought that perhaps the shaking of a

fellow-creature's hand was forbidden at certain hours.

So that he did not offer his hand again, but his eyes shone with all

the affection, which might be termed love, he had had at Harrow for the

man who had met him so often as opponent in the cricket-field, and as a

friend in his rooms.

He stood quite still for a minute just outside the tent, the moon

shining down upon his splendid six-foot-two, and a little shadow of

doubt swept across the face of the Eastern as, so strong was the

moonlight, he noticed the set of the jaw and the honesty of purpose in

the steady grey eyes.

This Englishman might make a mistake, might blunder in the slowness of

his deliberate way--there was the faintest suspicion of a smile on Hugh

Carden Ali's face as he remembered, even at this critical moment, how,

having won the toss, it had taken Ben Kelham so long to decide, at the

foot of the Hill, whether to put his side in or not--but that he would

deliberately behave like a cad to anything so beautiful and desirable

as Damaris, or in fact to any man, woman, child or beast on earth, no!

that thought was not to be entertained for one moment.

Come to think of it, what a blessing it is that the cad cannot efface

the mark of Nature's branding-iron.

He may be an Adonis, a diplomat, a _bon viveur_, a good sort, a real

sport; he may have a brain and a personality and a gift for choosing

and wearing his clothes; his blood may be cerulean, red or merely

muddy; but just watch out. One day he will forget to shoot his linen,

and you will catch a glimpse of the mark of the beast.

And in the second of time which it took this little analysis of his

friend to flash across his mind the hands of Life moved slowly towards

the hour.

He put his hand to his turban, then stood on one side.

"Come in, Kelham. Who ever would have thought of seeing you! Jolly

decent of you coming all this way out to see me. I thought you were

after lion, but I see you have no gun. I'm afraid I can only offer you

coffee. No pegs in a Mohammedan's tent, you see."

They each advanced one step and their hands met and gripped across the

little dividing-line, on one side of which, one of the two stood under

the stars which belong to all men, and the other inside the desert

dwelling.

Such a faint line, this one of racial distinction, yet which rises as a

barrier higher than the Himalayas, deeper than the ocean, and stronger

than steel between the men of the East and the men of the West.

Kelham laughed as he sat down at the end of the wooden couch to which,

without making any apology for the bareness of the tent, his host had

pointed.

"Jolly seeing you again, Carden. I had an idea you were travelling

round the world, and only discovered through the morning paper that you

were quite near. The paragraph gave a full description of you and

these tents, so I took the first train--I was in Cairo--enquired about

you when I arrived at Luxor station, where they seemed to know all

about you, hired that horse which has just gone off on a survey into

the middle of the desert, got ferried across, and came straight here.

I don't mind telling you that lion is rather a sore point with me at

present." He laughed again as he took his automatic Colt, which lay

cosily in the palm of his big hand, from his pocket and released the

safety-catch.

"I'm like darling old Aunt Olivia; she refuses to be parted from hers,

once she has sighted Port Said. By Jove, Carden, you've absolutely got

to meet her, if you haven't met her already. She knew your mother

well. But of course you stayed at the Castle--no! you didn't though;

you had measles. Well, you've got to meet----"

He stopped suddenly as the thought of the abominable anonymous letter

flashed across his mind; turned a dull red under his tan, and looked

round the strange tent, and then at the man who sat on the opposite end

of the wooden couch, dressed in all the picturesque simplicity of the

East, with the stars and the far-reaching desert as a background.

He sat quite silent, staring at his friend, who yet in some indefinable

way seemed such a total stranger.

"By Jove, Carden," he said at last, "I didn't know you had------" He

stopped, confused, horrified at the words which had almost escaped him.

"Turned native, Kelham? I haven't. I am an Arab, a Mohammedan by

birth. This"--he looked quickly at the leather curtain at the back of

his friend--"This is my natural environment. Harrow was a--a loving

thought on the part of my honoured mother, and------" He paused, and

raising his voice ever so slightly, looked steadily at the curtain

which seemed to move, perchance blown by the night wind--"and a great,

a terrible mistake. Yes, Kelham, a terrible mistake. Did you ever

think of the risk I ran, I, an Arab, of meeting some white woman, whom

I might love? Supposing I had met such an one, and had loved her, and

had wanted to marry her, tell me, you, all white as you are,--_could_ I

have done so?"

He took a simple wooden cigarette-case from his cummerbund and held it

out to his friend; they lit their cigarettes and sat smoking in an

intolerable silence.

There was no real need to ask the question, because it had been

answered even whilst the Englishman had swung himself from the saddle.

In a searing flash, by the sound of his friend's voice, the way he

moved, the whole Western look of him, Carden Ali had understood that

this man, born of the moors, the bracing climate, the cold skies, the

snows and springs of England, was the true mate for beautiful English

Damaris.

But, to turn the knife in the wound in his heart, he repeated the

question, and Kelham, who knew it could be answered only in one way,

wrenched at his collar and got to his feet, and crossed to the wall, to

finger the throwing-spear with his back to his friend.

"Well, you know, old man, I--well, don't you think it's best--as your

father is an Arab--well!--well, you know what--who was it

said--something about East and West?--I--don't------" He passed his

hand over the wall, then exclaimed, in an effort to change the subject,

"By Jove! it's leather! Why, I thought the wall was velvet."

Carden laughed and lit another cigarette as he watched Kelham out of

the corner of his eye as he walked slowly round the tent.

Keeping something from each other, they were ill at ease, where, under

ordinary circumstances, they would have talked without ceasing upon the

good old days at Harrow; of Houses and masters and schoolfellows; of

Ducker--the swimming-bath--and Lords and Bill--the roll-call.

They talked, instead, disjointedly upon things which, though they

interested them mightily, were not near their hearts as is the Hill to

the Harrovian. They had both come to a decision, which, however, left

them in nowise comforted.

Ben Kelham decided as he walked about the tent that not a word about

the anonymous letter or the courtesan should pass his lips. How could

he ever have thought of mentioning the matter, even if it had been only

as a safeguard for the future in finding out the best way in which to

silence the woman's lying tongue? Besides, if Carden, he thought, had

met Damaris or the duchess, he would most surely have said so--which

only showed that he knew nothing whatsoever about the Oriental.

Hugh Carden Ali had come to his decision even as he had realised that

honour bade him give up the girl whom he had held so close to his heart

in his one hour reft from life; on the pretext of want of

accommodation, with promise to meet in Cairo or elsewhere as soon as

possible, he would send Ben Kelham back upon the track to Luxor, and by

a circuitous route would take the girl at dawn to a spot from whence

she could ride to Kulla, and get from there by boat to Denderah or back

to Luxor.

None save the _sayis_ knew she had come to the tents this night, and he

was faithful and as dumb as a dog. Besides--the Oriental had shrugged

his shoulders--if he should prove to be otherwise, what easier than to

silence him for all eternity?

And if a life barren of love stretched as bleak and limitless as the

desert before him, what then? Life was short, and if children of mixed

races were to suffer the hell he must suffer through honour, well,

surely praise should be offered to Allah in that he would never see his

man-child upon the breast of woman.

"Kismet!"

He whispered the Oriental's supreme submission to the inevitable and

caught his breath, then lit another cigarette.

Ben Kelham placed his hand upon the chequered curtain, which swung back

at his touch.

"Is this where you sleep, Carden? I never thought you had another room

behind."

"It is the room in which I make my ablutions prescribed by Mohammed the

Prophet of Allah who is God, at the hour of prayer."

The words, which were in truth a prayer for the safe keeping of the

woman be loved and had renounced, rang sonorously through the tent,

causing Ben Kelham to turn and look at the Oriental, who had risen to

his feet as he prayed.

The two fine men stood looking at each other across the tent; then the

Englishman moved forward and sat down on the end of the wooden couch as

the other moved back and leant against the wall, with his fingers upon

the little amulet above his heart.

"Have you ever been in love, Carden?" Kelham asked abruptly, unable to

control the question.

"There is no have-been in love. You either love or you do not love.

Do you?"

Ben Kelham nodded his head.

"Then, if you do, why, in the name of Allah who is your God as well as

mine, are you here? Why are you not at the feet of this woman,

stricken with wonder and humility before the gifts the great God has

given you? Why do you leave her exposed to the temptations of the

East, where has been wrecked the soul of many a white woman? What is

the killing of wild beasts compared to the look of the woman's eyes?

Where are your eyes, the eyes of your soul? What is this love you

speak of which lets you drop the jewel from between your fingers as you

would drop the half-consumed cigarette upon the ground?"

It was the prisoner's last despairing cry as the prison-door swings to,

shutting out the sun, the song of birds, the voice of children; it was

the beggar hungering for a crust, crying against the wasted abundance

of the rich man's table.

"What is this love you speak of, this love which lets you pass your

days in the shadow of another woman, a woman brown as a burned cake, as

comely as a stuffed pillow, who lies in wait to kill the king of

beasts? Yes! I know; in the East all things are known. I know whom

it is you love, and it is for her that I dare speak as men should not

speak of woman. Go to her; tarry not; go and heal the wound to her

pride, her heart, her love, lest in her pain she should fly to the

first hand for succour."

Ben Kelham sprang to his feet.

"Do you think, if my love was returned, Carden, that I should be here?"

"Love!" The man's voice was not raised one tone, but the tent vibrated

with the passionate words. "Are you such a coward that you run away at

the first hurt? When the ball struck you in the face at Lords, did you

retire--hurt? No; you stuck it, and scored a century! Are you such a

dullard that you cannot read beneath a woman's yes and no? Love! Do

you know what love means? What would you do for love? Could you

forgive in love?"

Kelham stared at the man who, word for word, repeated, the question

Damaris had asked on the night he had proposed to her.

"If you heard tongues gossiping out of jealousy of the woman, you

loved; if you found her in a situation which could not easily be

explained; if she, hurt, wounded, had run like a little child to

another to beg for balm for her wound,--tell me, would you forgive her?

Tell me!"

There was a strange insistency in the repeated question and a deep

anxiety in his eyes, which passed as Kelham laughed.

It was the genuine, honest laugh of the man who loves and is willing to

shoulder the burdens, great and small, which love brings in her train.

"You say there is no 'have-been' in love, Carden. I say there is no

question of forgiveness in love. You love, and there is no room

anywhere for anything else but love."

A great silence fell; the silence of two strong men who for one moment

had broken through the barbed-wire of convention, to be their natural

selves; the silence heralding the birth of a new day.

There was no sound, as the hands of Fate pointed to the full hour.

It all happened and was over even as the hour struck.

There was a shout from both men as the tawny shape leapt out of the

night through the opening of the tent; the crashing report of Ben

Kelham's revolver as he fired; the coughing of the wounded lioness as,

spitting blood, she recoiled to spring; a ringing shout from Hugh

Carden Ali as he flung himself in front of his friend just as he fired,

and the great brute, with a mighty roar, turned and disappeared into

the night whence she had come.

There was a look of great wonder on the face of Hugh Carden Ali as he

stood looking beyond his friend; then he suddenly turned in the

direction of Mecca.

Slowly he raised his hand to his turban, whilst a look of ineffable

peace swept across his face and stayed, as a little red stain like a

crimson rose showed just above his heart.

"_Here, Sir_!"

The answer to the roll-call rang out across the desert he had loved so

well, and was carried by the breeze of dawn up through the stars to the

Head Master whose justice and mercy take no account of race.

Then the old Harrovian crashed face downward, dead.