“Well, I don’t quite agree with you there,” said a man who was lying full length on one of the divans close by and smoking. “These brown chaps have deuced fine eyes. There doesn’t seem to be any lack of expression in them. And that reminds me, there is at fellow arrived here to-day who looks for all the world like an Egyptian, of the best form. He is a Frenchman, though; a Provencal, — every one knows him, — he is the famous painter, Armand Gervase.”
“Indeed!” — and Sir Chetwynd roused himself at the name— “Armand
Gervase! THE Armand Gervase?”
“The only one original,” laughed the other. “He’s come here to make studies of Eastern women. A rare old time he’ll have among them, I daresay! He’s not famous for character. He ought to paint the Princess Ziska.”
“Ah, by-the-bye, I wanted to ask you about that lady. Does anyone know who she is? My wife is very anxious to find out whether she is — well — er — quite the proper person, you know! When one has young girls, one cannot be too careful.”
Ross Courtney, the man on the divan, got up slowly and stretched his long athletic limbs with a lazy enjoyment in the action. He was a sporting person with unhampered means and large estates in Scotland and Ireland; he lived a joyous, “don’t-care” life of wandering about the world in search of adventures, and he had a scorn of civilized conventionalities — newspapers and their editors among them. And whenever Sir Chetwynd spoke of his “young girls” he was moved to irreverent smiling, as he knew the youngest of the twain was at least thirty. He also recognized and avoided the wily traps and pitfalls set for him by Lady Chetwynd Lyle in the hope that he would yield himself up a captive to the charms of Muriel or Dolly; and as he thought of these two fair ones now and involuntarily compared them in his mind with the other woman just spoken of, the smile that had begun to hover on his lips deepened unconsciously till his handsome face was quite illumined with its mirth.
“Upon my word, I don’t think it matters who anybody is in Cairo!” he said with a fine carelessness. “The people whose families are all guaranteed respectable are more lax in their behavior than the people one knows nothing about. As for the Princess Ziska, her extraordinary beauty and intelligence would give her the entree anywhere — even if she hadn’t money to back those qualities up.”
“She’s enormously wealthy, I hear,” said young Lord Fulkeward, another of the languid smokers, caressing his scarcely perceptible moustache. “My mother thinks she is a divorcee.”
Sir Chetwynd looked very serious, and shook his fat head solemnly.
“Well, there is nothing remarkable in being divorced, you know,” laughed Ross Courtney. “Nowadays it seems the natural and fitting end of marriage.”
Sir Chetwynd looked graver still. He refused to be drawn into this kind of flippant conversation. He, at any rate, was respectably married; he had no sympathy whatever with the larger majority of people whose marriages were a failure.
“There is no Prince Ziska then?” he inquired. “The name sounds to me of Russian origin, and I imagined — my wife also imagined, — that the husband of the lady might very easily be in Russia while his wife’s health might necessitate her wintering in Egypt. The Russian winter climate is inclement, I believe.”
“That would be a very neat arrangement,” yawned Lord Fulkeward. “But my mother thinks not. My mother thinks there is not a husband at all, — that there never was a husband. In fact my mother has very strong convictions on the subject. But my mother intends to visit her all the same.”
“She does? Lady Fulkeward has decided on that? Oh, well, in THAT case!” — and Sir Chetwynd expanded his lower-chest air-balloon. “Of course, Lady Chetwynd Lyle can no longer have any scruples on the subject. If Lady Fulkeward visits the Princess there can be no doubt as to her actual STATUS.”
“Oh, I don’t know!” murmured Lord Fulkeward, stroking his downy lip. “You see my mother’s rather an exceptional person. When the governor was alive she hardly ever went out anywhere, you know, and all the people who came to our house in Yorkshire had to bring their pedigrees with them, so to speak. It was beastly dull! But now my mother has taken to ‘studying character,’ don’cher know; she likes all sorts of people about her, and the more mixed they are the more she is delighted with them. Fact, I assure you! Quite a change has come over my mother since the poor old governor died!”
Ross Courtney looked amused. A change indeed had come over Lady Fulkeward — a change, sudden, mysterious and amazing to many of her former distinguished friends with “pedigrees.” In her husband’s lifetime her hair had been a soft silver-gray; her face pale, refined and serious; her form full and matronly; her step sober and discreet; but two years after the death of the kindly and noble old lord who had cherished her as the apple of his eye and up to the last moment of his breath had thought her the most beautiful woman in England, she appeared with golden tresses, a peach-bloom complexion, and a figure which had been so massaged, rubbed, pressed and artistically corseted as to appear positively sylph-like. She danced like a fairy, she who had once been called “old” Lady Fulkeward; she smoked cigarettes; she laughed like a child at every trivial thing — any joke, however stale, flat and unprofitable, was sufficient to stir her light pulses to merriment; and she flirted — oh, heavens! — HOW she flirted! — with a skill and a grace and a knowledge and an aplomb that nearly drove Muriel and Dolly Chetwynd Lyle frantic. They, poor things, were beaten out of the field altogether by her superior tact and art of “fence,” and they hated her accordingly and called her in private a “horrid old woman,” which perhaps, when her maid undressed her, she was. But she was having a distinctly “good time” in Cairo; she called her son, who was in delicate health, “my poor dear little boy!” and he, though twenty-eight on his last birthday, was reduced to such an abject condition of servitude by her assertiveness, impudent gayety and general freedom of manner, that he could not open his mouth without alluding to “my mother,” and using “my mother” as a peg whereon to hang all his own opinions and emotions as well as the opinions and emotions of other people.
“Lady Fulkeward admires the Princess very much, I believe?” said another lounger who had not yet spoken.
“Oh, as to that!” — and Lord Fulkeward roused himself to some faint show of energy. “Who wouldn’t admire her? By Jove! Only, I tell you what — there’s something I weird about her eyes. Fact! I don’t like her eyes.”
“Shut up, Fulke! She has beautiful eyes!” burst out Courtney, hotly; then flushing suddenly he bit his lips and was silent.
“Who is this that has beautiful eyes?” suddenly demanded a slow, gruff voice, and a little thin gentleman, dressed in a kind of academic gown and cap, appeared on the scene.
“Hullo! here’s our F.R.S.A.!” exclaimed Lord Fulkeward. “By Jove! Is that the style you have got yourself up in for tonight? It looks awfully smart, don’cher know!”
The personage thus complimented adjusted his spectacles and surveyed his acquaintances with a very well-satisfied air. In truth, Dr. Maxwell Dean had some reason for self-satisfaction, if the knowledge that he possessed one of the cleverest heads in Europe could give a man cause for pride. He was apparently the only individual in the Gezireh Palace Hotel who had come to Egypt for any serious purpose. A purpose he had, though what it was he declined to explain. Reticent, often brusque, and sometimes mysterious in his manner of speech, there was not the slightest doubt that he was at work on something, and that he also had a very trying habit of closely studying every object, small or great, that came under his observation. He studied the natives to such an extent that he knew every differing shade of color in their skins; he studied Sir Chetwynd Lyle and knew that he occasionally took bribes to “put things” into his paper; he studied Dolly and Muriel Chetwynd Lyle, and knew that they would never succeed in getting husbands; he studied Lady Fulkeward, and thought her very well got up for sixty; he studied Ross Courtney, and knew he would never do anything but kill animals all his life; and he stud
ied the working of the Gezireh Palace Hotel, and saw a fortune rising out of it for the proprietors. But apart from these ordinary surface things, he studied other matters— “occult” peculiarities of temperament, “coincidences,” strange occurrences generally. He could read the Egyptian hieroglyphs perfectly, and he understood the difference between “royal cartouche” scarabei and Birmingham-manufactured ones. He was never dull; he had plenty to do; and he took everything as it came in its turn. Even the costume ball for which he had now attired himself did not present itself to him as a “bore,” but as a new vein of information, opening to him fresh glimpses of the genus homo as seen in a state of eccentricity.
“I think,” he now said, complacently, “that the cap and gown look well for a man of my years. It is a simple garb, but cool, convenient and not unbecoming. I had thought at first of adopting the dress of an ancient Egyptian priest, but I find it difficult to secure the complete outfit. I would never wear a costume of the kind that was not in every point historically correct.”
No one smiled. No one would have dared to smile at Dr. Maxwell Dean when he spoke of “historically correct” things. He had studied them as he had studied everything, and he knew all about them.
Sir Chetwynd murmured:
“Quite right — er — the ancient designs were very elaborate—”
“And symbolic,” finished Dr. Dean. “Symbolic of very curious meanings, I assure you. But I fear I have interrupted your talk. Mr. Courtney was speaking about somebody’s beautiful eyes; who is the fair one in question?”
“The Princess Ziska,” said Lord Fulkeward. “I was saying that I don’t quite like the look of her eyes.”
“Why not? Why not?” demanded the doctor with sudden asperity. “What’s the matter with them?”
“Everything’s the matter with them!” replied Ross Courtney with a forced laugh. “They are too splendid and wild for Fulke; he likes the English pale-blue better than the Egyptian gazelle-black.”
“No, I don’t,” said Lord Fulkeward, speaking more animatedly than was customary with him. “I hate, pale-blue eyes. I prefer soft violet-gray ones, like Miss Murray’s.”
“Miss Helen Murray is a very charming young lady,” said Dr. Dean. “But her beauty is quite of an ordinary type, while that of the Princess Ziska—”
“Is EXTRA-ordinary — exactly! That’s just what I say!” declared
Courtney. “I think she is the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”
There was a pause, during which the little doctor looked with a ferret-like curiosity from one man to the other. Sir Chetwynd Lyle rose ponderously up from the depths of his arm-chair.
“I think,” said he, “I had better go and get into my uniform — the Windsor, you know! I always have it with me wherever I go; it comes in very useful for fancy balls such as the one we are going to have tonight, when no particular period is observed in costume. Isn’t it about time we all got ready?”
“Upon my life, I think it is!” agreed Lord Fulkeward. “I am coming out as a Neapolitan fisherman! I don’t believe Neapolitan fishermen ever really dress in the way I’m going to make up, but it’s the accepted stage-type, don’cher know.”
“Ah! I daresay you will look very well in it,” murmured Ross Courtney, vaguely. “Hullo! here comes Denzil Murray!”
They all turned instinctively to watch the entrance of a handsome young man, attired in the picturesque garb worn by Florentine nobles during the prosperous reign of the Medicis. It was a costume admirably adapted to the wearer, who, being grave and almost stern of feature, needed the brightness of jewels and the gloss of velvet and satin to throw out the classic contour of his fine head and enhance the lustre of his brooding, darkly-passionate eyes. Denzil Murray was a pure-blooded Highlander, — the level brows, the firm lips, the straight, fearless look, all bespoke him a son of the heather-crowned mountains and a descendant of the proud races that scorned the “Sassenach,” and retained sufficient of the material whereof their early Phoenician ancestors were made to be capable of both the extremes of hate and love in their most potent forms. He moved slowly towards the group of men awaiting his approach with a reserved air of something like hauteur; it was possible he was conscious of his good looks, but it was equally evident that he did not desire to be made the object of impertinent remark. His friends silently recognized this, and only Lord Fulkeward, moved to a mild transport of admiration, ventured to comment on his appearance.
“I say, Denzil, you’re awfully well got up! Awfully well! Magnificent!”
Denzil Murray bowed with a somewhat wearied and sarcastic air.
“When one is in Rome, or Egypt, one must do as Rome, or Egypt, does,” he said, carelessly. “If hotel proprietors will give fancy balls, it is necessary to rise to the occasion. You look very well, Doctor. Why don’t you other fellows go and get your toggeries on? It’s past ten o’clock, and the Princess Ziska will be here by eleven.”
“There are other people coming besides the Princess Ziska, are there not, Mr. Murray?” inquired Sir Chetwynd Lyle, with an obtrusively bantering air.
Denzil Murray glanced him over disdainfully.
“I believe there are,” he answered coolly. “Otherwise the ball would scarcely pay its expenses. But as the Princess is admittedly the most beautiful woman in Cairo this season, she will naturally be the centre of attraction. That’s why I mentioned she would be here at eleven.”
“She told you that?” inquired Ross Courtney.
“She did.”
Courtney looked up, then down, and seemed about to speak again, but checked himself and finally strolled off, followed by Lord Fulkeward.
“I hear,” said Dr. Dean then, addressing Denzil Murray, “that a great celebrity has arrived at this hotel — the painter, Armand Gervase.”
Denzil’s face brightened instantly with a pleasant smile.
“The dearest friend I have in the world!” he said. “Yes, he is here. I met him outside the door this afternoon. We are very old chums. I have stayed with him in Paris, and he has stayed with me in Scotland. A charming fellow! He is very French in his ideas; but he knows England well, and speaks English perfectly.”
“French in his ideas!” echoed Sir Chetwynd Lyle, who was just preparing to leave the lounge. “Dear me! How is that?”
“He is a Frenchman,” said Dr. Dean, suavely. “Therefore that his ideas should be French ought not to be a matter of surprise to us, my dear Sir Chetwynd.”
Sir Chetwynd snorted. He had a suspicion that he — the editor and proprietor of the Daily Dial — was being laughed at, and he at once clambered on his high horse of British Morality.
“Frenchman or no Frenchman,” he observed, “the ideas promulgated in France at the present day are distinctly profane and pernicious. There is a lack of principle — a want of rectitude in — er — the French Press, for example, that is highly deplorable.”
“And is the English Press immaculate?” asked Denzil languidly.
“We hope so,” replied Sir Chetwynd. “We do our best to make it so.”
And with that remark he took his paunch and himself away into retirement, leaving Dr. Dean and young Murray facing each other, a singular pair enough in the contrast of their appearance and dress, — the one small, lean and wiry, in plain-cut, loose-flowing academic gown; the other tall, broad and muscular, clad in the rich attire of mediaeval Florence, and looking for all the world like a fine picture of that period stepped out from, its frame. There was a silence between them for a moment, — then the Doctor spoke in a low tone:
“It won’t do, my dear boy, — I assure you it won’t do! You will break your heart over a dream, and make yourself miserable for nothing. And you will break your sister’s heart as well; perhaps you haven’t thought of that?”
Denzil flung himself into the chair Sir Chetwynd had just vacated, and gave vent to a sigh that was almost a groan.
“Helen doesn’t know anything — yet,” he said hoarsely. “I know nothing myself; how c
an I? I haven’t said a word to — to HER. If I spoke all that was in my mind, I daresay she would laugh at me. You are the only one who has guessed my secret. You saw me last night when I — when I accompanied her home. But I never passed her palace gates, — she wouldn’t let me. She bade me ‘good-night’ outside; a servant admitted her, and she vanished through the portal like a witch or a ghost. Sometimes I fancy she IS a ghost. She is so white, so light, so noiseless and so lovely!”
He turned his eyes away, ashamed of the emotion that moved him. Dr. Maxwell Dean took off his academic cap and examined its interior as though he considered it remarkable.
“Yes,” he said slowly; “I have thought the same thing of her myself — sometimes.”
Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the military band of the evening, which now crossed the “lounge,” each man carrying his instrument with him; and these were followed by several groups of people in fancy dress, all ready and eager for the ball. Pierrots and Pierrettes, monks in drooping cowls, flower-girls, water-carriers, symbolic figures of “Night” and “Morning,” mingled with the counterfeit presentments of dead-and-gone kings and queens, began to flock together, laughing and talking on their way to the ball-room; and presently among them came a man whose superior height and build, combined with his eminently picturesque, half-savage type of beauty, caused every one to turn and watch him as he passed, and murmur whispering comments on the various qualities wherein he differed from themselves. He was attired for the occasion as a Bedouin chief, and his fierce black eyes, and close-curling, dark hair, combined with the natural olive tint of his complexion, were well set off by the snowy folds of his turban and the whiteness of his entire costume, which was unrelieved by any color save at the waist, where a gleam of scarlet was shown in the sash which helped to fasten a murderous-looking dagger and other “correct” weapons of attack to his belt. He entered the hall with a swift and singularly light step, and made straight for Denzil Murray.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 412
