|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 98
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.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|