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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 4 5 6 DONOHUE & HENNEBERRY PRINTERS AND BINDERS w 1 ' t *,, l" '" '.VU^ THE TENTS OF SHEM Bv GRANT ALLEN, Author •/ •*r*fj Mortal Coil," *'Thi DeviVt Di$," etc. OHAPTEB L 01 TBS DABS CONTINENT. Two young men of most Britannic aspect lat lounging together in long wicker chairs, on the balcony of the English Club at Algiers. They had much reason. It was one of those glorious days, by no mean:? rdye.«VhGi>the sky and climate of the city on the Sahe/i'joaJctfteiRmufej)sr)Cw,rc}ad peaks •f the Djarjura ixt ske. bwckgroTj.nd- c^^SQ' i^ig?^', iii 'he air, glistening whi!ni.n trade himself, here at least he knew his ground. He quaked and trembled before no dawdling amateur. Turning over the first two or three sheets atten- tively, " Well, you can-draw," he said at last, after a brief scru- tiny. " I don't know whether flowers like those grow in the desert or not — I should rather bet on not, of the two — but I'm a painter myself, and I know at any rate you can paint them excellently, as amateurs go." *• My one accomplishment," the explorer answered, with a pleased expansion of the comers of his mouth ; — it is human to receive approbation «ruteiuU\ i'rom thoae whr know " J 11 VBK TKMiTg 09 fHIM. W ' oouldn'l sketch a scene or draw a figure with tolerable aeon- rao> to save my life ; but I understand the birds, and creep- ing chings, and (lowers ; and sympathy, I suppose, makes mc- draw them at least sympathetically." '• Precisely so. That's the very word," the artist went on, examining each drawing he turned over with more and more care. " Though your technique's amateurish, of course, 1 can see you know the flowers, their tricks and their manners, down to the very ground. But tell me now ; do these things really grow in the desert ?" " On the oases, yes. The flowers there are quite brilliant and abundant. Like the Alpine flora, they seem to grow loviihest near their furthest limit. Butterfly-fertilised. But what brings you to Alf3:eria so late in tiie season ? All the rest of the world is turning its bade now upon Africa, and hurrying awayto Aix-les-Bains, and Biarritz, and Switzer- land, and England. You and I will be the only people, bar Arabs and Frenchmen (who don't count), left here for the Bummer." " What, are you going to stop the summer here too ?" " Well, not in Algiers itself," the explorer answered, flick- In us boot with his cane for an imaginary dust-spot. •• I've bet. baked enough in the desert for the last six months to cooV. a turtle, and I'm going over yonder now, where ices grow free, for coolness and refreshment." And he waved his hand, with a sweep across the sapphire semicircle of the glassy bay, to the great white block of rearin^^' mountains that rose witli their sheet of virgin snow against the pro- found azure of an African sky in the far background. " What, to Kabylie 1" the artist exclaimed, with a start of ■urprise. " To Kabylie, yes. The very place. You've learnt its name and itb fame already then ?" " Why, I see in this the finger of fate," the artist an- swered, with more easy confidence. *• We have here in fact a third conicidence. It's in Kabylie that I, too, have decided cij -spending the summer. Perhaps, as you seem to know the way, we might manage to start on our tour together." •' But what are you going for?" the elder man continued, with an amused air. " Oh. jii t. to paint. Nothing more than that. The coun- tr '\(i rat leonle : new ground for the exhibitions. Spain's usba u]j, -' souiu feiiows in En^jland who know the markets [- .*..*<.;. .-•-.' VHB TBMTt or ■B1M« >« 18 idvisecl me to go to Eabylie on an artistio eTp!orIng oxpficli- &ion. From our point of view, you see, it's unbroken ground, they «ay, or almost unbroken ; and everytliing civilised has Seen »o painted up, an^ painted down, and painted round .kbout, of late years, by every one everywhere, that one's glad to get a hint of the chance of finding some unhackneyed sub- ject in a corner of Africa. Besides, they tell me it is all extremely naive, and I like nnivrte. That's my lino in art. I'm in quest of the unsophisticated. I paint simplicity." •• You'll find your sitter in Kabylie then : naivete rampant and simplicity with a vengeance," the explorer answered. " It's quit# untouched and unvulgarized as yet by any taint or tinge t^i Parisian civilization. The aboriginal Kabylea haven't even learnt the A B C of French culture — to sit at an estaminet and play dominoes." •• So much the better. That's just wlwit 1 want. Unvar- nished man. The antique vase in real life. And I'm toid the costumes are almost Greek in their naturalness." " Quite Greek, or even more so," the explorer replied ; " thoHgh perhaps, considering its extreme simplicity, we ought rather to say, even less so. But where do you mean to stop, and how to travel ? Accommodation in ancient Greece, you know, wasn't exactly luxurious." ♦♦ Oh, I'll just set out from Algiers by diligence, I supposo, and put np for awhile at some Uttle hotel in the country villages." The explorer's face could not resist a gentle smile of sup- pressed merriment. " An hotel, my dear sir l" he said, with surprise. •• An hotel in Kabylie I You'll find ft difficult, I'm afraid, to meet with the article. Except at Fort National, which is a purely French settlement, where you could study only the common or French Zouave engaged in his famihar avocations of playing bowls and sipping absintlie, there's not such a thing as a cabaret, a lodging, a way-side inn, in tlie whole block of mountain country. Strangers who want to explore Kabylie may go if they like to the house of the village headman, the amine as they called him, where you may sup off a nasty mess of pounded kous-koua, and sleep at night on a sort of shelf or ledge among the goats and the cattle. Govern- ment compels every amin^ to provide one night's board and entertainment for any European traveller who cares to demand it. But the entertainment provided is usually so very varied and so very lively that those who have tried it qqco report oo 14 VU TSNTl Of IHUI. it nnfayorably. Verbum 8ap, It's too tentomologioal. When you go to Kabylie, don't do a8 the Kabyles do." " But how do you mean to manage yourself?" the artist adked, with the prudence of youth. Ue was nettled at having made so stapid a mistake at the very outset about the re- sources of the mountains, and not quite certain that he grasped the meaning of verbmn sap. (his Latin being strictly a negative quantity), so he took refuge in the safe devise of a question that turned the tuules. " I came to Algiers hoping to pick up some information as to ways and means as soon as I got here ; and since you seem to know the ropes so well, perhaps you'll give a raw hand the benefit of your riper experience." "Oh, / have my tent," the traveller answered, with the quiet air of a man who has made bis way alone about the world. ** It's a first-rate tent for camping out in ; it's sup- plied with the electric light, a hydrauUo lift, hot water laid on, and all the latest modern improvements — metaphorically speaking," he hastened to add by an afterthought, for he saw his companion's large grey eyes opening wider and wider with astonishment each moment. "It's awfully comfortable, you know, as deserts go ; and I could easily rig up a spare bed ; so if you really mean to paint in Kabylie, and will bear a share in the expenses of carriage, it might suit both our books, per- haps, if you were to engage my furnished apartments. For I'm not over-burdened with spare cash myself — no naturalist ever is — and I'm by no means above taking in a lodger, if any eligible person presents himself at the tent with good refer- ences and an unblemished character. Money not so much an object as congenial society in a respectable family." It was a kind offer, playfully veiled under the cloak of mutual accommodation, and the painter took it at once as it was meant. " How very good of you," he said. •• I'm im- mensely obliged. Nothing on earth would suit my plans better, if it wouldn't be trespassing wO much on your kind hospitality." " Not at all," the explorer answered, with a good-hum- oured nod. •' Don't mention that. To say the truth, I shall be glad of a companion. The Arab pails after a month or two of his polite society. And I love Art, too, though I don't pretend myself to understand it. We'll talk the matter over a Uttle, as to business arrangements, over a cup of coffee, and I dare say, when we've compared notes, we shall manage to bit things off comfortably together." NF^jpir m*7^fr TBI TBMTf Of MIM. II " Maj we exchange cards 7" the artist aiked. palling oat % lilver-bound case from his broast- pocket, and banding ont of its httle regulation pasteboards to his new friend. The explorer glanced at it, and read the oamo, " Vemoa Dlake, Grcsholm Road, Guildford." " I've no card of my own," he made answar, as he pocketed it ; "in the desert, you see, cards were of very little use ; Bedouins don't drop them on one another. But my name's Le Marchant — Eustace Le Marchant, of Jersey, beetle- sticker." •* Oh, but I know your name,** Blake cried eagerly, de- lighted to show himself not wholly ignorant of a distinguished naturalist. " You're an F. B. S., aren't yon ? Ah, yes, I thought so. I've seen notices of you often in the paper, I'm sure, as having gone somewhere and found out something. Do you know, if I'd only known that before, I think I should have been afraid to accept your kind offer. I'm 9JDl awfully / ignorant sort of fellow mys'slf — far too V ''^nt to go camp- ing out with an F. B. S. in ilio wilds of Afi .ca." " If being an F. B. S. is the worst orin o you can bring to < my charge," Le Marchant answerec' ith ^ smile, " I dare say we shall pull together all very wea. And ^f vou meet no // Ww;ar' society than F. R. S.'s in the wild* of Amoa, though it's me that sj.ys it as oughtn't to Bay il, yuur luck will have been very exceptional indeed. But I don't think yoa need be much afraid of me. I'm an F. B. S. of tlie mildest type. I never call anything by its longest and ugliest Latin name ; I never bore other people with interesting detuils of anatomical structure ; I never cut up anything ahve (bar oystersV, and I never lecture, publicly or privately, to anybody, anywliere, on any consideration. There are two kinds of naturalists, you know ; and I'm one of the wrong kind. The superior clast live in London or Paris, examine everything minutely with a Xgreat big microscope, tack on inches of Greek nomenclature to an insignificant mite or bit of moss, and split hairs against anybody with marvellous dexterity. That's science. It dwells in a museum. For my part I detest it. The inferior class live in Europe, Asia, Africa, or America, as fate or fancy carries ; and, instead of looking at everything in a dried specimen, go out into the wild woods with rifle on shoulder, or box in hand, and observe the birds, and beasts, and green things of the earth, as God made them, in their own natural and lovely surroundmgs. That's natural history, old-fashioned, -if ■ . w ^'^'^*r^ "^ '■ te tm TX9T8 Of tBBII. fitnple, coTTiTnon-place, natural history ; anfl I, for my partt ftm an old-fashioned naturalist. I've been all winter v7atoh« ing the sanJy-^ay creatures on the eandy-grey desert, pre- paring for my i^reafc work on * Btmcture and Function,' And now, through tiis summer, I want to correct and correlate my results by observin.^ the plr^ts, and animals, and insects of the tnoiintains In Kabylio. To tfeU you the truth, I think I rfiall like you — for I, too, have a ta«l3 I'or simplicity. If you come with ma, I can promise you sport and healthy fare, and make you comfortable in my fcniishsd apartments. Let'i descend to details — for this is busiogja — and we must under- stand exactly what cac!i of U9 want* before either of us binds himself dorm formally for fi?e irioiiV.ia to the other. Alph- onse, a couple of colfeea and tv/o petits verrea at once, here, will you ?" . . And by the clarifying lid of a ci^^.r and a ehassg-cafe, it was finally decided, before iba evening biui flushed the Djurjura purpie, and turned the wiiitu Ar:»\) w^iils to pink, that Vernon Blake ehould acco:xi}^j.ny Ijlustuco La Marchant, on almoafc Domirinl terms as to ihs fhi^ring of expenses, on his fiuibimtr Ui]^ (0 ih& juuanlaioa of Urande Kabju«. •:|fk«'?;f»lP555?^!gW' tun 'HiiSi'Sli »Jf tUUUL, n CHAPTER a HONOURS. Somewhere about the same time, away over in England* Iris Knyvett sat one morning at lunch, drummmg with her fingers on the table before her that particular tatttoo which the wisdom of our ancestors ascribed to the author of all evil. Iris Knyvett, herself, would, no doubt, have been very much astonished if only she could have been told, by some prescient visitor, that her own fate was in any way bound up with the proposed expedition of two unknown young men, from the English Club at Algiers, into the wilda of Kabylie. She had hardly heard (save in the catalogue of the Institute) the name of Vernon I31ake ; while Eustace Le Marchant's masterly papers, before the Linnean Society, on the Longi- corn Beetles of the Spice Islands, had never roused her girlish enthusiasm, or quickened her soul to a fiery thirst for the study of entomology. And yet, if she had but known it, Irii Knyvett's whole future in life depended utterly, as so often happens with every one of us, on the casual encounter of those two perfect strangers among the green ' recesses of the North African mountains. In absolute ignorance of which profound truth, Iris Kny- vett herself went on drumming with her fingers impatiently on the table, and leaving the filleted sole on her plate to grow cold, unheeded, in the cool shade of a fair lady's neglect. '* Iris, my dear," Mrs. Knyvett said, sharply, with a dry cDugh, " why don't you eat your lunch ? Your appetite's frightful. What makes you go on hammering away at that dreadful tattoo so ?" Iris's eyes came back with a bound from a point in space lying apparently several thousand miles behind the eminently conventional Venetian scene that hangs above the sideboard in eVery gentleman's dining-room. *' I can't eat anything, I really think, mamma," she said, with a slight sigh, *• till I've had ^lihat telegram." Mrs. Knyvett helped herself to a second piece of filleted sole and its due proportion of anchovy sauce with great d«lib- k^i ]J TUB tSMIS OF 8U£M. eration, before she answered slowly, " Oh, so you're expecting a telegram I" ** Yes, mamma," Iris replied, with scarcely a shade of rea- sonable vexation on her pretty face. " Don't you remember, dear, I told you my tutor promised to telegraph to me." " Your tutor I oh, did he ?" Mrs. Knyvett went on, with polite acquiescence, letting drop her pince-nez with a dexter- ous elevation of her arched eyebrows. The principal feature of Mrs. Knyett's character, indeed, was a Roman nose of finely developed proportions ; but it was one of those insipid Boman noses which stand for birth alone — which impart neither dignity, firmness, nor strength to a face, but serve only to attest their owner's aristocratic antecedents. Mrs. Knyvett's was useful mainly to support her pince-nez, but as her father had been the Dean of a Southern cathedral, it also managed incidentally to support the credit of her family. " Oh, did he," Mrs. Knyvett, repeated after a pause, during which Iris continued to tattoo uninterruptedly. •• That was very kind of him." Though why on earth, or concerning what, he should wish to telegraph, Mrs. Knyvett, who had never been told more than five hundred times before, had really not the slightest conception. '• Not he^ mamma. You must surely remember I've re- minded you over and over again that my tutor's name is Emily Vanrenen." " Then why does she sign herself • B. Vanrenon, B.A. and D.Sc.,* I wonder ?" Mrs. Knyvett went on, with dreamy un- certainty. " A Doctor of Science ought surely to be a man ? And Bachelor of Arts, too — Bachelor of Arts. Bachelors and spinsters are getting too mixed, too mixed altogether." Iris was just going to answer something, gently as was her wont, in defence of the mixture, when a rap at the door made her jump up hastily. " That must be the telegram I" she ;ried, with a tremor, and darted off to the door in a vigorous lash that sufficiently showed her Girton training had at least not quite succeeded in crushing the life out of her. " Iris, Iris I" her mother called after her in horror ; •• let lane answer the door, my dear. This unseemly procedure — and at lunch time, too — is really quite unpardonable. In my time girls " But Iris was well out of hearing long since, and Mrs. Kn3rvett was forced to do penance vicariously herself on her daughter's account to the oireuded fetish of the British draw- ing-room. fBK IKMTg or 0HX1I. 18 In another minnte the bright young girl had eome bacit, crest-fallen, ushering iu before her a stout and rosy-faced middle-aged gentleman, also distinguished by a Roman nosp to match, and dressed wdtli the scrupulous and respeotabh neatness of the London barrister. " It's only Uncle Tom," she cried, disappointed. "Only Uncle Tom ?" the stout, red-faced gentleman echoed <,fOod-humouredly. •• Well, for taking the conceit out of a man, I'll back the members of one's own family, and morf especially and particularly one's prettiest and most favourite niece, against all comers, for a hundred pounds a side, even money. That's all the thanks I get, is it, Iris, for cominj> out of Court in the midst of a most important case, an'l leaving my junior, as thick-headed a Scotchman as ever wai" lom, to cross-examine the leading witnesses for the othei ide — on purpose to ask you whether you've got a telegram uid • Only Uncle Tom ' are the very first words my pret iest niece thinks fit to greet me with after all my devotion.' And he stooped down as Iris seated herself at the tabl< lice more, and kissed her affectionately on her smooth whit irehead. '•Oh, Uncle," Iris cried, blushing up to her pretty bin. yes with ingenuous distress at having even for a momeni ppeared to slight him. '• I didn't mean that. You know 1 idn't mean it. I'm always pleased and delighted to see you )ut the fact is I was expecting the telegram ; and I ran to th. oor when you rattat-tatted, thinking it was the telegrapl oy; and when I saw it was only you — 1 mean, wlien I sav t was you, of course — why I was naturally disappointed rid o have got the news about it all. But did you really com ip all the way from Court on purpose to hear it, you dear oh mole?" '♦All the way from Court, with Coleridge, C.J., smilin.i cynically at my best witnesses, I give you my word of honour I'is," the red-faced old gentleman answered, mollifiod, " fo lothing on earth except to hear about a certain pretty litt! lieoe of mine — because I knew the pretty little niece wasi < ery anxious on the subject." "Oh, Uncle, that wm kind of you." Iris cried aloud, (Jusb iig up to her eyes once more, this time with pleasure. A ttle sympathy went a Icmi way witii her. " li'si ao good of ou to take so much interest in me." My unfortunate client won't say so," Undo Tom mutterp'^ ur own daugh- t two, in Cam what it means, rove of it ; but, nughter Iria ii flU IHMW W/ UHMM, an CHAPTER III. BT MOUUIMU MOUNTAINS. I I A WEEK later, preparations were complete. The tent had been arranged for mountain travelling ; a folding«b«d had been set up for the lodger's accommodation ; stores bad been laid in from that universal provider of Algerian necessities, Alexander Dunlop, in the line d'lsly ; a Mahonnais Spaniard from the Balearic Isles iiad been secured as servant to guard tlie camp ; and Blake and Le Marchant, on varying ends intent, had fairly started off for their tour of inspection through the peaks and passes of the Kabylian Highlands. The artist's kit included a large and select assortment of easels, brushes, pigments, canvas, pencils and Whatman's paper ; the naturalist's embraced a good modem fowling- piece, an endless array of boxes for skins and specimens, and a fine collection of butterlly-nets, chloroform bottles, entomo- logical pins, and materials for preserving birds, animals, and botanical treasures. Le Marchant, as the older and more experienced traveller, had charged himself with all the neces- sary arrangements as to i)ii,cking and provisions ; and when Blake looked on at the masterly way in which his new friend managed to make a couple of packing-cases and a cork mat- tress do duty for a bedstead, at the same time that they con- tained, in their deep recesses, the needful creature comforts for a three months' tour among untrodden ways, he could not sufficiently congratulate himself upon the lucky chance which had thrown him on the balcony of the Club at Algiers that particular afternoon, in company with so competent and so skilful an explorer. He had fallen on his feet, indeed, without knowing it. A lovely morning of bright African sunshine saw the two set forth in excellent spirits from the hotel at Tizi-Ouzou, the furthest French village in the direction of Kabyhe, whither they had come the previous day by diligence from Algiers, to attack the mountains of the still bftrbario and half-uncou qaered Kabylei. #: t>^y'^T.^!f;f,^r^'',)gjpiH//^r»lf^yf-- u TBB ntHTS OV IHSM. F. ■ *' Are the mnlei ready ?" Le Marohant asked of the waiter at the little country inn where they had passed the nighty as he iwallowed down the last drpp of his morning coffee. "MoDBieur," the waiter answered, wiping his mouth with his greasy apron as he spoke, '* the Arabs say the mules will be at the door in half an hour." " The Arabs say I " Le Marchant repeated, with an impa- tient movement of his bronzed hand. " In half an hour, indeed I The sloth of the Arab 1 . 1 know these fellows. That means ten o'clock, at the very earliest. It't^ now seven, and unless we get under way within twenty minutes, the Bun *11 be so hot before we reach a resting-place, that we shall deliquesce like Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs in ' The Vicar of Wakefield.' I'll go out and hurry them up, Blake, with a little gentle moral suasion." Blake followed his host curiously to the door, where half-a- dozen ragged Orientals, picturesquely clad in a costume about equally divided between burnouse and dirt, were sprawling at their ease on a heap of soft dust in the full front of the morning sunshine. ♦• Get, up, my friends," Le Marchant cried aloud in excellent Arabic, for he was a born linguist. •• If the mules are not ready in five minutes on the watch which I hold in my hand, by the beard of < 'le Prophet, I solemnly tell you, you may go every man to his own home without a sou, and I will hire other mules, with the blessing of Allah, from better men than you are to take us on our journey." Blake did not entirely understand colloquial Arabic when rapidly spoken — in fact, his own linguistic studies stopped sud- denly short at his mother tongue, and so much French in the OUendorffian dialect as enabled him to state fluently that the gardener's son had given his apple to the daughter of the car- penter — but he was greatly amused to see the instantaneous effect which this single sonorous sentence, rolled quietly but very firmly out in distinct tones, produced upon the nerves of the sprawling Arabs. They rose from the dust heap as if by magic. In a moment all was bustle and turmoil, and confusion. The tent and beds were hastily laden with infinite shrieks on the patient mules ; boxes were strapped on with many strange cords and loud cries of " Arri I " to the backs of donkeys ; arms and legs were flung wildly about in multitudinous gesticulations of despair and inability : and before the five minutes were fairly •▼•r by that inexorable watch which Le Marchant held with stem 5 ppp tas TBNTB or BMKll. rt folTe before him, the little cavalcade started off at a trot in the direction of the still snow-clad summits of the nearer Djurjura. It was a quaint small caravan, as it mounted the hillside. The two Englishmen rode unburdened mules ; tiie ragged Arabs, barefoot and melting, ran after them with shouts of guttural depth, and encouraged the pack-beasts with loud jerky remon- strances — " Oh, father of fools, and son of a jackass, will you not get up and hurry yourself more quickly *? " "Where are we going?" Blake asked at last, as the high road that had conducted them for a mile from Tizi-Ouzoa dwindled down abruptly near a steep slope to a mere aboriginal Kabyle mule-track, beset with stones, and overhung by thickets of prickly cactus. •' How should I know ? " the naturalist answered, with a vague wave of the hand. '♦ We're going to Kabylio. That's enough for the moment. When we get there, we'll look about for a suitable spot, and pitch our tent wherever there's a patch of smooth enough ground for a man to pitch on. • Sufficient unto the day ' is the explorer's motto. Your tru. traveller never decides anything beforehand. He goes where fate and fortune lefti him. What we both want is to explore the unknown. We'll make our headquarter? within its border, wherever we find a convenient resting-place." "Are the Kabyles black?* Blake ventured to ask, wHh a side-long look ; onburdening his soul of a secret doubt that had long possessed it. " Oh, dear no, scarcely even brown," Le Marchant answered. •• They're most of them every bit as white as you and I are. They're the old aboriginal Romanised population —the Berbers, in fact — driven up into the hills by the Arab invasion in the seventh century. Practically speaking, you know, Jugurthaand Masinissa and Juba were Kabyles." Blake had never heard of these gentlemen's namea'before; but he veiled his ignorance with an acquiescent '• Really I " They rode on, talking of many things and various, for two or three hours, under the brilliant sunshine. But all the way as they rode, they were mounting steadily," by devious native tracks, steep and picturesque, just broad enough for two mules to mount abreast, and opening out at every step magniiicent views over the surrounding country. To right and left stood several white villages perched on spurs of the mountain tops, with their olive groves, and tombs, and tiny domed mosques ; while below lay hooded gorges of torrent streams, overhung and draped by rich fet^toons of great African clematis. Bluke had nevur tri^yelUd (v 316725 26 m tBMtf Of IBfiM. ' N^ the Booth beiore, and his artist eye was oharmed at each tarn hj such novel beauties of the Southern scenery. "This is glorious," he cried at last, halting his mule at a sudden bend of the track. " I shall do wonders here. I feel the surroundings exactly suit me. What could be more lovely than the luxuriant vegetation ? I understand iiuw those lines of Tennyson's in the • Daisy.' So rich. So luscious ! And look, up there on the mountain side, that beautiful littlo raosfjue with its round white dome, embowered in its thicket of orainj^e trees and fan -palms ! It's a dream of delight, it almost makes a man drop into poetry I " " Yes, it's beautiful, certainly, very, very beautiful," Le Mar- chant replied, in a soberer voice, glancing up meditatively. " You never get mountain masses shaped like these in the cold North ; those steep scarped precipices and jagged pinnacles would be quite impossible in countries ground Hat and worn into shape by the gigantic mangle of the Great Ice Age." •• The great what ? " Blake asked, with a faint tingling sense of doubt and shame. He was afraid for his life that La Mar chant was going to be horribly scientific. •• The Great Ice Age — the glacial epoch, you know . the p- nod of universal glacier development, which planed and -ihavHil all the mountain heights in Northern Europe to a common dead level." ••I never heard of it," Blake answered, shaking his head, with a blush, but thmking it best at the same time to make a clean breast of his igiiurance at one fell swoop. " I ... I don't think it was mentioned in ray history of England, f'ra such a duflfer at books, you know. To tell you the truth. I understand very Uttle, except perspective. I've read nothing hut the En^dish poets ; and these I've got on my finger ends ; hut I don't remember anything in ^iilton or Shelley about the (ircat Ice Age. My father, you see, was a painter before me . and as I began to show a — well, a disposition for painting very early, he took me away from school when I was quite a httle chap, and put me into his own studio, and let me pick up what I eould by the way ; so I've never had any >nrvif>fl 'V,»5rri i^''f|) rubbish wllij'li VOU ^^tV9 iffnrwqr^* t-^ lis tttk nCNtM 0» tRRII. i1 :«i'd in favonr of tnch ronlitios as tlio«?e you mention — penpco riv«, for examplM, And Knj^Mish litcrrtturo." As he spolte. tliey mriuui almrply down to a rushing brook by I Kabyle villa^'e, whure two or thrne tall and lissome native ^'irls air aa Itahans, or even as I'jnglishwomen, in their simple, and i)ictnreaque Oriental costume, were washing clothes at a tiny ford, and laughing and talking merrily with one another as the) hent over their work. The scene irresistibly attracted Mlake. The garb of the girls was, indeed, most Greek and graceful ; and cheir supple limbs and lithe natural attitudes might, well arouse ,i painter's or a sculptor's interest. " By Jove I " he cried. '* Le Marchant, I should like to sketch them. Anything so picturesque I never saw in all my life before. • Sunburnt mirth,' as Keats calls it in ' The Niu'ht ingale.' Just watch that girl stoopirtg down to pound a cloth vith a big round stone there. Why Phidias never imagined inything more graceful, more shapely, more exquisite! " " She's splendid, certainly," the naturalist answered, survey ng the girl's pose with more measured coinnuuulation. " A fine igure, I admit, well propped and vigorous. No tight lacuig here. No deformity of fashion. The human form divine, in ;nspoiled beauty, as it came straight i'rum the hands of its 'reator." •* Upon my word, Le Marchant," the painter went or lUhusiastically, " I've half a mind to stop the caravan this very loraent, undo the pack, unroll the papers, and get out my lachinery on the spot to sketch her." Maturer years yielded less to the passing impulse of the iioment. " I wouldn't if I were you," the naturalist answered more )olly. •* You'll see lots more of the same sort, no doubt, all hrough Kabyhe. The si»ecies is probably well diffused. You in paint them by the score when we reach our resting-place." As Blake paused, irresolute, the girls looked up and laughed )od-humouredly at the evident admiration of the two well ressed and well-equipped young infidels. They were not veiled ke Arab women ; the faces and arms and backs were bare, and !eir feet and ankles naked to the knee ; for the old P»erber )pulation of North Africa, to whose race the Kabylesol" Algeria • ilong, retain unchanged to this day their antique Uoinaii •eedom of manners and intorcnurse. The girls' features wcrt 11 of thtm pretty, with a certain frank and barbaric boi»lni'^>« o' outline. Though shy of strangers, they were clearly huimm.i the one who had HUmcUM] thfir ■special fltfr>nt.ion 1m,-\I ..• , .., .^i YES TKNtS OV IHSM. Lj^ L ?'■"." f: 4 eoqaAttlsMy acrosn at Le Marchant, as he turner! hif beast w{Q sterner resolve up the slope of the mountain. ♦• They're splendid creatures," the naturalist said, looking back a little regretfully, while they rode up the opposite side and left the brook and the girls for ever behind thorn. " Tha^ sort of face certainly hvcs long in one's memory. I immense!) admire these free children of nature. Just watch that gin coming down the hillside yonder with her pitclier on her head- how gracefully she poses it I how li<^htly she trips I What freedom, what ease, what untrammelled movement I " ** By George, yes," Blake answered, taking in the scene with his quick, artistic glance. " It's glorious I It's splendid I From the purely Ksthetio point of view, you know, these women ar« .far better and finer in every way than the civilised product." •• And why from the purely lesthetic point of view alone ? '* his companion asked, quickly, with a shade of surprise. " Why not also viewed as human beings in thoir concrete totality ? Surely there's something extremely aitructive to a sympathetic mind in the simplicity, the naivete, the frank and unpretentious innate humanity of the barbaric woman." •' Oh, hang it all, you know, Le Marchant," the artist expos- tulated in a half amused tone. " They're all very well as models to sketch, but you can't expect a civilized man to be satisfied permanently — on any high ground — with such creatures as that, now." " I don't exactly see why not," Le Marchant answered seriously, gazing down once more from the zigzag path on the laughing group of barefooted Kabyle girls, with their smooth round arms and their well-turned ankles. ♦* Humanity to me is always hun:au. I've lived a great deal among many queer peo- ple — Malays and Arabs and Japanese, and so forth — and I've come in the end to the modest conclusion that man, as man, is everywhere man, and man only. Emotionally, at least, we are all of one blood all the world over." " But you couldn't conceive yourself marrying a Kabyle girl, could you ? " " As at present advised, I see no just cause or impediment to the contrary." Blake turned up his eyes to heaven for a moment^ in mute ftmazemeiit, *• Well, I'm not built that way, any how,** he went on, after a pause, with a certain subdued sense of inward self-congratulation. ** ' I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Lflte a beas t with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains I ' .f»?'ll 'mwrnw- Jv»^^ THS TINTS Of IHZU. No. thank yon. For my part, I agree with tho poet. I count the grey barbarian lower than the Christian child. None of your squalid savages for me. If ever I marry, wiiich I hope I sliall bo able to do some of those fine days, thu girl I marry must be at least my equal in hitoUoct and attaiimionta — and that, bar painting, she might easily manage in all conscience ; but for choice, I should prefer hdr to be highly educated — a Princess Ida sort of a woman." " Then I take it, you admire those new-fashioned over-educated epicene creatures," Le Marchant interposed, smiling. •"' Well, not exactly over-educated, perhaps," lilake answered, apologetically (he. was too much c ;erawed to handle epicene) '• but. at any rate I like them thorough ladies, and well brought up, and as clever as they make them." '• Clever. Ah, yes I That's quite another thing. Cleverness is an underlying natural endowment ; but crannncd ; no, thank you, not for me, at any rate I " They p; ised for a moment, each pursuing his o^vn lin« of thought unchecked ; then the paniter began again, in a musing voice, " Did you happen to see in the English papers before we left Algiers, that a Girton girl had just been made Third Classic at Cambridge?" "I did," Le Marchant answered, with a touch of pity in his tone ; " and I was heartily sorry for her." " Why sorry for her ? It's a very great honour t" ' Because I think the strain of such a preparation too great to put upon ii / woman. Then that's the sort of girl you'd Uke to marry, is it ? " " Well, yes, other things equal, such as beauty and position, I'm inclined to think so. She must be pretty, of course, that goes without saying — pretty and graceful, and a lady, and all thiit sort of thing one takes that for granted ; but, given so much I should like her to be really well educatod. You see, I've never had any education to speak of myself, bo I should prefer my wife to have enough of that commodity on hand for both of us." " Quite so," Le Marchant answered with a faint smile. '* You'd consent to put up in fact with a perfect paragon, who was a Girton girl and a Third Classic I I admire your modesty, and I hope you may get her." A fork in the road, with the practical necessity for deciding which of the two alternative tracks they should next take, put s limit for the moment to their converaation. ''^WW^W ■ ' mmt ran rsNTH u> mubm. 1 1 CHAPTER IV. BKTBB 4 HEROnm, «4 Which way shall we go? " Blake asketi, halting his mule for a second where the paths divided. " I leave these questions always to the divine arhitrament of my patron goddess," Le Marchant answered -lightly, tossing a sou, and HttJe knowing how much his future fate depended upon the final decision. " Let chance decide. Heads, right ! tails, left ! Tlie heads have it. Hi, you, Ahmed or Ah, or whatever your blessed name is," lie went on in Arabic, to the men behind, ** do you know where this path on the right leads to ? " " To the mountain of the Beni-Merzoug, Excellency," the ragged Arab nearest his mule made answer, respectfully. " It's a good village for you to stop at, as Allah decrees. The Beni- Merzoug are the most famous makers of jewellery and pottery among all the Kabylea." " That'll just suit our book, I say," Le Marchant went on in English, translating the remark m the vernacular to Blake. " Chance, as usual, has decided rightly. A wonderful goddess. To the Beni-Merzoug let it be at once then." And he pocketed the sou that had sealed his fortune. Oh, fateful sou, to be gilt hereafter in puresi, gold, and worn round fair lady's neck in a jewelled locket I • They mounted still, past rocky ledges, where hardly a goat could find a dubious foothold, but where Kabyle industry had nevertheless sown pathetic plots or strips of corn or cabbages — for is there not pathos in ineffective labour ? — till they came at last, late in the afternoon, to a grey old village, grimly perched on the summit of a minor mountain. " These are the Beni- Merzoug," the Arabs said, halting their mules m a line at th(' entry of the street. " Here the track stops. We can go no further." *• Let's look about for a spot to pitch our tent upon then," Le Marchant exclaimed, as they unloaded their burden. •* No ias} job h'Teabouts, either, I should say. On the desert, one bao ftlways Uie embarrassment of riches in that respect ; here, ol THS TKNTB OP 8HXII. 81 thei3e rugged rocky slopes, it would be hard to find ten iqaare yards of level ground anywhere." Nevertheless, after a quarter-of-an-hour'a dili^'ent search, not unembarrassed by the curiosity of the Kabylos a3 to the new comers, a spot was found, close by the village headman's house, in the shadow of a pretty little white-domed tomb, overhung by ash-trees, from whose spreading boughs the wild vine drooped in graceful tresses. It seemed to Blake the absolute ideal summer cumping-place. Around, great masses of tumbled mountairi!^ swayed and tossed like the waves of a boisterous sea ; below, deep ravines hung in mid-air, with their thick covering of Medi- terranean pine and evergreen oak aad Spanish chestnut ; while above, in the distance, the silent white peaks of the snowy Djur jura still gleamed and shjmmered, high over the hill-tops, in the evening sun. The panitor could have stood and gazed at it for hijurs, but for the need for action ; it was wi^h an ell'ort that he turned from that lovely prospect to bear nis part in the prosaic work of tent-pegging and unpa'iking for the evening's rest. By this time a noisy crowd of Kabyles from the village had gathered round the spot selected by the visitors, and begun to canvass in eager terms the motive of their visit and the nature of their arrangements. The natives were clearly ill-satisfied at their choice. Le Marchant, though a tolerable Arabic scholar, knew not one word as yet of the Kabyle language ; so he was unable to hold any communication with the men, who them- selves were equally guiltless for the most part of either French or Arabic. It was evident, however, that the Kabyles as a whole regarded their proceedings with extreme distaste, and that the head man of the village and a girl by his side, who seemed to be either his wife or daughter, had considerable trouble in restrain- ing this feeling from breaking out into acts of open hostility. The girl, in particular, at once arrested both the young Englishmen's passing attention. It was no wonder if she did. So glorious a figure they had seldom seen. Tall and lithe, with strong and well-made limbs, she seemed scarcely so dark as many English ladies, but with a face of peculiar strength and statutesque beauty. In type, she was not unlike the merry Kabyle maiden who had looked up at them and laughed as they passed the vrasliing place by the torrent that morning ; but her style was in every way nobler and higher. The features were bold and sculpturesque and powerful ; serene intelligence shone out from her hi" eyes ; she looked, Le Marchant thought, as a Spartan maiden might have looked m the best days of Sparta — a^ free a>i sh«» was aupple. aiui so stront; as she was beautiful. At first ■TT ""''T' «"IIB 1 ■^^^^■^•■^■■■•■•^•■n^i •1 THS TENT3 OV eH£M. I ■ whilt the earlier preparations were being made ; she hung aloof from the new-comers as if ii! ^ptn^ryiless awe ; but after a short time, as the crowd around gitw ui>,^ unruly and boisterous, and the attempts at intercommunica:ion bugan to succeed, she approached somewhat nearer, and, equally removal from coquetry or boldness, watched their proceedhigs with the uLniost interest. At the outset, while the Spaniard and the Arabs helped in the work of setting up camp, conversation between the new-comers was carried on almost entirely in pigeon French. And of French, even in its pigeon variety., the girl was clearly ignorant. •• Voiu ne paries pus Francais / " Le Marcliaut asked her, tentatively. But the Kabyle maiden shook hev head with a vigorous dissent, and put her finger to her mouth in sign of silence. So he turned away, and went on with his unpacking, vhile the girl, poised in a most picturesque attitude, with her arm on the ledge of the littlu domed tomb, stood by expectant, with a mutely attentive face, or made some remark now and again, in a low voice, to hen fellow countrymen, who stood aloof in the distance. They seemt d to treat her with unusual respect, as a person of some distiuriion. No doubt she must be the headman's wife, Lo Marchaiit thought, from the tone of command in which she spoke to ti turn. ♦* Hand me that rope there, quick," the naturalist called out at last, in English to Blake. •• Look sharp, will you ? I want to fasten it down at once to this peg here." The beautiful Kabyle girl started at the words in the most pro- found surprise ; but, to Le Marchant's astonishment, rose up at once, and handed him the rope, as though it was her he had asked for it, w thout a moment's hesitation. •• Curious how quick these half-barbaric people are to under- stand whatever one says to them in an unknown language," Le Marchant went on, in a satisfied tone, to his English companion. •• This girl snapped up what I meant at once by the inflexion of my voice, yu sue, when I asked you for the rope, though I never even pointed my hand towards what I wanted." •• I can talk like that myself," the girl answered quietly, in English almost as good as Le Marchant's own, though with a very faint flavour of liquid Oriental accent. " I hoard you ask for the rope, and I fancied, of course, you were speaking to me, and 80 I gave it to you. But I thought," she added, with much natural dignity, "you might have asked me a little more polild/." >■.■, ■*.,'■, tarn TJfiNtf Of BHSll. If tlie girl was surprised to hear Le Marchant, Le Marohant, In turn, was positively thunderstruck to hear the girl. He coiil«l hardly believe the direct evidence of his own ears. " Do they speak with tongues in these parts I " he ori^d, amazed ; •* or has much wandering made me mad, I wowd/^r ? Come ovei" here, Blake, nnd explain this mystery. This lady positivbly answered me nj r.nglish." " We speak with our tougui s, of c -urse," the girl went on, half angrily, misunderstanding his old-fashioned Scriptural phrase, " just the same as you and everybody else do. We're human, I suppose ; we're rfot monkeys. But, perhaps, you think like all other Frenchmen, that Kabyles are no better than dogs and jackals." She spoke with pride, and fire flashed from her eyes. She was clearly angry. Le Marchant thought her pride and auger became her. ♦• I beg your pardon," he went on in haste, t'ory deferentially raising his hat by pure instinct, for he saw that without any intention of his own he had hurt her feelings. •' I really don't think you quite understood me.« I was surprised to find any- body speaking my own tongue here so far ill Kabylie." "Then you aren't French at all?" the girl asked, eagerly, with a flush of expectation. ♦' No, not French — English ; and I'm sorry I seemed, against ray will, to annoy you." " If you're English we're friends," the girl answered, looking up at him with a flushed face, as naturally as if she had met with stray Englishmen every day of her life. " It was my father who taught me to talk like this — I loved my father — and he was an Enghshman." Le Marchant and Blake both opened their eyes together in mute astonishment. *' And what's your name ? " the painter ventured to asS:, half dumb with surprise, alter a moment's pause. " My name's Meriem," the girl replied, simply. •'MeriemI Ah, yes, I dare say; that's Kabyle. But your father's ? " " My father's was Yusuf." " Yusuf ? " Le Marchant cried. " Wliy Yusufs not English I The English for that, you know is plain Joseph. Was your father's name Joseph somebody ? " •* No," the girl answered, shaking her head firmly, " Hii name was Yusuf. Only Yusuf. Uis Kabyle name I mean. w fWW ■■.""':,LT'5!"".''-.V"iW»A!W >r ' ■ "m 84 tHX IKMII OJr BUKM. And mine's Meriem. i.u English, Tnsnf ased klwayi to tell me, it's Mary." " But your surname ? " Le Marchant suggested, with a smile at her simplicity. Meriem shook her head once more, with a puzzled look. *' I don't understand that, at all," she said, with a dubious air. *' I don't know all English. You say some things I don't make out. I never heard that word before — surname." " Look here,"Le Marchant went on, endeavouring to siiiplify matters to her vague little mind. *' Have you any other name at all but Meriem." '* Yes, I told you — Mary." " Ah, of course. I know. But besides that again. Think ; any other ? " The girl looked down with a bewildered glance at her pretty bare feet. " I'm sure I can't say," she said, shaking her heaa. '♦ I never heard any." " But your father had I Surely he must have borne an Eng- lish name. You must have heard him say it. lie's dead, I suppose. But can't you remember ? " •* Yes, Yusuf s dead, and so's my mother, and I live with my uncle. My uncle's the amine, you know, the head of the village." And she waved her hand toward him with native gracefulness. *• Well, what was your father's English name ? " Le Marcliant persisted, piqued by this strange and unexpected mystery, •• and how did he come to be living here in Algeria ? " ♦• He had an English name, a sort of a double name," Meriem answered dreamily, after a moment's pause, during which it was clear she had been fishing with small success in the very depths of her memory. *♦ It was Somebody Sometliing, I remember that. He told me that English name of his, too, one day, and begged me never, never to forget it. It was to be .very useful to me. But I was not to tell it to anybody on any account. It was a great secret, and I was to keep it strictly. You see, it was so long ago, more than three years now, and I was so little then. I've never spoken this way, ever since Yusuf died, before. And I've quite forgotten what the name was that he told me. I otily remember his Kabyle name, Yusuf, and his French one, of course — that was Joseph Leboutillier." ♦♦ What? he had a Frencli name, too ? " Le Marchant cried, looking up in fresh surprise. " Oh yes, he had a French one," Meripm answered quietly, M if every one might be expected to know such simple facts. ** And that, of course, was what they wanted to shoot him for." mrw^l^ '-,>r» tILB XKMTB or IBBM. CHAPTlR V. PBOBLKH8. k'T that very moment, before Le Marchant could gratify his uriosit)^ an)' further, a voice from the crowd of Kabyie bystand- ■ra called out sternly, in a commanding tone, ** Meriem I Ho igha t " and the girl, with a start, hurried off at the sound into lie eager group of her own fellow-tribesmen. The crowd athered round hor in hot debate. For awhile, Le Marchant md Blake observed with dismay that their new friend was being •losely questioned as to what she herself had said in the unknown Longue to the infidel strangers, and what the infidel strangers !uid said in return' with so much apparent kindliness to her. Vngry glances were cast from time to time in their direction, and voices were raised, and fingers and hands gesticulated fiercely. liut, after awhile, the beautiful girl's calm report seemed some- what to still the excitement of the indignant Kabyles. She stood before them with outstretched arms and open palms, pro- testing, as Le Marchant gathered from her eloquent attitude, that these were indeed friends and not enemies. Her protest prevailed. After a few minutes interval, she returned once more, with a smiling faqe, this time accompanied by her uncle, the Headman, and two other Kabyles of evident tribal importance ; and the three proceeded to hold an informal palaver with the strangers from Europe, Meriem acting the roU of interpreter between the two high contracting parties. The Headman spoke a few words first to the girl who endea- voured, to the best of her ability, to impart their meaning in English to the attentive new-comers. "My uncle asks," she said, "what you have come for, and why you have brought all these strange things on the ground here with you?" "My friend is an artist," Le Marchant answered simply, "and I am a naturalist, a man of science. " We've eouie to see the mountains and the country, and all that grows in tliem." Miiricra shook her head with a gesture of deprecation. "I don't know those words," she said. " Yusuf never used them. 1 don't know what is an artist and what is a naturalist. Why do you want to see the country?" And she added a few «f( j^frnpop rnnidlv in Kabyie to the three natives. n^^PpiiniFlilli^ ;.";,' If" '"■ ■*^^^ ■'■'■•'•'. '• ■■■ ''-■'*:,'--.'i-V""5''"^i^^J^P^'ff(p ffBs nurrf or raxM. fe^ ii|^- ''^■ ■' t: :i r-; Le Marchant saw his mistake at once. The English words he had used were above the girl's simple childish level. He must come down to her platform. He tried over again. '* My friend paints pictures," he said, with a smile, holding up » half-finished sketch of Blake's, " and I shoot birds, and pick plants and flowers and insects." Meriem nodded a satisfied nod of complete comprehension, and reported his speech in Kabyle to her uncle. " My people say," she went on again, after a brief colloquy with her three compatriots, " why do you want so much pencils and paper ? Have you come to do good or harm to Kabyle ? Does not the pulling out of pencils and paper mean much mis> chief ? " " Some of the paper is for my friend to paint on," Le Mar- chant 8,nswered, with the calmness of a man well used to such dealings with suspicious foreigners, " and part of it is for myself . to dry plants and flowers in." * •' My uncle says," Meriem went on once more, after another short colloquy, •• are you not come to plant out .-ew roads and forts, and will not the Kabyles be forced to work on them, whether they will, or whether they will not ? Have not the French, who are the enemies of my people, sent you to look if the country is good, so that they may send Frenchmen to take it, and plough it ? Did they not make roads the same way to Fort National, and give the land of the Kabyles over there to be ploughed and used by their own soldiers ? " " Explain to your people," Le Marchant said gently, in his cool way, " that we are English like your fatlier, not French, like the people who live at Fort National. We are Yusufs countrymen. We have nothing to do with the Government at all. We plan rib roads, and build no forts. We have only come for our own amusement, to paint the mountains, and to see what flowers and birds live in them." " And did you know Yusuf ? " Meriem cried, excitedly, " No," Le Marchant answered, and the girl's face fell sadly at the answer. " But we are friends as he was. We wish well to the Kabyles, and all true believers." When Meriem had translated and dilated upon these last remarks with her own comments, the Kabyles seemed greatly mollified and reassured. The Headman ni particular, with some effusion, seized Le Marchant's hand, fl,nd wrung it hard, mur- muring many times over fervently, as he did so, " Ingleez good, Frbncb bad ; Yusuf Ligleez," with considerable empressewf^it. ^ ^TBF»3f35P!^JP9^Wf!P: rUX TIMTI or 8UKM. •7 .,!.. of Fm: 'MMl'IIIX titu Hsh, and you see," Meriem my father, in the •« He has picked up a ffw m'ov went on, refiectively, " \'ynu\ old days, talk so much iii;^. t II was all 80 simple and ii.aiiiiil to licrsolf that she seemed hardly to realise bow strange it sounded in the uuacoastomed ears of the two new comera. But they had no time then to gratify their curiosity by making any further investigations or inquiries into . the singular mystery of Meriem 's antecedents. Strange as the problem was, they must lay it aside unsolved for the present. EvcMiing was coming on, and the practical work of getting things slap-shape in the tent for the night inexorably demanded all their immediate ener- gies. There were the Arabs to be paid, and the mules to be dismissed. Diego, the Mahonnais servant, httd still to light a fire of green sticks, and prepare supper ; and the two young Englishmen had to make their own beds before they could lie on thein, and prepare their quarters generally against the chance of rain or hail, or cold wind, or thunderstorm. Meriem and the three Kabyles, now passively friendly, stopped and looked on with profomid interest at all these arrangements. The men. for their part, were too proud to do more than stand and gaze, with many expressions of wonder and surprise, — '• Allah is great I Ilis works are marvellous I " — at the lamps and etnas, and tin bis- cuit-boxes, that came forth, one after another, in bewildering array, from the magical recesses of Le Marchant's capacious leather travelling-case. But Meriem, more accustomed to house- hold work, and even to a certain amount of something very like what we in England would call drudgery, lent a willing hand, with womanly instinct, in picking up sticks, and blowing the jBre, and helping to lay out the strange metal pans, and plates, and pipkins. •• My people gay they're not afraid now," she remarked, with a gracious smile to Blake, as she looked up, all gUnving, from the fire she was puffing with her own pretty mouih. "If you're really English, they know you're good, for i usuf was good, and he was an Englislwiian. Besides, I've told them I'm sure by your talk you're really English : I know it because it's just like Yusuf's. The reason they were afraid at first was partly because they thought you were the wicked Frenchmen come to make a road and plant vines, the same as happened to our friends the Beni-Yenni, whom they turned out to die on the mountains. And then they were displeased, too, because you pitched your tent too near the tomb. They thought that was wrong, because •sj^SWWl^yy;-. \ \ »a THB nXTS Of SHAM. ihis ground'i saored. Nobody comes here with ihoes on hit feet. It's the tomb of a Marabout." •' What's a Marabout ? " Blake asked, looking up good- humouredly. He was a handsome young fellow, and his teeth, when he smiled, showed white and even. •* A holy man — I think you call it a priest in English — who served Allah, and read the Koran much ; and now that he's dead, he's made into a saint, and our people come to say prayers at his tomb here." I* But we can shift the tent if you Uke," Le Marchant put in, eagerly, for he knew how desirable it is in dealing with Mahom* medans to avoid shocking in any way, their fierce and fanatical religious sentiments. •' We thought it was only an ordinary tomb, we'd no idea we were trespassing on a sacred enclosure." •• Oh no ; it doesn't matter now, at all," Meriem answered, with a nod toWards the three observant Kabyles. •* Those two men who are standing beside my uncle are marabouts too — very holy ; and as soon- as they heard you were really Enghsh, they were quite satisfied, for they loved my father and protected him when the French wanted to catch him and shoot him. They've looked in the Koran, and tried the book ; and they say the bones of the just will sleep none the worse for two just men sleeping peaceably beside them." ♦• Whoever her father was," Le Marchant remarked in a low tone to Blake, **it's cbar, anyhow, that he's fortunately predis- posed these suspicious Kabyles in favour of his own fellow- countrymen and successors. We're lucky, indeed, to have lighted by accident on probably the only Kabyle village in Algeria where a single soul can speak a word of English. We find an interpreter ready to our hand. I'm glad I trusted, as usual, to chance. My patron goddess has not deserted me." •* And they say," Meriem went on, after a few more word* interchanged in a low voice with her own people, ♦* that they'll sell you milk and eggs and flour, and, as long as you stop, I may come down here at times, and .... and explain the things, you know, you want to say to them." " Act as interpreter," Le Marchant suggested, quickly. Meriem's face hghted up with a fiash of recognition at the sound. " Yes, that's the word," she said. •* I couldn't remem- ber it. Literpret what you say to them. I'd forgotten * inter- pret.' I expect I've forgotten a great many words. 'Translate'!' another. I recollect it now. You see, it'o lo long since I'Tt spoken Enj^liah.'* tSMTt «V •♦ The wondeT is that you remember any at all," Le Marchant answered , with a polite httle wave. It was impossible to treat that barefooted Kabyle girl otherwise than as a lady. " But it'll icon come back now if you often run down and talk with us at the tent here. We shall want you to help us with the buying and selling." " Yusuf would have likod that," Meriem replied, with a faint sigh. " He was anxious that I should talk often, and shouldn't on any account forget my English." Le Marchant was silent. That naive expression of her natural afifection touched him to the heart by its quaint simplicity. At that moment, Diego, looking up from the pan he was hold- ing over the fire with the omelette for supper, called out sharply, '• Viens done, Mouresqu«l Donne la main icil Viens vite, jt te dis. Nous te voulons pour nous nider ! " In a second Meriem drew herself up proudly, for though she did not understand the meaning of the words, or the habitual insolence to the indiffenes implied in the tutoieinent, she caught readily enough at the imperiousness of the tone and the rude vulgarity of the gesture that accompanied it. The Kabyles, too, looked on angrily at this interference of a mere European with one of their own women — as who should pr3sume to use their beast of burden without the preliminary politeness of asking them for the loan of it. But Le Marchant intervened with a conciliatory and deferential wave of his hand toward the offended Meriem. " Overlook it," he said softly, '• ami forgive the fel- low's rudeness. He knows no better ; he's only a boor ; I shall take care to teach him politer manners. — Diego," he went on in French to the Mahonnais, •* if you dare to speak so to this young lady again, remember you go back that moment to Algiers witliout your wages. We depend here entirely on the goodwill of the indigenes. Treat her as you would treat a European lady." Diego could hardly believe his senses. Cette demoiselle-ci, for- sooth, of a mere indigene ! He turned back to the perusal of his peninsular cookery, full of muttered discontent. '• Pigs of natives," he murmured, half aloud to himself, shredding in some garlic. *' Like a European lady ! Things have come to a pretty pass in Algeria, indeed, if we must say Ma'amzelle to a canaille of a Mauresque I " But the Kabyles nodded their hooded heads with a comical air of sagacioua triumph. *' They are English, indeed," the Head man exclaimed aloud in his own tongue to his friends. " By the staff of the Prophet tliey are indeed English. Allah be f- ■•«• 40 nU TBUffl or SHSM. praised that we hnve soen tliis day ! These are good wordi I They take the part of a Kabyle girl against a dog of an infideJ." ""We go now," Meriein siiid, moving back to her tribesmen, and waving an aciieu to the Enghalimon with her delicate small hand. '* We know you are friends. Fear no disturbance ; this place is youra. We will send you a cons-coiui." •' A C0US-C0U8 ! What's that ? " Blake asked, turning round to his more experienced companion. " Oh, just the ordinary native dish, a sort of porridge or macaroni," Le Marchant answered sotto voce. •• It's the cus- tomary mark of politeness and recognition to a stranger, like paying a first call among the Arabs and Kabyles. To send you a cous-cous is to make a friend of you. We needn't eat it, you know. It's a sloppy, soppy, pappy mess, evan when made by a European, and the native cookery isn't likely to improve it." •* From her hands," Blake answered with unpremediated enthusiasm, " I could eat anything, even a dog-biscuit. What luck we're in, Le Marchant. She's a pp'f^ndid creature. A model of ten thousand. I could hardly take my eyes off her as long as she stopped here." Le Marchant gazed round at him with a sharp and hasty glance of inquiry. *• So you've altered your opinion, have you," he asked, wonderingly, " about the merits and potentialities of these natural Kabyle women ? " ** Oh, viewed as a model only, I mean," Blake corrected in haste. " I should love to paint her, of course ; she's so splendid as an example of the pure unadulterated human figure. I don't go back one word of what I said otherwise. For wives, I prefer them civilised and educated. But if it comes to that, you must remember, Le Marchant, the girl's at least one half an English- woman." As he spoke, Meriem, tripping lightly and gracefully up the rocky path above, that led by zigzag gradients to her uncle's hut — for it was hardly more — turned round again and waved them a last farewell with that faultless arm of hers. Both young men raised their hats by some inner impulse as to an English lady. Then the Kabyles turned round a sharp ledge of rock, and left them undisturbed to their supper and their conjectures. Le Marchant gazing after her, saw a vision of glory. Blake saw but the picture of n Tn-eek gnddp'^s. waving her arm, as on aom« antique vautj, to i'aiMia or Eiiu^iuxun. ■>A k ■iiiiii TSMTS OF ttlUS|« A] CHAPTER VI. mil KNTVXTT EXPLAINS HERSELF. That same afternoon, in London town, where the atmosphere was perhaps a trifle less clear than on the mountains of Eabylie, Thomas Kynnersley Whitmarsh, Q.C., the eminent authority upon probate and divorce cases, was somewhat surprised at receiving an unexpected Visit in his own chambers in Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, from his pretty little niece, Iris Knyvett. The Third Classic had by this time got over the first flush and whirl of congratulations and flattery. Her fame had almost begun to pall upon her. The Times had had a leader in her honour, of course, and the illustrated papers had eni,^raved her portrait, from which a captious world rejoiced to leurn she did, not wear blue spectables. Fogeys, of whom the present writer is one, had croaked in letters to the public press about the danger of the precedent to all her sex ; and enthusiastic speakers on ladies' platforms had hailed her success with jubilant whoops as the first dawn of a; new era for emancipated womanhood. The Third Classic, in short, had been the talk of the town — a nine days' wonder. But owing to the opportune intervention of a small boy who could play the violin, and a new design for blow- ing up the Czar in the Summer Palace, the hubbub was begi^'ning to die away a little now, and Iris Knyvett wag able to face a trifle more calmly the momentous question of her own future career and place in the universe. It is a characteristic of the present age that even women have begun at last to develop the rudiments of a social conscience. No longer content to feed like drones at the world's table, giving nothing in return towards the making of the feast save the ornamental effect of their own gracious smiles and pretty faces, they have awoke with a start in these latter days to the sense of a felt need in life — to a consciousness of the waut of a definite mission. It was a mission that Iris was now in search of, and it was on the subject of the choice or nature of that proposed mis- sion that she came down dutifully to Old Square that fine after- noon to consult her uncle. This was nice of her ; for, believe me, the higher education has not wholly succeeded in onsexing a [limil '■»" 'iW'W^'y), WfWI ^p^p^^p la TBI henti of ibkii. ft" woman if ihe still pretends, in the decorous old fashion, to paj a certain amount of ostensible exttirnul deference to the opinions and experience of her male relations. The eminent Q.C. looked up in surprise from his •• devil's " short notes on a fresh brief, which he was just that moment engaged in skimming. It was a slack afternoon in Old Square, as it hapjiened, and, by a sort of minor miracle or special pro- vidence, Uncle Tom had really half an hour to spare upon his pretty and now distinguished niece ; but, even had it been other- wise, some client's case would surely have fared but scurvily at his hands at such a moment; for Uncle Tom was fond and proud of Iris, in spite of her heresies, and would have neglected Colpfidge, C.J., himself to attend to her slightest whim or fa " v^od bless my soul, my dear," he exclaimed, in surprise, rising up from his desk, and pushing his niece with a hearty kiss and a vigorous shove into the one arm-chair (so dusty in the back that Ins, being still, though Third Classic, a woman for all that, trembled inwardly in silence for her nice new best afternoon frock), *• what on earth brings a learned lady like you down to Lmco.n's Inn at this time of day, eh ? " " Well. uiK-le," Ins answered, with modest eyes, "to tell you Llie truth, 11 I may venture to bother you, I've come down to ask your advice this afternoon about a private matter that greatly fonc Ilia me." Thr old barrister rubbed his fat hands together with a distinct u'nw of mward satisfaction. "That's right, my dear," he i:-w: 46 THX TINTS Of WBMM. ' ** Well, by the terms of the will in that case made and pro vided," Uncle Tom went on, with demonstrative forefinger, the property was next to go for life to your Uncle Clarence, pro- vided he outlived your Uncle Alexantljr. Clarence, who was to have power of appointment if he died with issue, was, as you will remember, an oflficer of hussars, and, not to put too tine a point upon it, he disappeared under a cloud, getting killed abroad in the French service, in whkjh he had enlisted, before, nnu'k you, before the death of your Uncle Alexander, who deceased at Bath, on April the 4th, 1883, without lawful issue. So tliat, so far as this present question is concerned, we may safely leave Clarence out of consideration. Mortuus est sine prate — he died without lawful issue of his body begotten, killed in action in foreign parts, on or about the 20th of June, anno domini, 1868, and has no further interest in this present inquiry." " I see." Iris once more made answer, dutifully stifling a ya-.;'n. ••Well, then, and in that case," Uncle Tom went on, witU j forensic quill pointed firmly towards her, '• the proi)erty was to devolve on the third brother, your uncle Arthur — yon see him down there, Major-General Sir Arthur Wellesley Knyvett, K.C.B. — no doubt as your grandfather fondly expected on the same terms as his elder brothers. And Sir Arthur, in fact, as you well know, is now and at present the actual holder. But then, and this is hujIUy important, your grandfather omitted, in Arthur's case, to insvsrt the limiting clause he had elsewhere used for his other children, and left, by implication, your uncle Arthur (purely by accident, I don't for a moment doubt) full power to beq'ueath it to whomsoever he chose, whether he had issue hving or otherwise. And that power," Uncle Tom con- tinued, with a vicious snap of the jaw, •• your Uncle Arthur now and always lays claim to exercise." " Then how am I to know," Iris asked with a shudder, scarcely overcoming her natural objection to ask such a question, •• that Uncle Arthur means to exercise in my favour ? " *• Because," Uncle Tom answered, with a wise air of exclusive knowledge, •' I have let him kiiow privately, through a safe medium, that he daren't do otherwise. The terms of the will, in the latter part, are so vague and contradictory tli;it nobody but I can understand them, and I can make that mean anything I like, or everything, or nothing. Your grandfather then goes on to provide, after allowing your Uncle Arthur to do as he will — so far as I can read his ungrammatical sentences— that in case your Uncle Arthur dies without issue, the money shall ^:o to the fourth son, the Rev. Reginald Knyvett, decease 1, wii) married \ '■ THS TKNTI or ■■BM. 47 mj sister, Ainelia Whitroarsh ; or, in case of his prt-decoMe, to his lawful issue, who. as ^-ou will see from the paper hefore you, and are indeed perhaps already aware, is Iris Enyyetl, of Qirton College, Cambridge, spinster, here present." " 1 suspected as much already," Iris answered, imiling. " Last of all on that paper, you will observe," Uncle Tom remarked, growing suddenly severe and red in face, as was his wont in dealing with a specially awkward and damaging witness, " comes the name of the, fifth and youngest son, that rascally lawyer, Charles Wilberforce Knyvett. Now, your late uncle, Charles Wilberforce Knyvett, for some unknown reason, was never in any way a favourite with his father. In fact, the Admiral profoundly disliked him. People say the old gentleman in his latter days thought his youngest son a sneak and a cui (which was unhappily true), and harboured a peculiar grudgt against him. At any rate, he is conspicuously omitted from any benefit under the will, or rather, it is provided in so many words that after all these lives have run out, the property shall not descend to Charles Wilberforce Knyvett, his heirs, executors, or assigns, but shall be diverted to another branch of the family, to the total exclusion of your Uncle Charles and his sole issue, your Cousin Harold." "Then Uncle Arthur couldn't leave the property to Harold, even if he wanted to ? " Iris asked, somewhat languidly, but with a resolute desire, since her uncle wished it, to master the intricacies of this difficult problem in the law of inheritance. " He says he can, but / say he can't," Uncle Tom answered, with a glow of righteous triumph. •• I've tried the will by all the precedents, and all I've got to say is this — I'd just like to see him try it." And Uncle Tom unconsciously assumed the attitude of defence familiar to the patrons of the British prize ring. ** That's a pity," Iris answered, looking him straight in the face ; *' and it seems somehow awfully unfair ; for Uncle Arthur's so fond of Harold, yon know ; and he's never seen ms since I was a baby in swaddling-clothes." Uncle Tom laid down his glasses on his desk with a bounce * Cod bless my soul," he cried, in a paroxysm of astonishment. ' I« the girl crurked ? Has much learning made her mad at (lirtun ? Going to play into your enemy's hand, eh, and chuck ip u furtiiMe of SIX thousand a year ; all for the sake of a piece if sentiment ! No, no. thank heaven, I know the law ; and not t siMi^h [)enny of the Admiral's property shall that scoundrel liaiold ever touch or handle. Not a doit, not a cent, not a sou ,,.( ■, -rivpr Hh won't, and Ije shan't, so that's all about it I " 48 IBS TBNTB OV IHUI. CHAPTER Vn. ▲BT kND NATURB. &-; •^ v'Tj few days Eustace Le Marchant and Venion Rlftkf .1 ;,.i'd down comfortably to their respective pursuits on tin/ wiiid-' \>opt summit of the mountain of the Beni-Merzoug, Tli^j simple-hearted /'iSyles, as soon as they were quite convincwl that the new-corn '■ ^e neither French spies nor agricultural pioneers sent out to ^ad the concomitant blessings of civiliHa- tion and confiscation oi land, welcomed the young Englislmifji, with most cordial hospitality to their lonely hill -tops, Theii courtesy, in fact, seemed likely at first to prove, if anything, i tv'Ale too pressing ; for almost every family in the village insistec on sending a cous-cous in turn, in polite recognition of the new visitors. Now, Meriem's coim-cous, much to the Englishirum't int^enuous surprise, prepared as it was by those dainty and dextur- uu^ fingers, had turned out upon tasting a triumphant success , but the cous-com which succeeded it, and all of which politeiiusi. compelled the inhabitants of the camp to devour in public to tlu utmost morsel before the entertainers' eyes, were far from attiiin' ing the same high level of primitive cookery. Deft fingers count for much even in the smallest matters. Meriem herscilf, indeed was of infinite use to them in arranging supplies ; and her undo the Headman, with his friends the Marabouts, gave them ever} facility for shooting and sketching, and hunting specJnuMu throughout the whole country-side for miles in either directio;). . On the first morning after their arrival in the hills, ljluk(- strolled out by himself, with sketch-book in hand, for a wall, through the village, while Le Marchant was busy unpacking anu arranging his bird-stufiing and beetle-preserving apparatus. To Vernon Blake the village was indeed a fresh world of untoU* enjoyment. The rough-built houses with their big stone walKi and tile-covered roofs ; the broad eaves projecting over the open court-yard, and supported by rude wood Ionic columns ; the tali lithe men with their simple but picturesque and efi'ective garb, their bronzed features, and their long oval faces ; the women aj the fouutaiu with water jars on their'heads, walking Btat«ly aud mfmmm^T'^r'^^ tEM TSMTS OF BHKU. «f •rool, with exquisite bu^ts and rounded limbs, jnst peeping through the gi*aceful folds of tlieir hangijig chiton — each and all of these suggested to his soul endless subjects for innumerable pictures, where girls of this exquisite Italian type might form the figures in the foreground, exactly suited to his eyinpathetio pencil. He had come to the very right place for his art. Modeli crowded upon him spontaneously at every corner. A turn of the road near the Headman's cottage brought him suddenly, with a start, face to face with Meriem herself,- engaged on a little flat platform with a group of Kabyle girls of her own age in moulding coarse vases of hand-made pottery. Blake, with his soft-soled white-linen shoes, came upon them so noiselessly and unexpectedly that for half-a-minute the giris themselves, intent upon their work, never so much as perceived the presence of a stranger. The artist, drawing-back, for fear he might dig- , turb them, drank in the whole group with unspoken delight. He paused on the path a little above where they stood, and looked down, all interest, upon that unstudied picture. The graceful Kabyle maidens in their simple loose dress, with feet bare to the ankle, were stooping picturesquely over the jars they were moulding, in unconscious attitudes of grace and beauty. Some of them were bii re-headed, others wore on their hair a sort of pointed fez, oV Phrygian kaftan, which half confined, half let loose to the wind, their raven-black locks. The jars, in shape like an old Roman amphora, were poised upon the ground by means of a little round mud base ; the naive young potters, each full of her own task, and unmindful of the others, built up the big vessels stage after stage by adding on loose handfuls of moist and flattened clay to the half-finished outline. They were evidently ignorant of the use of the wheel — so remote and uiisophjsticuited are these wild mountain-people — yet the shapes which grew slowly under their moulding fingers were each almost perfect of their own simple kind, and bore each the dis- iinct and ujimistakable impress of an individual fancy. It was pretty to ses them stooping, thus unconscious, over the wet vases of yellow clay, witli 'one hand inside supporting and modelling the fresJjIy-added portion, while the other without was eirsployed in smoothing it, and shaping the whole, by dexterous side-pres- sure, to the required roundness. Blake would have pulled out his pencil on the spot, and dketched thorn roughly in their attitudes all unwitting as they Ktood, had not one little fair-haired and blue-eyed maiden, of ^hat almost Scaudioaviaa type so common here and ik%t% ixK mm 'fo TBI TENTS or Sfflll. aabyle villages, looked laughingly up from her two-handled lat. and caught his eye on a sudden with a frig-htened httle scream of shyness and astonishment. An infidel was standing there gazing upon them unseen. " A stranger I A stranger I " At the sound, all the others started up in concert, and in a moment all was giggling and blushing confusion. So strange a visitor never before had disturbed their peace. Some of the girls held their hands to their faces lilft wayward children to hide their blushes ; ethers fell back a pace or two in startled haste under th« overhanging eaves of the Headman's cottage. Who could ■ay what designs the infidel might harbour ? Meriem alone raised herself erect, and gazed the painter fairly in the face with th« irank self-possession of a European lady. Blake lifted his hat as instinctively as before, for he felt her presence ; and Meriem, in reply, raised her hand with a wave, to the level of her face with a easy and graceful natural saluta- tion. " Good morning, mademoiselle," the artist said, gaily, in high spirits at the SC' ne and its pictorial capabilities. " Good morning, friend," Meriem answered quickly, a slight shade pa^^sing as she spoke, over her open countenance. •• But but why do you call me mademoiselle, if you please ? I'm not a Frenchwoman as you seem to think me." Blake saw she was evidently annoyed by the politely-meant title. " I called you mademoiselle," he said, apologetically, ** because I wanted to call you something, and as I suppose you're a French citizen, I didn't know what else on earth to call you." •' Why not call me by my name, as every one else does 7 " tlic beautiful barbarian answered, simply. ** I'm just Meriem to all the village." Blake was a little taken aback at the startling proposal. So much familiarity fairly took his breath away. This was indeeii to rush in medias res, with undue precipitancy, " Am I to say Meriem, then ? " he inquired rather low, witl natural bashfulness. " Wha? else should you say?" Meriem answered, naively. " Don't people call one another by their names everyw here ? " ** Why, yes," Blake answered, with some little hesitation. "but not by their Christian names, you know — at least, in [-'ai^ land — except as a mark of special favour and close intimacy " " Meriem is not a Christian name," the girl anawered ha.stilv itlmost indignantly, " and 1 lu uot a CLndtiuu , 1 tu » UMi belitTcr." TBS n«n Of IBBM. •1 witl ' But your father was a Christian," Blake ventured to repi?, Aonished at the unwonted tone of her disclaimer, " and you told k.s yesterday your English name at least was Mary." "My father was no Christian!" Meriera cried aloud, with (lashing eyes and fiery indignation. " People in the village accused him of that sometimes, I know, but it was never true ; I'm sure it was never true, for Yusuf was kinder and better than any one — no infidel could ever be as kind as that. He was a good Moslem, and he read the Koran and prayed at the tombs, and went to moyque like the reat on Fridays regularly. He was a a'ue man, and every one loved him. No one shall sfty a word <)efore me against my father. As to my name, why Mary and Meriem's all the same, of course ; and I was called, so the women in the village say, after the name of the mother of Aissa- ben- Menem. But Moslems, too, honour him as a very great prophet, you know, though not so great, naturally, aa our own Prophet Mahomnied." Blake hardly understood her meaning to the full, for his acquaintance with her creed was strictly confined to " The Arabian Nights " and •• The Revolt of Islam ; " but it gave him I little shuck of surprise and horrpr to hear any one, and espe- ually a woman, so indignantly'rfgertj'ie'';ipi)iu;tat.i9n of Christian- ity. Yet a moment'8,.»'eilticlAoi^ fiferv-ed'SO di.u)w hW.'^iiough by no means » philo8ophicai\\->ninded pV. ccjymop6lifcan»'y*^^iig man, that in such surroundings nnthinglf^fep '.would have" been natural, " Qhristians r-A^etesta- '(Ity't^ven'o'cijUfred i'o'her sikiple mind that \^^:-^ hearer hiiuHelf, infidel as he was, could think seriously vvyll ol them, or regard tliem as the equals of true believers. He turned the conversation, accordingly, of set purpose. " You all looked so pretty," he said, •* as I came along the path, bending over your jars and modelling }our pottery, that I was longing in my heart to stand still and study you. I wanted to iketch you all just as you stood there." •• To triiiit ' " Meriem cried, with a little start of dismay ; an unknown word encloHen for a woman such infinite possibilities. "To skt'ifh you, you know," Blake repeated, reassuringly. • To put sou in my book like this, you see. To make a little puliire of >()U." Meriem lau;^hed, a sweet, frank laugh, as she turned the pages of his book with wondering eyes. "That would be nice," she said. ** They'ro pretty things, these. But would it be right, I T^ 61 TBB TKNT8 OF BHXM. wonder ? AH good Moslems are forbidden, you know, hy th* Prophet's law, to make a picture or image of anything in heavt n or earth or the water under them. There are no pictures any where in any of the mosques. Would the Marabouts think ii was right for us to be painted ? " •' But I'm not a Moslem, you see," Blake replied, smiling. with ready professional casuistry. " And all you've got to do yourselves, you know, is just to stand leaning as you were over your pottery, and allow me to commit the sin of sketching you on my own account. It won't hurt me : I'm a hardened otrender. Ask the other girls, there's a good soul, whether they'll come back as they were and let me sketch them." ••And are the other girls to be put in the picture, too?" Meriem asked, looking up, with a faint undertone of disappro- bation. •• Certainly," Blake replied, without perceiving the slight inflection of disappointment in her voice. " Now go, there's a good girl, and make them come back and stand nicely as I tell them." '• My father used to say that, • Now go, there's a good girl,' " Meriem answered, with . a^ faint rising flush of pleasure ; and pleased at the.word^, Bhe Svent 66' A.!, ooce to do as he directed her. He had 8ti,rbed'a)ri'/5ld'6"bbVd |n (ler.sinjiile .nature. In half-a'-I(itoE\in minCites l31^,ke had gottwo sitters, with a little coaxing ancf manual posing; which they seerned ,to resent far less than Europ,ea|i, girl:8;!r7'*'T^'7r " ' t*'?^ "-T^^^"^ r?^ ™ - f^' THJI TBim or tUKil. •7 \nd that eontflnted him. He wanted only to find physical beauty. So he got to work soon on atiidioa for a large canvas, with Meriem in the centre, her watef -jar poisod witli queenly gracf- upon her stately head ; and he was well satifl.fiud to sketcli lu her shapely chin and throat without any remote gonealo^'ica! inquiries to distract his mind from the excjuisite curve of her nock and shouidors. "But if you're going to give me regular 8ittiiiy;H, Mi'i'iem," ho .said to her seriously one morning under the clinstnuts, vLMituring to broach once more the tabooed subject, •' you must really let niG pay you so mucli a day, because I sliall want you, of course, for so many hours every morning regulnrly, and it'll take you away altogether at times from your bouHciiold duties." " My aunt can do those," Meriem answere'ntfnut I've hedged even so; I've made my book cautiously. It ccurred to me to pay marked attention beforehand to my cousin 'ris, who's a pretty girl after all, and not insensible, I fancy, in spite of her Aristotle, to a man's advances ; and I mean to get ip an informal engagement with her, of a non -committing •harucier, you see, of a non-committing character ; so that if by accident she should come into the money (which heaven forbid), I can aimex the property that way, girl and all inchided ; and if, on the other hand, all goes well, I can shuffle out of it quietly by letting the thing die a natural death, and come into the estate wholly unencumbered." " That's neat and cute of you," his hearer responded, a little lubiously ; but perhaps a trifle too sharp for most ine«'B fancy," Hai'old Knyvett's reply was suddenly cut short by the entr} jf a boy in buttons with a telegram. " For you, sir," he said, handing him tlie flimsy pink paper on a tray. Harold took it and tore open the envelope carelessly. An invit.itioii for a day on the moors, no doubt ; or an urgent request from the editor of the PirafiUllii Review for a hasty notice of that forthooining work of Kekewich's on the " blavonic hlement m the iJaikan Peninsula." X As he read it, his face turned white with mingled dir,appoint- ment, rage, and impoterice. "What's up?" his friend asked, scentinj^ fnihire on the breeze. " Why this," Harold answered, as he haiul'Ml him the trum))ery liule crumpled sci'apof Government ecuhoaiy. " From my uncle's valet. The fruit of my investment." The friend read it mechanically aloud. ** Sir Arthur rliod at two this al'ternoon, at his residence at Aix, quitf suddenly, of an lession of furtuna- hunting. Proorastination had lost him both aaiices at onoe, his unoie'i proorasti nation in the one case, his >\vn in the other. If only he had proposed a week since at that garden party at Staines I Fool, foul that he wasi to ie6 the oppor- tunity sUp idly by him I It was only for a moment, however. Next minute, strategy had resumed the command. Vein regret was very little in Harold Knyvctt's line. Like a strong man, he nerved himself after his defeat, and proceeded to bring up his reserves for action. He looked at his watch. The hand was on the very nick of five. News of Sir Arthur's death wouldn't get into even the last edition of this evening's papers. Iris would therefore not probably hear of it all to-morrow morning, No more procrastination ; no more c.elay. The last moment for the forlorn hope had now arrived. If he took his pretty cousin by storm to-night, all might yet be well, and the estate micjht be secured, even though burdened with the undesirable encumbrance. Harold Knyvett was not a marrying man ; but if the worst came to the worst, ha reflected with a sigh, a man might marry a plainer girl than his cousin Iris. He had an engagement with his superior in the oflBoe at seven, to dine at his club, worse luck, and he dared not neglect it. Cautious before all things, Harold Knyvett would never throw away the substance for the shadow. The office was a certainty ; Iris was a chance. No gambler he ; he would stick to his enfjagement. But he could go away early, thank heaven — say at 9.80, or thereabouts (pleading an At Home) — and be up at his aunt's before the clock struck ten. Filled with the scheme, he ruslied to the door and hailed in all haste a passing hausoin. It took him to his chambers in less than ten minutes. Then he sat down at his old oak desk and wrote at full speed two hurried letters. The first was to the heiress ; ** A most judicious step," he said to himself with a chuckle. t " M? DEAB Inis, » •• I am very particularly anxious to Ftr^A yon ihU evenir;' about ten o'clock on a matter of some eerimis iinpurtiiuce to both of 113 alike. Yon are always kindness itself to me, I know. May I ask you, if possible, as the best and sweetest of cousins, not to go out at all to-niglit, or, in case you have an engnf^eraent for the evening to come home again early, so tliat I may manage THK TKNT8 OF aOKM •76 u. hnve ten minutea* talk ^vith you alone ? I know you'll do this w me. lik« ft dear good girl. With much love, in breatlilest: sia, •* Your very affectionate cousin, Harold. The second was a hasty note to his solicitor. • Deab Hardt, — . " The old man has popped off the hooks this afternoon at .\, and, as far as I can make out, has neglected to draw up au} her will than the one I told you of. This is beastly. We iust resist all probate of the existing document to the utmost ol ur power. I'll see you upon the subject to-morrow morning. , lean while, look over my grandfather's will — you have a copy, i believe — and take all necessary steps immediately to prevent I surprise by the other party. •• Yours, in hot haste, *• Harold Knyvett." Then, being nothing if not a methodical man, Mr. Harold I^vnyvett proceeded to put both letters, out of pure force of habit, ') copy in his copying press — the sohci tor's first, and Iris's after- wards. A copy is always a handy thing ; you can produce it vhen necessary, and suppress it when inconvenient. That done, le rang the bell for his servant. " Send those at once to their addresses by a commissionaire," le said abruptly. " Let him take a cab. At Miss Knyvett's I ^,.\ifiJA like him to wait for an uiiswef." N ■ /a tsM tMMU tf »nm,* CHAPTER XL WMWM FROM AH. Abottt ft§ tmm9 ttnae, that identical afterno«f!, TTncl« Tom arrived by liansom, verv red-faced, at Mrs. Knyvett h houBe in West Kensington. Great tr^idaftion nossos.sed his soul, and an open telegram fluttered ostoniatiously in kis left hand. " Galrn yourself, my dear, ' he remarked, with sondry pofli and blows, to Iria, wbo, indeed, had only just come in from tenuis, and seemed to the eye of a mere casual observer as calm as any Thir'? Classic ought always to be ; *• don't be too agitated, thtTw'p nothing to alarm you. I've brought you news — most important news. Your uncle, Sir Arthur, died at Aix-les-Bains at two this afternoon, of amjina pectoris." " Well, really. Uncle Tom," Iris answered, with a smile, throwing her pretty lutle arms caressingly around him, *" I sup- pose, of course, I ouglit to be awfully sorry ; he's papa's hi'othor and all that sort of thing ; but, as a matter of fact, I hai'iJJy remember seeing him when I was quite a bnby, and hnvir'^ always regarded him only as one of the family portraits, I do.rt feel as if I could screw up even a convyntionaJ tear now lo lament his demise with." '• Sorry I " Uncle Tom exclaimed, in a fervour of astonisil»' ■ ' "Why, you ouL;ht to he lielij^hted I overjoyed I irreprossihh I Sorry at ccnnng in to six thousand a year, indeed I Why, tht ' girl's gone cracked I I'll trouble you for her calmness I Son}, indeed I Sorry I " At the words, Mrs. Knyvett, who was standing by, fell back in her chair, with lier mam aquiline fcatuie [JOintcd sti-ai^'ht tovvardt" the rose in the centre of the ceiling, and iiKhilgod parenthetically in a loud fit of mingled hysterical sobs and laughter. If IriiH was insensible to her own good fortune, Mrs. Knyvett, at least, as an irreproachable British mother, felt bound to rise vicitnoUHly on her account to tha height of the situation. But as soon as this httle interrupt n had been partially compcjsed, according to iue precedent ')y the app' ■•''' ( 'oloijuf, Incle Tom wa^ enableil ti- ,> " I'tid more aysLem.iUcaiiy vvitlj hil >> ".poaiUon oi th« eiiuuu^ oribik. ;' '?^yR,-i'^K-«c*^ . THK TENTS OF 8HXM. 77 •• Now calm yourself, my dear," the fat little old gerttleman 'egan aji^ain, with much energy, being, in fact, very far from aim himself, and therefore, like many other people in the^ame ircumstances, particularly anxious to quiet the nerves of other K'ople. "Here's the telegram I've just received from Savoy: — '• • Sir Arthur died at two tliis afternoon, at his residence at \ix, quite suddenly, of anrfina prcUins. I have searched his papers up and down, but can find no trace of any other will Uian the one now in the hands of his sohcitor. Your obedient servant, '* * Gilbert Montgomery.' " U was word for word the self-same telegram that Harold lyvett had received at the Cheyene Row Club ; but of that •tie peculiarity in its duplicate form Uncle Tom, of coui'se, was s yet unaware. " He's a treasure, that valet,' he murmured to himself, with • hug of delight. " Behaved inDst admirably. Never expended '■n pounds in my life to better -advantage I " '* But why does he telegr7' v;v" ;. •-» ■- ^ t, 78 THX TENTS OF- SU£U. •• Uncle I " Iris exclaimed again, severely ; and the old gent,!. ' man at onoe assumed a penitent attitude. •* Well, lie's dead, anyhow," Uncle Tom went on, with profes sional glee ; " and it's pretty sure now he's made no will but th one we know about. iSo, Iris, the position amounts to this — you're the mistress of six thousand a year — a great fortune, m; dear I A very great fortune 1 " I hope I may be able to spend it wisely for the good of tin world," Iris answered, with a sigh. She was a trilie pale, but otherwise seemed about as calm a • usual. Her caliniuss irritated Mrs. Knyvett inexpressibly. " For goodness sake, Iris," she exclaimed, getting up a. though she'd like to shake her, •* do laugh, or cry, or scream, oi do something just to show you understand the importance o your position. I never hi my life knew such a girl as you ari * When the Cambridge local or something else was going to b> announced the other day, you were as white as death and a- agitated as — as a jelly ; and now that you've come in to siN thousand a-year you're as calm over that good fortune as if si . thousand a-year were a kind of an accident that dropped in upo. one daily I " . • • . " But the examination was so much more important to me,'' Iris answered gently, stroking her mother's hair, to prevent another sudden outburst of sobbing and laughing. ♦' I did thai myself, you see, by my own exertions ; whereas this is a sort oi adventitious external circumstance^ It's not what one has, s > much as what one is, that matters.^ . . . Besides, the ques tion's really this : oughtn't Harold to have at least as much as 1 have ? " •* God bless my soul, why ? " Uncle Tom exclaimed, in extreme astonishment. '• Because, you know, we were both equally related tc Sir Arthur by birth ; and I should have felt it an injustice to mysell if Sir Arthur Lad left everything to Harold and nothing to me. It would be a manifest inequality ; and as Aristotle says, in the ' Nicomachean Ethics,' equality is justice." ' , '• But the law, my child," Uncle Tom exclaimed, aghast — " the law of the land — the law allows it. * Perfect freedoicn of testamentary disposition,' Blackstone remarks, ' is the key-bcone of the English law of bequest and inheritance.' " ••It may be law," Iris made answer unabashed} •' but is it right, is it justice ? " Uncle Tom's hair stood on end with alarm at the heretical »■*: THB TINTS OP SHXM. 79 [Uiistion. A lawyer wlio had spent the best part of hii lift in )leadiiig probate cases to be set sucli a problem ! •• They're the same thing, my dear," he made answer, gasping, •' the self-same thing uiidor two different aspects. The law lefmes and expresses clearly what is right and proper for a man Lo do in each particular instance ; it lays down the strict prin- ciples of individual justice." " Herbert Spencer thinks," the Third Classic went on, undis- mayed by his evident outburst of horror, " that law is merely the brute expression of the will of a real or practical jnajority — generally a dead majority : often an ignorant and prejudiced medijBval majority. He holds, in fact, that law in its essence — " ♦• Heaven bless the girl I " Uncle Tom exclaimed, stopping both his ears with his hands vigorously. *' If she isn't going to lecture me on Political Economy I Why, haven't I already explained to you, miss, fliat you may do anything on earth with me, except two things — bandage my legs, and give me lectures on Political Economy. I desire to live and die a humble Christian, in complete ignorance of that hard-hearted science. Let's return to our muttons. Let me see, where were we ? " " I was saying," Iris went on, in her quiet firm way, " that 1 thought I ought to share this' fortune with Harold, who seems to me to have quite equal claims to it with myself, uncle." Uncle Tom's wrath seethed up rapidly to boiling point. ♦ With Harold I " ho cried out in an agony of disgust. •' With that sneak I with that cur 1 with that incarnation of selfishness ! Upon my soul, my dear, if you were to do such a quixotic thing as that, as long as I lived I should never speak another word to you." *♦ I should be very sorry for that," Iris answered, with a smile — " at least if I believed it ; more sorry than for anything else I vjould think of on earth ; for I love you dearly ; but if I thought t right, whether you meant it or not, I should have to do it." '• iris ! " her mother exclaimed, with a severe curve of the principal feature, '* how on earth can you talk in such a way :o your uncle 1 And after his unremitting kindness to you always I " " We must first of all obey our consciences, mother," Iris replied gravely. " Fitft jmtitio, you know, nuit ccelum." What end this discussion of first principles might have reached l)etween disputants so utterly without common premises it NOiild be hard to say, had not a diversion been suddenly effected !i jHfmmt^^ ^^m^ TV 60 THK TENTS OF BHBIC. by the entrance of the maid with a note for Miss Knyvett " And the messenger's waiting in an 'ansom for the answer. miss." Iris read it through with some slight misgiving. •• From Harold," she said shortly, and handed it to her uncle. The barrister drew a long breath as he glanced at it angrily. •• Too affectionate by half I " he cried. '* • The best and sweek'St of cousins I ' 'In breathless haste ! ' He's hedging, now. lie's got whid of this, too, and he's going to propose to you. The scamp I the skunk I the disgusting vermin ! " Iris was too charita'ole to believe it true without maturer evi dence. ** We must wait and see," she said ; •* I don't want t( prejudge him." ♦' It's true," Uncle Tom went on, with ri.sing indignation ; " i see through the cur. There's been double-deaUng here. Thai scoundrel of a valet has taken pay from l)Oth of us alike, and sent us both an identical telegram. Harold knows he's cut off with out apneal, and he wants to propose to you before you get thv news and know what he's driving at." •* I hope not," Ins cried, Hushing up with shame at the mere suggestion. Uncle Tom was turning over the letter curiously. •• Why, God bless my soul," he exclaimed with a start, "what's this upon the fly-leaf? What extraordinary marks I They look for all the world like the reverse of a letter." And he sat down to examine them with the close and patient scruLmj of aoi old haad in the Fruuaie auu Divuiue JDivi^^iiOii. 'm- ^^WB tn% TENTS M. 61 CHAPTER XII. CHECKMATE. A. l.-.n o'clock, M Iria fingered the panio in the (h-awinrr-room alone (by special arrangement), a rat-tat at the door, loud but decorous, announced her cousin Harold's arrival. Iris's heart beat quickly for a minute ; it was an ordeal to have to see him on such an errand alone, but she liad made her mind up to learn the whole truth, cost what it might, and she would go through wit! it now to the bitter end at all hazards. A frail little thing en Lue bodily side, she was by no means wanting in moral cour- age ; and here was an opportunity, a hateful opportunity, all ready to hand for testing her self-confidence. As for Harold, he came up in evening dress, and in excellent spirits ; after all, it was only a temporary check ; he would marry the fortune if he couldn't inherit it. Any man nowadays can select his girl, and make tolerably sure of her, with a little attention ! It's only a matter of casting your fly well. lie wore a cream-coloured rose, with maidenhair, in his button -hole ; his shirt front was faultless, and his white tie of the most immacu- late neatness. Women attach some importance to these tritios, you know, even though they happen to be Third Classics ; and Harold Knyvett was well aware that his teeth were pearly, and his eyes cold blue, and his moustache the envy of the entire Civil Service. He entered with a look intended to be aiinoit rapturous. •' How gor J of you, Ins," he cried, as he kissed, her, though his cousin shrank away somewhat timidly from that doubtful kiss. '• I see you understood me ! That was ever so nice of you. And alone, too 1 This is more than I could have asked 1 What rare good fortune 1 I hardly expected to find you alone here." " Mamnja had a headache," iris answered, with truth, for the si lock and the hysteria had proved too much for the possessor oi the aristocratic feature; " so she went to bed early. What did you want to see me about, Harold ? Has anything unusuai turned up since I saw you ? " . 82 THE TENTS OP SHEM. •• Nothing uniisiml, doarcst," Harold went on, loaning forward, and looking profouiidl)' m the direction of her averted eyes ; '* hut a feeling I have long felt growing within me has come to a head at last ; and this afternoon it hroke over me suddenly, Hke a flash of inspiration, that I could no longer put o£f opening my whole heart to you." Iris's hand tremhled violently. She hated herself, she was so horrihly guilty ; it was such wicked duplicity to let him go on — she, who knew all the facts already. Yet she would play out the comedy to its natvral close, come what might of it, for the sake. of certainty. Harold noted her agitation, and misread its mean- ing. " I've nobbled her," he thought to himself, with a triumphant smile. " See how her hand trembles I But I'll play her gracefully a little longer. It's unsportsmanlike to gaff your fish too hastily." So he went on once more, in a soft, low tone, taking her hnnd, half unresisted, in his own, and playing with it tenderly, while Iris still kept her face studiously averttid. " Iris, one thing that made me think more particularly of this to-day is my strong desire there should be no shadow of mer- cenary feeling on either side between you and me, whose interests should be so identfcal in all things. Uncle Arthur's still alive. While he lives neither of us knows to which of the two, or in what proportion, the dear old gentleman will leave his money. Now I felt it borne in upon me with a sudden impulse this after- noon that it would be better if, before either of us was thus put in a position of superiority, so to speak, in worldly goods over the other, we wore to let our hearts' secret out mutually. And for that I've come to see you to-night Iris, 1 love you — I've always loved you, of course ; but of late I've learnt what my love meant. Dare I hope, darling — ? " and he raised her hand tentatively, but with ardour, towards his thin lips, and was about to print upon it what seemed to him the appropriate warm kiss of a devoted lover. Iris, however, could stand the strain of this false position no longer. Withdrawing her hand suddenly from his with a violent start, she took slowly from her pocket i note in her hand, and began to road some pencilled words, interspersed with ink, on the fly-leaf of the letter. She spokr- them out with a trembling voice, but with great clearness, to this unexpecLud purport : — •• Dear Hardy, — " The old nuin has popped olT tlie hooks tliis afternoon at Ail, and, aa far aa I can make u..i, " THS TSNT8 OV BHSM. 63 She had got no further, when Harolrl, red as fire, with a 8U(l(leii dart forward, triod to seize the compromising document from her hand ; but Iris was too quick for him, and too relent- less as well. She dashed the letter with one hand behind her back, then advancing to the gas, and facing him full, she hold it up before him, and read to the very last line his note to his solicitor. She would let him see she understood to the full the whole depth and bieadth of his unmanly baseness. Harold Knyvett, well-bred sneak as he was, stood and listened shamefaced, now white as a ourd What could all this mean ? What error had he committed ? He knew he hadn't blundered the elementary blunder of putting the wronj? letter by mistake into iris's envelope. His good business habits, and his clock- work accuracy sufficed to save him from such a puerile scholar's mate from a woman as that ; for he always subscribed each letter to its recipient at the bottom of the page with anticjue punctiliousness, and always took care to look, as he folded them, that subscription and superscription tallied exactly. All the more, therefore, was he nonplussed to understand how Iris had got hold of his note to Hardy. Could the fellow li.ive betrayed him ? Impossible I Impossible I But he stood there, with hia face all livid to behold, and his eyes fixed hard upon the pattern of the carpet, till Iris had completed to the very last word her righteous torture. •• What does this mean. Iris ? " he asked, angrily, as she folded it up with a smile and replaced it in the envelope. ♦' It means," Iris answered, handing him over the not. , now she had quite finished it, with ironical courtesy, " that you use too thick and too black a copying ink. I advise you in future, Harold, to employ some thinner kind if you wish to pre- vent a recurrence of this unfortunate exposure." She was white as a sheet herself, but righteous indignation bore her through. The man should know he was detected and unmasked ; he should writhe for his meanness whatever it cost her. Harold took the note from her hand and gazed at it mechani- cally. He saw now at a glance the source of all these woes. The flyleaf of Iris's letter, laid downward in tlie copying-book, had taken a faint and half-illegible impression of his note to Hardy from the wet page opposite. In any other hands than Thomas Kynnersley Wliitmarsh's, those loose, sjjrawling daubs on the blank sheet would no doubt have meant ratlier less than nothing. But the distinguished Q.G. and great authority on 1^ ■■PP" 64 THS TENTS OF BHE1I« probate cases had seen too many strange documents and forgeries in his time not to have become an ade[)t in handwriting and all that appertained to it. No export was sharper on a stroke or a dot than he ; the crossing of a " t " was enough to convict a man of sin before his scrutinising spectacles. By holding up the page to the light of the gas he had been able to supply with dexterous pencil-strokes the missing portions of each word or letter, and to reconstruct, entire, the compromising epistle to Mr. Harold's solicitor. So skilfully had he built it all up, indeed, that even Iris herself could no longer doubt her cousin's me^n- Ui-'ss, nor could Harold, when confronted with his own handiwork, thus unexpectedly reproduced, venture to deny or explain away to her face his authorsliip of the letter. The ballk'd schemer looked at Iris with cynical coldness. He had played his cards altogether too well. *• Then it's all up," he said ; for he knew when he was beaten ; ♦* it's all up, I suppose, between us ? " " Yes, It's all up," Iris answered coldly ; ** and so far as I am', concerned, Harold Knyvett, I do not further desire the honour of your acquaintance. I tried to believe in you as long as I could, though I never liked you, and I never cared for you ; I can believe in you no longer, and I wish to see no more of you." Harold looked across at her with a cuxl on his lip. •' Your new-tome fortune has made you proud in a hurry," he -iiieered out, aui^rily. " Hut don't be too sure about it y. b, my lady, remember, Sir Arthur's title had a flaw in it from the lirst. What he be(jueathed to you was, perhaps, from the very beginning, not his to bequeath you." ** I'm not concerned at present about Sir Arthur's title," Iris answered, cold as ice, and trembling violently, but still self- possessed ; '* I'm concerned only about your own shameful and cynical duplicity." '• All, that's all very well for you to say just now," Harold went on, taunting her, " while you're angry at a slight to your personal pretensions ; but you won't think so by and by, you know, when you come to look into it. There is a flaw, and, whether you like it or not, you've got to face it. Sir Arthur knew it, and you'd better know it, too, if you're really and truly Sir Arthur's inheritor. The old gentleman came into the property himself on the strength of aflidavits to the effect that his second brother Clarence had pre-deceased his eldest brother Alexander, having been killed in action in crushing a native insur- rection in Algeria, in or about the year 1808, if I remember TBB TSNTl or BBBM. M rightly. The Courts would have accepted the aflidavits, perhaps, if the claim had been opposed, and, perhaps, thuy wouldn L. I3ut u3 no opposition was raised, adniiTiistration was granted, and Sir Arthur was allowed to succeed quietly. However, there was a flaw in the evidence for all that. And I'll tell you the Haw, to let you see how little I'm afraid of you. Clarence Kn} - vett's body was never recovered, or never identified. He was only missing, not certainly killed. And as he had run away from England to avoid serious unpleiisantness in the matter of a criminal charge preferred against him by his own fatlier, and as he was serving in the French army, under an assumed name, to avoid detection, the question of identification was by no means iin easy one. Sir Arthur went over to Algiers to settle it, to be sure, and satisfied himself (as indeed he had every reason to be easily satisfied) that Clarence Knyvett had died in fact at the date assigned. But many soldiers of his old regiment did not believe it. They thought he'd sneaked off, and hidden among the natives. And if Clarence Knyvett's now alive, he's the owner of the pro- perty ; and if he's dead, dying at a later date than Alexander, his children,, if any, and not you, are the inheritors of his estate 1 " As he spoke, Iris faced him with cold contempt in every lino of her face. •' Is that all you have to tell me ? " she . asked, severely, as soon as he'd finished. " No ; " Harold answered, loosing his head with rage, '• that's not all. I've something more to tell you. You won't like to hear it, but I'll tell you for all that. One bad turn deserves another. Unless a later will of Sir Arthur's turns up leaving the property in a more equitable manner — as it may do any day — I shall never rest satisfied till I've hunted up Clarence Knyvett, his heirs and representatives, and turned you out of the doubtful inheritance to which you've probably no real title. So now you know what you've got to reckon with." *• And if another will does turn up," Iris rejoined, quietly, though with ashy lips, " leaving the property entirely to you, you'll accept Sir Arthur's claims without hesitation, and let Uncle Clarence's heirs, ifhe ever had any, go without the inheri- tance to which they have probably the best title I . . . . Is that what you mean ? ... Harold, you may go I" And, rising her full height, she pointed to the door. •* You had only one friend in your own family," she said, "ana jou vu uucueeded to-night in turning her against you." mm '■vjj.iji,»'i',»i'v- :"..; 66 THE TRNTS OF SHEll. Harold took up his hat, and went. On the landing', he paused. " Remember," be called back, with a parkng shot, ^' I'll rot test tih I've brought the rightful heirs to light against you." 'Jlien he walked down the stairs, and emerged, all on fire, int( the gaslit streets of fog-bound Kensington. As soon as he felt the fresh air on his brow, however, he recog- nised witJi a rush how serious a mistake he had committed in his anger. Another will mhjht turn up any day — a sensible will, in his own favour — and then they would have this handle of the flaw in the title to use against him. Or if another will did nul turn up — well, it was absurd to think that a man of edncnt'on and technical skill like himself — a man of resource and entu•,^^ and wit — a man, above all, possessed of the precious an* I invaluable quality of unscrupulousness — should let himself hi diddled out of a splendid estate by a pack of women, tor no better reason than just because a piece of dirty paper with a few names scratched upon" it was not duly forthcoming from Sii Arthur's davenport. It's easy enough, of course, to coi)y a signature, any fool can do that. Sir Arthur oiujht to have altered that will ; he mcnnt to alter it ; he all but did alter it. How perfectly simple to — well, to alter it posthumously for the dilatory old man, in accordance with his own obvious and expressed intentions. Forgery, they call it, in the jcoarse, blunt dialect of the Pro bate and Divorce Division. But in that ease, as things stood, he had put a weapon into Iris's hands which she might possibly be inclined to use against hira. Well, now that the matter had gone so far wrong, the best way in the end would perhaps be to let them prove thi' existing will, which would commit them to acceptance of Su- Arthur's claim ; arul aftiT tliat, whenever the — the new hypo- thetical will turn up (and it should turned up ; on that he was decided) they would find it less easy to tight the matter against him. Meanwhile, to annoy them, he'd hunt up his Uncle Clarence's business, too. The man very likely was still alive. Any weapon's good enough to use against an enemy. An enemy I And yet, what a splendid creature that girl was, after all I He had never admired her so much in his life before as when she confronted him like a wild cat, in her anger, to-night. That righteous indignation became her magnificently. By Jove, she was grand t What a fool he'd bcun not to marr^ IBM TKNTS OF SHUC. 87 hor long ago ! Wliy, let alone the fortune, she was a girl any man might be pro\id to marry for her own sake any day — if he meant marrying. She was so pretty, so clever, and had such funds of character I And he'd noticed the other afternoon, as they drove back from Staines in a friend's open carriage, she was the only woman that ever lived who held her parasol of deliberate purpose at such an angle as not entirely to shut out the view of all surrounding objects from her male companion. A splendid creature, and a most undoubted heiress. But as a woman alone, well worth the sacrifice. Ho wished to goodness, now, indeed, he'd married her off hand a couple of years since. Nay, more, in his own cold, selfish way, lie awoke with a start to the pj'emn fact that he wanted that woman. As far as was possill*' to such a nature as his, he was in love with Iris — and he had only just that very evening dia- covered it. ■ , < * ' " '.Tif1. Slip linH given up the liospita! nnrse fad, of course, ior tlie jiresent, us mcoiisisteiit witli lier existing position as a great heiress ; but she had another mine to explode upon poor Uncle Tom now, and OTice more a mine due to an acute attack of that most undesirable and inconvenient mental disease, conscience. " Now I want to know, Uncle Tom," the heiress and Third Classic said, persuasively, cornering him at bay in an easy chair •n Mrs. Knyvett's little drawing-room at Kensington (for they had not yet taken possession of the projecLed mansion in Lowndes Bquare), " is there any truth, or is there not, in that story of Harold's about Uncle Clarence's supposed disappeanince." The distinguished Q.C. shufiled awkwardly in his seat. For the first time in his life he began faintly to roniizt? the feelings of an unwilling witness under his own searching cioss-examina- i;ion. "A cock-and-bull story!" he said at last evasively. "Just said to frighten you. If I were you, Iris, I'd think no icDore about it." " But is there any truth in it, unule ? " Iris persistod, with quiet emphasis, as the distinguished Q.C. himself would have done in the same case, if only he had got his own double safely lodged in front of him in that amateur witness-box. "Bless my soul!" Uncle rom replied, stioicing her hair gent\y to create a div(u\sion, " what a persistent cro;s-oxiininer the jjirl is, to be sure. If I tell you no. you'll not believe me ; lUid if I tell you yes, you'll want to go running over Europe, Asia, Africa, and America, not to speak of the islands of the Parahc Ocean, in search of Clarence Knyvett, his heirs, or executors." *• 'rii;Mi there is some truth in it," Iris went on. with one hand aid I rsuasivcly on her uncle's arm. •• As much trutli as a man like yon." cousin Ilaroid cnn sppak, i suppose." the old man answered, with a gasp, as who should it last resolve to have an aching tooth drawn, for he felt sure due must get it all out of him now. " The fict is, my dear, your Uncle Clarence's deitli. like Jeames De la Plir.:he's birth, is • wrop in mystery.' He left England under a cloud. He was * gay vonng soldier, always getting into scrapes, and always spending more than he'd got, and sulKing in disgrace, and com- pouncUiig with his creditors. It's supposed, though I don't know an t'ling abo'it it for certain, that he forged, or triel to ^'^'•jje, your ^TandfatliiT s name to siunlry accept.uices. It'a furtutir Buppoaed that this uaiuu ut last lu your griiudiathur't Hi &• piBBJ^i|P^fWP^»^»Wi^>^W 90 TBS TRMT8 OF SHEM. knowle(!g6, and tliat your grandfather, being, lil^e Mogos, ari austere man, threatened to expose the whole buaiiiuHS. B() Clarence, it is believed, like the great Orion, went Klopuig hIowI} to the West. Anyhow, one fine morning the news got wind thiii your uncle was missing; and from that day to this he haa bouii consistently missed, and never turned up again." '•But what was that about his enlisting in the French array ? " Iris asked, with a caress, as the old man paused. *• Well, nothing was known about that, my dear, during your Uncle Alexander's hfe," Uncle Tom went on, like a man from whom evidence is extorted by rack and thumb-screw ; •♦ w< thought, indeed, he'd gone to America. But as soon m Hii Arthur inherited the property it became necessary to find [jroo of Clarence's death, whether Clarence was dead or living ; Hi Sir Arthur, tracking him gradually from France, went over to Algiers in the end to find it. It was through that, in fact, that he settled down, first at Sidi Aia. Well, this was the result of Sir Arthur's investigation." And here Uncle Tom refreshed his memory with a look at his note-book. *♦ He found that Clarence, on leaving England, had enlisted in the Third Chas- seurs a.t Toulon, under the assumed name of — what was it ? let me see. Ah, yes ! Joseph Leboutillier ; that he had been sent over to Algeria to join his regiment ; that he took piirL for some time in operations in the interior ; and that during the partial insurrection of 1868 he was employed in a column mm to reduce the mountaineers of some outlandish place they csill Grande Kabylie. A certain battle took place in this remote quarter against the insurgents on the 20th of June in that year, and after it, Mr. Joseph Leboutiller was reported missing. His name was struck off the roll of the regiment, and though his body happened to be never identified, the French authorities were perfectly convinced that he died in the skirmish, and was lost on the field — an accident which, as Beau Brummel said almut a rent, may happen to any gentleman any day. Our own Courts admitted the papers Sir Arthur produced as proof of deatli, and were satisfied of the identity of Joseph Leboutillier with Clarence Knyvett. In short, the question's really as good as settled ; a judge in camera has decided pro forma that Clarence Knyvott died on the 20th of June, 1868 ; so die he didp then, legally and officially, and there's nothing more to be said about it." Iris smiled, " I wish, uncle dear," she said., good-humour- edly, " I could share your supreme faith in the absolute wisdom ftnd abstract justice of the law of England. But John Stuart Mill iays- Oh, dear me f I forgot '* — for Uncle Tom wap topping up his ears already, least tlipy should be profaned by resb assaults of that dangerous and detestable political econ 1 )tay : — " To return to the question now before the Hocse, what id Harold mean? or did he mean anything, by saying that nany soldiers in Uncle Clarence's regiment didn't believe he was .eally dead, biit thought he'd sneaked oflf and hidden himself somewhere among the natives ? " Uncle Tom started. •♦ God bless my soul ! " he exclaimed, with a gesture cf horror. " So this is what comes then of send- incr girlf to Cambridge. Who says women have no legal instincts ? Why, the girl ought to have gone to tha Old Bailev Bar I With the acumen of a judge — if judges have any, which 1 very ii.u ii doubt — she puts her finger plump down at once on the one weak point of the entire contention. Remarkable ; re- markable ! Well the fact's this ; an ancient French mihtary in retreat— t'.iat's just how he signed himself — anonymous, practi- cally — once wrote a letter to Sir Arthur at Sidi Aia (shortly after your Uncle Alexander's decease), telling him he didn't believe th s man Leboutillier was dead at all ; but that he'd run away, and gone off absurdly on his own account to join the natives, ihe ancient French mihtary in retreat didn't give his name, of course, and so we couldn't cross-examine him , but your uncle sent me a copy of the letter from Aix-les-Bains, and also another to your cousin Harold. The ancient French soldier, in his precious communication, dticlared he had been a chasseur with Mr. Joseph Leboutiller, and known him well; that J c SB ill Leboutillier was an eccentric person, holding exag- gerated notions about justice to the indujenes ; that he specially objected to this particular war, waged against some people called Kabyles, if I recollect aright, who inhabit the trackless mountains of the interior ; that he often expressed the deepest regret at being employed to crush out the liberty and inde- pendence of ' these unfortunate people ; ' and that he almost refused on one occasion to obey his superior officer, when that gentleman ordered him to join in burning down the huts and villages of the insurgent tribesmen." •• Very Uke a Knyvett." Iris murmured, parenthetically. ♦• Very. The Knyvetts were always Quixotic." Uncle Tom continued, with a faintly compassionate inflexion in his forensic voice. ** But, at any rate, tl'C ancient French militiiry in retreat was firmly convinced that Joseph Loboubillidr had deserted \\- J2 THE TENTS OF 8BEII. the battle, to avoid bearing arms against the Kabyles any longer , and he said that many otlier ancient mihtaries of the same regi- ment entirely agreed with him in this supposition." " And then V " *• Why, then, Sir Arthur sent up a French detective, who under- stood Arabic, into the mountains to make full inquiries, just to satisfy his conscience ; for though he was a selfish, pig-headed old man. Sir Arthur, and as cross as two sticks, he, too, had a conscience, like all the Knyvetts — bar that singular exception .■; your Uncle Charles, with his son Harold. Your father and you, to be sure, inherited the family conscience in its most virulent form ; but it was strongly-enoni^li developed even in poor oli' Sir Arthur. That's why he lelt liis tbrtime to you, my dear, instead of to Harold ; he tliouglit it was his duty, and duty to a Knyvett is a perfect will-o'-the-wisp, leading you all into every Utopian quagmire you happen to come across — tliougli, in thi? case, of course, he was porfL( tly right in obeying its dictates." "And what did Sir Arthur find out at last?" Ins asked, gently, stroking her uncle's hand with her own, as if to depre- ate his wrath at her possession of anything so inconvenient Af> a sense of right towards others. •' lUosL iuiLunately, my child, he found out exactly notlnng The natives fought shy of his detective to a man, and energeti cally disclaimed knowledge of any sort about Joseph Leboutillier, They'd never even heard the Jianie, they swore. So Sir Arthui came back empty-lianded from his (juest, and enjoyed his pro perty in peace and quietness. Quite right, too. People ough» nearer to pay any attention at all to anonymous letters. Par ticularly not in matters aflecting the Probate and Divorce Division." Iris was silent for a minute or two more. Then she said, slowly, much terrified lest she should rouse the dormant lion 0/ Uncle Tom's wrath, " Sir Arthur might iiavebeen satisfied with that. Uncle Tom, but I'm not. I suppose, as you say, I've got the family conscience in an aggravated form ; but, whatever it says, I must obey it. I must find out exactly what became of L'ncle Clarence." The distinguished Q.C. flared up like petroleum. " You're s fool if you do, my dear," he answored, losing his temper. •• • lUit, children, youshould never let yourangry passions rise,'" Ins quoted, gently. "That shows you think there's still some chance Uncle Clarence is really alive, or has children living. In Jevon'a * Inductive Logic ' I remember, — " but Uncle Tom's / mm THB TKNTg OP 8HSU. 9!) ,r.iT9 wero stopped tight with either thumb, turned once more as (leaf as the adder's. He Ustened not to Iris's Girtoman charms, cliarnied she nuvor so learnedly, that stony-heartod barrister. " I niigbt be using somebody else's money, you see," his niece wftiit on quietly, as soon as Uncle Tom gave signs of having it'coverrd the free use of his auditory nerve, " and that, you nmst admit, would be sheer robbery." Uncle Tom had too much respect for the law of England not to allow, wiUi obvious regret, the justice of that last patent truism. " Well, what do you propose to do ?" he responded sulkily. " For the presetit, advertise in the English, French, and Algoriiui papurs," Iris answered, with calm j)er.sistenci3, "for any inluruiation as to the whereabouts or death of CJiarles Knyvett or Joseph ]iOl)outillier." " And raise up for yourself a score or so of imitation Tichborne claimants," Uncle Tom cried, with concentrated scorn in his voice. ♦• What is a Tichborne Claimant ?" Iris asked, in all innocence, imagining the animal to be some peculiar species of legal techni- cality — a nolle prom'/jm, for example, or an oi/er and terminer. I'hc shadowy f'^rms of John Doe and Ricliard Hoe floated lambent on the air before her vague mental vision. •'Bless the child," Uncle Tom exclaimed, fervently raising his hands to Infaven. " What happy innocence ! What golden igno- rance I You may thank your stars you don't even know the creature by name. Why, when I was young, my dear, some twenty years ago or so, we all of us wasted threee good twelve months of our lives with feverish anxiety in followuig the for- tunes and iina! exposu.'e of a wretched impostor, a claimant to the Tichborne estates in Hampshire, who was inflicted upon a long-suii'cring world solely as a result of injudicious advertising in Co.onial piipers by an ill-advised woman. And you're young enough and lucky enough never even to have heard of him I If you weren't, he'd have tau^rlit you a severe lesson. Well, so much for the present, you say — so far, bad ; and how about the future?" " In the second place," Iris went on, firmly, "as soon as ever the weather's cool enough to allow it, I'll go over to Aigf^-ia, and hunt up all I can find out about Uncle Clarence on the spot, in person." "Well, that's not so bad," the eminent Q.C. responded, mollified, " for it'll enable you, at any rate, to take possession yourself of the house and belongings at Sidi Aia." ^ TUB IKNTB :ni^\W!: tai Tsiftf •» inni. u QfttWe %r\BTgy. Ton mfty judge men largely by what they admire. Strong natures like strong natures ; and, given strength, they despise externals. Other minds think more of mere culture, perhaps ; it's not the diamond tliey admir), but its cutting. Diamonds in the rough are to them mere pebbles. For my part, it's the stone itself that takes my fancy. You don't care for her ; but don't break her heart any more than's absolutely necessary. For I see she can't help falling in love with you." Next morning, when Meriem came round to the tent, aa was her daily wont, with the milk from the cows she tended herself for the two young Englishmen, Le Marchant met her with a sadder and more anxious face than usual. " Meriem," he said, '• I want to speak to you seriously about your own future. Whatever comes, you must never marry either Ahmed or Hussein." •• Does Vernon say not ? " Meriem asked, all fluttering. '• No," Le Marchant answered, crushing down her poor heart at once of deliberate purpose, for he knew no possible good would come to her of that painful illusion. '• I say so m}self, because T takfi a friendly interest — a very friondly intprest—in your life and happiness, Meriem, I want to look up your En.-i^lish friends. If I found them out, would you care to go and hve in England ? " " Not alone," Meriem answered, with a promptitude which clearly shewed she had already asked herself that leading question. "When Yusuf used to take me on his knee, and tell me about England long ago, 1 always thou,':jht I should like to go there, if only he could go with me. And since I have seen you and Vernon, Eustace, and heard all about it, I've often fancied I should hke to go there if only — if only I had any one to take care of me and take me there. But it's so far across the sea, and the people over yonder are all infidels — not that I'm quite so afraid of infidels now, either, since I've seen so much more of you and Vernon." •• Why wouldn't your father take you there, Meriem ? " Meriem opened her large, brown eyes very wide with astonish- ment. " They would have put him in prison, of course," she said, with decision. " It was for fear of that that he ran awa), and became a Kabyle. None of- the infidels seemed to like him. The French would have shot him, and the English would have imprisoned him. I think there must have been feuds between 1 1;; ('r. 1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 'lip MD (/. ^ 1.0 !!:»* « I.I i.25 2.5 Iil4 2.2 12,0 IIIII^H 1.4 IIIIII.6 V. (^ /i 7. 'c^l "m c%: ^^.\'>^ o Ss. / /Si PhotogiBphic Sciences Corpordtion 23 WIST MAIN iTRIIT WIBSTIII,NV I45SO (716) •72-4i03 id V iV 4^ <> ^'b^ <5 \\ 6^ <> 4^ r i^^p '1 08 XHM Z£NXtt Oif UUKM. the tribes in England, iuad that his tribe moit baye been angry with him, and cast him off, for he told me his family wonld have nothing to say to him. But I like the English very much for those three things ; that Yusuf was English, and that the English were kinder to my father than the French, and that — that you and Vernon are Englishmen, Eustace." Le Marchant looked at her with profbund pity. He couldn't bear to think this strong and guileless nature should be cast away as a beast of burden for some wretched Eabyla like Ahmed or Hussein. '• Is there nobody, Meriem," he said, at last, " who can tell me anything more about your father ? " Meriem reflected for a moment in silence. Then she answered somewhat doubtfully, *• If anybody could tell you, it's the Pere Baba." •• And who's the Pere Baba ?" Le Marchant went on eagerly. ." He's a priest, a Christian, a missionary, they call him, down at St. Cloud, in the valley there. St. Cloud, you know, is where the colonists are. It's a wicked place, all full of Frenchmen, ■^usuf would never go down to the village, for fear the people who lived there should learn his French name, and then they'd have shot him. But the Pere Baba and the Pere Paternoster used sometimes to come up to see Yusuf, and my father was fond of the Pere Paternoster, and told him many things. Our people were angry at this often, and used to say to him, * Yusuf, you're a Christian still at heart, and you confess to the priest and say prayers with him ; " but Yusuf always answered, * No, not so bad as that; I only see the Pere Paternoster as a friend, and on matteij of business.' And once, before the Pere Paternoster was dead, my father fastened this charm round my neck, and told me the Pere Paternoster had given it to him, and to be very careful that I never it." •• What's in it ? i>-.ty I see? " Le Marchant went on, lay- ing hold of it, eagerly. But Meriem drew back arid started almost as if she'd been shot. •• Oh, no," she cried, •• not that, not that I Anything but that ? Why, I wouldn't let even Vernon open it." " And what makes you like Vernon so much better than me ? " Le Marchant asked, half hurt by her innocent frankness. Meriem m»*i I* m W^ TTT m. 100 XUK 'SilM'lii UV CHAPTER XV, AN OASIS OF OIVa,ISATTO!f. •'^^EKNON.'" Le Marchant called out, with a sudden resolve '•I'm otf to 8t. Clou.l. I've a reason for going to-day. Wii you come along on with me ? " •• All right, Euotace, if you'll juf^t wait till I've finisliod was!' ing out m\ sky," the painter answered, brisklv. They liar' pick up the trick of calli^'g one another by their Gnristian names fron Merieni's example, and it bad now grown with them almost habitual. Hitherto, the two new-comers had intentionally avoided tlu' dissipations of St. Cloud, not being anxious to study life in its \ peculiar outlying Algerian development, among the remote corners where a few ardent pioneers of civilisation diffuse the blessings of European culture over a benighted land by congrc gating together to drink bad absinthe under the eye of the suii l)efore the bare mud platform of a fourth-rate esUunbu't. ■ But low that the chance of finding out something definite about VIeriem's parentage drew Le Marchant on, he was ready to face oven the wooden houses and malodorous streets of tlje dirty new village in search of trustworthy news as to their strange &c quaintance. It was a long and weary tramp, over hill and dale, amoii; wooded ravines, and across rocky ledges ; but before twelvi o'clock the two young men had reached the mih'tary track froi Fort NutioiiHl to Si. C/lou(l. and ibund themselves at once, tt ,li(Mr gii'ai >in|>nsH, m a fine and s])h'ndidly engnieered F^roncl uuiiwfiy. 11.1 \ h;i(l scarcely Struck upon it. moreover, when, ti iiiMr still u;i<';!L('i astonishment, ainl no little amusement, the , aiiic, full m lace, ii; on a mincing little Frenciiwomau, attired ,ifter the very latest P;ins fashion, in a frivolous frock, a jaunty jacket, and a vohitile hat of woixlrous arch/itecture. She was thirt_\ :fivH and skittish, with high-heeled hoots and an attenuate'' wai-' ntteiiy iin;iil!i]>te(l to the pnictical necessities of a bare an U\..i \ n.iii iii^n r(»;i(l. On either side of her, with clankin, •*purs. |)iu;tii u mihtiiry gentleman of youthful years but porth dimensions ; while Madame in the midst, with her graceful :■*■"(». fB|;.«WL",,"F mw^- mmm i^m Tin TSMTi or fncM. 101 resolve f, Wii '(\ was]' f' pick, les froii almost ided tlic fe in its remote use thf congrc tlie SUl; «. Bui e about to face ■ty ne\\ uye ar amoii; t\V«lV( k froi rjce, t( 'Vonc) K^n, t( ittirod aiiiit\ luatf." e aji nk'iii, »ortl\ ujeful I parasol held eoqnettishly, now on this side, now on thal^ chatted a£fably to both in iutermittent gurgles with aUernattf Bowi of most Parisian loveliness. " C'est Madame V Administratiee" the dirty-robed Kabylo. who liad come with them to show them the way, murmured softly in their ears, with a low bend of his body, as the lady approached them. He had Hved at St. Cloud, and knew some words of French. L-e Marchant and Blake raised their liats as the lady passed, after the French fashion in country places, and would have gone on without stopping, half abashed at tlieir dusty and way worn condition, had not Madame brought them to with a lively broadside across their bows, so to speuk, of ** Bonjour, Messieurs." " Bonjour, madame," Le Marchint answered, saluting again, and still anxious to pass on ; but still the lady stooped him. ^ " You are the English artists, messieurs, of whom our indigenes told us, who have pitched a camp on tlie hills of the Beni-Merzoug, n'est-ce pasf " she asked, condescendingly. " My friend is a painter," Le Marchant answered, with a wave of his hand towards his blushing companion ; "1, myself, am a naturalist ; and we are certainly camping out — but with one tent only, madame — at the Beni-Merzoug village." The lady pouted, or rather, which is quite another tiling, elU faisait la moue, an accomplishment as indescribable as unknown in English. •• Can you be unaware, messieurs," she said, with a smile of mingled reproach and gentle forgiveness, " that it is the custom in the colony for all new comers in the arrondissement of St. Cloud to pay their respects the first to M. I'Administrateur and to m} self at the Fort ? We have long been expecting you to do us the honour of making us a formal visit. D'ailleurs, we are not sO well off for agrements in these trackl(>sS wilds " — she gazed straight ahead along the bare and well-mmle French road before her, with a vacant air — ♦* that we can atford to lose the agreeable society of an English painter and an English savant." She looked up and smiled. " I adore art, and I reverence science — at a distance." ** Not trackless, quite, madame, however wild," one of her escort murmured with gentle reproof, looking in front, in his turn, at the magnificent gradients of the sloping road, with paternal pride. He was an officer of the Oenie, and he felt his* department unduly depreciated by madame's reflection. " Forgive us, madame," Le Marchant answered, somewhat abashed by this open attack upon his character for pohteuew. 101 \ ffBa TEMT8 Oy IRBU. " We are strangers in the land, and to say the truth, we scarcely expected at Bt. Cloud the charm of female society. Besides, you do us far too much honour. We are simple students, each in his own art, and we have scarcely brought with us in our rough-and- ready camp the necessary costume for appearing in fitting dress at European functions. We could hardly venture to present ourselves thus before you." As for Blake, all awe-struck at the high*heoled boots and the Parisian hat, he left the conversation entirely in the competent hands of the naturahst. His French, such as it was, forsook him forthwith. Indeed, the commonplaces of the Ollendorffian dialect would here have stood him in very poor stead. He felt he could not insult so grand a lady at) Madame I'Administratrice by addressing to her casual and fortuitous remarks about la femme du jardinier or lejila du menumer, Madame bowed a condescending little bow. ♦• In consideration of your contrition," she said, " and your implied promise of future amendment, monsieur, absolution is granted you. You see my generosity. You were coming to visit as, of course? Well, then, M. le Lioutonant," to the elder of her companions, "we will turn round and accompany these gentlemen back to the Fort." Le Marchant hesitated. He didn't wish to be rude, but it went against the grain of his honest nature to pretend a call was meant when none had been intended. A happy thought struck him, by way of a compromise. "Not in this tenue, madame," he said. " Even in Algeria, we must respect lea convenances ; we couldn't think of calling upon any lady in such a costume. En ejf'et, we were going to visit the Pere Baba." The lady sighed. ** Helas," she answered, " this is not Paris. We are glad to get callers in any tenue. But you will at least permit us to accom- pany you on your way as far as the village ? " " Thank you, madame. You are very good. This is a charm- ing situation. So, wild, so picturesque-^— I " *♦ And BO wholly unenrlurable 1 " ** But surely, madame, the scenery is lovely, li's a beautiful country." '♦ Beautiful I Je vous V accords ; maii vu de loin. For a painter, possibly ; but for a woman, rrwn Dieu, it's too far from Paris." •• Still," Blake ventured to remark, inspired to a sudden Ollen- dorfiEiaji outburst in defence of the scenery, ** there are mai^ worse places than this in the world." ■»ww ■"■nil" -w i.uji!i IJiuSia Uy bUi:.^!. 105 ** Perhaps bo," ttte little woman replied, with a omshing amil. " hvitfauts de pire, I'm quite sati.'^fied in that way with this one.' Blake retired in disorder from the unequal contest. Evenhai he possessed the rudiments of her language, the little French woman was clearly too much for him at the game of repartee. But Le Marchant, a bolder spirit, tried once more. " You have lived here long, madame ? " he asked, with his perfect accent. " Long enough almost to have forgotten the bouleTards. Fifteen years, monsieur ; jQgure that to yourself ; et j» regrette encore la cuisine Parisienne." She spoke with pathos. " That is indeed constancy I " Le Marchant replied, with ap- propriate emotion. ♦• Monsieur," thelady retorted, with a little mock curtsey and , an ironical smile, ** it is your sex, remember, that has the monopoly of fickleness." They walked on tovv^ards the village, along the dusty road, all five abreast, Madame I'Administratrice chatting away gaily all the time in the same flighty strain about the discomforts of her situation, the distance from a really good milliner, the difficulty of getting endurable coffee, and, above all, the vices and short- comings of ces cochons d' indigenes. Upon this last pet subject — a colonial substitute for the -great servant question — madame, after the wont of Algerian ladies, waxed very warm, and nodded the volatile little hat most impressively, till the stability of its feathers was almost compromised. ♦* Believe me, monsieur,'' she said at last, with much energy, stamping her neat small foot on the dusty trottoir, " we shall never have peace and security in Algeria tiU the French soldiers join hands across the country in a long line, and walking over hill and dale together, sweep the indigenes before them into the Mediterranean." ♦• C'est vrai" the officer of the Oenie assented with a profoundly convinced nod. " Strong measures, indeed," Le Marchant answered, laughing. " It is thus, monsieur, that France must fulfil her civihsing mission," the lady repeated, stoutly. •* Join hands in line, and march across the country, and sweep every Arab into the Medi terranean. Le ban Dieu never made the world, you may be sure, for those pigs of Arabs." " But the Kabyles ? " Blake asked, with another gasping effort. "Do I distinguish between them, monsieur?" madame an- swered, scornfolly, tuniiug upon him with a anddeuneai that 104 TBS TBNTS Of UkSM. airly friphtetied the painter. •* Eron' mrhon dHn(fiffsne is an Vrab for me. I make no fine discriminations between Arab and \rab. U71 hidu/etie e'cst un ituliyene. Que vonlez-vomi, monsieur T At thft entrance of the Httle colony, madame paused and ■)inted. " Down that road, mosslonrs," she said, with her bland, sraal uiile, " in the large house to tlie left, you will find the Pere Babu. hi rcste, I am charmed to have made your acquaintance so appily. It is pleasant to hear our beautiful language so well pokon. We shall meet again. Ju revoir, messieurs. 1 receive.. I'ecollect, on Wednesdays and Saturdays. You can no longer plead ignorance. We shall expect to see you at my next re ception." And with a coqr.ettish inclination of the volatile hat, and a curious side wriggle of the frivolous frock, the spoiled child oi the boulevards, accompanied by her military bowing escort, dis- ippeared down the one long white street of the timber-built vdllage. Le Marchant and Blake, left alone by themselves, looked ai me another in silence, and smiled a broad smile at this uc- iixpected apparition amo.ng the wilds of Africa. wi^fi^mm'. TEM8 OF IM CHAPTER XVI. TBI WHITE FATHERS. '•You are the Pere Baba, monsieur?" Le Marchant asked, with some misgiving in his tone, of the white -frocked old gentle- man in a plain Arabjburnous, who opened the door of the mission to receive them. " My name in religion is Brother Geronimo, my son*," the old priest answered, with a courteous bow ; but the indiijme.» among whom I labour — to little avail, 1 fear, for the Propagation of the Faith is slow in Africa — know me better as the Pere Baba. Will you step inside and refresh yourselves awhile ? V^'e are glad to receive you." In the bare white union, vt'iih its little bright-coloured religious chromo- lithographs, into whjch he ushered tljeni, Le Marchant briefly explained to the good fatlier the object of tlieir visit, and asked with many apologies lor such information as the priest .;ould give him with regard to a person who seemed to be equally .veil known either as Yusuf, a Kabyle, or as Joseph Leboutillier. The grey-bearded father sighed and tapped his forelioad. • Ah, Le mniime Yumf\" he said, with a conipassioimte face. V Yes, yes, I knew him; I knew him, of course, ce /Kiurrc nuMrahlf d' Ymuh l)Ut yoii come too late ; by brother Antoine was the man ;.:) liave iisKed liiin whom the nnhijiiirs called t.hc I\jre PaUT lOster. lJiili;iii;>ii\, bixaiier Aiitnijje hud t.;si )tar, arxl much of .vhat Vusuf haci lold hiin uied with liiin. being giv..-ii, of lunirse, under the sea) (.»f religion, l^'or Vusuf, tlu;in;]i \\v lived among the Kabyles aa a Kabyle, and bowed the kiu e, jnnu- ttiti.si dire, in the temple of Rimmon, to save his life, remained ist heart a i'4s to my ^,oor Olifistian to tlie > nd. and uohii !• d w. \\\ thii »rotlier, the Pere i\\ riiosier. lie li,ii .i mo' Aiitonie, and he \va;< kind to Vusiil', and went tu vSee hiui u lonely hut on the mouutaius of tiie iieiii-Merzoug." 106 THK TBNTS Of 8BKM. •* But tell us at least as much as you know, tron pere^" Le Mar- chant insisted, " wliatever was not said to you or your brother under the seal of relij^'ion." '• You come as friends ?" the father asked suspiciously, "or for some ulterior object ?" Le March ant explained in a very few words, with transparent frankness, that they came in the interest of Yusufs daughter. They knew she had English blood in her veins, and they wished, if possible, to restore her to her relations, and to tne bosom of Christendom. That last touch told with Pere Baba visibly. •• It's a sad story, wow fiU," he went on, closing his eyes, and turning his face towards the bare white ceiling, as he stroked the beard which all missionary priests are permitted to wear in virtue of tlieir calling ; " a sad story, and I'm afraid I hardly know enough about it to tell you accurately anything that will be of serious use to this girl Meriem. She calls herself Meriem, I beheve ; ah, yes, I thought so. I recollect the circumstances. Well, Yusufs story, so far as I can recall what Pere Antoine told me, was something like this. He was an Englishman by birth, though I forget his name — let us agree that your guttural English names are impossible to remember, lie came of a family, a very good family ; but he was spendthrift and foolish, though never, I believe, wicked — jamais, jamais coupable. He told me so, and I always believed him. P.h him, according to his own account, which you must remember is the only one I have heard, his younger brother, sharing his embarrassments, forged their father's name to certain acceptances, which re pauvre Yusuf, in a weak moment, not knowing their nature, agreed to get cashed for him. Yusuf declared to his dying day he had never tlu' slightest idea they were forged, and that his brother deceived him For that, I Imow nothing ; but, monsieur " — and the old priest's voice had a womanly note of compassion as he spoke — " 1 verily believe he was truthful, this unhappy exile." • " To judge by his daughter, I believe he must have been," Le Marchant interposed, with perfect sincerity. The i'ather nodded. " Well, the fraud came to light," he con- tinued, "and the brother shuffled out of it ; he was niauvais sujet, this brotlier, Yusuf always assured us. The evidence all pointed to Yusuf alone ; the law was in search of him ; Yusuf lost 00. ragCj and fled the country. He took passage to America as a more blind, but, as a matter of fact, he fled to France, under an assumed name, and never again darwd to c«mmuwicate with hit relatione." THX TENT8 O^ ■HBll. 107 for " He fnight have done so at least before he died," Le Marcbai!! cried, warmly, " The danger would then have been all past. h\>i his dnnghter's sake, he ought surely, on his dying bed, to hav( written." " Monsieur," the Father answered, with his eyes still olosofl. recatting slowly the half-for<,'otten facts, ''he never lay upon hi.^ (lying bed at all. Had he died thus, these things ini<;ht all have turned out differently. But U bon Dieii willed it otherwise. You shall hear in due time ; for this was what happened. Ce paurii Yusuf enlisted in the Third Chasseurs at Toulon, and was sent iicross here, under the assumed name of Joseph Leboutillier, ti put down the insurrection among the M'zabites and the Kabyles But as soon as he saw the sort of warfare in which he was ti be engaged, his heart smote him ; for he was a just man, Yusuf, though he had many failings ; and let us ndmit, monsieur, that we other French have not always made war very honourably, oi very justifiably, against these poor iniiiicnes." *' I fear as much from their disposition towards you," L( Marchant said, shortly. •' Well, wluni Yusuf came up to Grande Kabylie, m effete hi found his work was to be nothing less than exterminating tlu natives and expropriating their territory. That was what Yusuf, with his high ideas, could never endure. He hated to be mad< an instrument of what seemed to him tyranny. So, in n skirmish one day with the liene-Yenni people, he found himself, by chance, alone behind a cju'tus hedge, with the body of a dead Kabyle in the ditch besici-B hi^n. This he told brother Antoine,' the old man said, lookin^: round with a dubious air, " and 1 don't know whether I onght to repeat it, for 1 am not sure thii! he didn't tell it under th' set;! of religion." ••Continue," Le Marct a-'i said, with evident earneatnes.^ "It is tor no bad purpose 'oat we a^k you to contide iu u> What you say only interests ra« more profoundly tlian evur in this poor girl, Meriem." " So he took the dead Kabyle's burnous," the priest went oti seizing his hearer's arm for further emphasis, " and stole awa_} slowly, all un perceived, into the Kabyle camp as an honest deserter. lie made signs to the ind'ujnu'H that he had come aa u friend. One of them, a former Spahis, who had served i)> France, and understood our language, interpreted for him ; an»i the Kabyles, glad to avail themselves of his superior skill and military knowledge, received him with open aims and made hitu as one of theiu. It was thus he came to find himdtiU prcjcril/co I' am 08 tBB tiNTi Of tmmu. Uy two nntinns nt nnce, the English as u luiger, and iht Frenol^i .18 a deserter." •• It's a toucliing story I " Le Marohant cried, with emotion. " Touching, indeed, for the poor man himself," the Father .\ent on, •* for, hunted down and terrified for his hfe as he w»«, I usuf dared not return to civilisation on any side; he had no money even to go to Italy or America, whore perhaps, he mig)»t liave been free ; and, a gentleman bom and bred as he was, ht- ')ecame as a Knbyle, earning his bread by gathering ohves or utting corn with his own hands, and seeing no Christian fao»' iiy where save uiy own and the Pere Paternoster's, who alon' ad the keeping of his terrible secrets. The Amine of the Ben' .lerzouj,' gave hmi his sister HaUma, this Meriem's mother, ds a Niibyle wife ; and that one girl was thoir only child." " Tliey wore niuiried ? " Le Marchant asked." '* After the Kabyle fashion, yes. So far as I know, there w»^ () other rite. But Yusuf lived with her fiutlii'ully as a husband, and loved her truly — in this, as in all other tliiui^s, accepting to the uli ins altered situation. He was a loveable soul, and, in spi^e jf everything, one couldn't help lovhig him ; there was a silej't heroism about the man's endurance that extorted at last ono's highest odnuration." " And what became of him at last? " Le Marchant asked, -^s the Father paused, " lie died suddenly," Pere Baba answered, "without beirg able to give Pere Paternoster his dying directions, or perhaps I might be able to tell you something more about his family r i England. His death was brought about by most unhappy cii- cumstanccs. A lew years since, a French detective came up into the mountains, and began to make enquiries about Joseph Lebou- tillier. The Kabylos heard of it, and warned Yusuf ; they felt sure the authorities had someho"^ 'aarned a deserter in open war on active service was skulking among their mountains, and had determined to make a stern example of him. So poor Yusuf fled to a cave on the Djurjura," *• Just below the summit of Lalla Khadidja ? " Le Marchant aslced, eagerly. The Fatlier nodded. •• You know it, then ? " he said. " Yes, the place was tiiere. He remained in that cave in hiding for more than a week, while the French detective, an inquisitive fel- low, went every where about, peering and prying, and asking for news of him, under the pretense that he wanted it for a friendly purpose. But the Kabyles where too cunning to be taken in TUX TKNTI (MT «UJCM. 109 likfr that ; they denied ever bavi.ig heard of any such deserter. So in the end the detective went back again to Algiers empty- handed, and poor Yusuf, who had been supplied with food meanwhile by the Eabyles, ventured to coma down again one dark night to visit his dead wife's village.'* '• And then f " Le Marchant inquired. '• Why, then, the weather being very stormy, and the rocks wet, the poor fellow, weak with exposure, slipped a?id fell on a precipice of the Djurjura, and was taken up stone dead by his friends, and buried in the cemetery on the side of the mountain. So that was how ho never came to give final directions about his daughter to anybody ; and as Pere Paternoster knew all these particulars under the seal of religion, he could not divul oflended laws of two great coun- tries, one after the other, ar ' baking refi;^e at last in a miserable rock-shelter on the summit of a wild and snow-clad mountain, that his imaginu,tion was deer^y slirred by the plaintive inci- dents. He tried to find out mora from the old priest by ques- tioning ; but he soon discovered that the substance of his tale had all been told, and that the Father had little more than com- ment and conjecture to add to this, his first iiaaty summary. Pere Paternoster could have told more, he was sure; but Pere Paternoster was dead and buried, and nobody else knew much, if anything, about the whole matter. They would have risen to leave when the interview was finished, but the Father, with old-fashioned religious hospitality, begged them to stop and share his dejeuner. "It is not much," he said, with an apologetic shrug and a deprecatory gesture of his open palms — " an omelette — for it's Friday — and a morsel of dried fish, washed down with a little blue wit 3 of the country ; but such as it is, messieurs, I trust you will do me the honour to partake of it." ♦* We shall be only too charmed, mon pere,' Le Marchant re- phed, truthfully. •* We haven't sat down at a civilised table, or eaten bread, or tasted wine, since we came to Kabylie. It will be a welcome relief to us from that eternal cons-cons" In five minutes, ^.he breakfast duly appeared on the table — ^an omelette which might have made even Madame TAdministratriv j herself less poignantly regi-el ^jhe Parisian cuisine, some crofuetts* no TBI TBNT8 Of IBBM Mr- - I : of dry cod most daintily flavoured, and a bottle of good red wine from White Fathers' own rich vineyards at the Maison Carree— to all which the two young I'^nglishmen, long strangers to sucli luxury, znd inured to Diego's rough-and-ready methods of out dotr cookery, did ample justice. The bread, in particular, was highly commended — nice white little pHita pains that would have done honour to the Viennese bakeries in Paris. Vernon Blake praised it so loudly, to the disparagement of com-cmis, tliat when tliey left the mission house the good father must needs presn upon them the entire remainder of that day's batch to talce hack with them to the village. •• I'll roll the loaves up in paper," he said, " and your Kabyle can carry them. Let me see ; what have 1 got in the way of a newspaper ? Ah, here's yesterday's iJepeven Ahicnennes." " Better still," Le Mnrohant said, •• for to tell you the truth, though we get lottors occasionally when the villagers are going down to market at Tizi-Ouzou, we haven't seen a newspaper of any sort for the last six weoks." So they returned to Boni-^f(»r/,ong with their bread and their paper, Le Marchant at least not a little saddened by the painful history of Meriem's father. Meriem herself was waiting at the tent to meet them as they returned. '• I want you to see what I can do, Eustace," she cried to Le Marcliant, with almost childish delight. " Vernon has lent me one of his books to try on, and I think now I can read English." Le Marchant took the hook from her hand incredulously ; it was a pai)er covered edition of a popular novel. The girl glanced over his shoulder, and, to his great surprise, spelt out several lines, one after the other, with tolerable correctness. She made a hash of the proper names, to be sure, and of the long words that did not as yet enter into her now daily-widening English vocabulary ; but as to words that she knew, she read them at sight with an ease and rapidity that fairly took Le Marchant's breath away. •♦How on earth did you loarn to do this, Meriem?" he cried, astonished. *• It's wouderl'iil ! wonderful I " Merioiii looked up at him with not unbecoming conscious pride. " I was so asliiuned of myself," she said, " that day when 1 couldn't read my father's English name in Vernon's pic- ture, that 1 made up my iniiid 1 wouldn't wait another day or another minute without beginning to learn the letters of my father's language. So I borrowed one of Vernon's books, with- TUK TKNTM OP 8HSM. in .lU telling yott about it. and found a girl of our people who lould leach me the Hiiiues of all the letters, because, you see, she'd been taught by the priests at the school of St. Cloud, and they're the same as the French ones, though they sound a Uttle • Urferent. I couhi read Kabyle already, of course, in Arabic letters, that I learned for the Koran, and I think when you know how to read one language it must always be easy to read any other one. Besides, I thought I should be ashamed not to know if ever — well, if ever I should happen to go to England." Le Marchant smiled a pitying smile, and answered nothing. " Besides, the book itself is so interesting," Meriem went on, in an ecstasy. " It tells you about how people Uve in England. And now that I've read it, do you know, Eustace, I think I should like to live in England ; the people seem all so peaceable and good there." •♦ Why didn't you tell Vernon first ? " Le Marchant asked, with a sidelong glance at the beautiful girl. Meriem hesitated. " Because .... I don't know why . . . I can't explain it ... . but somehow I was shy of telling Vernon." There was a long pause during which neither of them said anything to one another. Then Le Marchant, raising his eyes unsteadily from the ground with a stifled sigh, said, suddenly, " Was your father a good man, Meriem ? " Meriem started. " He was the very best man that ever lived," she answered, earnestly, with the full fervour of confirmed conviction. " And yet," Le Marchant mused, half to himself, ♦* the Eng- lish wanted to imprison him for forgery, and the French would have liked to shoot him for desertion." " Perhaps that was because he was so very good," Meriem answered, simply. " Don't you think, Eustace, good people are always the least understood and the most persecuted ? V/hy, even the blessed Prophet himself had to fly from Mecca to avoid iieing killed by the wickedness of the people." Le Marchant could not resist an amused smile. The incon- '^'raity of the words on such English hps seemed so grotesque as 'uo be almost ridiculous. ^^mgm^mm^p^^^^^ ' .-; . P'i'-,:?- -rv-'Wi. ■■ • 'T- ;.r?^ ' -t'^ 111 CHK TONTtt OF HiUUi. No: CHAPTER XVn. tHS BTR^^QB CONVEBOM, ON the platform outside the village, where the P)i!n)-\Ii;r/.oiig held their weekly market, Vernon Blake stood skytching thp buzzing group of white-robed natives who clustered beneath th« shade of a great oak opposite, deep in eager conclave, as it appeared, on some important question of tribal business. A finer subject he had seldom found. Every gesture and attitude of the men was indeed eloquent ; and the pose of the Amine, in particular, as he listened to and weighed each conflictmg argu- ment, presented to the eye a perfect model of natural an)'iHrhes Algeneniifs which the Pere Baba had yesterday lent them. He was reading it aloud, translating as he went, with but a languid interest in the diplomatic rumours and Court news which its telegrams detailed with their usual tedious con- ciseness, wlien, turning a page to the advertisement cohnnns, hi? eye was attracted suddenly by the appearance, in large Roman type, of that unknown name which had imprinted itself so deeply on their minds of late, the English name of Meriem's father ! '• On d^tmind^ (les remntpifinentt," the advertisement ran, " sur le //o;»w//' Clarence Knyvett, /iw///rtfw." Le Marcliant could hardly believe his eyes. " Look here, Blake," he exclaimed, with a little cry of surprise "just see what on earth this means, will you ? " Blake took the paper from his hand, and stared at it hard. "What d( es it mean ? " he said, with a whew. •* I can't quit(' make it out. Two of them at once, too I It's really ver} singular." Le Marchant snatched back the little sheet from his friend in fresh astonishment. *' Two of them ?" he cried. *• Why, so there are, actually, And both wanted to know the very same tlungs — about Muriem'* father." ^^^P^PVP^P"iP^"PPP