'- j\. ^ a-*-v -vt.' fAjcrUz-A, "^.v ^y^J^-J: V ^J-Ju^ LoVC THE TENTS OF SHEM Jl 'Shovel BY GRANT ALLEN AUTHOR OF ' BAByLON,' 'the UEVIL's DIE,' ' THIS MORTAL COIL,' ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES VOL. I. tContion CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1889 ?9 V. TO M. M. S., IN MEMORY OF MANY HAPPY DAYS AT SIDI SALAH. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. - semicircle of the bay gleamed like a pea- cock's neck in hue, or a brilliant opal with its changeful iridescence ; and the snow- VOL. I. I 2 THE TENTS OF SHEM. clad peaks of the Djurjura in the back- ground rose higli in the air, glisteninor white and pink in the reflected glory of the afternoon ^un. P^ut the two young men of Britannie aspect, gazing grimly in front of them, made no comment to one another on the beauty and variety of that basking scene. How could they, indeed ? They had not been introduced to one another ! To admire nature, how- ever obtrusive, in company with a man to whom you have not been introduced is a social solecism. So they sat and lounged, and stroked their moustaches reflectively, and looked at the palm-trees, and the orano-e-groves, and the white Moorish villas that stud the steep, smiling slopes of Mus- tapha Superieur, in the solemn silence of the true-born Englishman. They might have sat there for ever and said nothing (in which case the world must certainly have lost the present narrative) had not the felt presence of a Common Want IN THE DARK CONTINENT. 3 impelled them at last spasmodically to a conversational effort. ' I beg your pardon, but do you ha])pen to have a light about you ?' the elder of the two said, in an apologetic voice, drawing a cigar, as he spoke, from the neat little morocco case in his pocket. 'Curious, but I was just going to ask you the very same thing,' his younger com- panion answered, with a bashful smile. ' I've finished my last vesuvian. Suppose we go into the smoking-room and look for a match. Can you tell me where, in this abode of luxury, the smoking-room finds itself ?' 'Why, I haven't yet investigated the question,' the other replied, rising from his seat as he spoke; ' but I'm open to convic- tion. Let's go and see. My trade's ex- ploring. ' ' Then 1 take it for granted you're a new- comer, like myself, as you don't know your way about the club-rooms yet ?' ' You put your finger plump on the very 1—2 4 THE TENTS OF SHEM. point,' the elder answered, opening a door on the left in search of the common need. ' The fact is, I arrived in Algiers only yesterday evening.' ' Another coincidence ! Precisely my case. I crossed by last night's boat from Marseilles. Ah, here's the smoking-room! May I offer you a light? P'f, pf, p'f Thanks, that'll do very well, I think. . . . And how do you feel to-day, after that terrible journey ?' The elder Briton smiled a somewhat grim and restrained smile. He was tall and fair, but much bronzed with the sun. ' Never had such a tossing in all my life before,' he answered quietly. ' A horrid voyage. Swaying to and fro from side to side till I thought I should fall off, and be lost to humanity. Talk of the good ship plunging on the sea, indeed, as Theo Marzials does in that rollicking song of his ; any other ship I ever sailed on's the merest trifle to it.' IN THE DARK CONTINENT. $ ' And when did you leave England ?' his companion went on, with a polite desire, commendable in youth, to keep up the suc- cessfully-inaugurated conversation. * You weren't on the Ahd-el-Kader with us from Marseilles, on Tuesday?' ' When did I leave England ?' the new acquaintance answered, with a faint twinkle in his eye, amused at the chance of a momentary mystification. ' I left England last October, and I've been ever since get- ting to Algiers. Per varios casus, per tot discrimina reruni! ' Goodness gracious ! By what route ?' the youth with the dark moustache inquired, distrusting the Latin, and vaguely suspect- ing some wily attempt to practise upon his tender years and credulity. ' By the land -route from Tunis, back of the desert, inCi Biskra and Laghouat ' ' But I thought you said you'd had such an awful tossing!' ' So I did. Never felt such a tossing- in 6 THE TENTS OF SHEM. the world before. But it wasn't the sea ; it was the ship of the desert. I came here — as far as Blidah, at least — true Arab-wise, see-saw, on camel-back.' The dark young man puffed away at his weed for a moment vigorously, in deep con- templation. He was a shy person who didn't like to be taken in ; and he strongly suspected his new acquaintance of a desire to humbug him. ' What were you doing?' he asked, at last, in a more constrained voice, after a short pause. ' Picking flowers,' was the curt and un- expected answer. ' Oh, come now, you know,' the dark young man expostulated, with a more cer- tain tone, for he felt he was being hoaxed. ' A fellow doesn't go all the way to the desert, of all places in the world, just for nothing else but to pick flowers.' * Excuse me, a fellow does, if he happens to be a fellow in the flower and beetle IN THE DARK CONTINENT. 7 business, which is exactly my own humble but useful avocation.' 'Why, surely, there aren't any flowers there. Nothing but sand, and sunset, and skeletons.* ' Pardon me. I've been there to see. Allow me to show you. I'll just go and fetch that portfolio over there.' And he opened it in the sunlight. ' Here are a few little water-colour sketches of my desert acquaintances.' The dark young man glanced at them with some languid curiosity. An artist by 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 attentively: 'Well, you can draw,' he said at last, after a brief scrutiny. ' I don't know whether flowers like those grow in the desert or not — I should rather bet on noty of the two — but I'm a painter myself, and I know at any rate you can paint them ex- cellently, as amateurs go.' 8 THE TENTS OF SHEM. ' ^ly one accomplishment,* the explorer answered, with a pleased expansion of the corners of his mouth; it is human to receive approbation gratefully from those who know. ' I couldn't sketch a scene or draw a figure with tolerable accuracy to save my life; but I understand the birds, and creeping things, and flowers ; and sympathy, I suppose, makes me draw them, at least, sympathetically.' ' Precisely so. That's the very word,' the artist "vvent on, examining each drawing- he turned over with more and more care. * Though your techniques amateurish, of course, I 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 loveliest near their furthest limit. Butterfly-fertilized. But what brings 3-0 u to Algeria so late in the season? All the rest of the world is IN THE DARK CONTINENT. 9 turning its back now upon Africa, and hurrying away to Aix-les-Bains,and Biarritz, and Switzerland, and England. You and I will be the only people, bar Arabs and Frenchmen (who don't count), left here for the summer.' ' What, are you going to stop the summer here too?' ' Well, not in Algiers itself,' the explorer answered, flicking his boot with his cane for an imaginary dust-spot. ' I've been baked enough in the desert for the last six months to cook a turtle, and I'm going over yonder now, where ices grow free, for cool- ness and refreshment.' And he waved his hand with a sweep across the sapphire semicircle of the glassy bay, to the great white block of rearing mountains that rose with their sheet of virgin snow against the profound azure of an African sky in the far background. ' What, to Kabvlie!' the artist exclaimed, with a start of surprise. 10 THE TENTS OF SHEM. • To Kabylie — yes. The very place. You've learnt its name and its fame already, then ?* ' Why, I see in this the finger of Fate,' the artist answered, with more easy confi- dence. ' We have here, in fact, a third coincidence. It's in Kabylie that I, too, have decided on 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, just to paint. Nothing more than that. The country and the people ; new ground for the exhibitions. Spain's used up: so some fellows in England who know the markets advised me to go to Kabylie on an artistic exploring expedition. From our point of view, you see, it's unbroken ground, the}^ say, or almost unbroken; and every- thing civilized has been so painted up, and painted down, and painted round about, of IN THE DARK CONTINENT. ii late years, by everyone everywhere, that one's glad to get a hint of the chance of finding some unhackneyed subject in a corner of Africa. Besides, they tell me it's all extremely naive; and I like naivete. That's my line 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 ven- geance,' the explorer answered. ' It's quite untouched and unvulgarized as yet by any taint or tinge of Parisian civilization. The aboriginal Kabyle hasn't even learnt the A B C of French culture — to sit at an e.stammet and play dominoes.' ' So much the better. That's just what I w^ant. Unvarnished man. The antique vase in real life. And I'm told the cos- tumes are almost Greek in their natural- ness.' ' Quite Greek, or even more so,' the ex- plorer replied ; ' though, perhaps, consider- ing its extreme simplicity, we ought rather 12 . THE TENTS OF SHEM. to say, even less so. But where do you mean to stop, and how to travel? Accom- modation in Ancient Greece, you know, wasn't really luxurious.' ' Oh, I'll just set out from Algiers by diligence, I suppose, and put up for a while at some little hotel in the country villages.' The explorer's face could not resist a gentle smile of suppressed merriment. * An hotel, my dear sir!' he said with surprise. ' An hotel in Kabylie ! You'll find it 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 familiar avocation of playing bowls and sipping absinthe, there's «ot such a thing as a cabaret, a lodging, a wayside inn, in the whole block of mountain country. Strangers who want to explore Kabylie may go if they like to the house of the>illage headman, the ami?ie, as they call IN THE DARK CONTINENT, 13 hiin, where you may sup off a nasty mess of pounded koiis-kom, and sleep at night on a sort of shelf or ledge among the goats and the cattle. Government compels every amine to provide one night's board and entertainment for any European traveller who cares to demand it. But the enter- tainment provided is usually so very varied and so very lively that those who have tried it once report on it unfavourably. Verhum sap. It's too entomological. When you go to Kabylie, doii't do as the Kabyles do.' ' But how do you mean to manage your- self?' the artist asked, with the prudence of youth. He was nettled at having made so stupid a mistake at the very outset about the resources of the mountains, and not quite certain that he grasped the meaning- of verhum sap. (his Latin being strictly a negative quantity), so he took refuge in the safe device of a question that turned the tables. ' I came to Algiers hoping to pick 14 THE TENTS OF SHEM. up some informauou as to ways and means as soon as I got here; and since you seem to know the ropes so well, perhaps you'll crive a raw hand the benefit of your riper experience.' * Oh, / have my tent,' the traveller answered, with the quiet air of a man wdio has made his way alone about the world. ' It's a first- rate tent for camping- out in ; it's supplied with the electric light, a hydraulic lift, hot water laid on, and all the latest modern improvements — meta- phorically speaking,' he hastened to add by an after-thought, for he saw his companion's large gray 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 menn to paint in Kabylie, and will bear a share in the expenses of carriage, it might suit both our books, perhaps, if you were to engage my furnished apartments. For I'm not overburdened with IN THE DARK CONTINENT. 15 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 references and an un- Idemished character. Money not so much an object as congenial society in a respect- able famil3^ 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 immensely obliged. Nothing on earth would suit my plans better, if it wouldn't be trespassing too much on your kind hospitality.' ' Not at all,' the explorer answered with a good-humoured nod. ' Don't mention that. To say the truth, I shall be glad of a companion. The Arab palls 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 little, as to business arrangements, over a l6 THE TENTS OF SHEM. cup of coffee, and I dure say, when we've com])ared notes, we shall manage to hit things off comfortably together.' ' May we exchange cards ?' the artist asked, pulling out a silver-bound case from his breast-pocket, and handing one of its little regulation i)asteboards to his new friend. The explorer glanced at it, and read the name, ' Vernon Blake, Gresholm Road, Guildford.' * I've no card of my own,' he made answer, 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, delighted to show himself not wholly ignorant of a distinguished naturalist. ' You're an F.R.S., aren't you 1 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 somethmg. IN THE DARK CONTINENT. 17 Do you know, if I'd only known that before, I think I. should have been afraid to accept your kind offer. I'm an awfully ignorant sort of a fellow myself— far too i«,morant to go camping-out with an F.R.8. in the wilds of Africa.' 'If being an F.R.S. is the worst crime you can bring to my charge,' Le Marchant answered with a smile, ' I dare say we shall pull together all very well. And if you meet no worse society than F.R.S.'s in the wilds of Africa, though it's me that says it, as oughtn't to say it, your luck will have been very exceptional indeed. IJut I don't think you need be much afraid of me. I'm an F.K.S. of the mildest type. I never call anything by its longest and ugliest Latin name : I never bore other people with interesting details of anatomical structure : I never cut up anything alive (bar oysters), and I never lecture, publicly or ])rivately, to anybody, anywhere, on any consideration. There are two kinds of naturalists, you VOL. I. 2 l8 THE TENTS OF SHEM. know : and I'm one of tlie wrong kind. The superior class live in London or Paris, examine everything minutely wdtli a great 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 every- thing 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 surroundings. That's natural history, old- fashioned, simple, commonplace natural history ; and I, for my part, am an old- fashioned naturalist. I've been all winter watching the sandy-gray creatures on the sandy-gray desert, preparing for my great work on " Structure and Function," and 7JV THE DARK CONTINENT. 19 now, through the summer, I want to correct and correlate my results by observing the plants and animals and insects of the mountains in Kabylie. To tell you the truth, I think 1 shall like you — for I, too, have a taste for sim2)licity. If you come with me, I can promise you sport and healthy fare, and make you comfortable in my furnished apartments. Let's descend to details — for this is business — and we must understand exactly what each of us wants before either of us binds himself down formally for five months to the other. Alphonse, a couple of coffees and two petits verre.'i at once, here, Avill you ?' And by the clarifying aid of a cigar and a chasse-cafe, 11 was finally decided, before the evening sun flushed the Djurjura purple, and turned the white Arab walls to pink, that Vernon Blake should accompany Eustace Le ^larchant, on almost nominal terms as to the sharing of expenses, on his summer trip to the mountains of Grande Kabylie. 9 9 CHAPTER II. HONOURS. Somewhere ubout the same time, away over in England, Iris Knyvett sat one morning- at lunch, drumming with her fingers on the table before her that particular tattoo which the wisdom of our ancestors ascribed to the author of all evil. Iris Knyvett herself would, no doubt, have been very nmch 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 unknowui young men, from the English Club at Algiers, into the wilds of Kabylie. She had hardly heard (save in the catalogue of the Institute) the name of Vernon HONOURS. 21 Blake ; while Eustace Le Marchant's masterly papers before the Linnean Society, on the Longicorn Beetles of the Spice Islands, liad never roused her girlish enthusiasm, or quickened her soul to a fiery thirst for the study of eu\ imology. And yet, if she had but known it, Iris Knyvett's whole future in life depended utterly, as so often happens with everyone of us, on the casual en- counter of those two perfect strangers among the green recesses of the North African mountains. In absolute ignorance of which profound truth. Iris Knyvett herself went on drum- ming 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. Avith a dry cough, ' why don't you eat your lunch ? Your appetite's frightful. What makes you go on hammering away at that dreadful tattoo so ?' 22 THE TENTS OF SHEM. Iris's eyes came back with a bound from a point in space lying apparently several thousand miles behind the eminently con- ventional 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 that telegram.' Mrs. Knyvett helped herself to a second piece of filleted sole and its due propor- tion of anchovy sauce with great delibera- tion, before she answered slowly, * Oh, so you're expecting a telegram !' ' Yes, mamma,' Iris replied with scarcely a shade of reasonable vexation on her pretty face. ' Don't you remember, dear, I told you my tutor promised to telegraph to me.' ' Your tutor ! oh, did he?' Mrs. Knyvett went on with polite acquiescence, letting drop her pince-nez with a dexterous eleva- tion of her arched eyebrows. The principal feature of Mrs. Knyvett*s character, indeed, was a Roman nose of finely-developed HONOURS. 23 proportions ; but it was one of those insipid Roman 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 concep- tion. * Not he, mamma. Vou must surely remember I've reminded you over and over again that my tutor's name is Emily Van- renen.' ' Then why does she sign herself " E. Van- 24 THE TENTS OF SHEM. renen, B.A. and D.Sc," I wonder?' Mrs. Knyvett went on with dreamy uncertainty. ' A Doctor of Science ought surely to be a man? And Bachelor of Arts, too— liachelor 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 mad'; her jump up hastily. 'That must be the telegram!' she cried with a tremor, and darted off to the door in a vigorous dash that sufficiently showed her Girton training had at least not quite succeeded in crushing the life out of her. ' Iris, Iris !' her mother called after her in horror ; ' let Jane answer the door, my dear. This unseemly procedure— and at lunch-time, too— is really quite unpardon- able. In my time girls ' But Iris was w^ell out of hearing long since, and Mrs. Knyvett was forced to do penance vicariously herself on her daughter's HONOURS. 25 account to the offended fetish of the British drawing-room. In another minute the bright young girl liad come back crestfallen, ushering in before her a stout and rosy-faced middle-aged gentleman, also distinguished by a Roman nose to match, and dressed with the scrupulous and respectable neatness of the London barrister. ' It's only Uncle Tom,' she cried, disap- pointeil. 'It's only Uncle Tom?' the stout, red- faced gentleman echoed good-humouredly. ' Well, for taking the conceit out of a man, I'll back the members of one's own family, and more 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 coming out of Court in the midst of a most important case, and leaving my junior, a thick-headed Scotchman as ever was born, to cross-examine the leading 26 THE TENTS OF SHEM. witness for the otlier side, on purpose to ask you wlietlier you've got a telegram : and " Only Uncle Tom " are the very first words my prettiest niece thinks fit to greet me with after all my devotion/ And he stooped down as Iris seated her- self at the table once more, and kissed her affectionately on her smooth wdiite forehead. ' Oh, uncle !' Iris cried, blushing up to her pretty blue eyes with ingenuous distress at having even for a moment appeared to slight him — ' I didn't mean that. You know I didn't mean it. I'm always pleased and delighted to see you. But the fact is I was expecting the telegram; and I ran to the door when you rat-tat-tatted, thinking it was the telegraph boy ; and when I saw it WaS only you — I mean, when I saw^ it was you, of course — why, I w^as naturally dis- appointed not to have got the news about it all. But did you really come up all the way from Court on purpose to hear it, you dear old uncle?' HONOURS. V 'AH the way from Court, with Cole- ridge, C.J., smiling cynically at my best witnesses, I give you my word of honour, Iris,' the red-faced old gentleman answered, mollified; 'for nothing on earth except to hear about a certain pretty little niece of mine — because I knew the pretty little niece was so very anxious on the subject.' ' Oh, uncle, that teas kind of you,' Iris cried aloud, flushing up to her eyes once more, this time with pleasure. A little sympathy went a long way with her. ' It's so good of you to take so much interest in me.' ' My unfortunate client won't say so,' Uncle Tom muttered half aloud to him- self. And, indeed, the misguided persons who had retained and refreshed Thomas Kynnersley Whitmarsh, Q.C., the eminent authority on probate cases, would probably not have learned with unmixed pleasure this touching instance of his domestic affec- tion. 28 THE TENTS OF SHEM. MUit what's it all about, dear Tom ?' Mrs. Kiiyvett exclaimed, in a querulous tone and with a puzzled air. ' What do Iris and you wani to oet a telegram from this ambiguous tutor of hers for V Uncle Tom was just about to enlighten his sister's darkness (for the five hundred and tirst time), when poor Iris, unable to control her feelings any longer, rose from the table, with tears standing in her pretty blue eyes, and remarked, in a slightly husky voice, that she could eat nothing, and would go and wait for the telegram in the drawing- room. Mrs. Knyvett looked after her, bewildered and amazed. ' This sort of thing makes girls very strange,' she said sapiently. -' This sort of thing ' being that idol of our aire, the Higher Education. ' Well, well, it's done Iw no harm, any- how,' Uncle Tom answered, with stout trood-humour, for his niece was a great favourite of his, in spite of her heresies. ' I HONOURS. 39 don't approve of all this fal-lal and non- sense myself, either ; but Iris is a Knyvett, you see, and the Knyvetts always struck out a line for themselves; and each Knyvett strikes out a different one. She's struck out hers. She didn't get that from m, you may be sure. Nobody could ever accuse the Whitmarshes of eccentricity or origin- ality. We get on, but we get on steadily. It's dogged that does it with our family, Amelia. The Knyvetts are different. They go their own ^vay, and it's no good any- body else trying to stop them.' ' What would her poor dear fiither say to it all, 1 wonder ?' Mrs. Knyvett remarked parenthetically, through a mist of sighs. ' He would say, " Let her go her own way," ' the eminent Q.C. replied wdth cheer- ful haste ; ' and if it comes to that, w4iether he said it or not wouldn't much matter, for in her own quiet, peaceable, unobtrusive manner, offending nobody, Iris would go her own way, in spite of him. Yes, Amelia, 30 THE TENTS OF SHEM. I say, in ypite of him. After nil, it's not been at all a bad thing, in some respects, that our dear girl should have taken u\) with this liii'her education fad. We don't {)j)prove of it ; but, if it's done nothing else, it's kept her at least out of the way of the fortune-hunters.' ' Iris has great expectations,' ^Irs. Kny- vett remarked complacently. Slie remarked it, not because her brother was not already well aware of the fact, but because the thought Avas in her own mind, and she uttered it, as she uttered all other plati- tudes that happened to occur to her, in the full expectation that her hearer would find them as interesting as she did. ' Tris has great expectations !' her brother echoed. ' No doubt in the world, I think, about that. B}'- the terms of the old Ad- miral's will, ridiculous as they are, I hardly imagine Sir Arthur would venture to leave the property otherwise. To do so would be risky, with me against him. And if Iris HONOURS. 31 liad gone into London Society, and been thrown into the whirl of London life, in- stead of reading her " Odyssey " and lier " Lucretius," and mugging up amusing works ou conic sections, it's my belief some penniless beggar — an Irish adventurer, per- haps, if such a creature survives nowadays — would have fallen upon her and snapped her up long ago ; especially before she came into her fortune. Then it seems to be almost disinterested. Now, this Cambridge scheme has saved us from all the trouble and bother of that sort of thing — it's ferried us across the most dangerous time — it's helped us to bridge over the thin ice, till Iris is a woman, and quite lit to take care of herself.' ' There's something in that,' Mrs. Kny vett responded, with a stately nod of the pro- minent feature. It seemed somehow to revolve independently on its own axis. 'Something in that!' her brother cried, amazed, as though his own 'devil' had 32 THE TENTS OF SHEM. ventured to agree with him. ' 1' here's a great deal in that, Amelia! There's every- thing in that! There's workls in that! It's the " Iliad " in a nutshell. The girl's done the very best thing on earth for her- self. She's saved her expectations— her great expectations— from the greedy maw of every eavesdropping London fortune- hunter.' At that moment another rat-tat at the door made Uncle Tom start in his chair, and Iris's voice was heard upon the stairs as she rushed down from the drawing-room to the front-door in sudden trepidation. Endless terrors crowded upon her mind as she went. She was (juitc safe about her Latin prose, to be sure, but oh! that un- speakable, that terrible mistake in the unseen passage from IMato's 'Republic!' It would spoil all, that false second aorist ! It wa.^ the telegram this time, sure enough, without further delay. Iris tore it open in an agony of suspense. Had the second HONOURS. 33 aorist betrayed her girlish trust ? Had Plato repelled her platonic affections ? Then her heart stopped beating for a moment, as she read the words : ' Cambridge University, Classical Tripos : Women. First Class, Iris Knyvett, Girton, bracketed equal, Third Classic. Sincerest congratulations. We are all so proud. ' Affectionately yours, ' F Yankenen.' Oh, cruel century that has put such a strain upon a growing woman ! Uncle Tom seized the half-fainting girl tenderly in his arms, and, wringing her hand a dozen times over, in spite of his disapproval of the higher education for women (which his pre- sent chronicler blushes to share), kissed her and congratulated her turn about in one unceasing tide for the next five minutes; while poor Iris's head, giddy with her triumph, swam round and round in a wild delirium of delight and amazement. Third Classic 1 In her highest mood of hope she VOL. I. 3 34 THE TENTS OF SHEM. had never expected anything like this. She cried to herself silently in her joy and satis- faction. ' But what does it all mean ?' Mrs. Kny- vett exclaimed, adjusting the pince-nez on its pre-ordained stand once more with prac- tised skill, and gazing vacantly from the telegram to Iris, and from Iris to the tele- o-ram. 'Is it— very much worse— much lower than she expected ?' ' What does it all mean, ma am ?' Uncle Tom exclaimed, flinging prudence to the dogs and his cherished convictions to the four winds of heaven. ' What does it all mean ? I like your question, indeed I Why it means just this— God bless my soul, how the girl trembles I— that your own daughter, Iris Knyvett, has beaten all the men but two in Cambridge University into a cocked hat. Thats what it means, ma'am. That's what it means ! I don't approve of it ; but, upon my soul, I'm proud of her ! Your dauditer Iris is Third Classic' CHAPTER III. BY MOORISH MOUNTAINS. A WEEK later, preparations were complete. The tent had been arranged for mountain travelling ; a folding-bed had been set up for the lodger's accommodation ; stores had been laid in from that universal provider of Algerian necessities, Alexander Dunlop, in the Rue d'Isly ; a Mahonnais Spaniard from the Balearic Isles had been secured as ser- vant to guard the camp ; and Blake and Le Mnrchant, on varying ends intent, had fairly started off for their tour of inspection through the peaks and passes of the Kaby- lian Highlands. The artist's kit included a large and select assortment of easels, 3—2 36 THE TENTS OF SHEM. brushes, pigments, canvas, pencils, and Whatman's paper ; the naturalist's em- braced a good modern fowling-piece, an endless array of boxes for skins and sjjeci- mens, and a fine collection of butterfly-nets, chloroform bottles, entomological pins, and materials for preserving birds, animals, and botanical treasures. Le Marchant, as the oldei' and more experienced traveller, had charged himself with all the necessary ar- rangements as to packing 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- mattress do duty for a bedstead, at the same time that they contained, in their deep recesses, the needful creature comforts for a three months' tour amono^ untrodden waA's, CD ^ he could not sufficiently congratulate him- self upon the lucky chance which had thrown him, on the balcony of the Club at Algiers that particular afternoon, in com- pany with so competent and so skilful an BY MOORISH MOUNTAINS. 37 explorer. He had fallen on his feet, indeed, without knowing it. A lovely morning of bright African sun- shine saw the two set forth in excellent spirits from the hotel at Tizi-Ouzou, the furthest French village in the direction of Kabylie, whither they had come the pre- vious day by diligence from Algiers, to attack the mountains of the still barbaric and half-conquered Kabyles. ' Are the mules ready ?' Le Marchant asked of the waiter at the little country inn where they had passed the night, as he swallowed down the last drop of his morn- ino^ coffee. * Monsieur,' the waiter answered, wiping his mouth with his greasy apron as he spoke, * the Arabs say the mules Avill be at the door in half an hour.' ' The Arabs say !' Le Marchant repeated, with an impatient movement of his bronzed hand. ' In half an hour, indeed ! The sloth of the Arab ! I know these fellows. 38 THE TENTS OF SHEM. That means ten o'clock, at the very earliest. It's now seven, and unless we get under way within twenty minutes, the sun '11 be so hot before we reach a resting-place, that we shall deliquesce like Miss Carolina Wilhel- mina Amelia Skeggs in ''The Vicar of Wakefield." I'll go out and hurry them up, Blake, with a little gentle moral suasion.' lUake followed his host curiously to the door, where half a dozen ragged Orientals, picturesquely clad in a costume about equally divided between burnoose 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 by the watch I hold in my hand, by the beard of the Prophet, I solemnly tell you, you may go every man to his own home without a sou, and I wdl hire other mules, with the blessing of Allah, BY MOORISH MOUNTAINS. 39 from better men than you are to take us on our journey.' Blake did not entirely understand collo- quial Arabic when rapidly spoken — in fact, his own linguistic studies stopped short suddenly at his mother tongue, and so much French in the Ollendorffian dialect as enabled him to state fluently that the gardener's son had given his apple to the daughter of the carpenter — but he was greatly amused to see the instantaneous effect which this single sonorous sentence, rolled quietly but very firmly out in dis- tinct 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!' — to the backs of donkeys ; arms and legs were flung wildly about in multitudinous gesticulations of 40 THE TENTS OF SHEM. despair and inability: and before the five minutes were fairly over by that inexorable watch which Le Marchant held with stern resolve before him, the little cavalcade started off at a trot in the direction of the still snow-clad summits of the nearer Djur- jura. It was a quaint small caravan, as it mounted the hillside. The two Englishmen rode unburdened mules ; the 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 highroad that had conducted them for a mile from Tizi-Ouzou dwindled down abruptly near a steep slope to a mere aboriginal Kabyle mule-track, beset with stones, and overhung by thickets of prickly cactus. BY MOORISH MOUNTAINS. 41 * How should I know ?' the naturalist answered, with a vague wave of the hand. ' We're going to Kabylie. 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 true traveller never decides anything beforehand. He goes where fate and fortune lead him. What we both want is to explore the unknown. We'll make our headquarters within its border, wherever we lind a convenient resting- place.' ' Are the Kabyles black ?' Blake ventured to ask, with a sidelong look, unburdening 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 Romanis>ed population— 42 THE TENTS OF SHEM. the I'.erbers, in fact— driven up into the hills by the Arab invasion in the seventh century. Practically speaking, you know, Ju^rurtha and Masinissa and Juba were in Kabyles/ Blake had never heard oF these gentle- men's names before ; but he veiled his ignorance with an acquiescent ' Really 1' They rode on, talking of many things and various, for two or three hours, under the brilliant sunshine. But all the way as thev 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 mag- nificent 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 wooded lukc both opened their eyes together in mute astonishment. 'And Avhat's your name?' the painter ventured to ask, half dumb with surprise, after a moment's pause. ' My name's :Meriem,' the girl replied simply. 'Meriem! Ah, yes, I dare say; that's Kabyle. Vmt your father's ?' ' My father's was Yusuf.' 'Yusuf?' Le Marchant cried. 'Why, A^usuf's not English! The EngUsh for that, you know, is plain Joseph. Was your father's name Joseph somebody ?' 'No,' the girl answered, shaking her head firmly. ' His name was Yusuf. Only Yusuf. His Kabyle name, I mean. And mine's Meriem. In English, Yusuf used always to tell me, it's Mary.* ' But your surname ?' Le Marchant sug- srested, with a smile at her simplicity. Meriem shook her head once more, with a puzzled look. ENTER A HEROINE. 6$ ' 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 simplify 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 head. ' I never heard any.* ' But your father had ! Surely he must have borne an English name ? You must have heard him say it. He's dead, I sup- pose. But can't you remember ?' ' Yes, Yusuf's dead, and so's my mother, and I live with my uncle. My uncle's the Ami7ie, you know, the head of the village.* VOL. I. 5 66 THE TENTS OF SHEM. And she waved her hand toward him with native gracefulness. •Well, what was your fathers English name?' Le Marchant 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 Something, 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 ENTER A HEROINE. 67 was that he told me. I only remember his Kabyle name, Yusuf, and his French one, of course— that was Joseph Leboutillier.' 'What! he had a French name, too?' Le Marchant cried, looking up in fresh surprise. ' Oh yes, he had a French one,' Meriem answered quietly, as if everyone might be expected to know such simple facts. ' And that, of course, was what they wanted to shoot him for.' 5—2 CHAPTER V. PROBLEMS. At that very moment, before Le Marchant could gratify his curiosity any further, a voice from the crowd of Kabyle bystanders called out sternly, in a commanding tone : 'Meriem! Ho agha!' and the girl, with a start, hurried oiF at the sound into the eager group of her fellow-tribesmen. The crowd gathered round her in hot de- bate. For awhile, Le Marchant and Blake observed with dismay that their new friend was being closely questioned as to what she herself had said in the unknown tongue to the infidel strangers, and what the infidel strangers had said in return with so much apparent kindliness to her. Angry glances PROBLEMS. 69 were cast from time to time in their direc- tion, and voices were raised, and fingers and hands gesticulated fiercely. But after awhile the beautiful girl's calm report seemed somewhat to still the excitement of the indignant Kabyles. She stood before them with outstretched arms and open palms, protesting, as Le Marchant gathered from her eloquent attitude, that these w^ere indeed friends, and not enemies. Her pro- test prevailed. After a few minutes' inter- val, she returned once more, with a smiling face, 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 role of interpreter between the two high contracting parties. The Headman spoke a few words first to the girl, who endeavoured, to the best of her ability, to impart their meaning in English to the attentive new-comers. 70 THE TENTS OF SHEM. '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 come to see the mountains and the country, and all that grows in them.* Meriem shook her head with a gesture of deprecation. '1 don't know^ these words,' she said. ' Yusuf never used them. I 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 sentences rapidly in Kabyle to the three natives. Le Marchant saw his mistake at once. The English w^ords he had used were above the girl's simple childish level. He must come down to her platform. He tried over agam. ' My friend paints pictures,' he said with PROBLEMS. 71 a smile, holding up a half-finished sketch of Blake's ; ' and I shoot birds, and pick up plants and flowers and insects.* Meriem nodded a satisfied nod of com- plete 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 Kabylie ? 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 Marchant answered, with the calmness of a man well used to such deal- ings 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 plan out new roads and forts, and will not the Kabyles be forced to work 73 THE TENTS OF SHEM. on them, whether they will or whether they will not? Have not the French, who are the enemies of my i)eople, sent you to look if tlie 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 ow \ soldiers ?' ' Explain to your people,' Le Marchant said gently, in his cool w-ay, ' that we are English, like your father ; not French, like the people who live at Fort National. We are Yusuf s countrymen. AVe have nothing to do with the Government at all. We plan no roads, and build no forts. We have only come for our own amusement, to l)aint 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 PROBLEMS. 73 we are friends, as he was. We wisli well to the Kabyles, and all true believers.' When Meriem had translated and dilated upon these last remarks with her own com- ments, the Kabyles seemed )yle vil- laire in Algeria where a single soul can i^k: lix xx.^. 78 THE TENTS OF SHEM. speak a word of English. We find an in- teri)reter ready to our hand. I'm glad I trusted, as usual, to chance. My patron troddess has not deserted me.' ' And they say,' Meriem went on, after a few more words interchanged in a low voice with her own people, ' that they'll sell you mlik 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 sug- gested quickly. Meriem 's face lighted up with a flash of recognition at the sound. ' Yes, that's the word,' she said. ' I couldn't remember it. Interpret what you say to them. I'd forgotten "interpret." I expect I've forgotten a great many words. *' Translate's " another. I recollect it now. You see, it's so long since I've spoken English.' ' The wonder is that you remember any PROBLEMS. 79 at all; Le ^^larchant answered, with a polite little wave. It was impossible to treat that barefooted Kabyle girl otherwise than as a lady. ' But it'll soon 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 liked that,' Meriem replied, with a faint sigh. ' He was anxious I should talk often, and shouldn't on any account forget my English.' Le Marchant was silent. That naive expression of her natural affection touched him to the heart by its quaint simplicity. At that moment Diego, looking up from the pan he was holding over the fire with the omelette for supper, called out sharply, ' Vie7i,s done, Mauresque ! Donne la main ici ! Vims vite, je te dis. Nous te voidom pour nous aider /' In a second Meriem drew herself up proudly, for though she did not understand the meaning of the words, or the habitual m 8o THE TENTS OF SHEM. insolence to the indhjeneH implied in the tutoiement, she caught readily enough at the iuiperiousness of the tone and the rude vul- lake," ' the painter exclaimed, in answer to Meriem's startled 142 THE lENTS OF SHEM. look of mute inquiry at their unexpected merriment. ' But Le Marchant always calls you Blake/ Meriem objected, much puzzled. * In England, don't people think it right for women to call men by their own names, then ?' ' Well, not by their surnames alone ; it doesn't sound nice. They generally put a Mr. before them. But if you like,' Blake went on with audacious ease, for he was far from shy before the poor Kabyle girl, ' you may call me Yernon. That's my Christian name ; and that's how Englishwomen al- ways call a man they know well, and really care for.' ' I really care for you, Yernon ; I like you very much,' Meriem said straightfor- wardly. * In that case, I, too, shall claim the same privilege of friendship, and ask you to call me plain Eustace,' Le Marchant put in, with gentle solicitude. NO SOUL. 143 * Very well, Plain Eustace,' Meriem an- swered, in her innocence taking the name in good faith as a single compound one. The laughter that met this unintentional sally was so very contagious, that Meriem herself joined in it heartily, though it was some minutes before she could be made fully to understand the intricate mysteries of European nomenclature. When she had left the tent that night, her errand finished, Le Marchant turned round to his easy-going travelling com- panion with much earnestness in his quiet eye. ' Blake,' he said seriously, ' I hope you're not trying to make that poor girl fall in love with you.' ' I'm not doing anything to make her fall in love,' Blake answered evasively ; * but she's never met anybody who treated her decently in her life before, and I suppose she can't help perceiving the . . . well you know, the difference between you or me, 144 THE TENTS OF SHEM. for example, and these ignorant Kabyle fellows.' * Blake, you must surely see for yourself that in feeling and in intellect the girl's more than half an Englishwoman. If you win her heart, and then go away and leave her without a word to this man you say her uncle sold her to, you'll murder her as truly as if, like the Kaby^ .s, you stuck a knife into her.' Blake shuffled about uneasily on his campstool. * She can't be such a fool as to think I should ever dream of marrying her,' he re- plied, with a half-averted face. Le Marchant looked across at him with mild eyes of wonder. ' At any rate, Blake,' he said, in a very solemn, warning voice, ' don't engage her affections and then desert her. She may be a Kabyle in outward dress ; but to do that would be as cruel a deed as ever you could do to one of those educated English ladies NO SOUL. 14^ you think so much about. Of one blood- all the nations of the earth. Hearts are hearts the whole world over.' Blake was silent, and threw back his head carelessly to inspect the sketch he was l)usily cooking. VOL. I. IQ CHAPTER IX. STRIKING A CLUE. It was a glorious hot day in an Algerian July. The mountains stood clear from cloud in every direction, with their peaks etched out distinctly against the gray back- ground of the hazy- white sky; and Le Marchant made up his mind early in the morning to attempt the upper slopes of the Lalla Rhadidja dome, one of the highest among the surging giants of the Djurjura, covered thick with snow for nine months of the year, but now just frte at last, under the influence of a burning hot spell of sirocco, from the white cap it had Avorn since the beginning of winter. Blake, ever eager in the quest of the picturesque, was STRIKING A CLUE. 147 ready enough to join him in his moun- taineering expedition; while Meriem, who had once or twice made her way on foot as a pilgrim to the tiny Mahommedan shrine of the Lady Khadidja, which lies nestled amid snowdrifts just below the summit, had after some hesitation agreed to accompany them, with two other of the village ' by nature a lover of freedom, I should prefer it for my own part wholly unburdened.' 'And suppose she won't have you?' his friend su<>*o:ested, with a faint smile of doubt. ' Won't have me ? ^ly dear sir, at the present day any man on earth may have any g'irl he choof^es if he only takes the trouble to set about the preliminaries properly. Women at present are a drug in the market. Girls without money you may have for the asking; girls with money, or with expectations of money, you may have by approaching them in a projier spirit from the side of the emotions, fl faut I ear /aire la coiir, bien entendu — and that, I admit, is a deii^radinir mode of exercise — but when the money can be had on no other condi- tion, the wise man will not disdain even that last unpleasant one. He will stoop to conquer; and then, having once secured what are popularly known as the girl's i66 THE TENTS OF SHEM. affections, he'll take care that the settle- ments, ^vhich form the kernel of the whole transaction, should not be drawn up too stringently in the lady's favour. Those are my sentiments on the matrimonial position/ And Harold Knyvett, having thus delivered himself of his social views, rose from his chair with the resolute manner of a man who knows his own mind to the bottom, and buried his hands deep in his trousers- pockets. ' However,' he went on, after a brief pause, during part of which he had been engaged in selecting a really good cigar wdth deliberate care from the box a club- servant had brought in to his order, * I don't anticipate any such misfortune as that, I'm happy to say. I've very little doubt Sir Arthur, selfish pig though he is, will do the right thing in the end before he kicks the bucket. I rejoice to say he's a man with a conscience. You see, when he first came into the property, he made a w411, RIVAL CLAIMS. 167 a most disgusting will, which he left with his solicitors, and the contents of which are perfectly well known to me, through the kind intervention of Sir Arthur's valet — as a principle in life, always cultivate your rich uncle's valet ; it can do you no harm, and may be of infinite use to you ; a guinea or two bestowed in judicious tips, in that particular quarter, may be regarded in the light of a lucrative long investment.' ' A quid pro quo,' his friend suggested jocosely, emphasising the ' quid ' with a facetious stress, after the manner of that most objectionable animal, the common punster. Harold Knvvett winced, but he smiled for all that, or pretended to smile. Always smile when you see it's expected of you. As a man of taste, he detested puns, especially old ones ; but native politeness, of which he possessed a large stock — the servile politeness of all mean natures — made him careful to laugh at them, however out- i68 THE TENTS OF SHEM. rageous or however tantiquated. ' Preci:?ely so,' he made answer. ' A quid pro quo^' without the einphusis. * Well, by this beastly will, he gives and becjueaths his landed estate and his entire fortune, save and except his own paltry savings from his military pay, to my cousin, the root-grul)ber, the Greek root-grubber, on no better ground, if you j)lease, than just because my grand- father the Admiral, out of the pure vindic- tiveness of his nasty temj^er, desired him, by implication, so to leave it. My grand- father, you know — a most unnatural person — had a grudge against my father, his own youngest son, and expressly excluded him, by the terms of his will, from all rever- sionary interest in the property.' ' Bad-blooded old gentleman !' the sympa- thetic listener piously ejaculated. ' Extremely,' Harold went on, with a smile that showed his even row of blue transparent teetn. ' A worse-blooded old gentleman, indeed, never lived, for, not RIVAL CLAIMS. 169 only did lie cut off my father with a shilling, an act which I could, perhaps, have endured with equanimity, but he cut me too out of all benefit of succession — me, a babe unborn (at the time I am speaking of), who had never done anything on earth, good or bad, to offend him. Such mean vindicti\'cness positively disgusts me. But the Avill was badly drawn up, it appears, and so the wicked old man, by his own mistake, made the grievous error of leaving Sir Arthur — alone, of all his sons — through an omitted phrase, +he power of appoint- ment. Now, Sir Arthur, at the time he came into the property, had seen practically nothing of either my cousin Iris, the root- grubber, or myself — been away in India half his life, you bee, and knew neither my good points nor her weak ones. The conse- quence was, influenced by the bad old man's expressed wishes, he drew up a will at once — the ill-advised will I've already described to you — cutting me off with a few wretched I70 THE TENTS OF SHEM. thousands of personal estate, but leaving the bulk of the landed property absolutely to ris. ' And that will he means to stick to ?' the isympathetic listener inquired politely. ' I hope not,' Harold Knyvett replied, with a glance at his ash. ' You see, the other side played their cards badly. This girl Iris has a meddling old busybody of an uncle : you know him by name — Whit- marsh, Q.C., the man who muddles all the famous probate cases. Well, this old fool of a man Whitmarsh, ignorant of the fact that Sir Arthur had made such a will already, began to bully and badger my uncle in his vulgar fashion, by insinuating to him privately that he'd better not leave the property to me, or else he'd find a good case made out against him on the strength of the Admiral's express disapprobation. Naturally, that put Sir Arthur's back up. Nobody, an I especially not a peppery old General who's served more than half his RIVAL CLAIMS, 171 life in India, likes to have it dictated to him by rank outsiders what disposition he's to make of his own money. I was wiser than that. T didn't try bullying; I tried soft sawder. I approached Sir Arthur, as I approach the young woman, from the side of the affections. Tlien Iris herself, again, instead of assiduously captivating the old gentleman, as any girl with a grain of common-sense would, of course, have tried to do, positively neglected him for some- thing she calls the higher culture, and, immersed in her Hellenic agricultural opera- tions, dug roots exclusively, when she might rather have been sedulously watering and nursing her relations with Sir Arthur.' ' Thought more of her Odyssey than of her uncle, I suppose. That was lucky for you, Knyvett; for, by Jove! she's a pretty girl, you know, and agreeable into the bargain. If she'd chosen to make up to him, I expect your chances would have been shaky.' 172 THE TENTS OF SHEM. ' Vou say the truth, my dear boy. It wa.^ lucky for me. 1 admit it frankly. Hut I, who always play my cards care- fully, have taken great pains to eliminate luck. I've visited the old gentleman every ble: sed year with recurrent regularity at his sumnt' r quarters, at Aix-les-Bains, much to my own personal discomfort, for he's a seliish old epicure, and I hate selfishness ; but the end, of course, justifies the means ; and I think I've made it i)retty safe by this time that he either has drawn up, or is about to draw up, a new and more sensible will in my favour. As a matter of conscience, he's sure to see to it. 1 shall snap my fingers then at the man Whitmarsh. And, indeed, it'd be a })ity, when one comes to think of it, that a Quixotic, impulsive girl like Iris should have the sole management of all that splendid property. She's like all the learned ladies ; she's quite unpractical. 1 met her last week at a garden - party at Staines (where I was very attentive to RIVAL CLAIMS. 173 her, of course, just to keep my hand in) ; and what do you think the girl actually told me ? She's "'oinf^ to train as a hospital nurse. Pier uncle, old Whitmarsh — who, tliough a meddling old fool, is a man of the world, one can't deny — did liis best to dissuade her from it ; but she woukln't be dissuaded. She wanted to do some good in her generation ! Utopian, quite! It'd never do for her to come into the property !' ' If I were you,' the sympathetic friend responded suggestively, ' I'd make haste uil the same to assure myself as a fact that Sir Arthur had really altered the will. Testamentary dispositions are ticklish things. Men put them off so, from day to day, especially at his time of life, you know. He might die any morning, out of pure mischief, and leave you in the lurch and your cousin in clover.' ' That contingency, unfortunately,' Harold replied, with a sigh, ' it's impossible for 174 ^^^ TENTS OF SHEM. the wisest of men to guard against. But I've hedged, even so ; I've made my book cautiously. It occurred to me to pay marked attention beforehand to my cousin Iris, who's a pretty girl, after all, and not insensible, I foncy, in spite of her Aristotle, to a man's advances ; and I mean to get up an informal engagement with her, of a non- committing character ; so that if by acci- dent she should come into the money (which heaven forbid). I can annex the property that way, girl and all included ; 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 dubiously ; ' but perhaps a trifle too sharp for most men's fancy.' Harold Knyvett's reply was suddenly cut short by the entry of a boy in buttons with a telegram. ' For you, sir/ he said, handing RIVAL CLAIMS. 17 S him the flimsy pink paper on a tray. Harold took it and tore open the envelope care- lessly. An invitation for a day on the moors, no doubt; or an urgent request from the editor of the Piccadilly Review for a hasty notice of that forthcoming work of Kekewich's on the ' Slavonic Element in the Balkan Peninsula.' As he read it, his face turned white with mingled disappointment, rage, and impo- tence. ' What's up*?' his friend asked, scenting failure on the breeze. ' Why, this,' Harold answered, as he handed him the trumpery little crumpled scrap of Government economy. * From my uncle's valet. The fruit of my invest- ment.' The friend read it mechanically aloud : * Sir Arthur died at two this afternoon, at his residence at Aix, quite suddenly, of angina pectoris. I have searched his papers up and down, but can hnd no 176 THE TENTS OF SHEM. trace of any otlier will than the one now in the hands of his solicitors. ' Your obedient .servant, 'Gilbert ^Iontgomkky.' A crushing blow ! TJie cards had failed him ! It was a minute or two before Harold Knyvett recovered his usual presence of mind after that deadly reverse. Dead, and with no other will yet made ! Dead, with no chance of influencino- his decision I Dead, before he had even proposed to Iris ! To ask her now would be too open and un- blushing a confession of fortune-hunting. Procrastination had lost, him both chances at once — his uncle's procrastination in the one case, his own in the other. If only he had proposed a week since at that garden- party at Staines ! Fool, fool that he was to let the opportunity slip idly by him ! It was only for a moment, however. Xext minute, strategy had resumed the com- mand. Vain regret was very little in RIVAL CLAIMS. 177 Harold Knyvett's line. Like a strong man, he nerved himself after his defeat, and proceeded to brin^ 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 ^i^et into even the last edition of this evenin