“That same night in the hotel I was introduced to a dragoman, whom we engaged to take us about. I am sure you will like to hear about Salim, for, apart from himself, he had a great claim to attention, for he had been Gordon’s dragoman years ago when he was in Egypt. Yes! I knew that would interest you, and you would have loved Salim for his own sake too. He had a gentle, sad face, with the beautiful dark eyes of the Eastern, and he spoke English remarkably well. He was unmarried, and lived with his mother and a married brother. Sixteen years he and his sister-in-law had lived in the same house, but he had never seen her face. He had been unlucky in money matters, but accepted his poverty with the placid acquiescence of the Oriental. I remember one day when he told me of a piece of good fortune which had befallen a fellow-dragoman, and I said that I hoped he might be similarly fortunate. He bowed his head with quiet dignity, and waved a brown hand in the air. ‘That is with God, sahib—that is with God!’ I used to question him about Gordon, and he loved to talk of him. ‘He was a good man, sahib, better than any bishop. When we were camping in the desert he was up every morning before it was light, kneeling to pray before his tent, and his heart was so great that he could not bear to see anyone in trouble. I must always keep with me a bag with small moneys, and he would not wait to be asked. Everyone who needed must be helped. When he went away he gave me his two best horses, but my heart was sore. He was a great chief—a great chief; but I heard afterwards that when he came to die he was quite poor—the same as Christ!’”
Hilliard told a story well, and now, as he repeated the words, his voice softened into the deep cadence of the Eastern tones in which they had first been said; his hand waved and his eye kindled with emotion.
Esmeralda looked at him, and her heart gave a throb of admiration. The manner in which he had spoken was unmistakably reverent, and if young men only knew it, there is nothing which a girl loves more than a mingling of manliness and reverence in the man who singles her out for attention.
“He is a good man; I like him,” was the mental comment. Aloud she said dreamily, “Gordon is my hero. I love to hear about him. He was too generous to others to heap up money for himself. I suppose he didn’t care about it. I wish I didn’t, but I do. It’s so very distressing to be always short of money. All the good people in books are poor, but for myself I think it’s bad for the temper. They talk about the peril of riches, but I should like to try it for myself, wouldn’t you, Mr Hilliard?”
Hilliard smiled—a quiet, amused smile.
“Well, I don’t know. Everything is comparative. If some people would think us poor, others would most certainly consider us very rich indeed. We have all that we need, and for myself I’m quite content. I manage to have a very good time.”
“And you get away for holidays like this. That must make it easier. Have you to work very hard? What is your work? In what way do you make your living?”
Once more Hilliard smiled in amusement, and in truth there was a directness about Esmeralda’s questionings which was as unusual as it was unconscious. He put up his hand and stroked one end of his curly moustache.
“Glue!”
“Glue!” echoed Esmeralda shrilly.