rising wind. I bounded off the bed to the window, and flung them apart
again. Sand stung my face and eyelids. The white camel had
disappeared, but there was a wild snarling in the _fondouk_.
"My wish has been granted," I said to myself, "I have seen what the
watching eye saw in this room. But what did it see after that? Which
way did the caravan go?"
I must have slept soundly, and longer than I thought, for behind the
cloud of sand dawn was grey in the sky. Half an hour later I was out
of the room, in the courtyard, where the Arab servants had begun to
stir. From his own part of the building the landlord appeared. I told
him that I had sent to have my man roused, and that I would start in
spite of the storm.
"What has become of the white _mehari_?" I asked. "Is he in the
_fondouk_ after all?"
The man called one of his Arabs, asked a question, got an answer, and
turned to me. "The beast snarled so wickedly it waked my fellows," he
explained, "and they, not knowing of my promise to you, drove it into
the desert. That must have been two hours ago."
I was furious, but scolding was vain. I had hoped superstitiously for
the guidance of the watcher, till the end; but this was not to be. I
must trust to my own instinct.
Despite the arguments of the landlord and my own man that it was
dangerous to set out in the face of a simoom, we started, taking the
route towards Hathor Set.
The blown sand had obliterated the tracks of men and camels. The
desert, so far as we could see, was a vast ocean of rippling waves. I
had brought no compass, trusting to the sun: but the sun was hidden
behind the copper veil of sand. "We shall be lost, sir," said my man.
"Shall we not be wise while there is time, and go back before our own
tracks are blotted out? See, there ahead is a lesson for us: a camel
that has fallen and been choked to death by the sand. Before night we
and our animals may lie as it lies now, with the shroud that the desert
gives, wrapped round our heads."
"A camel that has fallen!" I echoed. And striking my beast I rode
forward till I reached the low mound to which the brown hand pointed.
The white _mehari_ lay on its side, the head and half the body buried,
the bead collar faintly blue under a coating of yellow sand. The
watching eye was closed for ever: but I had the needed clue.
"We're not lost," I said. "This is the right way. We'll push on to
Hathor Set."
EPISODE VIII
THE HOUSE OF REVENGE
This chapter of my life, which stands last but one in my journal, is
Maida Odell's chapter rather than mine: and to make my part in it
clear, her part should come first. Then the two should join, like a
double ring of platinum and gold bound together with a knot.
One day Maida waked, after confused dreams of pain and terror. The
dreams were blurred, as she began remembering. It was as if she were
in a dim room trying to see reflections in a dust-covered mirror; then,
as if she brushed off the dust, and the pictures suddenly sharpened in
outline.
She saw herself reading a letter signed John Hasle. It seemed to be a
true letter, and if it were true she must obey the instructions it
gave; yet--she doubted. She saw herself scribbling a few words on the
back of the letter, and hiding it behind the portrait of her mother, in
the room she always called her "shrine," leaving just an end of white
paper visible in the hope that John Hasle's eyes might light on it
there. This picture was clear, and that of the mummy-case being taken
out of the shrine by two men in a hurry. Why were they taking it? Why
did she let it go? Oh, she remembered! The Head Sister had promised
long ago to try and discover the secret of the past. She knew people
all over the world, who were grateful, and glad to repay her goodness
to them. Because of the mummy-case and the eye of Horus, those two
mysterious treasures, the Head Sister believed that the enemy who
strove unceasingly to ruin the girl's life must be an Egyptian, working
to avenge some wrong, or fancied wrong. She suggested photographing
the mummy, and the pictures of Maida's father and mother, in order to
send snapshots to a man she knew well in Egypt--a doctor. He would
take up the affair, out of friendship for her, and with those clues to
go upon might learn details of inestimable value. Maida remembered
writing to John Hasle at the Head Sister's suggestion, asking him to
send the key of the shrine. He had answered, agreeing reluctantly; and
to prove her good faith, the Head Sister had offered permission for a
meeting at Roger's house. Then had come the letter from John Hasle,
with its warning that the mummy was no longer safe in the shrine.
Maida had done what he told her to do, and let the mummy-case be taken
away, although the Head Sister had objected, and had even seemed hurt.
But the Head Sister had not objected to go to the ship on which John
Hasle said he would sail. She wished to question him before he went,
and was as anxious as Maida was to know what danger threatened the
mummy.
The girl recalled how, according to John Hasle's advice (brought by his
messenger), she and the Head Sister had exchanged their grey costumes
for blue ones, with veils hanging from neat bonnets. They had done
this in the closed motor according to instructions, and they had gone
on board the ship to bid John Hasle good-bye. There instead of finding
him they had found a second letter, written as before on his hotel
paper. It said that the plot against Maida was even more serious than
he had supposed. At the last moment he had been obliged to stop in New
York, and appeal to the police to help him thwart it. Her life was in
danger if she returned to Long Island, or even to the city, before the
enemy had been caught. There was every prospect that he would be
caught in a few days, after which John Hasle would sail for Egypt as he
had meant to do, and there unravel the whole mystery. The vendetta
which had cursed Maida's life, and her mother's before her, would be
ended. She might come into a fortune in her own right, instead of
depending upon money given by the Odells. He implored her to be brave
and take passage on the ship for Naples, though no doubt the Head
Sister would oppose the idea. The Head Sister had not opposed it. She
had read John Hasle's letter, and had offered to be the girl's
companion to Naples, to take her on to Egypt if necessary. Once, she
had not liked John Hasle; but she was obliged to agree with his
opinion. She believed that he was right about Maida's danger: things
she had found out in her researches convinced her that it existed. The
ship would not sail for an hour or more. The chauffeur was bidden to
take a letter from Maida to John Hasle at the Hotel Belmont, to bring
one if he were there, and also clothing necessary for the journey, of
which the Head Sister made a hurried list.
A letter had come back--a hasty scrawl in John Hasle's handwriting--to
express joy in Maida's decision, and to tell her that the mummy in its
case would go with her on the ship, addressed to his name.
Maida remembered how ungrateful she had thought herself in doubting the
Head Sister's intentions. She had tried not to doubt, for so far in
her experience she had received only kindness and sympathy from that
wonderful friend. Wonderful indeed! Everything the Head Sister did
was magnetic and wonderful, like her whole personality. This sudden
decision to go abroad for Maida's sake was no more extraordinary,
perhaps, than things she had done to help others. She said that she
would wire the woman who stood second in authority over the Grey
Sisterhood, and explain that, for excellent reasons, she had determined
to visit the lately established branch in Cairo (Maida had heard of it
and had subscribed, for its object was an excellent one: the rescue of
European girls stranded in Egypt); she would add that she might not
return for many weeks.
Maida felt that she ought never to have doubted. As for the letters
from John Hasle, the handwriting seemed unmistakable; they could not be
forgeries: the idea was ridiculous. She remembered how she had argued
this in her mind, and how she had tried not to think of herself as
helpless. She was doing what she wished to do! And yet, when she had
asked "What else could I do, if I didn't wish to do this?" the answer
was disquieting. Short of making a scene on shipboard and appealing to
the captain, it was difficult to see how she could go against the Head
Sister's urgent advice. She did not try to go against it; and after
sailing, two or three wireless messages signed John Hasle brought her
comfort. It was a coincidence that there should be a band of nurses on
board the ship, with costumes almost precisely like hers and the Head
Sister's, chosen apparently at random by John Hasle: but then, after
all, there was a strong resemblance in the dresses of all nurses,
provided the colours happened to be the same.
Even more clearly than the days on shipboard, Maida remembered arriving
at Naples, and being met by an Englishman who introduced himself as an
agent of John Hasle. He had a long comprehensive telegram to show,
purporting to come from his employer in New York. This announced that
John Hasle had not been able to obtain leave as soon as he expected,
but that he had learned the "whole secret of the past." Miss Odell was
to put herself in the hands of his agent who would conduct her and her
companion to Egypt and there to a house where all mysteries would be
cleared up. She would find herself in charge of important persons, old
acquaintances of her parents, who would watch over her interests and
explain everything connected with her family. All trouble and danger
would be over for ever. Her brother Roger with his wife, Grace, having
just returned to New York from the Argentine, would sail with John
Hasle a few days after the sending of the telegram, to join Miss Odell
and bring her home by way of France and England.
Maida recalled with a dull aching of heart and head her disappointment,
her uneasiness; how she had insisted upon sending telegrams to her
adopted brother, and to John Hasle, in New York, waiting for answers
before she would consent to go on. The answers came, apparently
genuine, and she had gone on. There had been two days in Cairo, at the
house of a rich, elderly man who called himself French, but looked like
a Turk or Egyptian. He stated that he was a friend of Maida's
grandfather who was, he said, a general in Ismail's service. He had
done a great wrong to a noble family of ancient Egyptian aristocracy,
who had sworn revenge, and had taken it for several generations. But
now all its members were dead except one aged woman who wished to see
and atone to Maida for the cruel punishment inflicted on her people.
The mummy which had been stolen many years ago was to be given back;
and in return Maida would not only learn a great secret, but receive a
great fortune. The house was in the country, and could be reached by a
short desert journey after travelling to Asiut by rail. In order to
escape the surveillance of the British authorities, so strict in war
time, she and her faithful friend the Head of the Grey Sisterhood, were
advised to travel in the costumes of Egyptian women.
All this seemed hundreds of years ago to Maida, as she relived incident
after incident. Everything was far in the background of a night in the
desert inn when she had seen--or thought she had seen--a face which had
been the terror of her life. Since her earliest childhood she had seen
it in dreams, and sometimes--she believed--in reality. It was as like
the face of the mummy in the painted mummy-case as a living face could
be, except that the expression of the mummy was noble and even benign,
whereas that of the dream-face--the living face--was malevolent. The
hood of the caravan leader had been blown aside by the fierce desert
wind in a sand-storm, and a pair of terrible eyes had looked at her for
an instant before the hood was drawn close again; and, after that--but
Maida could remember nothing after that, except a struggle and a sudden
blotting out of consciousness.
She was afraid to wake fully lest she should find herself again in the
desert inn where it seemed that something hideous had happened. But
the room there had been shabby. This room in which she opened her eyes
was beautiful, far more beautiful than any in the house at Cairo. It
was soothingly simple, too, in its decorations, as the best Eastern
rooms are. The walls were white, ornamented with a frieze of
arabesques. There were one or two large plaques of lovely old tiles
let into this pure whiteness, and a wonderful Persian rug in much the
same faded rainbow hues hung between two uncurtained windows with
carved, cedarwood blinds. The ceiling also was of carved cedar,
painted with ancient designs in rich colours. There was very little
furniture in the room, except the large divan-like bed on which Maida
was lying; but on a fat embroidered cushion squatted a girl wearing the
indoors dress of an Egyptian woman--a girl of the lower classes. She
sat between Maida and the windows, so that her figure was silhouetted
against the light: and outside the windows was a glimpse of garden: a
tall cypress and a palm with a rose bush climbing up the trunk: dully,
Maida thought that it must be an inner patio, such as her room had
looked out upon in the house at Cairo.
"Where is the white camel?" she heard herself say, aloud: and it seemed
that her voice was tired and weak, as if she had been ill.
The girl who was embroidering looked up. Her face was very brown, and
the eyes were painted. She wore a dark blue dress, which was a lovely
bit of colour against the white wall. Smiling at the invalid as at a
child, she went to the door, and called out something in a language
Maida could not understand. Then she effaced herself respectfully,
stepping into the background, and the Head Sister came in--the Head
Sister, just as she used to be at the Sisterhood House far away on Long
Island. She wore a grey uniform and the short veil with which her face
had always been covered in the house.
"My dear child!" she exclaimed, in her deep, pleasant voice, with its
slight accent of foreignness which could never quite be defined. "How
thankful I am to see you conscious! We have been waiting a long time.
You've been ill, and delirious; but I can see from the look in your
eyes that it's over now--those dreams of horror I could never persuade
you were not real."
Maida looked earnestly at the Head Sister whom she had once so utterly
loved and trusted. Did she love and trust her now? The girl felt that
she did not. Yet she felt, too, that the sad change might be but the
dregs in her cup of dreams. Never had the wonderful woman's voice been
more kind. "If I tell you a piece of good news, will it make you
better, or will it give you a temperature?" the Head Sister went on.
"It will make me better," Maida said, a faint thrill of hope at her
heart. There was only one piece of news, she thought, which would be
good.
"Very well, then. It is this: we are expecting your brother and Lord
John Hasle in a few days. Are you pleased?"
"Yes," Maida answered. She composed her voice, and spoke quietly; but
new life filled her veins. The dullness was gone from her brain, the
lassitude from her limbs. She felt as if she had drunk a sparkling
tonic.
"You look another girl already," said the Head Sister. "If this
improvement keeps up, you'll be able to walk about your room a little
to-day, and to-morrow you may be strong enough to be helped out into
the balcony that runs along over the patio, and leads to the room of
your hostess. She is impatient for you to be well enough to come
there; and it will be a test of your strength. Besides--I know you are
anxious to hear what you have travelled so far to find out."
Maida could not have explained then, or afterwards, why the Head
Sister's suppressed eagerness brought back the fear she had known in
her dreams. She would have liked to answer that she preferred to wait
and see the unknown "hostess" after Roger and John had arrived. But
something told her she had better not say that. Instead, she smiled,
and answered that she would try to walk that afternoon, and test her
strength.
The Head Sister seemed satisfied, seemed to take it for granted that
the plan she was making would be carried out; and then she made an
excuse to leave the room. The girl Hateb would watch over Maida, as
she had watched faithfully since the day when the unconscious patient
had been put into her care. Hateb, the Head Sister added, had learned
in Cairo to speak a little English and French. Maida could ask for
anything she wished. But for a long time Maida did not wish to ask for
anything at all. She lay still and thought--and wondered: and Hateb
went on embroidering. She finished a thing like a charming little
table cover on which she had worked a design in dull blues and reds, a
design like the patterns of old tiles from Tunis. Then, pausing to
roll up the square of creamy tissue, she began to make the first purple
flower of a new design on another square.
At last, as if fascinated, Maida did ask a question. She asked what
Hateb did with these things when they were finished. Were they for her
mistress?
The girl shook her head, and managed to make Maida understand that all
the women of the household who could embroider sent their work by the
negroes into the oasis town of Hathor Set where there was a shop which
sold such things to tourists. Very few tourists came now, but
sometimes there were officers and soldiers. They always bought
souvenirs for their families at home. Harem ladies sold their work for
charity among the poor, but their servants--well, it was pleasant to
earn something extra. This house was often shut up for months. The
master and mistress lived away, and seldom came, so there was much
time--too much time--and it hung heavy on their hands unless they were
kept busy.
"I know how to embroider, too," said Maida, "not as you do, but after
the fashion of my country. I make my own designs. I should love to
embroider an end of a scarf or something like that, to show you how
fast I can work. Then you may sell what I do, and keep the money. If
any English or American people come to that shop in the town you speak
of they will be surprised to see such a thing if it is displayed well,
and they will be glad to offer a good price, because they will be
reminded of home. But you must let no one in this house see my work,
or they may be angry with you for allowing me to exert myself. It will
do me good, but they will not believe that."
The girl was delighted with the idea. Her curiosity was aroused to see
the work of a foreigner, which would sell for much money, and she was
pleased with the prospect of having that money for herself. She gave
Maida materials, and the invalid sat up in bed to begin her task. With
a pencil she traced a queer little border which might have represented
breaking hearts or flashes of lightning. Inside this border she formed
the word "Help" with her name "Maida" underneath, in elaborate old
English letters impossible for Hateb to read with her scant knowledge
of English. Despite her weakness, Maida worked with feverish haste,
and finished the whole piece of embroidery, in blue and gold and
reddish purple, before evening. She pronounced herself too ill to
rise, but promised to make an effort next day. It was in her mind to
delay the visit to her unknown "hostess," and meanwhile to send out a
message, like a carrier pigeon. But there was the strong will of the
Head Sister to reckon with. The latter gently, yet firmly insisted
that, now dear Maida's delirium had passed, it would do her good to
take up life again where she had left it off. The Egyptian woman they
had made this long journey to meet was impatient. She was unable to
come to Maida. Maida must go to her. Besides, it would be
discouraging to Roger Odell and John Hasle to arrive and find their
dear one pale and ill. She must make the effort for their sakes if not
for her own.
This solicitude for Roger and John was new on the part of the Head
Sister, who had deliberately taken Maida away from one, and separated
her from the other: but she frankly confessed that her point of view
had changed. She saw that the girl had no real vocation for the Grey
Sisterhood. If the mystery of her past could be solved, and happiness
could come out of sorrow, Maida would have a place in the world, and
John Hasle--the Head Sister admitted--deserved a reward for patience
and loyalty.
These arguments did not ring true in the ears of Maida, but she had
reached a place where it was impossible to turn back. She was in the
woman's power, whether the woman were enemy or friend; and if she
refused to follow the Head Sister's counsel, she believed that she
would be forced to follow it. Maida was too proud to risk being
coerced; and when the first day after the sending out of the embroidery
passed without result, she obeyed the directress and let herself be
dressed.
The girl suffered a great deal, but she had not lost physical or mental
courage. She believed that she had sprung from a family of soldiers,
and she wanted to be worthy of them, even if no one save herself ever
knew how she faced a great danger. Something in the Head Sister's air
of fiercely controlled excitement told her that she was about to face
danger when, with the elder woman's supporting arm round her waist, she
walked from her own room to the door of a room at the end of a long
balcony--the balcony overlooking the patio garden.
As she went, the scent of magnolias and orange blossoms pressed heavily
on her senses like the fragrance of flowers in a room of death. It was
evening, just the hour of sunset, and as the girl looked up at the
sapphire square of sky above the white walls and greenish-brown roofs,
the pulsating light died down suddenly, as if an immense lamp had been
extinguished.
Maida shivered. "What is the matter? Are you afraid?" the Head Sister
asked.
"No, I am not afraid," Maida answered firmly. "It is only--as if
someone walked on my grave."
"Your grave!" the woman echoed, with a slight laugh. "That is very far
away to the west, let us hope."
Yet Maida's words must have brought to her mind the picture of a
highballed garden of orange trees, no further to the west than the
western end of that house. She must have seen the negroes digging
there, under the trees, digging very fast, to be ready in time. She
must even have known the depth and width and length of the long, narrow
hole they dug, for it had been measured to fit the painted mummy-case
brought to Egypt from Maida's "shrine" in New York. That mummy-case,
long wanted, long sought, was useful no longer. Its occupant for
thousands of years had been rifled of his secret. The jewels which had
lain among the spices at his heart had been removed. They were safe in
custody of those who claimed a right over them, and the revenge of
generations might now be completed.
The Head Sister tapped at the door of the room, and then, after a
slight pause, when no answer came, opened it. Gently she pushed Maida
in ahead of her, and followed on the girl's heels, shutting the door
behind them both.