cedar-wood blinds inside the windows shut out the light of day. Not a
sound in the room--if there should be a sound--could be heard even in
the patio or the orange gardens. Two huge Egyptian oil lamps of old,
hand-worked brass hung from the painted wooden ceiling. They lit with
a flittering, golden light the white arabesquesed walls, the dado of
lovely tiling, the marble floor and the fountain pool in the centre
where goldfish flashed. There was little furniture: a divan covered
with a Persian rug; a low, inlaid table or two; some purple silk
cushions piled near the fountain; and Maida's eyes searched vainly for
the "hostess" who waited eagerly to tell her the secret. The only
conspicuous object in the room was a familiar one--the painted
mummy-case, standing upright as it had stood in the shrine, far away in
Roger Odell's house in New York. It stood so that Maida, on entering
the room, saw it in profile. She was not surprised to see it there,
for she knew that it had travelled with them--by John Hasle's wish, she
had been told--and certainly with his name on the packing-box in which
it was contained. It was easy enough to believe that the mummy had a
connection with the "secret" she was to hear, for always it had been
for her a mystery as well as a treasure. It was easy, also, to
understand why the "hostess" should have had the thing brought into her
room and unpacked. But she--the hostess--was not there.
"Patience for a few minutes, my child," said the Head Sister, no doubt
reading Maida's thought. "I have been asked to tell you a story. It
is a long story, but you must hear it to understand what follows. Sit
down with me, and listen quietly. Your questions may come at the end."
Maida would have taken a few steps further, to look into the
mummy-case, and see if its occupant were intact after the journey by
sea and land: but the elder woman stopped her. With a hand on the
girl's arm, she made her sit down on a divan where the mummy-case was
visible still only in profile.
"This room was once made ready in honour of a bride," the Head Sister
said. "All its beauties were for her: the pool, the rare old tiles,
the Persian embroideries and rugs. The bridegroom was an Egyptian of a
line which had been royal in the past. I speak of the long ago past,
thousands of years ago. He had records which proved his descent
without doubt. When I say he was an Egyptian, I don't mean a Turk. I
mean a lineage far more ancient than the Turkish invasion in Egypt.
The family, however, had intermarried with Turks and had become
practically Turkish, except by tradition. This mummy-case and its
contents was the dearest treasure of Essain Bey, the man who decorated
the room you see for the woman he adored. Immemorable generations ago
it had been taken from the Tombs of the Kings--not stolen, mind you,
but taken secretly by a descendant who had proofs that the mummied man
had been a famous, far-away ancestor of his own. Even so, though this
forbear of Essain's had a right to the mummy, he would have let it lie
in peace, hidden for ever in the rock-caverns of the tombs if illegal
excavations had not been planned. He saved the mummy-case from
violation, although he could not save the tomb; and though there was a
legend that the body was filled with precious things he vowed that it
should not be rifled--vowed for himself and his son and his son's son.
"The legend ran that the last Egyptian king hid the royal treasure
inside the mummy of his father, before setting out to fight the
invader, and that after his death in battle, the secret descended from
one representative of the family to another: but the whereabouts of the
tomb was lost, and only found again a century ago through the
translation of a papyrus. As I said, the mummy in its case was
sacredly preserved, and was considered to keep good fortune in the
family so long as it remained intact. When Essain married his
beautiful Greek bride he would have given her his soul if she had asked
for it. Instead, she asked for the mummy of Hathor Set. It should be
hers, he promised, the day she gave him his first boy, and he kept his
word. But with the boy came a girl also. The Greek woman, Irene
Xanthios, was the mother of twins. The mummy in its case--the luck of
the family--was called hers. It was kept in this room, where she felt
a pleasure in seeing it under her eyes. She delighted her husband by
telling him she loved the dark face because of the likeness to his. He
was happy, and believed that she was happy too. Perhaps she would
always have remained faithful, had it not been for an Englishman, an
officer in the service of Ismail.
"Now, when I speak of Ismail being in power, you will understand that
all this happened many years ago; to be precise it was fifty-four years
ago to-day that the twin boy and girl were born and the mummy given to
their mother, Irene. How she met the Englishman I do not know. I
suppose the monotony of harem life bored her, though she had adopted
the religion and customs of Essain Bey. She was beautiful, and maybe
she let her veil blow aside one day when she looked out of her carriage
window at the handsome officer who passed. How long they knew each
other in secret I cannot tell either; but the twins were four years old
when their mother ran away with the Englishman. She left them behind,
as if without regret, but--she took the luck of the family with
her--the mummy of King Hathor Set in his painted case. So, you can
guess who was the man: your grandfather. His name was Sir Percival
Annesley. He was no boy at the time. Already he had been made a
Lieutenant in Ismail's army: but he fled from Egypt with the woman he
stole--and the booty--and after that they lived quietly in England.
They hid from the world: but they could not hide from Essain's revenge.
"In this room--coming back from a council at the Khedivial Palace in
Cairo--Essain learned how his wife had profited by his absence of a
week. In this room he vowed vengeance, not only upon her and the man
who took her from him, but upon that man's descendants, male or female,
until the last one had paid the penalty of death. In this room he made
his two children swear that, when they grew old enough, they would help
exterminate the children of Percival Annesley, and if unfortunately
these survived long enough to have children, exterminate them also. In
this room he branded the flesh of his young son and daughter with the
Eye of Horus, to remind them that their mission was to watch--ever to
watch.
"Essain turned his back upon this house when it had become a house of
disgrace, but he did not sell or dispose of it. He had made up his
mind that, from a house of disgrace it must become a house of revenge.
His will was that the place should be kept up; that servants should be
ready to do anything they were bidden to do. With his own hands he
killed your grandfather, in sight of Irene and her baby boy, your
father. Later, Irene died of grief, but your father lived. He too
came to Egypt, and served in the army, by that time in the hands of the
British. Essain was dead, but Essain's son lived, and had one great
aim in his life; to kill Perceval Annesley's son, and retrieve the
mummy. Perceval Annesley's son was named Perceval too. He met your
mother when she was travelling in Egypt as a girl, and followed her to
America. The younger Essain would not have allowed him to leave Egypt,
if the mummy had been there, but he had left it at home in England. So
far as young Essain had been able to find out, the mummy had never been
desecrated: this was the one virtue of the Annesleys: they had left it
intact.
"In New York, your father persuaded your mother to run away with him,
when she was on the eve of marrying Roger Odell--old Roger who became
your guardian. They went together to England, and lived in the
Annesley house, which is in Devonshire. Soon, young Essain's chance
came. He shot your father dead, in your mother's presence; but in
escaping he lost sight of her. She knew the curse which had fallen on
the Annesleys. She feared for you, if not for herself. She took you,
and the mummy-case, and an Eye of Horus which had been a gift from the
elder Essain to Irene, and she contrived to vanish from the knowledge
of Essain the younger.
"It was only for a time, however, that he and his twin sister--able to
help him now--searched in vain. He traced the travellers eventually by
means of the mummy-case. Your mother was dead: but his vow to his
father was not fulfilled while you were alive, and the mummy of Hathor
Set under the roof of the Odells. You were too well protected to be
easily reached, but there are many ways of accomplishing an end. You
were never a strong girl. Plots against your peace of mind were
planned and carried out. Once or twice you came near death, but always
luck stood between you and what Essain and his sister Zorah believed to
be justice. The drama of your life has been a strange one. Your death
alone without the restoration of the mummy would not have sufficed,
though, had you died, Essain would have moved heaven and earth to gain
possession of the body of Hathor Set. At last he has obtained it. The
oath of his father's ancestor not to open the mummy was but for the son
and the son's son. That has run out many years ago, and Essain felt
that the time had come to learn and profit by the secret. He has done
so, and holds a wonderful treasure in his hands. The like of it has
never been seen in the new world, except in museums of the East. Now
the whole duty of Essain's son and daughter has been accomplished,
except in one last detail. What that is, you, Madeleine Annesley can
guess. I have finished my explanation. But if you would understand
more, go now, and look at the mummy-case."
As if fascinated, Maida obeyed. Her brain was working fast. Was her
instinct right? Had she been brought here to the House of Revenge to
die, or would this soft, sweet voice, telling so calmly the terrible
story of two families, add that the last sacrifice would not be
permitted? Was the command to rise and look at the mummy-case a test
of her physical courage after what she had heard?
To her own surprise, she was no longer conscious of fear. A strange,
marble coldness held her in its grip, as if she were becoming a statue.
She moved across the room and stopped in front of the mummy-case.
Living eyes looked out at her. She saw the dark face so like in
feature to the withered face of the mummy. This was the face of her
dreams.
The girl recoiled from it and turned to the woman who had been her
friend. For the first time the Head Sister had lifted her veil and
taken off the mask always worn at the Sisterhood House. Her face
seemed identical with that in the mummy-case. It also was the face of
Maida's dreams, the haunting horror of her life. Without a word the
mystery of the mask and veil became clear to her. The Head Sister's
one reason for wearing them was to hide her startling likeness to
Essain, her twin brother.
"The end has come," a voice said Maida did not know whether the man or
woman spoke. As the mummy-case opened and the figure within stepped
out, the world broke for the girl into a cataract of stars which
overwhelmed her.
* * * * *
I have told already how I was guided in the direction of Hathor Set. I
hoped and believed that I was right, but even so I was far from the end
of my quest. Hathor Set is a small town, important only because of its
situation and the fact that several rich Arabs have their country
houses on the outskirts of the oasis. Each hour, each moment counted:
yet how was I to learn which of the houses was Maida's prison? Judging
by the precautions taken for the first stages of the journey, it was in
no optimistic mood that I rode with my little caravan into the
principal street--if street it could be called--of Hathor Set. Our
camels trod sand, but to our left was the market, and beyond, a few
shops. In the background the secretive white walls of houses
clustered, the plumed heads of palms rose out of hidden gardens, and
the green dome of a mosque glittered like a peacock's breast against
the hot blue sky.
It was not market day, and the open square with its booths and
enclosures was deserted: but men stood in the doors of two small shops
hopefully designed to attract tourists. One exhibited coarse native
pottery, and the other, more ambitious, showed alleged antiques, silk
gandourahs, embroideries and hammered brasswork. Above the open door
was the name "Said ben Hassan," and underneath was printed amateurishly
in English: "Egyptian Curios: Fine Embroideries: French, English and
American Speaken."
I had halted, meaning to descend and buy something as an excuse to ask
questions, when a dirty, crouching figure which squatted near the floor
scrambled up and flung itself before me whining for backsheesh. "Get
away!" roared my camel-man, who was in a bad temper because of a forced
march. He struck at the beggar with his goad, while the shopkeeper
rushed forward to prove his zeal in ridding a customer of the nuisance.
"Wretch!" he exclaimed. "How often have I told thee to depart from my
door and not annoy the honoured ones who come to buy? This time it is
too much. Thou shalt spend thy next days in prison."
Between the two hustling the lame man, he fell, crying; and humbug
though he might be, my gorge rose. For an instant I forgot that I had
meant to ingratiate myself with the shopkeeper, and abused him in my
most expressive Arabic. I scolded my own man, and, without waiting for
my camel to bend its knees and let me down, I slid off to the rescue.
"The fellow is worthless," pleaded the shopkeeper, anxious to justify
his violence. "It was for Effendi's sake that I pushed him. He is
rich. He is the king of all the beggars--the scandal of Hathor Set."
"Whatever he may be, he's old and weak, and I won't have him struck," I
said. "Here, let this dry your tears," I went on: and enjoying the
suppressed rage of Abdullah my camel-man, I raised the weeping beggar
from the ground and gave him a handful of piastres. With suspicious
suddenness his sobs ceased and turned to blessings. He wished me a
hundred years of life and twenty sons: and then, exulting in the rout
of Said ben Hassan and Abdullah, defiantly returned to the rag of
sacking he had spread like a mat on the sand. The keeper of the shop
glared a menace: but his wish to sell his goods overcame the desire for
revenge; and contenting himself with a look which said "Only wait!" he
turned with a servile smile to me. Would the honoured master enter his
mean shop, give himself the pain to examine the wonderful stock
superior to any even in Cairo, and sip sherbet or Turkish coffee?
I paused, reflecting that it might be better to inquire somewhere else.
Humble as the man's tone was, his eyes glittered with malice; and once
he had my money he would delight in sending me on a wild-goose chase.
As I thought what to answer, my eyes wandered over his show window, and
suddenly concentrated on a piece of embroidery. Some small
table-covers and scarfs of thin Eastern silk were draped on a brass
jardiniere. On the smallest of all I read, in old English lettering,
the words "Help. Maida."
I kept my self-control with an effort. For a few seconds I could not
speak. Then I inquired the price of that piece of embroidery, pointing
it out. The shopkeeper's fat brown face became a study. He was asking
himself in an anguish of greed how high he might dare to go. "Five
hundred piastres," he replied, leaving generous room for the beating
down process. But I did not beat him down.
"That's a large price," I said, "but I will pay if you tell me where
the embroidery came from. It's an old English design. That's why I'm
curious to know how you got it."
Said ben Hassan seemed distressed. "Honoured Sir, I would tell you if
I could, but I cannot. It would be as much as my life is worth.
Ladies of the harem make these embroideries, or their women. I sell
them, and they use the money for their charities. It is a sacred
custom. I can say no more."
"I will give you a thousand piastres," I said.
The man looked ready to cry, but persisted. "It is a great pain to
refuse," he mourned. "But I would have to make the same answer if
Effendi offered two thousand."
"I offer three," I went on.
But the man was not to be tempted. He groaned that it was a question
of his life. Poor as it was, he valued it. He groaned, he apologised,
he explained, he pressed upon me the true history of all the
antiquities in his shop, and the five hundred piastres I was ready to
pay for the bit of embroidery had shrunk in his eyes to a sum scarcely
worth taking. At last, when I turned away, deaf to his eloquence, he
caught me by the coat. "If Effendi must know, I will risk all and give
him his will!" he wailed. "The embroidery came from Asiut. I will
write down the name of the powerful pasha who is master of the house:
that is, I will do so if Effendi is still ready to pay three thousand
piastres."
I knew that the man was lying, yet my best hope lay in his
knowledge--practically my one hope. How to get the truth out of him,
was the question.
"I must think it over," I said. As I spoke I became conscious that the
lame beggar who had crawled off his mat to the door of the shop was
whining again.
To my astonishment he hurriedly jumbled in English words as if he
wished to hide them. Under his appeal, in Arabic that I should buy a
fetish he held up in a knotted old hand, he was mumbling in English,
that he would tell me for gratitude, what Ben Hassan dared not tell me
for money. "Do not give him one piastre: he is lying," muttered the
beggar. "Buy this fetish. Inside you will find explanations."
The fetish was a tiny silver box of native make, one of those
receptacles intended to contain a text from the Koran, and to hang from
a string on the breast of the Faithful. I threw the man a look and I
threw him money. Squatting there, he seemed to pick up both before he
crawled away. I burned to call him back as I saw him wrap the sacking
over head and shoulders, and start--without a backward glance--to
hobble off. But I dared not make a sound. Hassan, if he suspected,
might ruin the beggar's plan. I slipped the fetish into my pocket, and
told the shopkeeper that I would content myself for the present with
buying the piece of embroidery. I must reflect before paying the price
he wanted for information. I should, I said, spend the night at the
inn, for I was tired. There would be time to think.
The inn at Hathor Set is hardly worth the name, being little better
than the desert borg which, in my mind, I called the Borg of the
Watching Eye; but its goodness or badness did not matter. As for
Abdullah, he was glad of the rest. I had made him start before dawn in
the midst of a sand-storm which had blown itself out only late in the
baking heat of afternoon when we neared the oasis of Hathor Set. When
I shut myself into an ill-smelling room of the inn, to open the silver
fetish, it was still baking hot, but close upon sunset. If I had not
felt some strange impulse of confidence in the lame beggar who hid his
English under vulgar Arabic slang, I should have resented the coming of
night. As it was, I was glad of the falling dusk. I could work to
find Maida only under the cover of darkness, I knew: for there was no
British consul here, no Justice to whom I could appeal. There were
only my own hands and my own brain: and such help as the beggar might
give because he hated Said ben Hassan.
A torn scrap of paper was rolled inside the tiny silver box: but it was
not a text from the Koran.
"Dine at eight to-night with the beggar Haroun and his friends and hear
something to your advantage. Anyone can show you the house," I read,
written in English with pencil. If I had had time to think of him much
I should have been consumed with curiosity as to the brown-faced old
man who begged by day, and in faultlessly spelled English invited
strangers to dine with him by night. But I had time to think only of
what I might hear "to my advantage." The mystery of the "beggar king
of Hathor Set" was lost for me in the mystery of Maida Odell, as a
bubble is lost in the sea.
The Eastern darkness fell like a purple curtain over a lighted lamp. I
went out long before eight, and showed a coin as I asked the first
cloaked figure I met for the house of Haroun the beggar. It was
strange that a beggar should have a house, but everything about this
beggar was strange!
The house was in the heart of the crowded town, a town of brown adobe
turning to gold under a rising moon. All the buildings were huddled
together like a family of lion cubs, but my guide led me to a square of
blank wall on the lower edge of a hill. The door was placed at the
foot of this hill; and when a negro opened it at my knock I found
myself in a squalid cellar. At the far end was a flight of dilapidated
stone steps: at the top of this another door, and beyond the door--a
surprise. I came out into a small but charming garden court with
orange trees and a fountain. A white embroidered cloth was spread on
the tiled pavement, and surrounded with gay silk cushions for more than
a dozen guests. Coloured lanterns hung from the trees and lit with
fairy-like effect dishes of crystallised fruit and wonderful pink cakes.
Figures of men in gandourahs came forward respectfully, and the King of
the Beggars bade me welcome. He offered a brass bowl of rose-water in
which to dip my fingers, and as he himself dried them with a
lace-trimmed napkin he spoke in English.
"I am grateful," he said, "for your trust. You shall not regret it."
Then he went on, without giving me time to answer, "I am a beggar by
day, and the beggars' king at night, as you see. This is my existence.
It has its adventures, its pleasures; this meeting is one of the
highest. It reminds me that I have English blood in my veins.
Besides, if I help you I shall help myself to revenge. My father was
English, but turned Mohammedan for the love of my mother. English was
the first language I learned to speak. In the days of Ismail I was in
his army--an officer. I was proud of my English blood and I promised
my aid to an Englishman--an officer, too, named Annesley--aid against
one of my own religion. I helped him to run away with a beautiful
woman. He escaped with her. I was caught, wounded, and cruelly
punished. My career was at an end--my money gone. Lame and penniless,
I had no power to take revenge. Many years have passed. I was young
then. Now, I am old. The man who broke me is dead, but his children
live--twins, a son and a daughter. They have come home from some
country far away, to their father's house. I saw them come--I, the
lame beggar lying in the street, a Thing that does not count! Two
women were with Essain, his sister and another who was ill--perhaps
unconscious--lying upon a litter on camel back. The embroidery you
saw, with the English words which I, too, could read--came from his
house. It was brought by a negro, to-day, to the shop of Said ben
Hassan, and put in his window an hour before you rode into Hathor Set.
But Ben Hassan is afraid of Essain Pasha, the man I speak of, and he
would never have told you anything about his house: he would only have
lied and sent you off on a false track in repayment for your money. As
for me, I can tell all you wish to know: and when you have honoured me
by eating my food, I can show you the house. It is not more than a
mile distant from the town. If you wish to injure Essain, so much the
better. Because of what his father did to me, and because of your
kindness, I should like to help you do it."
"For God's sake, come with me now," I broke in at last. "You asked me
here to dine, but a girl's life may be hanging in the balance. Her
name is Madeleine Annesley. She must be the granddaughter of the man
who was your friend, and the woman you helped him take. You speak of
revenge! It is for revenge she has been brought here by the man you
call Essain and his sister who is as wicked as himself. I never knew
till I heard your story what that woman was to him, or why they worked
together. But now I understand all--or nearly all. I love Madeleine
Annesley, and I know she's in danger of her life."
"I thought," said Haroun, "there might be some such matter afoot, and
that is why I asked my friends to be here. They are ready to obey my
orders, for they count me as their king; and I have chosen them from
among others for their strength and courage. I am the only one who is
old and lame, but I am strong enough for this work. When it is done,
we can feast, and we will not break our fast till then. Essain has no
fear of an attack in force. His house, though it is the great one of
the place, is guarded but by a few negroes, the servants who have kept
it in his absence. There are orange gardens which surround the house.
Without noise we will break open a little gate I remember, and once
inside, with fifteen strong men at our service, the surprise will be
complete--the house and all in it, male and female, at our mercy."
Not a man of the fifteen but had a weapon of some sort, an
old-fashioned pistol or a long knife, and some had both.
We started in the blue, moony dusk, walking in groups that we might not
be noticed as a band: and it was astonishing how fast the lame beggar
could go. We led--he and I--and such was the greedy haste with which
his limping legs covered the distance that he kept pace with me at my
best.
Soon we were out of the huddled town, walking beside the rocky bed of
the _oued_ or river; and never leaving the oasis we came at last to a
high white wall.
"This is Essain's garden," Haroun whispered. "And here is the little
gate I spoke of. Listen! I thought I heard voices. But no. It may
have been the wind rustling among the leaves."
"It wasn't the wind," I said. "There are people talking in the garden.
Don't try to break the gate. You may make a noise. I'll get over the
wall and open the gate from inside."