THE DESERT DIARY BEGUN
I found out why Monny paid no attention to my buried letter. But the
way in which I found it out (and several other things at the same time)
is part of the desert trip.
I am not a man whose soul turns to diaries for consolation; but I did
keep up a bowing acquaintance with a notebook in Egypt--it helped me
with my lectures--and in the desert it relieved my feelings. Looking
over the desert pages, I'm tempted to give them as they stand:
_Black Friday_: Morning. The start's for Monday, and nothing done!
Could I develop symptoms of creeping paralysis, and throw the
responsibility on Anthony? But too late for that now; and he may have
to stay on in Cairo for a day or two. Why did I leave my peaceful home?
It's the lure of the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid. Last night before
I went to bed, read over my copy of Ferlini's letters, to gain courage.
Gained it for a little; but when I think of that desert I'm supposed to
turn into a happy playground for trippers, and not a tent hired or a
prune bought, or an egg laid, for all I know, I wish Anthony and I had
let Lark stick to our mountain.
This is Lark's fault anyhow. He sprang the thing on me. Said it would
be easy as falling off a log. Said Cairo was full of Arabs whose
mission in life was supplying tents and utensils for desert tours.
People would be charmed with simple life, and me as universal provider.
All I had to do was to supply cheap editions of "The Garden of Allah,"
and plenty of dates; and hint that it was considered vulgar in the Best
Circles to put on Pêche Melba airs in the desert. With a few
quotations, I should make them content with a loaf of bread, a cup of
wine, and Thing-um-Bob. Why, they'd be falling in love with each other
under the desert stars, and my principal occupation would be saying,
"Bless you, my children!"
Sounded neat; and I remembered that, according to Brigit, Monny wanted
the "desert to take her." Thought it might be useful if I were on in
that act. Abyssmal beast of a dragoman who lurks round Mena House
buoyed me up with false hopes. Said he had a fine outfit which he let,
and threw himself in as guide. Plenty of everything (including cheek)
for fifteen people, the exact number who have put down their names to
go. (Some girls and parents are staying for a ball at the Semiramis,
where I've tearfully persuaded the only soft-hearted officers I know to
dance with them--otherwise the lot would have been on my hands in the
desert.) Had so much to do yesterday taking the crowd to Matariyeh,
where the Holy Family hid in a hollow tree, that I had no time to look
at the Arab's outfit. Was inclined to save trouble and trust him, but
saw Anthony a minute last night; he urged me to inspect everything. Did
so early this morning. Rotten outfit: tents like old patchwork quilts,
pots and pans, etc., probably bought job lot from Noah when the Ark was
docked. Those keenest on desert "taking" them, will be mad as hatters
if it takes them in. Suppose I'll have to interview half the Arabs in
Cairo to-day. Wish I had a Ka or Ba or whatever you get for an astral
body in Egypt, and I could say to it, "Here, my dear chap, I trust you
to do this job while I stay in Cairo and rest my features." Then he'd
get the blame, and I'd disappear, never to be seen again. Or if he were
a Ka with Cook accomplishments, maybe he'd bring the thing off all
right, in which case I could turn up and take the credit and marry
Monny. Happy thought! Cook! Why shouldn't I sneak to Cook, and inquire
in a careless way if they publish any pamphlet on "How to Do a Desert
Tour."
_Later_: Have been to Cook. No pamphlet, but a friend in need. Talk of
casting bread on the waters! In Rome I cast a crust which I didn't
want, and it's come back in Cairo with butter and sugar on it.
Must have been two years ago in Rome when a young chap wrote to me to
the Embassy. Said he'd been disappointed in getting work he'd come
abroad for, had seen my name, recognized it, was from my county; and
could I use him as a stenographer or anything? I couldn't; but I found
him some one who could; and forgot him till I saw him this morning a
fully fledged clerk at Cook's. Checking the impulse to fall on his
neatly striped blue and white bosom, I invited him to lunch; and as a
reward for what he calls "past and present favours," he had given me
new life. What I mean to say is, he's promised to provide me not only
with tents, but camels and camel-boys and a camp chef, and waiters and
washbowls and a desert dragoman, and thousands of things I'd never
thought of. It seems practically certain that since Napoleon no such
genius has been born as Slaney. Cleopatra would say that S. is the
reincarnation of Napoleon; but neither Cleopatra nor any one else
--above all, Sir Marcus Lark--is to know of his existence. Such is the
disinterested self-sacrifice of this buttered-and-sugared Crust, that
it will do everything for me, while keeping itself and the Organization
which controls it, completely in the background. The Organization is
too great to mind; and the Crust, alias T. Slaney, thinks itself too
small.
Lark, Ltd., considers himself a budding rival of the firm of Cook; but
a deadly bud. If, however, Sir M. should come to hear that I had flown
for succour to the enemy's camp, I fear it would be all over with the
bargain for which Anthony and I are selling our souls. T. Slaney says
he never shall know. He guarantees that Cook labels and other telltale
marks shall be removed from everything, though time is short and there
is much to do. He will be the power behind the tents, and I will be in
them, absorbing all the credit.
_Saturday_: All _couleur de Rose_, thanks to Slaney. Should like to get
him canonized. Many less worthy men, now deceased, have been given the
right to put Saint before their names. He has handed me a list,
something less than a mile long, of articles which Biddy and I, as
children, used to call eaties and drinkies. He has told me where the
things can be bought, and has written a letter of introduction which
secures me "highest consideration and lowest prices." Also he has
suggested a medicine-chest, packs of cards, the newest games,
cigarettes suited to European and Arab tastes, picture post-cards of
desert scenes; ink, pens, and writing paper. "People forget everything
they want on these trips, but you mustn't," said he. I have acted on
all his suggestions, and feel as proud as if I had originated them
myself.
_Sunday:_ My precious friend Slaney has made a large collection of
Arabs, camels, tents, etc., and ordered everything, animate and
inanimate, to assemble in the neighbourhood of Mena House this
afternoon, in order to be inspected by me, and to be ready for a start
early to-morrow morning. We are to have a sandcart with a desert horse
for Cleopatra, who has tried a camel and found it wanting. I fancy she
thinks a sandcart the best modern substitute for a chariot; and at
worst, it ought to be as comfortable. Slaney has promised a yellow one
--cart, not horse. The horse, by request, is to be white. The other
ladies are having camels. I daren't think of Miss Hassett-Bean at the
end of the week. The men, also, will camel. There is, indeed, no
alternative between camelling and sandcarting--sandcarting not
recommended by the faculty but insisted upon by Cleopatra. Hope it will
work out all right; and am inclined to be optimistic. A week in the
desert and the flowery oasis of the Fayum, with the two most charming
women in Egypt! There will be others, but there's a man each, and more.
I shall have to look after Monny and Brigit, as Anthony is having his
hands full with Cleopatra lately, and, besides, he can't start with us.
Something keeps him in Cairo for two days more, and he will have to
join us near Tomieh.
_Sunday Evening:_ Back from Great Pyramid, where I went to inspect the
assembling army. Magnificent is the only word! The camels fine animals,
but Anthony has provided the three best, borrowing these aristocrats of
the camel world from Major Gunter of the Coast Guard. They have chased
hasheesh smugglers, and have seen desert fighting. Were snarling
horribly when I was introduced, but a snarl as superior to the common
snarls of baggage-camels as their legs are superior in shape. Biddy,
Monny, Mrs. East, and Rachel Guest were there with Sir M. and "Antoun,"
having been inside the pyramid and up to the top. Monny on her high
horse because "Antoun" says it will be better for the ladies to ride
the baggage-camels. The others take his word, meekly, but she persists,
and Anthony agrees to give her the camel he had meant to ride, the one
supposed to be the most spirited. When he joins us, he will have the
animal intended for her. When this bargain was struck between them I
thought his eyes looked dangerous, but she didn't notice or didn't
care. Fenton tells me he has dreamed again of the red-faced man with
the purple moustache. I laughed at his bugbear and flung Colonel
Corkran in his teeth. By the way, nothing has been heard of C. by any
of us since the day he handed in his resignation. Suppose he has gone
back to England in the sulks.
_Monday Night:_ I am writing in my tent, which is to be shared with
Anthony when he arrives. I feel years older than when we started this
morning. Middle age seems to have overtaken me. If I keep on at this
rate, shall be a centenarian by the time we get back to Cairo.
We made a splendid caravan at the start. Besides the train of camels
ridden by my party from the _Candace_ and Monny Gilder with her
satellites (it goes against the grain, though, to call a bright
particular star like Biddy a satellite), there were over thirty
gigantic beasts laden with our numerous bedroom, kitchen, luncheon, and
dinner-tents, tent-pegs, cooking-stove, food for humans, fodder for
animals, casks of water, mattresses, folding-beds, other tent
furniture, tourists' luggage, and so on. I was happy till after the
baggage-train had got away, each camel with its head roped to the tail
of the one ahead, all trailing off toward the distant Pyramids of
Sakkhara well in advance of us. Each camel looked like a house-moving.
On top of the kitchen-camel's load was perched the chêf, a singularly
withered old gentleman with black and blue complexion, clad in a vague,
flying blanket. (Has been Turkish-coffee man in Paris hotels.) Many
other negroid persons in white with large turbans; a few café au lait
Arabs; these all counted beforehand by Slaney, for me, and identified
as assistant-cooks, waiters, bed-makers, and camel-men, enough
apparently to stock a village. But we had one surprise at the moment of
starting in the form of a bright black child, clad in white, with a
white skull cap and a flat profile evidently copied from the Sphinx. I
don't know yet why this Baby Sphinx has come or who he is; but he rode
on the kitchen-camel's tail, hanging on by the bread (our bread!) which
was in a bag.
When this cavalcade had wound away, the camels making blue heart-shaped
tracks in the yellow sand, it was our turn to start. Not one of us
would have changed places with any old Egyptian king or queen, and we
did not feel vulgar for doing this trip in luxury, because ancient
royalties had done the same, and so do the great sheikhs of the desert
even now. As I put Cleopatra into the sandcart with its broad,
iron-rimmed wheels, she was recalling the days when she travelled with a
train of asses in order to have milk for her bath. I suggested a modern
condensed substitute, but the offer was not received in the spirit with
which it was made. Now to get the ladies on their camels, after which
we men would vault upon our animals, and wind away among billowing
dunes full of shadowy ripples and high lights, like cream-coloured
velvet!
But just here arose the first small cloud in the blue. It was bigger
than a man's hand, for it was the exact size and shape of Miss
Hassett-Bean's hat. It was a largish hat of imitation Panama trimmed with
green veiling, just the hat for a post-card desert all pink sunset and no
wind. As she was about to mount the squatting camel, a breeze blew the
flap over her eyes. This prevented Miss H.B. from seeing that the camel
had turned its neck to look at her; and so, as she reached the saddle
and the hat blew up, lady and camel met face to face. It was a moment
of suspense, for neither liked the other at first sight. The camel
began to gurgle its throat in a threatening manner, and at the same
time to rise. Miss Hassett-Bean, staring into two quivering nostrils
shaped like badly made purses, shrieked, forgot whether she must first
bend forward or bend back, bent in the way she ought not to have bent,
and fell upon the sand. I don't quite see why I was to blame for this
result, but she _saw_, and said I ought to have warned her what a vile
creature a camel was. Nothing would induce her to try again. She would
go to any extreme rather than ride a beast with a snake for a neck, and
a nasty unsympathetic face full of green juice which it spit out at
you. She was used to being liked. She simply couldn't go about on a
thing which would never love her, and she wouldn't want it to if it
did. She would go home or else she would have a sandcart. All the
neighbouring sandcarts were engaged; but fortunately "Antoun Effendi"
appeared at that instant (he'd taxied out to see us off), and he
persuaded Cleopatra to let Miss Hassett-Bean drive with her. The desert
horse, feeling this extra weight, looked round almost as
unsympathetically as the camel had; but nobody paid the slightest
attention except his attendant, who was to lead him: a type of negro
"Nut," who had a snobbish habit of reddening his nails with henna.
By this time a crowd had assembled, kept in check by the tall,
blue-robed sheikh of the Pyramids. It consisted mostly of Arabs determined
to take our photographs or sell us scarabs--which Miss Hassett-Bean
refused on the ground that she disliked things off dead people. But on
the fringe lurked a few Europeans, amused to see so large a caravan
setting forth; and the men of our party, hitherto proud of their
curtained helmets and desert get-up, became self-conscious under a fire
of snapshots.
"Hello, my Boy Scout!" I was hailed by Sir Marcus, arriving three
minutes behind Anthony, and on the same errand. This blow to my
self-esteem fell as I was leading Monny to the white camel which was hers
and should have been Anthony's. She laughed--I suppose she couldn't
help it. I couldn't myself, if it had been Harry Snell or Bill Bailey;
but as it was, my pride of khaki helmet, knickers, and puttees
collapsed like a burst balloon. I seemed to feel the calves of my legs
wither. It was in this mood that I had to put Monny on that coastguard
camel, while "Antoun" stood looking on. He did not offer to help the
girl, as their talk yesterday on the subject of baggage-camels versus
running camels had not conduced to officiousness.
Monny was in white: broad white helmet such as women wear, white suede
shoes, white silk stockings, and a lot of lacy, garden-party things
that showed frills when she flew, birdlike, onto the cushioned saddle.
"_That's_ the way to do it!" I heard her cry, exultantly--and what
happened next I can't say, for the white camel knocked me over as it
bounded up, jerking its nose rope from the leader's hand, and the next
thing I knew it was making for the horizon. I hadn't been on a camel
since I was four, if then, so it was useless to follow. But while I
stood spitting out sand, Anthony flung himself onto one of the swift
coastguard beasts, and was after her like a streak of four-legged
lightning. None of us had the nerve to continue our operations until, a
quarter of an hour later, they appeared from behind the Great Pyramid,
coming at a walk, "Antoun" holding the bridle of Monny's camel.
I saw by Fenton's face that he intended to make no suggestions, and I
guessed that he was practising his chosen method. If Miss Gilder wished
for anything she must ask for it, and ask for it humbly if she expected
to get it.
Her face, too, was a study. She was pale and even piteous. I thought
there were tears in the blue-gray eyes; and if I had been Anthony I
could not have hardened my heart. Pride or no pride, I should have
begged her to abandon this praiseworthy adventure, and deign to mount
the baggage brute. Not so Anthony. He led back the camel, with Monny
limply sitting on it, and when it had calmed down at sight of its
friends he retired into the background.
"How wonderful that you kept on, darling!" exclaimed Biddy.
"I didn't," said Monny. Then she turned to "Antoun," who remained on
his beast, in case of another emergency, or because he did not wish to
be looked down upon by her. He was rather glorious enthroned on his
camel, the only one of our party who was truly "in" the desert picture.
I didn't blame him for stopping up there on his sheepskin, eye to eye
with the girl.
For a moment Monny did not speak. She was evidently hesitating what to
do, but common sense and natural sweetness got the better of false
pride. "Antoun, you were right, and I was wrong," she admitted. "I said
yesterday that you were selfish, keeping the coastguard camels for
yourself and Lord Ernest and General Harlow, and giving us women the
baggage ones. Now I'm sorry. I was silly and hateful. I wouldn't ride
another fifty yards on this demon for fifty thousand dollars. He's
nearly broken my back, and if it hadn't been for you, he would quite
have done it. Please help me off, and put me on any old baggage thing
that nobody else wants."
Anthony's eyes lit for an instant, from satisfaction as a man, or from
Christian joy in her moral improvement. He sprang off his sky-scraping
camel, brought Monny's animal to its knees, helped her off, and
motioned to the Arab attendant of the Ugly Duckling of all the other
creatures. It gave the effect of being a cross between a camel and an
ostrich, and had been chosen by "Antoun" as his own mount, when he
surrendered the aristocrat to Monny.
"Oh, dearest, I can't have you ride that grasshopper!" cried Biddy.
"'Antoun' took it for himself very kindly because it's the worst. And I
don't care any more than he did. Give the thing to me, and take _my_
one, that dear creature with the blue bead necklace."
But Anthony answered for Monny. "Mademoiselle Gilder made a bargain
with me yesterday," he said. "If she failed in what _she_ wanted to do,
she was to do what _I_ wanted her to do. I think she will wish to keep
her bargain."
"I'm _sure_ I wish to," added Monny.
With a chastened, not to say shattered air, she curled herself up on
the sheepskin-covered cushion which was the ugly Duckling's saddle.
This time it was "Antoun" who settled her into place, with her feet
meekly crossed; and the caricature of a camel rose like a sofa at a
spiritualistic séance. Strange to say, however, when all were ready to
start, Monny appeared more comfortably lodged than any of the
camel-riding ladies; and the thought entered my mind that perhaps Anthony
had, with extreme subtlety, taken this roundabout way of benefitting
Miss Gilder.
After this we got off with only a few minor mishaps. The one remaining
incident of note was the arrival on the scene, as we left it, of
another caravan--a small caravan consisting of two Europeans--a few
laden camels, and camel-boys marshalled by one dragoman. The dragoman
was Bedr el Gemály, and he smiled at us as affectionately as though we
had not driven him from us in disgrace.
"How forgiving Arabs are, even when they're not converted!" remarked
Rachel Guest, by whose side I happened to be riding.
"He isn't an Arab," said I. "He's an Armenian. And both are supposed to
be the reverse of forgiving. But he's found another job quickly, so he
can afford to let bygones be bygones."
"Oh, he would _anyway_!" Miss Guest exclaimed, warmly. "Poor fellow,
you've all done him a great injustice, but I'm thankful he's not going
to suffer for it. I wonder if he and his people are bound the same way
we are?"
I feared that this was likely to be the case, as we were going the
conventional round, sticking--as one might say--to suburban desert, on
our way to the Fayum. But, as Monny observed the other night, we
couldn't engage the desert like a private sitting-room. I would,
however, have preferred sharing it with most people rather than Bedr
and his clients, though the two latter looked singularly harmless,
almost Germanic.
We went on more or less happily, though I noticed that whenever a camel
changed its walk for a trot, each one of the ladies reached back a
desperate hand to clutch the saddle and save her spine from the
bruising bump! bump! which smote the bone with every step. As for me,
that feeling of middle age began to creep on while my coast-guard camel
and I were getting acquainted. I tried to distract my thoughts from the
end of my spine, by concentrating them in admiration upon the scene.
There was the Sphinx welcoming us with an immense smile of benevolence,
as suitable to the sunshine as had been her mysterious solemnity to the
moonlight. There, far away to the left, the spire-crowned Citadel
floated in translucent azure. Its domes and minarets, and the long
serrated line of the Mokattam Hills were carved against the sky in the
yellow-rose of pink topaz. Shafts of light gave to jagged shapes and
terraces of rock on the low mountains an appearance of temples and
palaces, very noble and splendid, as must have been the first glimpse
of Ancient Egypt to desert-worn fugitives from famine in Palestine.
Between us and the Nile, hiding the sparkling water as we rode, went a
dark line of palms, purple, with glints of peacock-feather green, in
the distance. Hundreds of tiny birds flew up into the burning blue like
a black spray, and the sand was patterned by their feet, in designs
intricate as lace. Wherever lay a patch of white and yellow flowers or
of rough grass no bigger than a prayer rug, a lark soared from its nest
singing its jewel-song; and here and there a gentle hoopoo reared the
crown which rewarded it for guiding lost King Solomon and his starving
army to safety.
All this was beautiful; but I wondered painfully if Monny could be
happy in spite of the bumps, now that the desert was taking her.
Strange, how a disagreeable sensation constantly repeated at the end of
a mere bone can change a man's outlook on life! If Monny had come to my
camel-side and whispered, "I found your buried letter, oh, Men-Kheper-Rã.
Behold that bird now flying toward you. It is my Ba--my Heart or
Soul-bird carrying the gift of my love:" I should with difficulty have
prevented myself from snapping out, "Thanks very much; but, my good
girl, I'm in no mood to talk tommy-rot."
It was sympathy, kind, friendly sympathy I yearned for, not spoken in
words, but given from soft, sweet eyes, as little Biddy had given it
when I tore my hands and barked my shins birds'-nesting on the rocks a
hundred years ago.
I think we should have liked the excuse to stop and gaze at the ruinous
Pyramids of Abusir; but the dragoman-guide supplied by Slaney urged us
on to the great plateau of the Pyramids and Necropolis of Sakkara.
There, on the terrace of Marriette's House, we saw a crowd of Cook's
tourists from Bedrachen, and I had some moments of guilty fear lest my
Secret should leak out, as their dragoman rushed down and warmly
greeted ours. But in the throes of rolling off their camels for the
first time, the ever-wakeful suspicions of the Set were submerged under
physical emotions. It's an ill camel that bumps no one any good!
I was only too glad to lure my charges away from danger-zone; and
luckily it was so early that the influential ones who never lunched
until two "at home," gave the word, "Tombs before food." Girding up its
aching loins, the procession allowed itself to be led by me and my
dragoman down inclined planes into dark, mysteriously warm passages
where our lights were wandering red stars. Now and then a face would
start suddenly out of the gloom, haloed with candle-light: and in this
way, Biddy's flashed upon me, starry-eyed. "Oh, I'm glad to see you!"
she whispered. Bedr and his two tourists are here. I'm afraid!"
"My dear child," I said soothingly, but not as soothingly as if I
hadn't had toothache in the spine, "you may be afraid of Bedr, but
hardly of two stout Germans in check suits."
"Not if they _are_ Germans. But are they? Just now one of their candles
almost collided with mine, and his eyes stared so! Then they looked
over my head at Monny, who was behind me. And where she is now, heaven
knows!"
"Nothing can happen to either of you here," I assured her. "And
probably our fuss about Bedr is much ado about nothing. We have no
evidence--"
"The man who stared at me over his candle has a scar on his forehead,"
said Biddy. "Maybe he got it in that row in front of the House of the
Crocodile. Maybe he is Burke, and has just come out of the hospital."
"Most likely he is Schmidt, and adorned himself with the wound in a
student duel," said I.
"It's too fresh-looking. He must be over thirty," she objected, but at
that moment Miss Hassett-Bean loomed into sight; and in the stuffy
atmosphere of the tomb felt the need of my arm to keep her from
fainting.
We "did" the Pyramid of Unas, dilapidated without, secretively
beautiful within. We went from tomb to tomb, lingering long in the
labyrinthine Mansion of Mereruka who, ruddy and large as life, stepped
hospitably down in statue-form from his stela recess, to welcome us in
the name of himself and wife. Almost he seemed to wave his hands and
say, "Look at these nice pictures of me and my family and our ways of
life, painted on the walls--our servants, our dwarfs, our mountebanks
and acrobats, our flocks and herds. Sorry there's no refreshment at
present on my alabaster mastaba, or table of offerings, but you see I
didn't prepare for visitors outside my own immediate circle of Ka's and
Ba's. Still, as you _have_ come, make yourselves at home, and take pot
luck. I think when you've examined everything, you'll admit that you
haven't a Soul-House in Europe to touch mine which, if I do say it, is
the best thing this side of Thebes."
Next came the Tomb of Thi; but by this time, mural representations of
fish, flesh, and fruit began to be aggravating. It would be past two
before we could reach our luncheon-tent; and somehow it seemed less
desirable to feed after than before that sacred hour, though the custom
be sanctioned by royalty. "Another tomb to see before lunch?" groaned
Sir John Biddell, when the dragoman firmly insisted on the Apis
Mausoleum. "Oh, darn! _Need_ we? What? Where they buried _Bulls_? I'd
as soon see a slaughter house, on an empty stomach. Lady Biddell and I
will go sit in the shadow of our camels."
And they did; nor would they believe the twins' assertions that the
dark Mausoleum, with its cavernous rock chambers and granite vaults,
was the most impressive thing they had seen in Egypt. "You say that to
be aggravating, because we weren't there," I heard Lady Biddell snap,
over the grumbling of the camels.
The sky blazed down and the sand blazed up. The desert was white-hot,
with a silver whiteness hotter than gold, and the foreshortened shadows
were turquoise blue. It was heaven to arrive at a miniature oasis, and
see the open-fronted, awninged luncheon-tent reflected with its green
frame of palms, in a clear lagoon, thoughtfully left by the receding
Nile. At sight of this picture, my popularity went up with a bound. It
really was a lovely vision: the big tent lined with Egyptian appliqué
work in many colors, the porchlike roof extension supported by poles,
and in its shadow a white table loaded with good things and guarded by
Arab waiters waving beaded fly-whisks. As we lingered over our
chicken-salad, fruit, and cool drinks, and lazily watched our camels
munching bersím, all our first enthusiasm for these interesting beasts
streamed back. The ladies called them poor dears, and sweet things; and
the men marvelled at their calm endurance, or the number of their
leg-joints.
Monny was gay and charming, and looked at me so kindly that I thought
she must mean to give a favorable answer to the buried letter. I
blessed Cleopatra for the "tip" she had given, though I wondered what
was the "humiliation" from which I could save her niece. "After all,"
said I, "the desert trip's going to pan out a success." But it must
have been about this time that the wind rose. It blew Miss Hassett-Bean's
hat up instead of down, and other hats off, when we had started
again--and it blew into our eyes grains of sand as large as able bodied
paving-stones. Also, as we passed through a picturesque mud-village
which ought to have pleased everybody, it blew into our noses smells
which Lady Biddell knew would give us plague. As if this were not
enough, the sandcart nearly turned over in a rut, and Miss Hassett-Bean
said that she must go home or be left to die in the desert. I had to
lead the little stallion before she would consent to go on, and
realized when I had ploughed through fifty yards of sand, that the
manicured snob of a leader was a thin brown hero. By the time I had had
a mile or two of this, the dark Pyramids of Dahshur were visible, and I
knew that our camp was to be pitched not far beyond. My first emotion
was pleasure; my second, panic.
What if Slaney had forgotten his promise to remove the Cook labels?
Since remounting Farag (only the coastguard camels had names; the
baggage-beasts smelt as sweet without) Monny and I had been bumping
along side by side, and she had just said, "If I tell you something,
you'll never breathe it to a soul, will you?" when I saw those
Pyramids, and was smitten with the fear of Cook.
"Never!" I vowed, torn between the desire to hear her secret, and to
dash ahead of the caravan into camp.
"It's about 'Antoun,'" Monny went on. "You know I said to you the other
night, that perhaps I knew something about him?"
"Yes--er--oh, yes!"
We were within a few hundred yards of the Pyramids now. At any instant
the camp might burst into sight.
"You don't look interested!"
"But I am, awfully!"
"You're _sure_ you won't tell?"
"_Dead_ sure."
(Was that a flag fluttering on the horizon?)
"Well, then--it isn't _my_ business, of course. But one can't help
being interested in him, he's such a--such a romantic sort of figure,
as you said yourself. And there's something so high and noble about
him--I mean, about his looks and manners--that one hates to be
disappointed."
"You _would_ have him with us, you know!"
"I know. And--and I'm glad I--we--_have_ got him. It's a--it's an
experience. I suppose he's rather wonderful. But don't you think he
ought to remember that he isn't _exactly_ a prince? He isn't even
called Bey. And if he were, its not the same as being a prince of
Ancient Egypt."
"In what way has he presumed on his--er--near--princehood?"
"I believe he has--fallen in love with Biddy!"
"By Jove! _Let_ the flag flutter!"
"What flag?"
"Oh--er--that was only an expression. They use it where I live. Why
shouldn't he fall in love with Biddy, when you come to think of it?"
"He's of a darker race. Though--he does seem so like _us_. Of course
she couldn't marry him. It wouldn't do. _Would_ it?"
"I don't know. I must think it over. Is that all you were going to tell
me?"
"No. I suppose it's natural he should fall in love with Biddy. She's
_so_ attractive! But the worst part about it is that he has _proposed_
to Aunt Clara."
"Not possible!"
"Yes. He has. I saw part of the letter--the first part. She's the only
one of us who thinks it would be right to marry a man of Egyptian
blood, because you know she believes she's Egyptian herself--and she's
always talking about reincarnations. _I_ don't see that It's such a
wonderful coincidence his name being 'Antoun.' It wouldn't be so bad if
he were in love with her; but it's Biddy who is always right in
everything she says and does, according to him--just as I am always
wrong. Aunt Clara is richer than Biddy. I can't bear to fancy that's
why he has proposed; it would take away all the romance"
"Don't strip him of his romance yet," said I, again torn between
interest in Monny's incredible statement, and excitement which grew
with the growing in size of those flags on the horizon. "You may wrong
him. If you saw only the _first_ part of the letter--"
"There could be no mistake. It was in hieroglyphics, and who but
'Antoun' would have written such a letter to Aunt Clara? She asked me
to translate it, the night she dug it up at Fustât--"
"Dug--"
"And when I'd read as far as, 'Beautiful Queen, Star of my Heart, be my
wife,' she snatched the paper away, and put it inside her dress, saying
she'd look up the rest in one of my books."
"Good heavens! You must have changed places at Fustât. That letter
couldn't have been for her!"
"It couldn't have been for any one else. 'Beautiful Queen' meant Queen
Cleopatra. She said so herself. I don't know what she's going to do
about it."
"Do about it?" I echoed desperately. "Why--" and just then my straining
eyes saw that on the middle flag in the fluttering row were four large
red letters on a white ground. Slaney had betrayed me! Everything
depended on getting that flag down before those letters declared
themselves to other eyes. "Excuse me," I finished my sentence with a
gasp.
Monny must have gasped also, as she saw me suddenly dash away from her
at full speed of one-camel power. But I had no time to think about what
she might think. I suppose I must have done something to the steering-gear
of that camel, which coastguard camels do not permit. Whatever it
was, it got me into the midst of camp before I could draw breath; but I
have a dim recollection of being caught by Arab arms, and seeing
suppressed Arab grins, as mechanically I felt to see how far the end of
my spine stuck out at the top of my head.
"That flag! Pull it down!" was my first gasp, pointing convulsively to
the banner which shrieked, "Cook!" "Quick--before they come!"
Dazed by my vehemence, several Arabs scuttled to obey the order, but
there were too many of them. Each hindered his neighbour, and as I
danced about, making matters worse, out pounced our withered chêf from
the kitchen-tent.
"It was _he_ brought that flag, wrapped round something," explained one
of the men, in Arabic. "When he saw we had other flags, but none of
Cook, he gave it to us to put over the biggest tent, because he thought
it shameful to have no flag of the master's."
"Cook isn't the master. I'm it," I burbled, with a leap to catch the
tell-tale square of white as it reluctantly came down. But I was too
late. Sir John Biddell and Harry Snell, the newspaper man, came
gallumping up on their camels before I could stuff the flag into my
pocket.
"What's the matter?" they asked, as their animals squatted to let them
down. "Were you run away with? What are you so mad about? Hullo! What
flag's that--C-O-O-K!"
"It should be over the kitchen-tent," I heard myself explaining. "Don't
you see? C-O-O-K! It's the cook's special flag. He brought it himself,
but these chaps went and flew it over the dining-tent in place of the
Union Jack. That's why he and I are mad."
And I thanked all the stars on Monny's tent flag that none of the Set
understood Arabic.
After this, how could I hope to explain to Monny that the hieroglyphic
proposal was mine, and that she, not Cleopatra, ought to have dug it
up? She isn't a girl used to having men run away from her, on camelback
or anything else--so naturally she thought me a rude beast, and showed
it. Besides, even if I'd dared, I should have had no chance to
straighten matters out; for though the flag-episode was after all no
fault of Slaney's, there were a few little things which had escaped
even his Napoleonic memory; and it was only by combining the feats of
an acrobat with those of a juggler that I saved my reputation during
the next half hour.
No sight could have been more beautiful in our eyes than that village
of white tents in the waste of yellow sand. Our wildest imaginings
could have pictured nothing more perfect, more peaceful.
Tea was ready, in the huge dining-tent, where folding chairs were
grouped round a white-covered table. The floor of sand was hidden with
thick, bright-coloured rugs, and it was finding "T. C. and Son" on the
wrong side of one which Miss Hassett-Bean's foot turned up, that filled
me with renewed alarms. Hastily I laid the rug straight, placed a chair
upon it, and persuaded everybody to have tea before inspecting their
bedroom tents. While they drank draughts and dabbed jam on an Egyptian
conception of scones, I hurried like a haggard ghost from tent to tent,
seeking the forbidden thing. Cook on the backs of the little mirrors
hanging from the pole hooks!... Will it wash off?... No! Cut it out
with a penknife! Down on your knees and tear off the label from the
wrong side of another carpet! (Memo: Must do the one in the dining-tent
when the people are asleep for the night.) Cram three Cook towels into
my pockets. Hastily pin a handkerchief over the name on a white bit of
a tent wall. Must have it cut out, and patched with something, later.
Shall have to pay damages when I settle up with Slaney. Lady Macbeth
wasn't in it with me! All she needed was a little water. I have to have
pins and penknives and pockets all over the place.
I didn't get any tea. But that was a detail. And everybody was so
delighted with everything that my spirits rose, despite a snub or two
from Monny--for which Biddy tried to make up. People took desert
strolls, or sat on dunes, and gazed into the sunset which couldn't have
been better if I had turned it on myself. Along the western horizon ran
a pale flame of green blending with rose, rose blending with amethyst,
and in the distance the Pyramids of Dahshur burned with the red of
pigeon-blood rubies.
The wind had died among the desert dunes, and it was not till after
dinner that any one realized the arctic fall of temperature. It was too
cold to enjoy playing bridge or any of the games I had brought; and the
only hope of comfort was in bed. People said good night to each other
in the comparatively warm dining-tent, and then gave surprised shrieks
or grunts (according to sex) at the piercing cold. Several of the elder
ladies fell over ten-tropes, despite the large lanterns illuminating
the desert, and had to be escorted to their bedroom tents, and soothed.
After this, silence reigned for a few minutes, and I had stealthily
begun to work on the biggest rug-label, when arose a clamour of voices
and presently appeared the dragoman lent by Slaney.
"Eight ladies wishing hot-water bottles," he explained.
But there were no hot-water bottles. We had thought of everything, it
seemed, except hot-water bottles.
"I tell them very sorry but can't have?" Yusef suggested, looking
pleased.
"Let me think!" I groaned. "What about the mineral water bottles we
emptied at lunch and dinner? Let the cook boil water, and we'll supply
the bottles."
This was done; and I was proud of the inspiration, with the pride that
comes before a fall. When I began to write, in my bedroom tent, wrapped
in all the blankets of the bed that should be Anthony's, I had the
place to myself. But about midnight a head was unexpectedly thrust
through the door-flap. It looked ghostly in the haze of colour made by
the gorgeous appliqué work of high roof and octagon walls, which gave
an effect of sitting at the bottom of a giant kaleidoscope.
"Who's that?" I hissed, in a whisper meant to be discreet, but which
roused a camel or two in the ring outside the tents.
"Biddell--Sir John Biddell," replied the head. "I saw your light, and
remembered you had your tent to yourself to-night. Those hot-water
bottles have been leaking. There's one at least gone wrong in most of
the ladies' tents. The married men have given their beds to girls who
are drowned out. 'Twas _your_ idea about those bottles, wasn't it? I
expect you'll hear from it in the morning! Three of us want to come and
camp in here with you."
"All right," I sighed, with a sinking heart. "I _like_ sitting up, and
you can toss for the cots."
* * * * *
At this moment Sir John Biddell reposes in one of them, General Harlow
in the other. These gentlemen were so affected with the cold that they
went to bed in their clothes, then got up to put on their overcoats,
then got up again and put on their hats. On the floor lies a certain
Mills of Manchester, rolled in all the rugs, except one which I have
on, after surrendering my blankets. He has his head in a basket, to
keep off the icy draught; and in the ruggy region of his spine, as he
rests on his side, are the letters C-O-O-K. I wonder if I could rip
them off without waking him up?