THE SHIP'S MYSTERY AGAIN
I expected a black mark for the lamb and every little desert
difficulty, but, to my surprise, only our joys were remembered. Those
who had stayed in Cairo exchanged tales with the desert travellers, and
it was astonishing to hear what a marvellous week we had had. Each day
had been better than its brother. In fact, our trip had been one long,
glorious dream of golden sands and amethyst sunsets; the camels were as
easy to ride as sofas, and combined the intelligence of human beings
with the disposition of angels; the camp was as luxurious as the Savoy
or the Plaza; and to me and that wonderful Antoun Effendi all credit
was suddenly due. Not to be outdone, the stayers in Cairo had had the
"time of their lives." They had not been herded together like animals
in a menagerie, as in Colonel Corkran's day. The girls had not only
been to dances, but had danced with darling pets of officers, friends
of Ernest Borrow; while their mothers had been asked to those
fascinating picnics they get up in Egypt, don't you know, where you dig
in ancient burial grounds and find mummy beads and amulets. Somehow or
other, all these people attributed their pleasures to me, as they had
blamed me for their mishaps; and my spirits were at the top of the
thermometer three days later when, after some hard work, the
_Enchantress Isis_ was ready to start "up Nile."
Sir Marcus wanted "his tours to be different from every other Nile
tour, and a little better." He wanted to "show what he could do," and
he was beginning well. Though the _Enchantress Isis_ had had a past
under other owners, she looked as if this were her maiden trip, and she
was as beautifully decorated as a débutante for her first ball. Her
paint was new and gleaming white; her brass and nickel glittered like
jewellery; and even those who thought nothing quite good enough for
them, uttered admiring "Ohs!" as they trooped on board.
"The Highway of Egypt" was a silver-paved road, leading to adventure.
The masts of native boats lying along the river bank were etched in
black lines crowding one over another, on the lightly washed-in
background of blue. Near by, the great Kasr-el-Nil bridge gleamed with
colour and life like a rainbow "come alive"; and the _Enchantress Isis_
looked as gay and inviting as a houseboat _en fête_ for Henley regatta.
She was smaller than the most modern of the Nile boats, for she had
been sold cheap to Sir Marcus by another firm: but she was big enough
for his experiment, though he had turned some of her cabins into
private baths and sitting-rooms. Her three decks towered out of the
water with a superior air of stateliness, such as small women put on
beside tall sisters; and her upper deck was a big open-air sitting-room.
There were Turkish rugs on the white floor, and basket chairs and
sofas with silk cushions. On the tables and on the piano top there were
picture-books of Egypt, and magazines, and bowls of flowers. From the
roof, sprouted electric lamps with brass leaves and glass lotuses; and
smiling Arabs in white from turban to slippers had blue larks flying
wide-winged on their breasts. Oh, yes, Sir Marcus was "doing" his
clients well, that was patent at first glance, and became even more
conspicuous to the eyes of the Set as they wandered into the dining
saloon, drawing-room and library, or peeped into each other's cabins.
Sir Marcus himself had come on board ostensibly to see us off, really
to watch the effect of his boat upon Cleopatra. He lay in wait for her
outside the door of her suite (the best on board), pretending to engage
me in conversation, but forgot my existence as she appeared. The
ecstasy on his big face was pathetic, as his brown eyes fixed
themselves on a quantity of artificial blue lotuses she held in her
hands.
"Do you like 'em, Mrs. East?" he ventured.
"Do I like what?" she inquired, that quiver of impatience in her tone
which she kept for her unfortunate adorer.
"The--those flowers," he stammered. "I--"
"They're _awful_!" she exclaimed. "The rooms are lovely, but these
dreadful artificial things some _silly_ person has stuck all over the
place spoil the whole effect. I want to find an Arab to take them away.
Or do you think I might throw them overboard? No one _could_ like them,
I'm sure."
"Of course, chuck 'em overboard--or hand 'em to me, and I'll do it,"
said Sir Marcus, looking ready to cry. "But--they're _lotuses_, I
suppose you know? I heard you say you'd give anything to have some."
"Not artificial ones," explained Cleopatra, _belle dame sans merci_. "I
can't stand artificial flowers even on hats, much less in rooms. Who
could have put such horrors all over my _salon_?"
"I don't know," Sir Marcus lied stoutly; "but it shan't happen again.
There ain't any real lotuses to be got, so maybe the--er--the
decorator--" his meanderings died into silence, as he took the bunch of
flowers from Mrs. East, and viciously flung them as tribute to the
Nile.
"After all, we oughtn't to do that," said Cleopatra. "In the beautiful
old days real lotuses were given to the Nile. These are an insult."
"They aren't meant as such," the big man apologized, all joy in his
fine boat and the compliments he had received crushed out of him. I
knew now that he had hovered at Cleopatra's door hoping for a cry of
pleasure. Probably he had ransacked Cairo for the lotuses, or
telegraphed to Paris, before his cruel lady went from him into the
desert. I was sorry for the "boss," though a snub or two would be good
for him, no doubt, and perhaps were being specially provided by a wise
Providence. But I had other things to think of than Sir Marcus Lark's
love-troubles: Monny, for instance, who at last had found a letter from
"Madame Wretched" in Cairo, and had wonderful schemes in her head. On
board the _Laconia_ I should have thought such schemes obstinate and
headstrong, the wish of a spoiled child to do something dangerous, to
meddle in matters which did not concern her, and to have "an
adventure." But I understood the Gilded Rose a little better now. I
began to see the real Monny as Biddy saw her, bright with the flame of
courage and enthusiasm and passionate generosity, behind the passing
cloud of superficial faults. She wanted everybody to be as fortunate
and happy as she, and was prepared to be exceedingly trying and
disagreeable in the effort to make them so.
We had not been on board ten minutes when Biddy told me about the
exciting letter, and escorted me to find it and Monny. Miss Gilder was
in the act of insisting that General and Mrs. Harlow should accept her
suite, and that she should take their cabin. The matter had to be
argued out before she could spare attention for anything else; but as
she made it clear that the Harlows were not to pay extra, their
scruples were soon conquered. "The baggage hasn't been put into the
cabins yet," she explained breathlessly to me, "so that's all right!"
In my astonishment, I forgot Madame Wretched. "But why," I adjured
Monny in my professional tone, as conductor, "why on earth should you
sacrifice yourself to these people? What have they done for you? I
thought you didn't like them?"
"I don't," she replied, calmly, while Biddy listened, smiling. "That's
why I gave them my suite--at least, it's partly why."
"I should think the other part of the 'partly' is more convincing," I
remarked; and Monny blushed.
"Perhaps you know that your friend Antoun Effendi thinks me the most
selfish as well as the most obstinate girl he ever saw," she said. "And
I don't intend to have foreigners like him go on doing American girls
an injustice. Besides, maybe he's right about me--and I want him to be
wrong. I hate having all the best things there are everywhere, just
because I'm rich. The Harlows wanted a suite, and they couldn't afford
to take one. They were looking sadly through the door at my rooms and
envying me, so I thought I would change. I was _determined_ to change,
whether they would let me or not. They are old; I'm young, and I shall
enjoy thinking I've done something nice for people I thoroughly
dislike, as much as _they_ will enjoy having their own bathroom."
"If Mrs. Harlow could hear you calling her old!" gurgled Biddy.
"Well, she _is_ old. And she's perfectly horrid, much more horrid even
than Miss Hassett-Bean; so I'd rather give my suite to her and her
husband than any one else. Biddy and Rachel are together, and Aunt
Clara is alone. I'm robbing no one but myself."
"How do you know Antoun Effendi thinks you selfish and obstinate?" I
inquired. "Surely he wasn't rude enough to say so?"
"He was indeed, the day I _would_ have the coastguard camel, and he
came after me when it ran away," she confessed. "And you're not to tell
him about the suite. I didn't give it up to please him."
"I thought you did," I ventured, "in order that Egyptian princes
shouldn't do injustice to American girls?"
"I meant," she explained hastily, "that I like to know they're _wrong_
about us. And now what was it that Biddy and you wanted to say? Oh,
poor Mabel's letter! How thankful I am to get it! I've been wondering
if I dared write, and thinking of all sorts of desperate plans. But,
Biddy thought we must wait till Wretched was off his guard. You see, we
shall have to rescue her when we get to Asiut."
I would have answered, but a look from Biddy enjoined silence. And so
we were in touch with the "Ship's Mystery" again! I took the envelope,
which was addressed to Miss Gilder in a distinctively American
handwriting, strange to see coming from an Egyptian harem.
The letter began abruptly, and showed signs of haste:
"You were so good, I know I can appeal to you, but I'm not sure if
there's any way to help me. I began to be frightened on the ship, when
_he_ behaved so queerly, just because I talked about the most ordinary
things to one or two men. He made me stay in my cabin--but you'll
remember that. Already it's like ages ago! I tell myself now that I was
almost happy then. At least, I believed I was his _wife_, and that it
was better than being poor, and a governess to hateful French children
in Paris. He was kind, too--he seemed to love me; and I thought it was
like living in a romance to marry a Turk. He swore he'd never loved any
one except me, that he'd never been married, and that he wouldn't try
to convert me or shut me up like Turkish women. But everything was
untrue and different from what he said. I hardly know how to tell you,
for you will think it horrible, yet I must tell. When I came here, I
found he _had a wife already_, and a perfectly fiendish little girl. It
is legal in this dreadful country to have four wives, but I don't care
about the law. I want to get away. I've been cheated. This isn't
marriage! I don't know what will become of me, for I haven't any money,
but I'd rather starve than stay. I heard Mr. Sheridan say on board ship
that it was easy to get a divorce in Egypt or Turkey. Maybe he meant me
to hear, thinking some day I might be glad to know. But I can't get a
divorce while I'm shut up in this house and watched. Now, _he_ suspects
I want to leave him (since a scene we had about the wife), and he won't
let me go out, even into the garden. You are my only hope. You'll
wonder why I don't try appealing to the American Consul here, instead
of to you. I suppose there must be a consul--Asiut seems a big,
important town. I'll tell you why I don't. For one thing, there mayn't
be a consul. For another thing, the woman who has promised to post this
wouldn't do so if she guessed I was writing against my husband, who is
her brother-in-law, and she would guess if she saw an envelope
addressed to a consul, although she knows scarcely any English. I have
to talk to her in French. He thinks she is devoted to him, and that
she's explaining the Mussulman religion and ideas of a woman's life to
me, or he wouldn't let her come. It's true, she is loyal to him, in a
way. She wouldn't help me to escape. But I think women in the harems
like to have secrets with each other, which they hide from their men.
I've told her about you, how pretty you are, and a great heiress and
she's so interested, she's dying to see you. She hopes, if she posts
this letter, that you will call on me on your way up the Nile. She can
perhaps find out what day your boat is to arrive, through her husband,
and then she'll try to come to our house on the chance of meeting you.
I'm almost sure she'll keep her promise and post this letter. If not
--if he sees it, maybe he will kill me. I believe now he would do
anything. But I must run the risk. Do come. Do think of some way to
help.
"MABEL.
"I don't feel I have the right to any other name, for surely as he has
a wife I'm not truly married."
"Well?" asked Monny, as she saw me finish and fold up the letter. "You
were horrid about her at first, but just at the last minute on the
ship, you were good, and kept Wretched Bey talking, so I might have my
chance with Mabel. If you hadn't, I shouldn't like you as much as I do.
And I'm sure even you'll be anxious to do something now."
"Yet we don't wish Ernest or Antoun Effendi to run into danger, do we,
dear?" Biddy suggested, coaxingly. "When you wanted to show the letter,
I said yes, but--"
Monny listened no longer. Her eyes were sparkling, as they looked
straight into mine. "Antoun Effendi!" she repeated. "Tell me first
--because, you know, you are his friend--what would he think about a case
like this? Whatever he is, he's not a Mussulman, I'm sure. Still, he's
not one of us--"
"You're sure he's not a Mussulman?" I echoed. "What makes you sure,
when you know he's been to Mecca, unless somebody has put the idea into
your head?" "His own head put it there," she answered. "I saw it
without his turban, the night of the alarm in camp. It wasn't shaved,
as I've read the heads of Moslem men are. It was a head like--like the
head of every Christian man I know, except that it was a better shape
than most! So, as he isn't Mussulman, he might not mind our trying to
help this poor deceived girl?"
"Shall I ask his advice?" I inquired, rather drily perhaps.
She hesitated for an instant, then said "Yes!"
"You seem certain that whatever he thinks, he won't betray your plan."
"I am certain," she replied, looking rapt. "He's not the kind of man
who betrays."
"You're right," I said. "He's not the kind of man who betrays. He's the
kind that helps. Though in such a case as this--you know, the very
meaning of the word "harem" is "sacred" or "forbidden." Still--we shall
see!"
We could not "see" at once, however, because Anthony had not come on
board. Even when the hour for starting arrived, there was no Anthony,
no message from Anthony. "Your friend isn't going to leave us in the
lurch, is he?" asked Sir Marcus, watch in hand. He had meant to travel
with us as far as Beni Hasan, our first stop, and return to Cairo by
donkey and train, but had changed his intention and was going off at
once--I thought I could guess why. "The _Enchantress Isis_ ought to be
under way this minute, but Antoun and you are our chief attractions. We
can't leave him behind."
I agreed. We could not leave Anthony behind, but I was not worrying. If
he had to drop down out of an aeroplane, I felt sure that having said
he would come, he would keep his word. So, while Sir Marcus stared at
his watch and fumed, I rushed usefully about among the ladies who
clamoured for their luggage, or complained that their cabins were too
small for innovation trunks. I showed them how these travelling
wardrobes could be opened wide and flattened against the walls, taking
up next to no room; I assured each woman in confidence that she had
been given the best cabin on the boat; I dealt out little illustrated
books about the trip; I advised people which tables to choose in the
dining-saloon, and consoled them when the places they wanted were gone.
Still, the _Enchantress Isis_ had not stirred, and a rumour was
beginning to go round that something had happened, when suddenly I saw
Antoun Effendi's green turban.
"Thank goodness!" muttered Sir Marcus, putting his watch into his
pocket. And then Mrs. East came swiftly across the deck from the door
of her own suite, where she must have stood watching, hidden behind the
portière. "Oh, Antoun Effendi!" she cried, and though her face was
turned toward us, she did not seem to know that we existed. How Anthony
looked at her we could not judge, for we saw only his back; but her
eyes must have told Sir Marcus a piece of news. He glanced from her to
Fenton, and from Fenton to her, with the expression of a school-boy who
has been punished for something he hasn't done. Then he turned to me as
though to ask a question; but shut his mouth tightly, as if gulping
down a large pill, wheeled, and left me without a good-bye. I wondered,
Cleopatra-fashion, what he had done in his last incarnation to deserve
these heavy blows in the hour which should have seen his triumph. "What
if he changes his mind and doesn't want Fenton and me after all?" I
asked myself. To my surprise, I realized that it would be a genuine
disappointment not to be wanted by Sir Marcus Lark. The Mountain of the
Golden Pyramid had nothing to do with this. It was borne in upon me
that I had begun to enjoy the rôle of conductor; and certainly I was
learning lessons in high diplomacy which might be useful in my career.
Anthony, who was free as an eagle from questions of innovation trunks
and how to give everybody the best cabins, and places at table, looked
as if he were bound for the Island of Hesperides, on a voyage of pure
romance. The air of gravity and responsibility he had worn in Cairo and
in the desert was gone with the starting of the boat. I knew suddenly,
without asking him, that his mission had been of a far more serious
nature than the transplanting of a sheikh's tomb; that there had been
something else, and that it had finished at the last moment in success.
"Sir Marcus was worrying about you," I said, when the importance of
unpacking left the deck empty save for Anthony and me.
"You weren't, were you?" He was smiling at me in a friendly,
confidential way that showed a happy mood.
"Not I! I knew you'd turn up, as you'd said you would."
"Thanks, my good Duffer. But now it's over, I don't mind telling you
that it was a toss up."
"You mean there was a chance of your failing us--in spite of the
Mountain?"
"Well, I meant to bring this off somehow. But my first duty was to
finish up the Cairo business. I simply had to finish it, and I did. It
was a--rather bigger job than the sheikh's tomb racket, though of
course that was on the cards, too. Everything's all right now; but I
spent last night in getting the full details of an Arab plot to blow up
the house of a rich Copt, who's been of great service to the
Government. Some of the young Nationalists think that the Christian
Copts are put ahead of Moslems by the British, and there are
jealousies. The whole set of men concerned in this affair were arrested
an hour ago, so all's well with the world! I'm free to turn my face
toward the Mountain of the Golden Pyramid--free to enjoy myself,
although I must stick to my turban still."
"Are you getting tired of it?" I asked.
"I've been tired of it since the first day I put it on. I don't like
play-acting for long. But it was necessary. And it has had its
advantages as well as disadvantages for me."
I should have liked to ask another question then, but dared not, so
instead I told him about the letter from Bechid Bey's beautiful
American bride, Mabella Hânem, the "Ship's Mystery" of the _Laconia_.
Anthony listened, as the _Enchantress Isis_ slipped past the Island of
Roda, past Ghizeh, past old Cairo and still older Babylon, then out on
to the broad bosom of the river where the Nile Valley lay bathed in
sunshine from Gebel Mokattam in the east, to the Libyan hills--haunt of
departed spirits--in the west.
"Miss Gilder wants me to help, does she?" he asked at last. "She told
you to tell me about this?"
"I warned her that you mightn't approve," I explained. "I said you had
more knowledge of Egypt in your little finger than I had in all my gray
matter, and you might think that nothing could be done--"
"Tell her I think something may be done," he interrupted me. "And
before we reach Asiut we'll plan out how best to do it."
"You and I?"
"You and _she_ and I. She has brains as well as courage."
"She?"
"Of course I mean Miss Gilder."
"Oh! Is it 'of course'? There are others who answer that description."
Fenton smiled. "But it's going to be her show."
"She is under the impression," I reminded him, laughing, "that all
Egypt, including the Nile, and you and your green turban, are her
'show'."
Anthony did not answer. Perhaps already he was thinking of something
else. I should have liked to be sure exactly what his smile meant. Was
it for Monny? Was it for Biddy? Or only for an adventure which he saw
in the distance?