"IF AT FIRST YOU DON'T SUCCEED"
Now that we were thoroughly launched on this somewhat quixotic
adventure, I envied Anthony because his part in the drama kept him "in
the wings," within sight of the stage. He was to watch the house of
Rechid Bey, and if the rescue party of two did not appear after an
hour's absence, the true story of the affair and Mabel's appeal was to
be laid before the Inspector General of Upper Egypt--laid before him
not by "Ahmed Antoun Effendi," but by Captain Anthony Fenton,
officially on leave, secretly on a special mission for the British
government.
My rôle, less exciting but perhaps no less important, was to play the
diplomat in beguiling the American Consul to stand by the wife of
Rechid Bey, if the attempt at rescue succeeded, or--if possible--even
if it failed.
"Antoun" accounted for his presence in front of Rechid Bey's high
garden wall, by attracting a crowd, and lecturing them in his character
of Hadji, while I dashed off in a jingling arabeah, to the American
Consulate. As in Cairo, my progress was one long adjuration of the
crowd by the driver, who would have revelled in conducting the car of
Juggernaut.
"Shemalak, ya welad!" ("To the left, oh, boy!"), or "Yeminick!" ("To
the right!"), he roared, while men dived and dipped under his horse's
prancing feet. A hawk flew by on my right side, and my right eyelid
twitched, as we neared the Consulate. In Egypt these were good omens.
Besides, there had been a red sunrise, which in the Nile country had
meant, since Egyptians superseded the prehistoric "new race," that Rã
had conquered his enemies, and stained the sky with their blood.
Therefore all should be well with me and the world; and it did seem as
if my hopes bade fair to be fulfilled, when in the Consul I recognized
a man I had been able to advise in a small official difficulty in my
early days at the Embassy in Rome. This was even more fortunate than
the case of Slaney. We shook hands warmly, and as soon as was decent, I
interrupted a flow of reminiscent gratitude by flooding Mr. James
Bronson with the story of Rechid Bey's unhappy American bride, Mabella
Hânem, ill treated as well as cruelly deceived, if her story were true.
He knew Rechid slightly, but the marriage was news to him. With
interest he listened to my account of the lonely little governess in
Paris, bewitched by the love-making of a handsome Turk as white as
herself. But when I asked for help, the Consul shook his head.
"Lord Ernest," he said, "there's nothing I'd like better than to pay my
debt by doing you some favour. But you're asking me the one thing
that's hardest, as you probably know. You understand as well as I do
that when a girl marries a man, she ceases to be a subject of her
native land. And to interfere with the inmate of a harem is just about
impossible. But I'll tell you what I will do for your sake. If you can
get the girl out of Rechid Bey's house--which, mind you, I doubt--you
may bring her to my wife, and we'll cook up some story about her being
a relative of mine. So she is, I guess, through Adam and Eve! If you
think she's been badly treated, we'll stand by her, once she's under
this roof (which means she'll be on American soil), through thick and
thin, whatever the consequences. I can't go farther, and I don't
believe you expected that I would."
I admitted that I had not, and thanked him for his promise.
By this time, I thought that Brigit and Monny might be on their way to
meet me at the Consulate, as arranged, escorted by "Antoun," and
perhaps bringing Mabel. Even the route they were to take was planned,
so that I could not miss them if I started.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bronson was to interest his wife in our protégée. Back I
flew, my ears deafened by more "Ya Welads," but though I met many
things and many creatures on the congested road, there was no arabeah
containing the desired ones. I made my driver slacken pace as we neared
the big, square pink house of Rechid Bey, set far back in its garden of
palms and impossible statues, on the bank of the Nile. No green turban
was in sight, and I wondered what could have happened, as we drove
slowly past the ponderous black gate-keeper, apparently half asleep on
his bench. There was nothing to do but crawl along at a snail's pace,
lest that droop of the crocodile-lids should be assumed for effect. I
went on, meaning to turn presently; but when the arabeah had taken me
beyond eyeshot of Rechid's gate-keeper, an Arab sacca, or water seller,
ran forward, striking his musical gong. From his brass jar, protected
by crimson-dyed horse hair to keep out dust, he offered a draught; and
his look said that he had something more for me than a drink of water.
I beckoned him close, stopping the arabeah; and under the tumbler he
handed up was a folded bit of paper. None save the water seller had
attention to spare for me just then, as a wedding procession was
approaching, with a crude but gorgeous curtained litter drawn by
camels, and a number of musicians with räitas, darabukas, the "key and
bottle," and other Eastern instruments which may have been ancestors of
the Highlanders' bagpipes. The street crowd followed, enchanted by the
plaintive, monotonous notes, grotesque to newcomers from the west, but
enthralling to those who have fallen under the spell of their
melancholy magic.
"Failure for the present, but Miss G. and Mrs. J. safe," Anthony had
scrawled in pencil. "Couldn't wait in front of R.'s house, but you'll
find us at an Arab restaurant to which the messenger will guide you.
All you have to do is to discharge your arabeah, and walk in the
direction the man takes, keeping your distance in case you're watched."
I obeyed instructions, and in the town of Asiut, far from the gardens
along the Nile front, I came to a house between the mosque of the
tallest minaret, and the great market whither Arabia as well as Egypt
sends her wares. It was a house of some pretension, though in a narrow
unpaved street, lined with humble native dwellings. I guessed that it
must have been built for a rich man who had died or failed in business,
but now a sign in Arabic announced that it was a restaurant. A nod from
the water seller told that I had reached the end of the journey. Nubian
servants salaamed in the big room where once the master of the house
had held receptions, and in a smaller room beyond I saw Antoun, Brigit,
and Monny. They were seated at a low table where no forks or knives or
even plates were laid. In the centre of the white cloth stood a large
dish of something sweet and rich-looking, from which everybody
pretended to eat; but at sight of me, Brigit and Monny began talking
together. They told me breathlessly how they had been informed by the
gatekeeper that "Mabella Hânem" was not well. Having insisted that they
were intimate friends whom she would desire to see, they had been
bidden to return in an hour. Reluctantly coming away, they had as soon
as was prudent been joined by Antoun. He had then taken them to the
bazaars, hoping to give them a glimpse of the shops before the Set
returned from the Tombs; but they had met Neill Sheridan, who had
something to tell. He had caught sight of Bedr running after the
carriage of a Turk strongly resembling Rechid Bey. The carriage had
stopped near the railway station; and after an instant's conversation
the horses had been turned to gallop off in the direction whence they
had come.
"Of course we were sure the Turk _was_ Rechid," said Monny, "so Antoun
Effendi thought we'd better go back to watch his house. When we got
there, it was too late, for already some time had passed since Mr.
Sheridan saw Bedr. Rechid's gate-man said that Mabella Hânem was
suddenly better, and had gone away with her husband. He could talk a
little French, so we understood perfectly--and, anyhow, you know I'm
studying Arabic. It's _so_ discouraging when Arabs answer me in Cockney
English, or say "Sure" in American! We believed the fellow, because it
seemed exactly what Wretched _would_ do--come back and grab Mabel away
at a minute's notice. So unfortunate about Neill Sheridan! Wretched was
idiotically jealous of him on the _Laconia_; and if he caught a glimpse
of him to-day he's certain to think Mr. Sheridan's here to try and see
Mabel. We tore to the railroad depot, but the train was just going out.
No doubt Rechid and his wife were both on it. Isn't it heartbreaking?"
I sat mute, thinking things over, but Anthony tried to give consolation
by saying that he still had some hope. He had found out that Rechid Bey
owned a sugar plantation, with a house on it, near Luxor. The train
which had left Asiut was bound for Luxor. In a very few days our boat
would land us there, and we would try our luck again.
"Not much doubt," Fenton added, speaking as always in French, "that
this is Bedr's revenge on us. He must have told Rechid that Miss Gilder
had mentioned his name saying she hoped he was leaving home. That hint
of danger would be enough for any Turk."
"It will be my fault, then," moaned Monny, "if he kills Mabel. He's
deceived and shut her up and tried to convert her. Worse than all, he
has another wife. The next step will be murder. Oh, how can we bear the
delay of going on to Luxor by boat! Hadn't we better take a train?
Better miss all the things we've come to Egypt to see, rather than
leave Mabel to her fate."
"Rechid isn't the sort to have her put out of the way,"! said Anthony.
"He's not a bad fellow, as such men go, and he's hardly had time to
tire of his conquest yet. According to his lights, he's right not to
allow any interference with his harem from Europeans. He was jealous on
board ship, of one or two men of your acquaintance, you've told me.
This attempted visit of yours will revive his interest in his wife,
inconveniently for us; but if I know his type it will die down again,
the minute he thinks he has covered his tracks. For a day or two he
will be a dragon. Then he'll begin to think we're discouraged, or that
we haven't found out about his sugar plantation, or that nothing more
than a visit to his wife was intended, and he'll turn his attention to
other things than watch-dogging. It's far better to go on by boat, and
make a dash when he's off guard again."
After a few arguments, we agreed with "Antoun," as we usually ended by
doing, and soothed our restlessness by visiting Mr. Bronson to tell him
of our disappointment. If it hadn't been for Monny, I think the Consul
would have taken the point of view that he was now "out" of the affair,
but Monny, sapphire-eyed with generous zeal, is rather irresistible.
Fired by her enthusiasm, as he had not been by my beguiling, he
volunteered to go to Luxor on two or three days' leave, with his wife,
to visit a Syrian friend who had often vainly invited them to his
villa, and arriving if possible about the time our boat was due. If we
succeeded in our quest, we might bring Mabel to them, and they would
smuggle her back to the American Consulate at Asiut.
Our great adventure thus postponed, we let the Nile-dream take us once
more; and though we had moments of impatience, the dream was too fair
to be resisted. Besides, we were all four dreaming it together. Poor
Cleopatra was the only one outside, for Rachel Guest was dreaming her
own dream, with an extremely practical side to it, unless Biddy and I
were mistaken. She wore Monny's clothes, and used her special perfume,
and took advantage of the same initials, to accept gifts of filmy
handkerchiefs and monogrammed bags and brushes. Also she had firmly
annexed most of the men on board who would, in normal states of mind,
have belonged to the Gilded Rose. But they all seemed to have gone mad
on the subject of Miss Guest. Even Harry Snell, who had been the
property of Enid Biddell on board the _Candace_, on the _Enchantress
Isis_ was gravitating Guest-ward, lured by that meek, mysterious
witchery which I was trying hard to understand.
We got past Sohâg, and the famous White and Red Coptic Monasteries
built by Saint Helena, without jarring notes of any sort in the
Nile-dream (save for the failure of our rescue plot): past Akhmin, which
Herodotus wrote of as Chemmis: past Girgah, where once stood ancient
This, that gave the first dynasty of kings to Egypt: but when we
arrived at Baliana to visit Abydos, between Enid Biddell and Harry
Snell I had an interlude of nightmare. It was Rachel's fault, but it
was I who had to suffer for her sins. I, who had engaged as Conductor
of the Set and found myself their Arbiter as well.
Other tourists on other boats do not see Abydos until the return trip;
but the aim of Sir Marcus was originality as well as "exclusiveness."
This was a special tour, and everything we were to do must be special.
Some passengers might wish to stay longer than others at Khartum, or
from there go up the White or Blue Nile after Big Game. Or they might
tire of the Nile, and wish to tear back to Cairo by train. Sir Marcus
was boldly outdoing his rivals by allowing clients to engage cabins for
"up Nile" only, instead of paying the return also: and they were not to
miss any temple because of this concession. "I consider it an
advertisement, and a cheap one," he had explained to me, in saying that
we were to visit at Abydos on our way south.
Beautiful smiling donkeys, adorned with beads and amulets, met us at
the boat-landing. We ought to have called it Al-Balyana, but we didn't.
We called it Baliana, and we pronounced Abydos according to our
education. We had a ride of an hour and a half from the boat to the
temple; and having sent off Cleopatra and Lady Biddell in a carriage,
my conscience was free, my heart light. The sun shone on tawny desert
hills, like lions creeping stealthily out from the horizon toward the
Nile to drink. There were sweet smells of unseen flowers, and herbs
such as ancient Egyptian doctors used, and I looked forward to keeping
my donkey near Biddy's. Of course I ought to have preferred Monny's,
but then, I could talk of Monny to Biddy, and we had had so many
subjects in common since childhood that it was restful to ride even the
most energetic donkey at the side of "Mrs. Jones." No sooner, however,
had I begun to urge my gray animal after her white one, than I was
called by Enid Biddell. "Oh, Lord Ernest! I _must_ speak to you!" she
pleaded so piteously that I couldn't pretend not to hear.
When we were ambling side by side, separated from the rest of the party
by a gleaming cloud of copper dust, a few long-haired, brown sheep,
some blue-eyed water buffalo, and a plague of little birds, Enid turned
upon me a pair of tear-wet eyes.
"Why, Miss Biddell, what is the matter--or is it a cold in your head?"
I asked anxiously.
"It's not a cold in my head," she confessed. "It's a dreadful, dreadful
pain in my heart. And you're the only one who can cure it."
For a fearful moment I thought that she was going to propose. One hears
of these awful visitations. But I need not have trembled.
"I feel as if I could say anything to you," she murmured. "You are so
understanding, and so sympathetic."
It was on the tip of my tongue to reply that it was my duty as
Conductor to be so, and that, if I succeeded, a mountain full of hidden
treasure might perhaps reward me. But just in time I realized that this
speech would not be tactful. Instead of speaking, I looked at her and
let her go on.
"It's Harry Snell," she said. "You have influence with him. He thinks
you such a great swell, he'd hate to do anything you would call
unworthy of a gentleman. He--he's making me so unhappy. He's done
--everything--to win my love and now--now he's gone over to that Miss
Guest." The donkey having begun inopportunely to trot, the words were
jolted out, one after another, like a shower of pebbles. And they fell
on my feelings like paving stones. She expected _me_ to do something
about it! Horrible! I should almost have preferred the proposal.
"My dear Miss Biddell," I soothed her in my best salad-oil voice,
cultivated at the Embassy, "you are much prettier than Miss Guest, and
you can win Snell back easily if you want him. Probably he's only
flirting, to make you jealous."
"It's me he was flirting with," she moaned. "But I _don't_ believe he
cares for Miss Guest. It's only a case of 'follow my leader,' because
other men like her so much. Nothing succeeds like success, you know.
And other men's admiration is the most becoming background a girl can
have. He told Mrs. Harlow it was haunting him, that Elaine and I would
get fat like our mother, and the men who married us would have to spend
dull years seeing us slowly grow into mother's likeness. Wasn't it
cruel? And we eat scarcely _anything_ except pickles on purpose to keep
thin. But that's only his excuse. It's the romance of the situation,
and the _secret_ that appeals to him."
"What secret?" I felt entitled to inquire.
"Why, the secret between those two girls, Miss Gilder and Miss Guest.
You _know_ what all the men believe about them, don't you? But of
course you do."
"But of course I don't."
"Why, that they've changed places, to deceive people, just as heiresses
and poor girls do in old-fashioned plays or books. They think Miss
Gilder (I mean the girl we _call_ Miss Gilder) is really the
school-teacher, and the one we call Miss Guest, and that all the men are
after, is Rosamond Gilder the cannon heiress."
"Whew!" I whistled, bumpily, as my donkey kept up with Enid's. "For
goodness' sake, what makes them think that?"
"I don't know exactly how the story started, but it seems _authentic_.
Have you known them long?"
"Only since Naples. But--"
"Then you can't be certain whether it's true or not?"
I paused, swallowing an answer. So _this_ was the explanation of the
Monny puzzle! Yet it was but the first word of another enigma. _Who_
was responsible for the wild story? There was more than met the eye--or
ear--in this. I could hardly believe that Monny would have chosen, or
Rachel dared, to start this rumour, though it might have amused the
real heiress, and suited the false one, to watch it run. I dared not
contradict it flatly, without consulting Brigit or the Gilded Rose
herself. It was not my business to be a spoil-sport, if there were
sport to spoil, no matter how sternly I might disapprove.
"In the matter of actual knowledge, I have very little about Miss
Gilder," I decided to reply, "except that she's charming enough and
pretty enough for any man to fall in love with, if she hadn't a penny.
As for Miss Guest"
"Miss Guest is a cat! And if _only_ you'll tell Harry Snell so, I'll
bless you all my life."
"Good gracious! I couldn't do that."
"I mean, tell him you think she isn't the heiress, that she's only what
she seems to be, and nothing mysterious or interesting. He'll believe
_you_! Why, she _can't_ have any money, or even a nice mind. She always
writes 'No,' with her finger on top of her cold cream at hotels, she
told me so herself. Not that it's any good with Arabs, they don't want
to steal cold cream. But such a trick would never occur to a rich girl,
would it? She grows vainer every day, too, till one can just see vanity
spouting from the top of her head. She intends to use this mistake
people are making about her, to bag a rich man like Harry Snell, or a
successful one with a big, growing reputation like Mr. Bailey the
American sculptor. You _will_ help me save Harry from her, and bring
him back to me, won't you? You're the only one he'll listen to. If you
don't speak, I shall simply jump overboard into the Nile, and Sir
Marcus Lark would _hate_ that."
"So should I, dear Miss Biddell," I assured her. "But what can I
possibly do in--in such a very intimate matter?"
"Why, you're a diplomat, aren't you? I thought they always knew what to
do. You make us all dance to your tune like puppets, and imagine we're
prancing about to please ourselves. Tell him he's breaking my heart."
"By Jove! You're not in earnest?"
"I am. Oh, he must come back! I thought on board the _Candace_ we were
as good as engaged. I--I submitted to his kisses, and now--"
"'Submitted' is a good word," I sneered to my inner self, but outwardly
I submitted a handkerchief to the lady, as she had lost hers in one of
the last donkey jolts, and ventured to insert sympathetically into a
pause a small suggestion. It was usual, I reminded Miss Biddell, if a
gentleman's intentions had to be asked, that the father did the asking.
This hint, however, fell flatter than a flounder; and all the way to
Abydos, most sacred temple of ancient Egypt, I was persecuted with Enid
Biddell's woes, when I should have been free to meditate upon the
tragic history of Isis and Osiris. It was here that the head of the
murdered god was buried, and perhaps his whole body, when the magic
secret of Thoth had enabled Isis to collect the fourteen separate
pieces Set had hidden. Many temples claimed the sacred body of Osiris,
ruler over departed spirits and Amenti, their dim dwelling place beyond
the western desert; Philae and Memphis among others; but it was Abydos
to which the Egyptians give their most reverent faith, as the true
burial place of the Beloved One. It was there they wished to lie when
they died and were mummied, in order to rest through eternity near the
relic of their most precious god. Thus a necropolis grew like a
poppy-garden of sleep, round the temple; and a city rose also. But even in
the long-ago time of Strabo, the city was reduced to a village, and all
traces of the shrine had vanished. The great white jewel of the
temples--temple of Seti I, and the temple of his son Rameses II--remain
to this day, however, with the Tablet of Ancestors which has helped in
the tracing of Egyptian history. Therefore is it that this treasure of
the Nile-desert is still a shrine for travellers from the four corners
of the earth.
After the long, straight road, and a high, sudden hill, we came face to
face with the marble-white columns of the outer court. If I had been
with Brigit or Monny, I could have run back into the past, hand in hand
with either, to see with my mind's eyes the white limestone palace of
Memnon, copied from the Labyrinth, standing above the city between the
canal and the desert. I should have peered into the depths of its
fountain; and with a hand shading my eyeballs from the sun I should
have gazed at the grove of Horus' sacred acanthus trees, dark against
the burning blue. I should have found the Royal tombs which Rameses
restored, grouped near the buried body of Osiris. But bad luck gave me
Enid Biddell for my companion. She would not let any one else come near
me, even had the Right Somebody wished to dispute my battered remains
with her. "Antoun Effendi" had the others hypnotized, and I wondered if
they noticed how like his boldly cut profile was to certain portraits
of the youthful Rameses carved on the glittering white walls. So
splendid were they that had I been a woman my spirit would have rushed
back along the sand-obliterated, devious paths of Egypt's history, to
find and fall at the feet of their original. But--there was Antoun,
much easier to get at, and perhaps better worth the gift of a woman's
heart than Rameses the Great with all his faults and cruelties!
Crowds of birds lived in interstices of the broken columns, and their
tiny faces peeped out like flowers growing among rocks, their eyes
bright and arresting as personal anecdotes in long, dull chapters of
history. They seemed to look at me, and sympathize, cocking their heads
on one side as if to say, "Poor, foolish, modern man, why don't you
make a virtue of necessity and get rid of this still more foolish
modern maid, by promising her anything she asks? Then you can go listen
to that princely looking person in the green turban, who might be
descended from the kings our ancestors used to behold. He does seem to
know something about the history of this place, on which _we_ are
authorities! The dragomans who bring crowds of tourists to our temple
and gabble nonsense, put us really off our feed. Peep, peep! Just hear
him tell about the staircase we're so proud of. Did _you_ know there
was a picture of it in the Book of The Dead, with Osiris standing at
the top, like a good host waiting to receive his guests? Well, then, if
you didn't, do anything you must to escape from that lovesick girl,
while there's time to hear a real scholar talk of 'Him who is at the
Head of the Staircase!' Peep, peep! Hurry up, or you'll lose it all,
you Silly. Of course, the real staircase is in Amenti, which your Roman
Catholics call Purgatory; and no doubt Osiris is standing on it to this
day."
So I took the birds' advice, and promised Enid to have a "heart to
heart" talk with Harry Snell. Satisfied that she had got all that was
to be got out of me, she powdered her nose (in the same spirit that
David anointed his head) and attached herself to Rachel, in whose train
was the Desired One. Thus basely did I free myself to enjoy the society
of Biddy and Osiris, with lovely carved glimpses of Isis thrown in, to
say nothing of Seti I and Rameses II. Trying to push into the
background of my mind the nauseating thought of my vow and its
fulfillment, I helped Brigit and Monny take snapshots of King Seti
showing his son Rameses how to lasso, and also to catch by its tail the
most fascinating of bulls. They were on the wall, of course (Rameses
and Seti, I mean, not Brigit and Monny), but seemed so real they might
leap off at any instant; and so charmed was Monny with Rameses' braided
"lock of youth" that she resolved to try one over her left temple in
connection with an Egyptian Princess costume she was having made for
some future fancy-dress ball. "I can't take a grain of interest in any
one but Egyptian Princes and Princesses and their profiles," she
exclaimed; then blushed faintly and added, "I mean Princes and
Princesses of the _past_."
We got some good pictures of the temple of Seti, for Monny had an
apparatus for natural colour photography which gave sensational results
in ancient wall-paintings--when any one except Monny herself did the
taking. It was better still in the Seven Chapels, the holy of holies at
Abydos, and in the joy of my first colour photography I forgot the doom
ahead. Appropriately, the sword I had hung up over my own cranium
descended in the Necropolis, at that place of tombs called Umm
el-Ka'ab, "Mother of Pots." Nobody wanted to see the fragments of this
mother's pots, but I insisted on a brief visit, as important
discoveries have been made there, among the most important in Egypt. It
was a dreary place where Harry Snell strolled up and caught me alone,
gazing at a desolation of sandy hillocks, full of undiscovered
treasure.
"Look here," said he. "You're supposed to know everything. Tell me why
they call seats outside shops in bazaars, and tombs of the Ancient
Empire by the same name: mastaba?"
I explained that mastaba was an Arab word meaning bench. Then,
realizing that it would be flying in the face of Providence not to get
the ordeal over while my blood was up, I spoke of Enid. Among the
shattered pots and yawning sepulchres, I racked up her broken heart and
blighted affections. I talked to Snell like a brother, and when he had
heard me through in silence, to the place where words and breath
failed, I thought that I had moved him. His eyes were downcast. I
fancied that I saw a mist as of tears, a man's slow tears. Then
suddenly he opened his eyelids wide, and glared--a glare stony as the
pots, and as the desert hills. "Borrow," he said, "I thought you were a
good fellow and a man of the world. I see now that you're a damned
sentimental ass."
With this he stalked off, and I could not run after him to bash his
head, because what he said was perfectly true. I was almost sorry that
evening, on board the boat, when he apologized and the Nile-dream went
on as if I hadn't broken it by being the sort of fool Snell had said
that I was.
In the dream were Nile cities, with crowding houses whose walls were
heightened by tier upon tier of rose-and-white pots, moulded in with
honey-coloured mud. There were stretches of sandy shore, and green
gloom of palm groves. There were domed tombs of saints, glittering like
snow-palaces in the sun. There were great golden mounds inlaid with
strips of paler gold picked out with ebony. There were sinister
hillsides cut into squarely by door-holes, leading to cave-dwellings.
There were always shadoofs, where giant soup-ladles everlastingly
dipped water and threw it out again, mounting up from level to level of
the brown, dyke-like shore. The wistful, musical wail of the men at the
wells was as near to the voice of Nature as the sighing of wind, or the
breaking of waves which has never ceased since the world began.
Sometimes the horizon was opal, sometimes it throbbed with azure fire,
or blazed ruby red, as the torch of sunset swept west and east before
the emerald darkness fell. When our _Enchantress_ landed, great flocks
of kites, like in form and wing to the sacred vulture of Egypt, flew to
welcome us with swoopings of wide purple wings. Their shadows on the
water were like passing spirits; and at night when the Nubian boatmen
danced, their feet thudding on the lower deck to the cry of the
darabukah, the Nile whispered of the past, with a tinkling whisper,
like the music of Hathor's sacred sistrum. Gyassas glided by, loaded
with pots like magic melons, long masts pointing as though they had
been wands in the hands of astrologers: and the reflection of the piled
pots as they moved gave vague glimpses as of sunken treasure.
Denderah meant work for Fenton. There had been trouble there, and
tourists had complained of insults. It was the Hadji's business to find
out whether natives or Europeans had been more to blame, and whether
there were wrongs to right, misunderstandings to adjust. But to the
rest of us, Denderah meant the sacred temple of Hathor, Goddess of
Love, in some ways one of the most beautiful of all the Nile temples;
though, being not much over two thousand years old (it was built upon
ruins more ancient than King Menes) archeologists like Neill Sheridan
class it as "late Ptolemaic," uninterestingly modern.
Mrs. East had been looking forward to the temple of Denderah more
eagerly than to any other, because she had read that on an outer wall
was carved the portrait of Cleopatra the Great. That of Cæsarion was
there also, as she must have known; but Cleopatra's son was never
referred to by her reincarnation, who chose to ignore the Cæsar
incident. Mrs. East had not yet deigned to mount a donkey, but to reach
the temple she must do so or walk, or sway in a dangerous looking
_chaise à porteur_. Rather than miss the joy of seeing herself on a
stone wall as others had had the privilege of seeing her for two
thousand years, she consented to accept as a seat a large gray animal,
tasselled with red to keep off flies and evil eyes. "Won't you ride
with me, Antoun Effendi?" she asked. "I'm afraid. This creature looks
as large as an elephant and as wild as a zebra. I feel _you_ could calm
him." But Antoun Effendi was not going to ride. He had other fish to
fry; and poor Cleopatra's luminous dark eyes were like overflowing
lakes, when he had politely excused himself on the plea of a pressing
engagement. I felt sure that she would have been kind to Sir Marcus if
at that moment he could have appeared from behind the picturesque group
of bead-necklace sellers, or emerged from one of the huge
bright-coloured baskets exposed for sale on a hill of brown-gold sand.
I don't know whether it made things better or worse that the gray
donkey should be named "Cleopatra," but it was evidently a blow when
the animal's white-robed attendant announced himself as Anthony.
"I can't and won't have the creature with me!" she murmured, as I
helped her to mount when she had pushed the boy aside. "Thank you, Lord
Ernest. You're very kind. But Antoun ought to have been here. Fancy
seeing _this_ temple, of all others, without an Anthony of any sort on
the horizon! A pity it isn't _your_ middle name! If you could spare
time to ride with me, that would be better than nothing!"
"I'll be delighted," I said hypocritically, for I had been dying to
talk with Brigit about the Monny and Rachel imbroglio which, as a
hard-worked Conductor, I had not since Abydos found a chance to discuss.
Besides, Biddy had whispered in passing that a letter just delivered at
Denderah, had brought exciting news of Esmé O'Brien: But I was sorry
for Cleopatra, and wondered whether I could manage after all to hint an
explanation of the hieroglyphic love-letter--that fatal letter of mine
which had stealthily made mischief between Mrs. East and Anthony. I
didn't quite see how the subject was to be broached: still, some way
might open. "I'm sorry about the middle name," I said. "But if I
assumed it--like a virtue which I have not--I should be the third
person connected with this trip, labelled the same fashion."
"Who is the second person?" she asked abruptly, as all the animals of
the party started to trot vivaciously through the blowing yellow sand.
"Sir Marcus. Surely you've heard that his 'A' stands for Antonius?"
"Good heavens!" she gasped: and I hardly knew whether it was the shock
of my news, or a jolt of the donkey which forced the exclamation.
Whatever it was, the emotion she felt bound her to silence after that
one outburst. She said not a word, and did not even groan or threaten
to fall off when both our beasts broke into a thumping gallop. In
silence we swept round that great bulk of rubbish heap, Roman and early
Christian, under which lies An, the town of the Column. Cleopatra did
not cry out when suddenly we came in sight of Hathor's temple, honey-gold
against the turquoise sky, and vast as some Wagnerian palace of
the gods. The tasselled donkey (or I) had given her cause to think. Or
perhaps she did not consider me worth talking to, as we approached the
temple toward which all her previous travelling had been a mere
pilgrimage. Still silently, when we had left our donkeys and were
following the crowd up the dromos (Harry Snell actually with Enid,
thanks to me and the wisdom of second thoughts), Cleopatra's eyes
wandered over the Hathor-headed columns with their clinging colour; and
over the portal with its brilliant mass of yellow, of dark Pompeian
red, and the green-blue sacred to Hathor, whom Horus loved
--Venus-Hathor, whose priestesses danced within these walls in Cleopatra's
day. "Oh, this red and this green-blue were my colours, I remember," she
murmured, and then hardly spoke when I walked with her in the gloom of
the temple itself--the rich gloom under heavily ornamented ceilings.
She wanted to save the portrait till the last, she announced, until
after she had seen everything else: and she didn't care _what_ Mr.
Sheridan said about her temple; it was wonderful. I tried to interest
her in the crocodiles, which had been detested and persecuted at
Denderah in the late Cleopatra's time as ardently as they were
worshipped at Crocodilopolis and other places. I joked about Old Egypt
having consisted of "crocs and non crocs," just as the inhabitants of
Florence had to be Guelphs or Ghibellines. I explained carefully the
geography of the place, or rather, "reminded" Cleopatra of it, adding
details of the canal which once led to Koptos, where the magic book of
the Wisdom of Thoth lay hidden under the Nile. I could not waken Mrs.
East from reverie to interest, as Antoun would have had the power to
do; but my vanity was not hurt. It was only my curiosity which
suffered, for I wanted desperately to know whether the donkey had
seriously jolted the lady's spine, or whether the news that Sir M. A.
Lark was Marcus Antonius, not a more obvious Marcus Aurelius, had fired
her imagination.
In any case I devoted myself to her while Monny and Brigit frolicked
with others; and I had a reward of a kind. When we had seen all the
halls and chambers, and the crypt with its carvings all fresh as if
made yesterday; when we had been on the roof where chanting priests had
once awaited the rising of Sirius; when I had taken her outside the
temple, where blowing columns of dusty sand rose like incense from
hidden altars of Hathor, we stood at last alone together, gazing up at
the figures of Cleopatra and her son. The wall on which they were
carved rose behind the Holy of Holies, where the golden statue of the
Goddess had been kept; but alas, the figures themselves! Alas! I knew
how Cleopatra must be feeling; and I dared not speak. Perhaps she was
even blushing: but I did not look. Instead, I gazed helplessly up at
that exposed, misshapen form, that flaccid chin.
"Thank heaven it's only _you_ who are with me!" breathed Mrs. East.
That was my reward. Or should I call it a punishment? Anyhow, it made
it easier for the insignificant person in question to unburden his
conscience about the hieroglyphic letter. I stammered it all out, on
the way back, apropos of the rubbish-heap which had been Tentyra. I let
it remind me of Fustât and our digging expedition. I had meant to
follow Mrs. East's advice and propose to Miss Gilder, I explained, but
Monny had not found my buried love-letter. What had become of it I--er
--had never been told. All I knew was that it hadn't come into Miss
Gilder's hands; and I should never have as much courage again.
"Oh!" Cleopatra exclaimed, with a curious light in her eyes, more like
relief than disappointment. "You really do want to marry my niece? You
delayed so, that I wondered. I wasn't sure, sometimes, if it were Monny
or--but I am on your side, Lord Ernest. It isn't too late yet _for any
of us_, perhaps. Trust in me. I'm going to help you."
I could have bitten my tongue out, though I had blundered with the best
intentions. "Mrs. East," I protested almost ferociously, "you mustn't
do anything. I said before I began, that I was going to tell you a
_secret_."
"I won't betray your confidence. But I _will_ help. I want to. It would
be a good thing for Monny to accept you, Lord Ernest, a very good thing
in more ways than one. Mrs. Jones wants it too, or did. I promise you,
I'll be discreet."
With that, we arrived in sight of the boat. Once more, necklaces and
scarabs and baskets were thrust under our noses. Anthony had returned
from his mysterious whisperings in cafés or mosques in the new town,
and was waiting for us. Cleopatra called him, with a note of gayety in
her voice, to help her off "the elephant." He came. I felt she was
going to hint to him that I was in love with Monny--hint to Brigit
also.
Virtue may be its own reward, but it makes you very lonely!
I hadn't another easy moment for dreaming the Nile-dream. And we all
woke out of it when, with the pink dawn of a certain morning, we saw a
vast temple, repeated column for column, in the clear river, as in a
mirror of glass.
We were at Luxor; and somewhere not far off, Mabella Hânem was praying
for release.